the ruling princess of Monaco. Her name was Claudine. The position of
this little maid was embarrassing and indeed pitiable. She would like to
have romped in the play-room or have spent the days in the garden with
her pets and her girl friends. Instead of that she had to sit for hours
on a throne with her hair done up in an unwonted and uncomfortable
manner, with robes about her which were much too large and with her feet
dangling a long way off the floor. Here she had to receive the obeisance
of venerable court officials and of burly fighting men who bowed gravely
as they approached and then knelt before those ridiculous small feet of
hers of which she was so conscious.
It was very amusing to play the queen in the garden with her friends and
with a tree trunk for a throne and a wisp of paper for a crown; but this
solemn ceremony, carried on without a smile, was merely a thing of
dread. She had always been “Claudine” or “Claudinetta” to her companions
when they played with her, chased her about and pinched her; but now
they bent their heads when she stepped on the lawn and called her
“Madam” and “Your Highness.” She had to learn that her youth had
vanished at the age of twelve and one can imagine her, when a function
was over, throwing off her robes and rushing to the arms of her old
nurse to cry until her tears were spent.
She had a worse trouble to face than to be dressed up like a puppet and
stared at. She was rich. She had what she was told were “prospects,”
with the result that she became infested by a crowd of people of whom
she had never dreamed—a crowd of would-be lovers and suitors for her
hand. They pestered her with languishing letters and with sickly
sonnets. They were all anxious to die for her. They sent her presents.
They remembered her birthday. They followed her to Mass. They played
lutes under her window and awoke her in the morning by singing
unseasonable ballads. She had to listen to insidious lords and ladies
who gurgled in her ear the praises of their sons, their grandsons and
their nephews. Before she was fourteen she must have been as sick of the
name “husband” as a tired man would be of the yelping of a locked-out
dog or the whine of a persistent hawker.
The more impetuous of her suitors seem to have proceeded to actual
excess in their efforts; for the faithful historian states that “they
endeavoured to secure her person by ruse or force.”[38] It may be trying
to be adored by one irrepressible young man, but to receive declarations
of love and offers of marriage from a hustling mob must have been
alarming. A love-sick man, as an individual, may be simply depressing,
but a crowd of love-sick men reproduces the nauseous features of an
out-patient room at a hospital.
In the end Claudine married her cousin, Lambert Grimaldi the son of
Nicolas, the Lord of Antibes, on the excellent grounds that both her
father and her grandfather had named this gentleman as a suitable
husband in their last wills and testaments.
Claudine and Lambert had children and among them two sons, Jean and
Lucien. Jean succeeded his mother as the ruling prince, but was
unfortunately murdered by his younger brother Lucien. This was a
regrettable episode in Lucien’s life; but he did something to repair it.
In 1506 Monaco was once more besieged by the Genoese. It was a great and
desperate assault, but Lucien defended the rock with such consummate
skill that the attack failed. The siege was memorable since it
represented the last occasion on which this much tried citadel was
beleaguered and it exalted Lucien to the position of a great military
leader.
Now Lucien had a nephew, Bartolomeo Doria by name, to whom he was much
attached and to whom he had shown great kindness. On a certain day in
August 1524 Bartolomeo was about to proceed from Ventimiglia to Lyons.
Lucien, wishing to do his nephew honour, placed a fine ship at his
disposal and begged him to stay at Monaco on his way westwards. Doria
accepted both the ship and the invitation with effusion for it occurred
to him that it afforded an excellent opportunity to murder his genial
old uncle.
In due course Bartolomeo landed at Monaco where he was given a hearty
welcome and was received by the prince with demonstrations of affection.
He was attended by an exceptionally large suite and this the indulgent
uncle ascribed to the natural swagger of youth. On reaching the palace
Lucien begged young Doria to accompany him to Mass. He declined; so the
prince went alone. During Lucien’s absence at the church it was noticed
that Bartolomeo was engaged for long in a whispered conference with
those who had accompanied him.
[Illustration: MONACO: THE CLIFF GARDEN.]
