A little while before leaving the Cabinet of the Council for the Bed of
Justice, M. le Duc d'Orleans had begged me to go to the Palais Royal with
the Keeper of the Seals immediately after the ceremony had ended. As I
saw that nothing had been undertaken, I thought myself free of this
conference, and was glad to avoid a new proof that I had been in a
secret which had excited envy. I went, therefore, straight home,
arriving between two and three. I found at the foot of the steps
the Duc d'Humieres, Louville, and all my family, even my mother, whom
curiosity had drawn from her chamber, which she had not left since the
commencement of the winter. We remained below in my apartment, where,
while changing my coat and my shirt, I replied to their eager questions;
when, lo! M. de Biron, who had forced my door which I had closed against
everybody, in order to obtain a little repose, was announced.
Biron put his head in at my door, and begged to be allowed to say a word
to me. I passed, half-dressed, into my chamber with him. He said that
M. le Duc d'Orleans had expected me at the Palais Royal immediately after
the Bed of justice, and was surprised I had not appeared. He added that
there was no great harm done; and that the Regent wished to see me now,
in order that I might execute a commission for him. I asked Biron what
it was? He replied that it was to go to Saint-Clerc to announce what had
taken place to Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans!
This was a thunder-bolt for me. I disputed with Biron, who exhorted me
to lose no time, but to go at once to the Palais Royal, where I was
expected with impatience. I returned into my cabinet with him, so
changed in aspect that Madame de Saint-Simon was alarmed. I explained
what was the matter, and after Biron had chatted a moment, and again
pressed me to set out at once, he went away to eat his dinner. Ours was
served. I waited a little time in order to recover myself, determined
not to vex M. le Duc d'Orleans by dawdling, took some soup and an egg,
and went off to the Palais Royal.
It was in vain that, using all the eloquence I could command and all the
liberty I dared employ, I protested against being employed for this duty.
I represented to the Regent what an ill-chosen messenger I should be to
carry to Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans news of the disgrace of her brother
the Duc du Maine; I, who had always been such an open and declared enemy
to the bastards! I represented to him that people would say I went on
purpose to triumph over her at what had been done, and that she herself
would look upon my presence as a kind of insult. In vain! in vain! were
my arguments, my entreaties, my instances. M. le Duc d'Orleans had
determined that I should go on this errand, and go I must.
As I left his house to execute my luckless commission, I found one of
Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans' pages, booted and spurred, who had just
arrived from Saint-Cloud. I begged him to return at once, at a gallop,
and say, on arriving, to the Duchesse Sforze (one of Madame la Duchesse
d'Orleans' ladies) that I should be there soon with a message from M. le
Duc d'Orleans, and to ask her to meet me as I descended from my coach.
My object was to charge her with the message I had to deliver, and not to
see Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans at all. But my poor prudence was
confounded by that of the page, who had not less than I. He took good
care not to be the bearer of such ill news as he had just learned at the
Palais Royal, and which was now everywhere public. He contented himself
with saying that I was coming, sent by M. le Duc d'Orleans, spoke not a
word to the Duchesse Sforze, and disappeared at once. This is what I
afterwards learned, and what I saw clearly enough on arriving at Saint-
Cloud.
I went there at a gentle trot, in order to give time to the page to
arrive before me, and to the Duchesse Sforze to receive me. During the
journey I applauded myself for my address, but feared lest I should be
obliged to see Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans after Madame Sforze. I could
not imagine that Saint-Cloud was in ignorance of what had occurred, and,
nevertheless, I was in an agony that cannot be expressed, and this
increased as I approached the end of my journey. If it is disagreeable
to announce unpleasant news to the indifferent, how much more is it to
announce them to the deeply interested!
Penetrated with this dolorous sentiment I arrived in the grand court of
Saint-Cloud, and saw everybody at the windows, running from all parts.
I alighted, and asked the first comer to lead me to the Duchesse Sforze,
the position of whose apartments I am unacquainted with. I was told that
Madame Sforze was in the chapel with Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans. Then
I asked for the Marechale de Rochefort, and after a time she arrived,
hobbling along with her stick. I disputed with her, wishing to see
Madame Sforze, who was not to be found. I was anxious at all events to
go to her room and wait, but the inexorable Marechale pulled me by the
arm, asking what news I brought. Worn out at last, I said, "News? news
that you are acquainted with."
"How, acquainted with?" she asked. "We know nothing, except that a Bed
of justice has been held, and we are expiring to know why, and what has
passed there."
My astonishment at this ignorance was extreme, and I made her swear and
repeat four times over that nothing was known at Saint-Cloud. I told her
thereupon what had happened, and she, in her turn, astonished, almost
fell backwards! But where was Madame Sforze? she came not, and do what
I must, say what I might, I was forced to carry, my message to Madame la
Duchesse d'Orleans. I was sorely loth to do so, but was dragged by the
hand almost as a sheep is led to the slaughter.
I stood before Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans after having passed through
an apartment filled with her people, fear painted upon all their faces.
I saluted her; but, oh! how differently from my usual manner! She did
not perceive this at first, and begged me, with a cheerful natural air,
to approach her; but seeing my trouble, she exclaimed, "Good Heavens,
Monsieur, what a face you wear! What news bring you?"
Seeing that I remained silent and motionless, she became more moved, and
repeated her questions. I advanced a few steps towards her, and at her
third appeal, I said: "Madame, you know nothing then?"
