Tallien’s daughter, one of whose names was “Thermidor,” married a

Narbonne-Pelet. Another daughter, the Marquise de Hallay, inherited

her beauty, and was an extraordinary likeness of herself. One of her

sons, Dr. Edouard Cabarrus, was with her amongst the rest when she

died, and the last words she spoke to her children were in the soft

caressing Spanish of her early youth.

FOOTNOTES:

[108] “Notre Dame de Thermidor,” p. 456 (Arsène Houssaye).

[109] “Mémoires de Napoléon” (Bourrienne).

[110] Chimay is in Belgium.

IV

MADAME DE GENLIS

CHAPTER I

Birth of Félicité Ducrest—Château de Saint-Aubin—Made

_chanoinesse_—Story of her uncle and her mother—Her

childhood—Comes to Paris—Goes into society—Evil reputation of the

_hôtel Tencin_.

The last of the four French heroines whose histories are here to be

related, differed in her early surroundings and circumstances from the

three preceding ones. She was neither the daughter of a powerful noble

like the Marquise de Montagu, nor did she belong to the _finance_ or

the _bourgeoisie_ like Mme. Le Brun and Mme. Tallien. Her father was

noble but poor, her childhood was spent, not in a great capital but in

the country, and as she was born nearly ten years before the first and

six-and-twenty years before the last of the other three, she saw much

more than they did of the old France before it was swept away by the

Revolution.

Félicité Stéphanie Ducrest de Saint-Aubin was born January 25, 1746,

at Champcéry, a small estate in Burgundy which belonged to her father,

but which two years afterwards he sold, and bought the estate and

_marquisat_[111] of Saint-Aubin on the Loire.

The _château_, built close to the river, was large, picturesque, and

dilapidated, with immense court-yards and crumbling towers; on the

opposite bank was the _Abbaye de Sept-Fonts_, where Félicité and her

brother were often taken for a treat, crossing the Loire in a boat and

dining in the guest-room of the abbey.

These children, of whom she was the elder by a year, were the only

ones who survived of the four born to their parents, and were

devotedly fond of each other; the remembrance of their happy childhood

together in the rambling old _château_ and the great garden with its

terrace over the Loire always remained vividly impressed upon the mind

of Félicité.

They were in the habit of spending part of every summer at Étioles,

with M. le Normand, _fermier général des postes_, husband of Mme. de

Pompadour, then the mistress of Louis XV. After one of these visits,

when Félicité was about six years old, it having been decided to

obtain for her and for one of her little cousins admission into the

order of _chanoinesses_ of the Noble Chapter of Alix; the two children

with their mothers travelled in an immense travelling-carriage called

a _berline_, to Lyon, where they were detained for a fortnight, during

which the _Comtes de Lyon_ examined the genealogical proofs of their

noble descent. Finding them correct and sufficient for their admission

into the order, they proceeded to Alix, at some distance from Lyon;

where, with the huge abbey and church in the centre were, grouped, in

the form of a semi-circle, the tiny houses, each with its little

garden, which were the dwellings of the _chanoinesses_.

[Illustration:

_Boucher_

LA MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR]

On the day of the ceremony the children, dressed in white, were

brought into the church, where the grand prior, after making them

say the creed and answer certain questions, cut off a lock of their

hair, tied a piece of black and white material on their heads, put

a black silk girdle round their waists, and hung round their necks

the red _cordon_ and enamelled cross of the order. After a short

exhortation, followed by high mass, the children were embraced by the

_chanoinesses_, and the day ended with suitable festivities.

The _chanoinesses_ all bore the title of Countess; that chosen

for Félicité was Comtesse de Lancy, her father being Seigneur of

Bourbon-Lancy.

The _chanoinesses_ were free to take vows or not, either at the

prescribed age or later. If they did not, they had only the honour of

the title of Countess and the decorations of the order. If they did,

they got one of the dwellings and a good pension, but they could not

marry, and must spend two out of every three years there; with the

other year they could do as they liked. They might also adopt as a

niece a young _chanoinesse_ on condition she always stayed with them

and took the vows when she was the proper age. Her adopted aunt might

leave her all her jewels, furniture, &c., as well as her little house

and pension. One of them wished to adopt Félicité, but her mother

would not consent. They stayed there six weeks and then went home,

Félicité in despair at leaving the nuns, who petted and loaded her

with bonbons, but much consoled by being called “Madame.”