As soon as the heat of the day was over (it may be about six o’clock)
the party met at supper. Bartolomeo, who sat next to his uncle, was very
silent during the meal and—as it was remembered afterwards—was much
preoccupied and unnaturally pale. Lucien tried to rally him; made jokes;
dug him in the ribs; chaffed him and suggested that he was in love or
had lost heavily at cards. Bartolomeo could only reply with a faint
mechanical smile and a hollow effort to be jovial.
A moment came when a dignified chamberlain stood up and, with his goblet
raised, proposed “Health and long life to the Prince.” As Bartolomeo
responded to this toast it was observed that he became as livid as a
dead man and that the cup chattered against his teeth. It was with a
throttled gasp that he muttered the words “Long life to the Prince.”
Lucien acknowledged this kindly expression with a grateful smile and
pressed his own warm hand on that of his nephew.
Now hanging about his father’s chair was Lucien’s little boy. Bartolomeo
had often played with the child and was curiously attached to him.
Lucien, knowing the affection with which he regarded the lad, took him
up and placed him in Doria’s arms. The boy was delighted and began to
prattle of the doings of his little world and spoke, with breathless
rapture, of to-morrow when his father was going to take him, as a great
treat, to the shady beach at Cap d’Ail where they would build a hut,
light a fire and cook their own meal.
This talk was more than Bartolomeo could endure; for he knew that
to-morrow the boy would be fatherless and sobbing his heart out in a
darkened room. Bartolomeo, as he held the chattering little fellow in
his arms, shook to such an extent that even the child’s talk was stilled
and he began—moved by some subtle instinct—to be frightened. His
father lifted him from Doria’s lap and told him to run away. Lucien
could not understand his nephew this evening and ascribed his tremor to
a touch of ague.
After supper Lucien invited Bartolomeo to come into his private room. As
they walked along the corridor, with Lucien’s hand upon his nephew’s
shoulder, Doria—looking through the window—saw four galleys
approaching. He pointed them out to his uncle as the convoy of his
cousin Andrea and begged the prince to convey an important message to
him and to do his cousin the honour of sending an escort with it. Lucien
was only too pleased to gratify his guest and at once ordered some
fourteen men of his own bodyguard to welcome the on-coming fleet. In
this way Bartolomeo rid the palace of fourteen formidable armed men, of
nearly all, in fact, who were on duty that night. Andrea—it may be
explained—was aware of the purpose of Bartolomeo’s visit to Monaco and
was coming to his assistance.
Lucien and his nephew passed along the corridor, entered the prince’s
room and closed the door after them. Outside the door was stationed,
according to the routine of the palace, a page, a faithful negro, who
was devoted to his master. Hardly had the door closed than the page
heard the prince scream out “Ah! you traitor!” He burst into the room to
find his master felled to the ground and Bartolomeo bending over him,
stabbing him with a dagger.
He rushed back along the corridor to give the alarm; but the bodyguard
were already on their way to the harbour and when the page, with the few
men he could muster, returned to the prince’s room they found it already
filled with Doria’s friends armed to the teeth, and the prince dead.
The alarm soon spread to the town. From every door in the narrow streets
men poured forth and, armed with whatever weapon they could pick up,
rushed in a furious body to the palace. Bartolomeo—who had hoped to
seize the citadel—soon saw that his case was hopeless and his party
outnumbered. He and his friends escaped by a back stair, made their way
to the harbour and gained Andrea’s galleys which were now nearing the
beach. In this way Bartolomeo fled safely to France, leaving the little
town buzzing with disorder like a ravaged beehive and, in a silent room,
a sobbing boy lying prostrate on the body of his dead father.
-----
[38] “Monaco et ses Princes,” by H. Métivier, 1862.
XXIII
HOW THE SPANIARDS WERE GOT RID OF
FOR a number of years Monaco, with that part of the Riviera which is
adjacent thereto, was under the protection of Spain. It is said that the
protectorate was sought and contrived by Hercules, Prince of Monaco. How
this mastery of a foreign power arose is not so much a matter of
interest as how it was got rid of.
Hercules, by the way, came himself to a tragic end. He was, in the
language of the history books, an “unprincipled libertine.” He outraged
the wives and daughters of certain of his subjects. The indignant
husbands and fathers had no means of redress. There was no authority to
appeal to above the prince; so they took the matter into their own good
hands. One night a grim and determined body of men turned out into the
streets, forced their way into the palace and into the prince’s
bedchamber. They dragged him from his bed, cut his throat and threw his
dead body over the cliff into the sea. This prompt and primitive act of
justice took place in the year 1604.
