Intrigue of the comtesse d’Egmont with a shopman--His
unhappy fate--The comtesse du Barry protects him--Conduct of
Louis XV upon the occasion--The young man quits France--
Madame du Barry’s letter to the comtesse d’Egmont--Quarrel
with the maréchal de Richelieu
The comtesse d’Egmont was one day observed to quit her house attired
with the most parsimonious simplicity; her head being covered by an
enormously deep bonnet, which wholly concealed her countenance, and the
rest of her person enveloped in a pelisse, whose many rents betrayed its
long service. In this strange dress she traversed the streets of Paris
in search of adventures. She was going, she said, wittily enough, “to
return to the cits what her father and brother had so frequently robbed
them of.” Chance having led her steps to the rue St. Martin, she was
stopped there by a confusion of carriages, which compelled her first to
shelter herself against the wall, and afterwards to take refuge in an
opposite shop, which was one occupied by a linen-draper.
She looked around her with the eye of a connoisseur, and perceived
beneath the modest garb of a shopman one of those broad-shouldered
youths, whose open smiling countenance and gently tinged complexion
bespoke a person whose simplicity of character differed greatly from the
vast energy of his physical powers: he resembled the Farnese Hercules
upon a reduced scale. The princess approached him, and requested to see
some muslins, from which she selected two gowns, and after having paid
for them, requested the master of the shop to send his shopman with
them, in the course of half an hour, to an address she gave as her usual
abode.
The comtesse d’Egmont had engaged an apartment on the third floor of
a house in the rue Tiquetonne, which was in the heart of Paris. The
porteress of the dwelling knew her only as madame Rossin: her household
consisted of a housekeeper and an old man, both devoted to a mistress
whose character they well understood, and to whom they had every motive
to be faithful.
Here it was, then, that the lady hastened to await the arrival of the
new object of her plebeian inclinations. Young Moireau (for such was
the shopman’s name) was not long ere he arrived with his parcel. Madame
d’Egmont was ready to receive him: she had had sufficient time to
exchange her shabby walking dress for one which bespoke both coquetry
and voluptuousness; the softness of her smile, and the turn of her
features announced one whose warmth of passions would hold out the most
flattering hopes of success to him who should seek her love.
Madame Rossin and the young shopman were soon engaged in conversation,
further animated by the bright glances sent direct from the eyes of
madame to the unguarded heart of her admiring visitor. Emboldened by
the graciousness of her manner, he presumed to touch her fair hand: the
lady, in affected anger, rose, and commanded him to quit the house. The
terrified youth fell at her feet, imploring pardon for his boldness,
and then hastily quitted the room ere the feigned madame Rossin could
pronounce the forgiveness he demanded. “The fool,” was (doubtless) the
princess’s exclamation, “had he been brought up at court he would have
conducted himself very differently.”
This silliness of proceeding was, however, far from being displeasing to
the princess: on the contrary, it seemed to increase her determination
to prosecute the adventure. Accordingly, on the following day she
hastened to resume her former walking dress, and in it to take the
road which led to the rue St. Martin, and again to present herself as a
customer at the linen-draper’s shop. This time she purchased cloth for
chemises. Indescribable and unspeakable was the joy of young Moireau,
when, after having served the mistress of his thoughts, he heard her
request of his master to allow the goods she had selected to be sent to
her residence; and equally was he surprised that she omitted to name
him as the person she wished should convey them. Nevertheless, as may be
imagined, Moireau obtained possession of the parcel, and was soon on his
way to the rue Tiquetonne, where he found the lady more languishing and
attractive than before; and soon they were deep in the most earnest and
interesting conversation. Moireau, who now saw that his boldness was
not displeasing to the lady, became more and more presuming: true, his
overtures were refused, but so gently, that it only fanned his flame;
nor was it till after reiterated prayers that he succeeded in obtaining
her promise to meet him on the following Sunday. The princess, like
a skilful manoeuvrer, reckoned upon the additional violence his ardor
would receive from this delay. The affection with which she had inspired
him would only gain strength by thus deferring the day for their next
meeting, whilst he would have time to meditate upon the virtue as well
as the charms of her he had won.