They then returned to Lyon, where they parted company; Félicité’s aunt

and cousin returning to Paris, while she and her mother went back to

Burgundy.

After a time a governess was engaged for her, a certain Mlle. de

Mars, a young girl of sixteen, whose chief instruction was in

music, in which she excelled, but beyond the catechism and a few

elementary subjects, knew little or nothing. She was a gentle, devout,

sweet-tempered girl, and Félicité soon became passionately attached

to her, and as her mother, occupied with her own pursuits and paying

and receiving visits, troubled herself very little about the studies

of her daughter, the child was left almost entirely to Mlle. Mars

and the maids, who, however, were trustworthy women and did her no

harm, beyond filling her head with stories of ghosts with which the

old _château_ might well have been supposed to be haunted. M. de

Saint-Aubin kept a pack of hounds, hunted or fished all day, and

played the violin in the evening. He had been in the army, but had

resigned his commission early in consequence of some foolish scrape.

Félicité’s mother was the daughter of a most odious woman.

She had first married M. de Mézières, a man of talent and learning,

who possessed an estate in Burgundy, and was early left a widow.

After a very few months she married the Marquis de la Haie, who had

been the page and then the lover of the infamous Duchesse de Berri,

eldest daughter of the Regent d’Orléans.

The Marquis was celebrated for his good looks, and was very rich;

but her marriage with him was disastrous for the son and daughter of

her first husband, to whom she took a violent and unnatural dislike.

She sent her son to America to get rid of him when he was thirteen,

and when he arrived there he escaped to Canada, took refuge with

the Indians, and made them understand that he had been abandoned by

his mother and wanted to live with them, to which they consented on

condition of his being tattooed all over.

The courage, strength, and vigour of the boy delighted the Indians,

whose language he soon learned and in whose sports and warlike feats

he excelled. But, unlike most Europeans who have identified themselves

with savages, he did not forget his own language or the education he

had received. Every day he traced upon pieces of bark verses or prose

in French and Latin, or geometrical problems; and so great was the

consideration he obtained among the Indians that when he was twenty

he was made chief of the tribe, then at war with the Spaniards.

Much astonished at the way in which the savages were commanded by

their young leader, the Spaniards were still more surprised when, on

discussing terms of peace, he conversed with them entirely in Latin.

Struck with admiration after hearing his history, they invited him to

enter the Spanish service, which, when he had arranged a satisfactory

treaty for his Indian friends, he did; made a rich marriage, and being

one of those men who are born to lead, rose as rapidly to power

among the Spaniards as among the Indians, and at the end of ten or

twelve years was governor of Louisiana. There he lived in prosperity

and happiness on his estates in a splendid house in which he formed a

magnificent library; and did not visit France until the death of his

cruel mother, after which he spent some time in Paris to the great

satisfaction of his sister and niece. The latter, who was then at the

Palais Royal, describes him as a grave, rather reserved man, of vast

information and capacity. His conversation was intensely interesting

owing to the extent of his reading in French, Spanish, and Latin, and

the extraordinary experiences of his life. He used to dine with her

nearly every day, and through his silk stockings she could see the

tattooed serpents of his Indian tribe. He was an excellent man, for

whom she had the greatest respect and affection.

Mme. de la Haie treated her daughter as badly as her son. She placed

her at six years old in a convent, seldom went to see her, when she

did showed her no sign of affection, and at fourteen insisted upon her

taking the veil. But the irrevocable vows were not to be pronounced

for another year, by which time the young girl declared that they

might carry her to the church but that before the altar she would say

no instead of yes. The Abbess declared that so great a scandal could

not be permitted, the enraged mother had to give way, and the young

girl joyfully resumed the secular clothes now much too small for her.

But she was left to live in the convent without ever leaving it, and

her lot would have been deplorable indeed but for the affection and

sympathy she met with from every one, above all, from the good abbess,

Mme. de Rossgnol, who had taken care of her education, and with whom

she dined and spent the whole day.