Honorius the First, who succeeded to the prince just named, found the
protectorate an insufferable burden and resented the presence of a
Spanish garrison within the walls of Monaco. He endured the insolence,
the exactions and the oppression of the foreigners for about forty years
when it came upon him that he could tolerate the sight of them no
longer. The Spaniards were lounging in his courtyard and his barrack
square and strutting about his battlements to protect him from the
supposed insidious enemy, France. He did not wish to be protected from
France. He desired protection from the swaggering upstarts from Spain
who patronised him, patted him metaphorically on the back and told him
that he need not be afraid for they would look after him. Honorius
preferred the possible hostility of France to the ever-present and
offensive guardianship of the Spaniards.
He was tired of being looked after; so one day he got into touch with
his enemy, the French, and had a genial, open-hearted talk with the
general. The general frankly confessed that this Spanish garrison on the
frontier was a menace and a hateful thing that grew, year by year, more
disgustful. No doubt in the course of the interview they “said things”
about these poltroons, these blusterers, these sneering braggarts and
vied with one another merrily in the invention of crushing and ingenious
terms of abuse. As a result of a pleasant chat they entered into a
secret compact, the conditions of which were simple. Honorius was
prepared to place Monaco under the French flag if only the French would
rid him of this abominable old man of the sea, the Spaniard.
The day was near at hand when the Spanish garrison would be removed to
Nice in order to be relieved by a fresh contingent. A very few of the
obnoxious foreigners would then be left in Monaco. This was the day,
therefore, arranged for the happy release. It was a certain day in
November 1641.
Before the time arrived Honorius introduced into Monaco some hundred
trusty men from Mentone. They came to the rock under all sorts of
pretexts. Some were to visit friends who did not exist; others were
coming to repair fortifications that needed no amendment, and a
strangely large body were called upon to help in the palace kitchen
which was already overstaffed. Anyhow they came; and, at the same time,
it was arranged that two hundred armed Mentonais were to find
hiding-places outside the walls, on the cliff side or in the huts about
the Condamine and the harbours; while a few, no doubt, would seek
shelter among the olive groves where Monte Carlo and its casino now
stand.
The main body of the Spanish garrison marched off to Nice, singing and
shouting, for they were on the way to their homes in Spain. The disposal
of the few who remained was left to the ingenuity of a priest, a man of
resource, one Pacchiero by name. He organised a special night service in
the church “to pray for the defeat of the French should they attack
Monaco.” The Spaniards could do no less than join in this pious
exercise. The little church was soon filled with men, kneeling row upon
row and pouring forth petitions for the destruction of the
ill-intentioned French.
[Illustration: THE GORGE BETWEEN MONACO AND MONTE CARLO.]
At 11 P.M. while the service was in progress, the glare of a bonfire, on
the point of the rock, shot suddenly over the sea. It was a good bonfire
for the light of its flames could be seen from Cap d’Ail to Cap Martin.
It was a signal to the French that “The Day” had come and not only the
day but the hour. The French captain, the Comte d’Alais, with a fine
body of men under his command was looking out eagerly for this flash of
fire and the moment he saw it he set off with his company to Monaco.
At the same time the Monégasques and the five-score absent-minded
visitors from Mentone fell upon the Spaniards, threw open the gate and
admitted the two hundred who had been shivering outside in the cold.
After a sharp fight the scanty garrison was overcome and were lodged in
a dungeon where they could continue their prayers for the ruin of the
French at greater leisure.
Next morning the French troops marched into Monaco with banners flying
and bands playing. They were welcomed by the people with songs and
cheers and noisy enthusiasm. The houses were hung with garlands of
flowers and all the women were decked out in their best. The cheering
must have penetrated to the dungeons and have been very bitter to the
Spaniards who had spent so much time in praying for the overthrow of
these very men whose swinging tramp they could hear overhead.