The long looked for Sunday at length arrived, and Moireau was first at
the place of rendezvous. His simple dress augmented his natural good
looks, whilst the countess had spared no pains to render her appearance
calculated to captivate and seduce. All reserve was thrown aside; and to
satisfy the eager curiosity of her lover, she stated herself to be the
widow of a country lawyer, who had come to Paris to carry on a lawsuit.
It would be useless to follow the princess during the further course
of this meeting. Suffice it to say, that Moirreau and madame d’Egmont
separated mutually happy and satisfied with each other.
The youth, who was now ages gone in love, had only reached his
twenty-second year, and madame Rossin was his first attachment. So
ardent and impetuous did his passion hourly grow, that it became a
species of insanity. On the other hand, the high-born dame, who had thus
captivated him, felt all the attractions of his simple and untutored
love, further set off by the fine manly figure of the young shopman.
Indeed, so much novelty and interest did she experience in her new
amour, that, far from finding herself, as she had expected, disposed
to relinquish the affair (as she had anticipated) at the end of two
or three interviews, which she had imagined would have satisfied her
capricious fancy, she put off, to an indefinite period, her original
project of ending the affair by feigning a return to the country.
This resolution, however, she did not feel courage to carry into effect;
and two or three months rolled rapidly away without any diminution of
their reciprocal flame, when one fine Sunday evening Moireau, whose time
hung heavily on his hands, took it into his head to visit the opera.
This species of amusement constitutes the _ne plus ultra_ of the
delights of a French cit. Moireau seated himself in the pit, just
opposite the box of the gentlemen in waiting. The performance was
“Castor and Pollux.” At the commencement of the second act a sudden
noise and bustle drew Moireau from the contemplative admiration into
which the splendor of the piece had thrown him. The disturbance arose
from a general move, which was taking place in the box belonging to the
gentlemen in waiting. Madame d’Egmont had just arrived, attended by four
or five grand lords of the court covered with gold, and decorated with
the order of the Holy Ghost, and two ladies richly dressed, from whom
she was distinguished as much by the superior magnificence of her attire
as by her striking beauty.
Moireau could not believe his eyes; he felt assured he beheld madame
Rossin, yet he fancied he must be under the influence of some fantastic
dream; but every look, every gesture of the princess, a thousand
trifles, which would have escaped the notice of a common observer, but
which were engraved in indelible characters on the heart of her admirer,
all concurred to assure him that he recognised in this lovely and
dazzling female, so splendidly attired and so regally attended, the
cherished mistress of his affections; she whom that very morning he had
held in his embrace. He addressed a thousand questions to those about
him, from whom he learnt his own good fortune and the exalted rank
of her he had won. Scarcely could he restrain the burst of joy, when
informed that the fair object, glittering with jewels and radiant
in beauty, was the daughter of Richelieu, and the wife of one of the
princes of the noble houses of Egmont.
A thousand tumultuous and flattering ideas rushed in crowds to the brain
of young Moireau, and he saw in anticipation a long and brilliant vista
opening before him. Poor inexperienced youth! He mistook the wisest and
safest path, which would have been to have appeared ignorant of the
high rank of his mistress, and to have induced her, from motives of
affection, to preside over his fortunes, and to rise by her means
without allowing her to suspect he guessed her ability to bestow riches
and preferment. He, on the contrary, hastened to her with the account of
his having discovered her real rank and station. Madame d’Egmont, whose
self-possession enabled her to conceal the terror and uneasiness his
recital inspired her with, listened calmly and silently till he had
ceased speaking, and then asked him, with a playful smile, if he was
quite sure of being in his right senses? “For how otherwise could you,”
said she, “confuse a poor obscure widow like myself with the rich and
powerful princess you speak of? My friend, you are under the influence
of a dream; believe me, I am neither more nor less than poor widow
Rossin, and can boast of no claim to the illustrious name of Egmont or
Richelieu.”