Thus time passed on till she was six-and-twenty, when she formed an

intimate friendship with the Marquise de Fontenille, a widow who

had come to live in the convent. M. Ducrest, then _de Champcéry_, a

good-looking man of thirty-seven, who had lately left the army, was

a relation of Mme. de Fontenille, and often came to the _parloir_ to

see her. He also saw Mlle. de Mézières, with whom he fell in love,

and whom he proposed to marry. He had a few hundreds a year, the

small castle of Champcéry, and a little property besides; while Mlle.

de Mézières had less than two thousand pounds, her mother having

seized all the rest of the fortune of her father. But such was her

unnatural spite against her daughter that she refused her consent for

three months, and although she was at last obliged to give it, she

would give neither dot, _trousseau_, nor presents, all of which were

provided by the good Abbess.

She came to the wedding with the son and daughter of her second

marriage; the latter was afterwards the celebrated Mme. de Montesson.

But she managed permanently to cheat her elder daughter out of nearly

the whole of the property of her father, and always behaved to her and

to her children with the most heartless cruelty.

The mania for education which characterised Félicité through life

began at an early age. While still a child she had a fancy to give

instruction to the little boys who came to cut reeds growing by the

pond or moat at the foot of the terrace of the _château_.

As the window of her room looked upon the terrace, and was only five

feet from the ground, she let herself down by a cord, taking care to

choose the days when there was a post, Mlle. de Mars was busy writing

to her friends, and her mother out of the way. Leaning upon the low

wall of the terrace she instructed the little boys who stood below

in what she happened to know herself, _i.e._, the catechism, the

beginning of the principles of music, and certain tragedies which she

and they declaimed, and as these instructions were mingled with cakes,

fruit, and toys which she threw over the wall to them, they were very

well attended, until Mlle. de Mars one day surprised them, and laughed

so heartily at the verses recited in _patois_ by the little boys that

the class came to an end.

From her earliest childhood Félicité had shown a remarkable talent

for music and acting, of which her mother was so proud that she did

her best to spoil the child by bringing her forward on every occasion

to display her talents. She learned to sing, to play the harp, to

recite verses; she was dressed up as an _Amour_ or a Hebe, she acted

Iphigenia and Hector and _Zaire_, and the constant flattery and

notice she received evidently and naturally turned her head and laid

the foundation of that vanity and self-satisfaction which appears so

conspicuously in the records of her life.

When she was about twelve years old she left Burgundy with her mother

and Mlle. de Mars. They travelled partly by boat on the Loire, partly

with their own carriage and horses, to Paris, where they established

themselves, and where Félicité pursued her musical studies with

increased ardour. She must have been a precocious young person, for

when she was eleven years old the son of the neighbouring doctor fell

in love with her, managed to give her a note, which she showed to

Mlle. Mars, and meeting with indignant discouragement, he ran away for

three years, after which he came home and married somebody else.

M. de Saint-Aubin, meanwhile, whose affairs, which grew worse and

worse, were probably not improved by his mismanagement nor by the

residence of his wife and daughter in Paris, stayed in Burgundy,

coming every now and then to see them. Mlle. de Mars had left them,

to the great grief of Félicité, who was now fourteen, and whom the

Baron de Zurlauben, Colonel of the Swiss Guards, was most anxious to

marry; but, as he was eighty years old, she declined his offer, and

also another of a young widower who was only six-and-twenty, extremely

handsome and agreeable, and had a large fortune.

By this time, however, she had made up her mind to marry an _homme

de qualité_, who belonged to the court. What she then wished was to

marry a certain M. de la Popelinière, whom she thought combined the

advantages she desired, though he was nothing more illustrious than a

_fermier général_, besides being an old man. However, her admiration

was not sufficiently returned for him to be of the same opinion.

Since the departure of Mlle. de Mars the vanity and thirst for

admiration fostered by her mother’s foolish education had greatly

increased, but between Mme. de Saint-Aubin and her daughter, though

there was affection, there was neither ease nor confidence; the young

girl was afraid of her mother, but adored her father. The society into

which she was thrown formed her character at an early age, and the

artificial, partly affected, partly priggish tone which is apparent

in all her voluminous writings detracted from the charm of her

undoubtedly brilliant talents.