"No, Monsieur; I simply know that there has been a Bed of justice: what
has passed there I am quite ignorant of."
"Ah, Madame," I replied, half turning away; "I am more unhappy, then,
than I thought to be."
"What is the matter?" exclaimed she; "what has happened?" (rising and
sitting bolt upright on the sofa she was stretched upon.) "Come near and
sit down!"
I approached; stated that I was in despair. She, more and more moved,
said to me, "But speak; better to learn bad news from one's friend than
from others."
This remark pierced me to the heart, and made me sensible of the grief I
was going to inflict upon her. I summoned up courage, and I told her
all.
The tears of Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans flowed abundantly at my
recital. She did not answer a word, uttered no cry, but wept bitterly.
She pointed to a seat and I sat down upon it, my eyes during several
instants fixed upon the floor. Afterwards I said that M. le Duc
d'Orleans, who had rather forced upon me this commission, than charged me
with it, had expressly commanded me to tell her that he had very strong
proofs in his hands against M. du Maine; that he had kept them back a
long time, but could no longer do so now. She gently replied to me that
her brother was very unfortunate and shortly afterwards asked if I knew
what his crime was. I said that M. le Duc d'Orleans had not told me; and
that I had not dared to question him upon a subject of this nature,
seeing that he was not inclined to talk of it.
More tears shortly afterwards filled her eyes. Her brother must be very
criminal, she said, to be so treated.
I remained some time upon my seat, not daring to raise my eyes, in the
most painful state possible, and not knowing whether to remain or go
away. At last I acquainted her with my difficulty; said I fancied she
would like to be alone some little time before giving me her orders, but
that respect kept me equally in suspense as to whether I should go or
stay. After a short silence, she said she should like to see her women.
I rose, sent them to her, and said to them, if her Royal Highness asked
for me, I should be with the Duchesse Sforze, or the Marechale Rochefort;
but I could find neither of these two ladies, so I went up to Madame.
She rose as soon as I appeared, and said to me, with eagerness, "Well,
Monsieur, what news?" At the same time her ladies retired, and I was left
alone with her.
I commenced by an excuse for not coming to see her first, as was my duty,
on the ground that M. le Duc d'Orleans had assured me she would not
object to my commencing with Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans. She did not
object, in fact, but asked me for my news with much eagerness. I told
her what had happened. Joy spread over her face. She replied with a
mighty, "At last!" which she repeated, saying, her son long since ought
to have struck this blow, but that he was too good. I mentioned to her
that she was standing, but for politeness she remained so. After some
further talk she begged me to state all the details of this celebrated
morning.
I again recalled to her mind that she was standing, and represented that
what she desired to learn would take a long time to relate; but her ardor
to know it was extreme. I began then my story, commencing with the very
morning. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Madame seated herself, but
with the greatest politeness. I was nearly an hour with her, continually
telling and sometimes replying to her questions. She was delighted at
the humiliation of the Parliament, and of the bastards, and that her son
had at last displayed some firmness.
At this point the Marechale de Rochefort entered, and summoned me back to
Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans. I found that princess extended upon the
sofa where I had left her, an inkstand upon her knees and a pen in her
hand. She had commenced a reply to M. le Duc d'Orleans, but had not been
able to finish it. Looking at me with an air of gentleness and of
friendship, she observed, "Tears escape me; I have begged you to descend
in order to render me a service; my hand is unsteady, I pray you finish
my writing for me;" and she handed to me the inkstand and her letter. I
took them, and she dictated to me the rest of the epistle, that I at once
added to what she had written.
I was infinitely amazed at the conciseness and appropriateness of the
expressions she readily found, in the midst of her violent emotion, her
sobs, and her tears. She finished by saying that she was going to
Montmartre to mourn the misfortunes of her brother, and pray God for his
prosperity. I shall regret all my life I did not transcribe this letter.
All its expressions were so worthy, so fitting, so measured, everything
being according to truth and duty; and the letter, in fact, being so
perfectly well written, that although I remember it roughly, I dare not
give it, for fear of spoiling it. What a pity that a mind capable of
such self-possession, at such a moment, should have become valueless from
its leaning towards illegitimacy.
After this I had another interview with Madame, and a long talk with my
sure and trusty friend Madame Sforze. Then I set out for Paris, went
straight to the Palais Royal, and found M. le Duc d'Orleans with Madame
la Duchesse de Berry. He was delighted when he heard what Madame had
said respecting him; but he was not particularly pleased when he found
that Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans (who after telling me she would go to
Montmartre, had changed her mind), was coming to the Palais Royal.
I learned afterwards that she came about half an hour after I left. At
first she was all humility and sorrow, hoping to soften the Regent by
this conduct. Then she passed to tears, sobs, cries, reproaches,
expecting to make him by these means undo what he had done, and reinstate
M. du Maine in the position he had lost. But all her efforts proving
vain, she adopted another course: her sorrow turned to rage,--her tears
to looks of anger. Still in vain. She could gain nothing; vex and annoy
M. le Duc d'Orleans as she might by her conduct. At last, finding there
was no remedy to be had, she was obliged to endure her sorrow as best she
might.
As for me, I was erased entirely from her books. She looked upon me as
the chief cause of what had occurred, and would not see me. I remained
ever afterwards at variance with her. I had nothing to reproach myself
with, however, so that her enmity did not very deeply penetrate me.