But the more she spoke the less she persuaded, and young Moireau was not
to be reasoned out of his conviction of her identity with the high-born
princess of Egmont, and he alternately employed threats and promises
to induce her to confess the fact; but the lady was firm and immovable.
Resolved at all risk to preserve her incognito, she found herself
compelled to bring the affair to a conclusion, by feigning extreme anger
at the pertinacity with which Moireau importuned her upon a subject
which she protested she knew nothing: her lover retaliated, and a
desperate quarrel ensued. Moireau rushed angrily from her presence,
vowing that he would publish his adventure thro’out Paris; an empty
threat, which his devotion to the princess would never have permitted
him to carry into execution.
Madame d’Egmont, however, was not so sure that her secret was safe, and
she lost not an instant in repairing to the house of M. de Sartines, to
obtain from him a _lettre de cachet_ against the aspiring shopman, who,
seized in the street, was conveyed away, and confined as a maniac in
a madhouse, where, but for a circumstance you shall hear, he would
doubtless be still.
I happened to be with the king when the lieutenant of police arrived
upon matters connected with his employment. According to custom, Louis
inquired whether he had anything very amusing to communicate to him?
“Many things, sire,” replied he, “and amongst others an anecdote of
madame d’Egmont”; and he began to relate to us, word for word, what I
have written you. The king laughed till he cried; as for me, altho’ I
could not help finding the tale sufficiently comic to induce risibility,
I listened with more coolness; and when it was completed, I exclaimed,
“Can it be, sire, that you will permit this unfortunate young man to be
the eternal victim of so unprincipled a woman?”
“What would you have me do?” said Louis; “how can I interfere without
compromising the reputation of madame d’Egmont?”
“Allow me to say,” replied I, “that this fear ought not to prevent your
majesty’s interference. You are father of your subjects; and the respect
you entertain for madame d’Egmont should not outweigh your duty, which
imperatively calls upon you to command the release of this wretched
young man.”
“But,” argued the king, “by such a step I shall for ever disoblige the
duc de Richelieu and his family.”
“Fear it not,” cried I, “if your majesty will trust to me, I will
undertake to bring the maréchal and his nephew to approve of your
proceedings; and as for the rest of his family, let them go where
they will; for the empire of the world I should be sorry to bear them
company.”
This manner of speaking pleased the king; and, turning to M. de
Sartines, “Lieutenant of police,” said he, “you have heard my fair
chancellor; you will act in strict conformity with the orders she will
transmit you from me.”
“Then take these orders now, sir,” said I: “in the first place, this
ill-treated young Moireau must immediately be set at liberty, and my
own police (for I must tell you I had them) will give me the faithful
account of all your proceedings in this affair.”
The king comprehended my meaning. “You will keep a careful watch,” added
he to M. de Sartines, “that no harm befalls this unfortunate youth,
whom, I beg, you will discreetly recommend to quit France ere the malice
of those who have reason to fear his reappearance works him some evil.”
“And who, sire,” asked I, “shall dare injure one whom your majesty
deigns to honor with your protection?”
“Madame,” replied M. de Sartines, “even his majesty’s high patronage
cannot prevent a secret blow from some daring hand; a quarrel purposely
got up; a beverage previously drugged; a fall from any of the bridges
into the river; or, even the supposition of one found dead, having
destroyed himself.”
“You make me shudder,” said I, “in thus unveiling the extent of human
depravity. So, then, this young man, whose only fault appears to have
been that captivating the eyes of a noble lady, should perish in
a dungeon, or save his life at the sacrifice of country, friends,
connections; and all this for having listened to the passion of a
woman, as licentious in manners as illustrious by birth: this frightful
injustice rouses all my indignation. Well, then, since the power of the
monarch of France is insufficient to protect his oppressed subject
in his own realms, let him shield him from want in a foreign land, by
allowing him a pension of one hundred louis. I will take upon myself to
defray the expenses of his journey.”