She already played the harp so remarkably as to excite general

admiration, and amongst those who were anxious to be introduced to and

to hear her was the philosopher d’Alembert.

Félicité was very much flattered when she heard this, and very much

disgusted when she saw him, for he was ugly, common-looking, had a

shrill voice, and told stories that displeased her.

D’Alembert was one of the most constant and intimate _habitués_ of

the _salon_ of Mme. Geoffrin, then the stronghold of the philosophers

and encyclopædists, as that of the Duchesse de Luxembourg was of the

aristocratic _beau monde_.

There was also the _salon_ of Mme. du Deffand, who, while more

decidedly irreligious and atheistical than Mme. Geoffrin, was her

superior in talent, birth, and education, and always spoke of her with

the utmost disdain, as a _bourgeoise_ without manners or instruction,

who did not know how to write, pronounce, or spell correctly, and saw

no reason why people should not talk of _des z’haricots_.

D’Alembert, one of the leading encyclopædists, like most of them,

intensely vain, and about whose origin nothing was known, claimed

to be the illegitimate son of the Marquise de Tencin, of scandalous

reputation. Mme. de Créquy, in her “Souvenirs,” scorns the idea,

saying also that much of the evil spoken of Mme. de Tencin was untrue;

but it is certain that many dark and mysterious rumours clung to the

_hôtel Tencin_, the garden of which extended over what is now the _rue

de la Paix_. Originally intended for the cloister, Mlle. de Tencin

refused to take the vows at Grenoble, and was a conspicuous figure in

the wild orgies of the Regency. An intimate friend of the notorious

John Law, then controller-general of finance, she succeeded, partly by

his influence, in getting her brother made Cardinal and Archbishop of

Embrun, and during his lifetime did the honours of his _hôtel_, where,

during the days of his power, John Law was a leading spirit. Fortunes

were lost and won there in a night, but darker secrets than those of

the gambling table were whispered concerning the _hôtel Tencin_, its

inhabitants and guests. More than ordinary scandals, even in the days

of the Regent Orléans and his shameless daughters, were circulated,

and even the murder of one of her lovers was so far believed that Mme.

de Tencin was arrested, though shortly afterwards acquitted.

After her brother’s death she lost much of her prestige, and held her

_salon_ in the _rue St. Honoré_, most of her _habitués_, after her

death, transferring themselves to the house of Mme. Geoffrin.

FOOTNOTE:

[111] An estate which carried a title with all the _seigneuriaux_

rights.

CHAPTER II

M. de la Haie—Death of the Dauphin—M. de Saint-Aubin goes to St.

Domingo—Taken prisoner by the English—Returns to France—Imprisoned

for debt—His death—Difficulties and poverty—Félicité marries the

Comte de Genlis—His family—The Abbesse de Montivilliers and the

robbers—Life in the convent—Birth of a daughter.

The Marquis de la Haie, uncle of Félicité by the second marriage

of her grandmother, strongly disapproved of the way in which his

mother treated his half-sister and her children. He vainly tried to

influence her to behave better to them, and showed them much kindness

and affection himself. Unfortunately he was killed at the battle of

Minden. A strange fatality was connected with him, the consequences of

which can scarcely be appreciated or comprehended. He was one of the

_gentilhommes de la manche_[112] to the Duc de Bourgogne, eldest son

of the Dauphin, and _elder brother of Louis XVI._, who was extremely

fond of him. One day he was playing with the boy, and in trying

to lift him on to a wooden horse he let him fall. Terrified at the

accident, and seeing that the Prince had not struck his head, had no

wound nor fracture nor any apparent injury, he begged him not to tell

any one what had happened. The Duc de Bourgogne promised and kept his

word, but from that day his health began to fail. None of the doctors

could find out what was the matter with him, but, in fact, he was

suffering from internal abscesses, which ultimately caused his death.

Not till after La Haie had fallen at Minden did he confess, “It is he

who was the cause of my illness, but I promised him not to tell.”

This young Prince possessed talent and spirit. Had not his life been

sacrificed, the weak, unfortunate Louis XVI. would never have been

King, and who can tell how vast might have been the difference in the

course of events?