The prince behaved with much graciousness and generosity. He caused the
French troops and the Spaniards to be paraded in the square and, when
the crowd had been hushed to silence, he delivered an appropriate and,
no doubt, impressive address. At its conclusion he took from his neck
the order of the Golden Fleece and handed it to the Spanish captain with
the request that he would return it to His Majesty of Spain with the
late wearer’s compliments and thanks. He then, amid uproarious cheering,
donned the white scarf which betokened his allegiance to the King of
France. The Spaniards he treated with a fine liberality, inspired by the
grateful knowledge that he would never see them again. He allowed the
officers to retain their swords. He gave to all the soldiers double pay
and a generous supply of food for their journey. Furthermore he
presented to the captain a letter in which—with some excess of
fancy—he dwelt upon the bravery which both officers and men had shown
under the recent disturbing conditions.
Thus it was that the Spaniards left Monaco and that the people of the
rock saw the last of them. As they marched down the cliff to the high
road they were not only content but even disposed to be thankful. Some,
no doubt, were a little sad because they were leaving their sweethearts
behind in Monaco; while all—without question—were burning to wring the
neck of the priest who had organised that special night service at which
they had prayed for the undoing of their now jubilant enemies.
Louis XIII of France was much pleased with the part the Prince of Monaco
had played in ridding him of a Spanish outpost so near to his own
territories. “He arranged by the treaty of Péronne for the independence
of Monaco and the protection of a French garrison, together with
sufficient lands in France to compensate for the loss of any Italian
revenues confiscated by Spain. Grimaldi was rewarded by lands in France
which were called his Duchy of Valentinois.”[39]
It was in this manner that the princes of Monaco became possessed of the
title of Dukes of Valentinois.
-----
[39] “Old Provence,” by T. A. Cook, Vol. ii., p. 158, 1914.
XXIV
A MATTER OF ETIQUETTE
AMONG the minor happenings in the ways of the world a disproportionate
interest always attaches to the breaking off of a marriage engagement.
The event excites surprise and florid speculation, together with a
tender and unreasoning sense of regret. It is, to the unknowing, as the
sudden slamming of a door that seemed to open into paradise. The rupture
may be due to many things, to ill-health or ill-temper, to discoveries,
to a change of heart, to mean matters affecting money or to the lure of
a brighter flame. It must be rare that the happiness of a devoted
couple, on the very eve of their wedding, is dangerously threatened by a
mere matter of etiquette; yet this happened at Monaco—or more precisely
in Monaco harbour—about the year 1751.
The reigning prince, Honorius III, became enamoured of the beautiful
Maria Caterina Brignole. This lady had not only a pretty face, but also
a great charm of character and of mind. The two became engaged. The
intricate arrangements that attend a princely espousal were completed
and the date of the wedding was agreed upon.
The day at last came when the bride would arrive at Monaco. It was a day
of feverish excitement. Every flag that the principality could produce
was fluttering in the breeze; the country around was stripped of its
flowers to deck the town; while every wardrobe was ransacked to furnish
the very gayest head-dress, tunic and gown that the owner could boast
of. All the inhabitants of Monaco—men, women and children—poured down
to the harbour, leaving the streets deserted and the houses empty of all
but the crippled or the sick. The quay was crammed; the beach was lined
to the water’s edge, while even on the crest of La Turbie was a cluster
of folk, who, if they could not come down to Monaco, were at least
determined to see what little they could.
By the harbour-side was the prince in his most princely dress,
surrounded by the gentlemen of the Court, bedecked with every medal,
ribbon and star that they possessed. Behind the Court officials was the
bodyguard, ranged in a line and as stiff as a row of gaudily painted tin
soldiers. On one side of the princely party were the musicians and on
the other that bevy of maidens dressed in white which should always
attend the coming of a bride.
The long expected ship swept into the harbour; came alongside the quay
in breathless silence and was made fast to the landing place. The
bodyguard stiffened to even more metallic rigidity; the crowd stood with
open mouths ready to cheer, while the musicians placed the trumpets to
their lips prepared to burst forth with the National Hymn they had
practised upon for so many weeks.