Thus saying, I was hastening to the adjoining room, where stood my
_secretaire_, to take from it a thousand crowns I wished to give for the
purpose. The king held me back by my arm, saying to me,
“You are the most excellent creature I know of, but you see I am always
master. I will undertake to provide for this young man. M. de Sartines,”
pursued he, “I wish to secure to him a thousand crowns yearly; and,
further, you will supply him with six thousand francs ready money,
which M. de la Borde will repay to your order. _Now are you satisfied,
Couci?_” said the king, turning to me.
My only reply was to throw my arms around his neck without ceremony,
spite of the presence of a witness, who might blush at my familiarity.
“You are indeed,” said I, “a really good prince; it is only a pity you
will not assert your right to rule alone.”
“You are a little rebel,” cried he, “to doubt my absolute power.” This
tone of playful gaiety was kept up some time after the departure of the
lieutenant of police.
M. de Sartines returned next day to tell me that everything had been
accomplished to my desire. “M. Moireau,” said he, “has left prison,
and departs for Spain to-morrow morning: his intention is to join
some friends of his at Madrid. He is informed of all he owes you,
and entreats your acceptance of his most grateful and respectful
acknowledgments. Will you see him?”
“That would be useless,” answered I; “say to him only, that I request he
will write to me upon his arrival at Madrid, and give me the history of
his late adventure in its fullest details.”
Moireau did not disappoint me; and so soon as his letter reached me I
hastened to copy it, merely suppressing the date of the place from which
it was written, and forwarded it immediately to the comtesse d’Egmont,
with the following note:--
“The many proofs of tender attachment with which the widow Rossin
honored young Moireau make me believe that she will learn with pleasure
of my having the good fortune to rescue the ill-fated youth from the
cruelty of the comtesse d’Egmont. This interesting young man no longer
groans a wretched prisoner in the gloomy abode that haughty lady had
selected for him, but is at this minute safe in a neighboring kingdom,
under the powerful patronage of king of France, who is in possession of
every circumstance relative to the affair. I likewise know the whole of
the matter, and have in my keeping the most irrefragable proofs of all
that took place and should I henceforward have any reason to complain of
the comtesse d’Egmont, I shall publish these documents with permission
of those concerned.
“The public will then be enabled to judge of the virtue and humanity of
one who affects to treat me with a ridiculous disdain. There exists
no law against a fair lady having lovers and admirers, but a stern one
forbids her to command or procure their destruction. I KNOW ALL; and
madame d’Egmont’s future conduct will decide my silence and discretion.
The affair with Moireau is not the only one, others of even a graver
sin preceded it. I can publish the whole together; and, I repeat, my
determination on this head depends wholly and entirely upon the manner
in which madame d’Egmont shall henceforward conduct herself towards me.
I beg madame de Rossin will allow me to subscribe myself, with every
feeling she so well, merits,
“Her very humble and most obedient servant,
“THE COMTESSE DU BARRY”
I had communicated to no one the secret of this vengeance; I wished to
keep the delight of thus exciting the rage of the princesse d’Egmont all
to myself. I was certain, that whatever might henceforward be her line
of conduct towards me, that whenever she found herself in my presence,
she would bitterly feel the stings of an accusing conscience, and the
gnawings of that worm which dieth not in the heart of hypocritical and
wicked persons, more especially when compelled to meet the eye of those
who could unmask them in a minute.
On the following day I received a visit from the duc de Richelieu. Spite
of the many endeavors he made to appear smiling and good humored, a deep
rage kept its station round his mouth, and contracted his lips even in
the midst of the artificial smile with which he sought to dissimulate
his wrath.
“Madame, good morning,” said he to me, “I come to offer my
congratulations, you really are become quite one of us; upon my word,
the most experienced courtier has nothing more to teach you.”