Mme. de Saint-Aubin had found an old friend from her convent, Mme.

de Cirrac, who introduced her to her sister, the Duchesse d’Uzès,

and others, to whose houses they were constantly invited to supper,

but the young girl, with more perception than her mother, began to

perceive, in spite of all the admiration lavished upon her, that it

was her singing and playing the harp that procured her all these

invitations, and that she could not afford to dress like those with

whom she now associated, and this spoilt her pleasure in going out.

While her mother was in this way striving to lead a life they could

not afford, her father, whose affairs grew more and more unprosperous,

went to St. Domingo on business.

He did no good, and on his way home was taken prisoner by the English

and carried to England. There, amongst other French prisoners,

he met the young Comte de Genlis, an officer in the navy who had

distinguished himself at Pondicherry, been desperately wounded, and

gained the cross of St. Louis. They became great friends, and M. de

Genlis expressing great admiration for a miniature of Félicité which

her father constantly wore, M. de Saint-Aubin poured into his ears the

manifold perfections of his daughter, and read to him the letters he

frequently received from her. When M. de Genlis soon afterwards was

set free, he used all the means in his power to obtain the release of

his friend, and, in the meanwhile, called upon Mme. de Saint-Aubin

at Paris, bringing letters from M. de Saint-Aubin, who three weeks

afterwards was set at liberty, and returned to France; but his affairs

were in such a state that he was induced to give a bill which, when

it fell due, he could not meet. Six hundred francs was all that was

required to execute the payment, and Mme. de Saint-Aubin wrote to

her half-sister, who had married a rich old man, M. de Montesson,

asking her to give or lend her money. She refused to do so, and M. de

Saint-Aubin was arrested and imprisoned. His wife and daughter spent

every day with him for a fortnight, at the end of which, the money

being paid, he was released. But his health seemed to decline, and

soon afterwards he was seized with a fever which ended fatally, to the

inexpressible grief of Félicité, who always laid his death at the door

of Mme. de Montesson, whether with justice or not it is impossible to

say, though, at any rate, her refusal to help the sister who had been

so shamefully treated, and who was in distress, sounds exceedingly

discreditable.

Félicité and her mother took refuge in an apartment lent them by

a friend in a Carmelite convent in the _rue Cassette_, where they

received the visits of different friends in the _parloir_. Amongst

the most assiduous was the Baron d’Andlau, a friend of the late M.

de Saint-Aubin, a man of sixty, very rich and of a distinguished

family. He wished to marry Félicité, who refused him, but so great

were the advantages of such an alliance that her mother desired her to

reconsider the matter. As she still declined, he turned his attentions

to her mother, and married her at the end of a year and a half.

Meanwhile they stayed on at the convent, where Mme. de Saint-Aubin

embroidered and wrote romances, one of which she sent to Voltaire,

who wrote her several flattering letters; Félicité played the harp

to amuse the nuns and to assist in the services of the chapel, made

friendships in the convent, and adored the good sisters, who passed

their time in devotion and charity, and amongst whom reigned the most

angelic harmony and peace.

When they were obliged to give up their rooms in this convent, they

moved to that of St. Joseph, in which Mme. de Saint-Aubin hired an

apartment.

Mme. du Deffand then occupied one in another part of the building,

but at that time they had no acquaintance with her. The philosophers

and the atheistic set had never at any time in her life the least

attraction for Félicité, who held their irreligious opinions in

abhorrence.

Very near this convent lived the sister of her father, the Marquise de

Sercey, and her family, with whom she spent much of her time.

The young Marquis, her cousin, was starting for St. Domingo, and the

day before his departure a _fête de famille_ took place, exceedingly

characteristic of the France of the eighteenth century.

Félicité composed some verses all about flowers and friendship, which

were pronounced to be “very touching,” and which she sang dressed

up as a shepherdess, having first presented him with a bouquet. She

next appeared in a Spanish costume singing a romance composed by her

mother, and finally she played the harp, which seems to come in like a

chorus throughout all her eventful life.