Nothing appropriate to the occasion happened. The silence remained
unbroken. The prince had sent an ambassador to conduct the bride to the
shores of Monaco. This over-dressed and over-heated official tumbled
ashore in some disorder and hurried to the presence of the motionless
prince. He had evidently something to say and indeed something startling
to say; for his speech led to a conversation that became more and more
excited until it rose to a veritable babel of voices. He hurried back to
the ship and there became involved in an equally flurried conversation
in which the Marchesa di Brignole, the mother of the bride, took a
prominent and decided part. He returned to the quay and set ablaze
another heated conflagration of words. Before it was quenched he leapt
back to the vessel and there induced, among the expectant company, a
second outburst of excited speech, attended by much gesticulation.
Whatever he was doing he was at least a man who encouraged conversation.
Still nothing effective took place. The prince had not moved; the bride
had not appeared; the band was still silent; the bodyguard still stiff
and the crowd still agape. Something evidently had gone wrong and indeed
very wrong.
The position—as the multitude came ultimately to learn—was this. The
question had arisen as to which of the august two, the bride or the
bridegroom, should make the first step towards a meeting. In the case of
ordinary human beings the man would, no doubt, have at once rushed to
the ship to embrace the lady; while the lady would have hurried to the
quay side to find herself in the arms of her lover. Possibly as a result
the two might have fallen into the water, but, at least, the meeting
would have had a proper emotional interest.
Now when princes and the brides of princes are concerned things are
quite different. They cannot tumble about like common folk. The prince
was advised that he must not advance to the ship, because such a step
would be unbecoming and indeed humiliating. He was the Prince of Monaco
with his feet upon his own territory and whoever came must advance to
him and not he to them. It was unthinkable that he should welcome a
visitor to his domain by jumping over the sides of ships. If he moved,
his honour, his dignity, his princely position would be at stake.
On the other hand the mother of the lady, a little red in the face,
insisted that it was the duty of the bridegroom to meet the bride. It
was against decorum for the bride to spring ashore as if she were a long
lost child. To show anxiety to meet her future husband was unmaidenly,
indelicate and indeed almost indecent.
The prince—as advised—could not give in and the marchesa, with head
erect and folded arms and a disposition to stamp on the deck, declined
to modify her views as a mother and a woman. So determined was this
virtuous peeress upon the point that sooner than let her innocent
daughter take one immodest step towards the shore she would break off
the engagement and regard the wedding contract as annulled. Indeed in
her indignation she went further. She ordered the captain of the ship to
cast off and set sail for the port whence she had come.
[Illustration: THE CHAPEL OF ST. DÉVOTE.]
Now was the opportunity for the mediator, for the common-sense man with
no nonsense about him, for the person with a fertile brain. Some genius
among the disputing parties suggested a compromise and a plank. The
scheme was as follows. A broad plank was to be brought and sloped
between the vessel and the quay. The prince was to take a certain number
of steps along the plank towards the ship and, at the same moment, the
bride would take precisely the same number of steps towards the shore.
By this means the two would meet, face to face, exactly in the centre of
the plank; the bridegroom would then turn on his heels and he and the
lady would proceed to the shore side by side.
This ingenious manœuvre was agreed upon. Its execution was watched with
gasping interest, for the happiness of two fond hearts depended upon its
correct execution. If the prince took one more step than the lady he
would be humiliated for ever; whereas if the bride ventured an extra
pace she could never hide her blushes while she lived. The crowd was
thrilled; the courtiers trembling and the two chief performers as
nervous as if they had to walk on a tight-rope.
It ended well. The man and the maid met in the exact centre of the plank
and, keeping step, marched to the shore with the precision of two German
soldiers on parade. So admirable was the performance that the heavy
military boot of the prince and the little satin shoe of the lady
touched the soil of Monaco at the same moment.
The crowd shrieked till they were hoarse; the courtiers bowed to the
earth; the guard became so stiff that they nearly fell backwards, while
the band let loose that National Hymn which had been pent up so long.
And so—as the story books say—they married and lived happily ever
after.
It only remains to add one other particular. In the fullness of time the
prince died and the princess married again. She married Louis Joseph,
Prince of Condé. He had been devoted to her for thirty years and, in
spite of her age, still regarded her as the most beautiful creature in
the world.
They were married in London and under circumstances which rendered the
use of a plank unnecessary.
XXV
THE MONTE CARLO OF THE NOVELIST