“I am as yet in ignorance of the cause to which I may ascribe these
compliments, M. le maréchal, which I greatly fear surpass my poor
merits; and which even you will be compelled to retract them when I am
better known to you.”
“Fear it not, madame,” said he, “your commencement is a master-stroke;
and the letter you yesterday addressed to the comtesse d’Egmont--”
“Ah, sir,” exclaimed I, with unfeigned astonishment, “in her place I
certainly should not have selected you as my confidant in the affair.”
“And who could she better have selected than her father? But that is not
the matter in hand. My daughter is filled with anger against you; and if
I must speak the truth, I do not think your behavior towards her quite
what it should have been.”
“Really, monsieur, I was not prepared for a reproach of this kind; and
what can madame d’Egmont allege against me? ‘Tis she who has pursued me
with the most bitter sarcasms, the most determined malice; and, I may
add, the most impertinent behavior. I entreat your pardon for using such
strong expressions, but her behavior allows of none milder. And what
have I done in my turn? snatched from a lingering death an unfortunate
young man, whose only crime consisted in having pleased this
unreasonable madame d’Egmont. I procured the king’s protection for
the miserable object of the princess’s affection; I obtained his safe
removal to another country; and, having done all this, I communicated
my knowledge of the transaction to the comtesse d’Egmont. Does this bear
any comparison with her line of conduct towards me?”
“But your letter, madame; your letter--”
“Would bear alterations and amendments, sir, I am aware: I admit I did
not sufficiently insist upon the atrocity of such an abuse of power.”
“You are then resolved, madame, to make us your enemies.”
“I should be very sorry, monsieur le duc, to be compelled to such
extremities; but if your friendship can only be purchased at the price
of my submitting to continually receive the insults of your family, I
should be the first to cease to aspire to it. If Madame d’Egmont
holds herself aggrieved by me, let her carry her complaint before
the parliament; we shall then see what redress she will get. She has
compromised the king’s name by an arbitrary act; and since you thus
attack me, you must not take it amiss if I make the king acquainted with
the whole business.”
The maréchal, surprised at so severe a reply, could no longer restrain
the rage which filled him. “I should have thought, madame,” said he,
“that my daughter, in whose veins flows royal blood, might have merited
some little consideration from the comtesse du Barry.”
“It is well, then, monsieur le duc,” replied I, “to point out to you
your error. I see in my enemies their works and actions alone, without
any reference to their birth, be it high or low; and the conduct of
madame d’Egmont has been so violent and unceasing towards me, that it
leaves me without the smallest regret for that I have pursued towards
her.”
I had imagined that this reply would still further irritate the angry
feelings of the duc de Richelieu, but it did not: he easily guessed that
nothing but the king’s support could have inspired me to express myself
with so much energy; and, if paternal vanity strove in his heart,
personal interests spoke there with even a louder voice. He therefore
sought to lay aside his anger, and, like a skilful courtier, changing
his angry look and tone for one of cheerfulness:
“Madame,” said he, “I yield; I see it will not do to enter the lists
against you. I confess I came this morning but to sound your courage,
and already you have driven me off the field vanquished. There is one
favor I would implore of your generosity, and that is, to be silent as
to all that has transpired.”
“I shall not speak of it, monsieur le duc,” replied I, much moved,
“unless you or madame d’Egmont set me the example.”
“In that case the affair will for ever remain buried in oblivion; but,
madame, I will not conceal from you, that my daughter has become your
most bitter and irreconcilable enemy.”
“The motives which have actuated me, monsieur le maréchal, are such as
to leave me very little concern upon that subject. I flatter myself this
affair will not keep you away from me, who would fain reckon as firmly
on your friendship as you may do on mine.”
The maréchal kissed my hand in token of amity, and from that moment the
matter was never mentioned.
A similar scene had already occurred with the prince de Soubise,
relative to the exile of his daughter. Was it not somewhat strange, as
well as unjust, that all the noblemen of the day wished to preserve
to their relations the right of offending me with impunity, without
permitting me even the right of defending myself.