Meanwhile, she and M. de Genlis had fallen in love with each other,

and resolved to marry. As he had neither father nor mother, there

was nobody whose consent he was absolutely bound to ask; but a

powerful relation, M. de Puisieux, who was the head of his family,

had already, with his consent, begun to negotiate his marriage with

a rich young girl. Instead of telling M. de Puisieux the state of

the case while there was still time to retire without difficulty,

M. de Genlis said nothing, but proposed that they should at once

marry secretly, to which neither Félicité nor her relations seem to

have made any objection. She had no money, and had refused all the

marriages proposed to her; here was a man she did like, and who was in

all respects unexceptionable, only that he was not well off. But his

connections were so brilliant and influential that they could soon put

that right, and it was agreed that the marriage should take place from

the house of the Marquise de Sercey.

It was celebrated in the parish church at midnight, and the day was

publicly announced, and the young Countess and her harp consigned to

the care of her husband.

The announcement caused a tremendous uproar in his family, and the

only relations who would have anything to do with them were the Count

and Countess de Balincourt, who called at once and took a fancy to the

young wife, who was only seventeen, clever, accomplished, attractive,

and pretty. Mme. de Montesson also, pleased with the marriage of her

niece, paid them an early visit, liked M. de Genlis, and invited them

to her house.

But the other relations of M. de Genlis would neither return his

calls, answer his letters, nor receive him, with the exception of his

elder brother, the Marquis de Genlis, who invited them to go down to

Genlis, which they did a few days after their wedding.

The young Comte de Genlis had left the navy, by the advice of M.

de Puisieux, who had got him made a Colonel of the _Grenadiers de

France_.[113] He had only a small estate worth about four hundred a

year and the prospect of a share in the succession to the property of

his grandmother, the Marquise de Droménil, who was eighty-seven and

lived at Reims.

M. de Puisieux was furious at being not only deceived and treated

without consideration, but actually made a fool of, and that he was by

no means a person to be trifled with the elder brother of the Comte de

Genlis had found to his cost.

No lad ever started in life with more brilliant prospects than the

Marquis. At fifteen he already possessed the large estate of Genlis,

free from debt or mortgage, that of Sillery was settled upon him, and

he was already a colonel, owing to the influence of M. de Puisieux,

his guardian, and a great favourite of Louis XV.

“Conduct yourself properly,” said he; “you will make a great marriage.

Being colonel at your age, you have a splendid military career before

you, and as I look upon you as my son I will get the King to make

Sillery into a duchy on the occasion of your marriage.”

All this was a certainty supposing he had possessed the most moderate

talents, and behaved with common decency. But at seventeen he was

already notorious, even at the court of Louis XV., for his vicious

life; an incorrigible gambler, and over head and ears in debt. His

guardian reproached him, and his debts were paid, but the same thing

kept happening until, when he was twenty years old, he lost in one

night five hundred thousand francs, his debts besides amounting to

another hundred thousand.

Having lost patience, and seeing nothing but ruin before him, M. de

Puisieux appealed to the King, got a _lettre de cachet_, and shut

up his hopeful ward at the Château de Saumur, where he remained for

five years, while half of what he owed was being paid off. At the

end of this time he was ordered to Genlis, where an allowance of

fifteen thousand francs was made to him while the remainder of his

debts were gradually paid, after which he was allowed to spend three

months of the year at Paris, but M. de Puisieux refused to remove

the “interdict” until he had made a good marriage. That the _lettres

de cachet_ had their abuses is incontestable, but they had their

advantages too.

Félicité found the Marquis very pleasant, frivolous, amusing,

light-hearted, and of unalterable good temper.

Some weeks after their marriage the Comte de Genlis had to rejoin his

regiment, which was at Nancy, and as it was then not the custom for

officers’ wives to accompany them, and he thought Félicité too young

to be left by herself at a court such as that of Louis XV., he decided

to take an apartment for her at Origny, in a convent where he had

relations, as people often did in such cases.

Félicité cried bitterly when her husband left her, but she soon dried

her tears, and made herself happy in her new home. She had charming

rooms in the interior of the conventual buildings, which were immense;

she had her maid with her, and her manservant was lodged with those

of the Abbess in the exterior part of the abbey. She dined with the

Abbess, and her _déjeuner_ was brought to her own apartment, which

consisted, of course, of several rooms.

The abbey was very beautiful, and there were more than a hundred nuns

besides the lay sisters and the _pensionnaires_ (children and young

girls being educated there).

The Abbess was always of a noble family, the one at that time being

Mme. de Sabran, and although no proofs were exacted, the nuns nearly

all belonged to families of good blood.

Each nun had a comfortable cell, and a pretty little garden of her own

in the enclosure of the vast garden of the abbey. One nun, who was

considered especially fortunate, had in her garden a rock from which

came a spring of delicious water.

The Abbess might receive in her apartment and at dinner whatever

guests she chose, men or women, but no men might go to the cloisters

or any other part of the abbey. She had a carriage, horses, and

servants of her own, and might go out when and where she pleased,

taking with her any nuns she chose. She often drove to see different

farms, &c., belonging to the abbey, and to visit sick people.

The state and power of some of these abbesses, and the comfortable,

cheerful security of their lives at that time made the position

much sought after. It was a splendid provision for the daughters of

great houses, and a happy life enough if they did not wish to marry.

The following anecdote is given by Mme. de Créquy, and, although it

happened rather earlier in the eighteenth century, perhaps forty or

fifty years before the time now in question, it is so characteristic

of the state of things that still prevailed that it may not be out of

place to give it.

The Abbesse de Montivilliers was one of the greatest abbesses in

France, and was at the time this happened Mme. du Froulay, whose

niece, Mme. de Créquy, then a _pensionnaire_ in the abbey, relates the

story.

“The _huissiers_ and _valets de porte_, who lived outside the

enclosure, had permitted a poor beggar to take shelter every night

under a lofty arch leading into the first court of the abbey. He was

an unfortunate man, who had neither arms nor legs, and a poor woman,

young and, they said, almost pretty, used to come and fetch him each

morning with a sort of wheelbarrow, and establish him on the high road

to beg. They had bread, soup, and cider given them at the abbey, but

very often did not finish them.

“Two murders had been committed upon that same high road; the tribunal

of the Abbess had discovered nothing, and terror spread through the

country-side.... The peasants declared they were committed by evil

spirits.

“One autumn night, after ten o’clock, the beggar had not come in.

They supposed the woman who took care of him had neglected to fetch

him, and charitably waited till half-past. The sister cellarer sent

for the keys, to take them, as usual, to the prioress, who would put

them under her pillow. She was a demoiselle de Toustain, who, _par

parenthèse_, had had the golden ball of her prioress’s staff engraved

with the motto of her family, ‘_Tous-teints-de-sang_’ (‘All stained

with blood’), which my aunt had thought out of place on an emblem of

religious and pastoral office. She had remarked to the Prioress,

‘My dear daughter, a war-cry is always improper for a bride of Jesus

Christ....’

“Instead of the keys of the abbey strange news was brought to Mme. de

Toustain. A rich and vigorous farmer had just been attacked on the

high road. He had stunned with his club one of his assailants whom the

soldiers of the maréchaussée had brought with his accomplice to the

archway. They asked for the prison to be opened to put them in, and

for the farmer to be allowed to pass the night in the precincts, that

he might not fall into the hands of the other robbers. The Prioress

having replied that it was too late, they woke the Abbess, who ordered

all the doors to be opened that the brigadier required, but the old

Prioress was so obstinate about the rules that the Abbess had to get

up herself and demand the keys, which otherwise she would not give up.

“As an Abbess of Montivilliers is not rigorously cloistered, my aunt,

who was perfectly charitable and courageous, thought herself obliged

to go out to the first court, and did so, at any rate with a _cortège_

suitable to her dignity.

“She was preceded by a cross-bearer between two acolytes bearing

tall candles, and followed by a dozen assistants, with veils down

and crossed hands; all the lay sisters of the abbey were ranged

round their ladies in large grey capes, carrying lighted torches in

those beautiful gothic lanterns, with the arms of the royal abbeys

emblazoned in stained glass, which are used in processions at night

round the cloisters. Never in modern romances have I seen anything so

romantic and picturesque as that nocturnal scene.

“Mme. de Montivilliers ordered the gates of the prison to be thrown

open, which no one but herself would have dared to do against the

orders of the Prioress. She gave shelter and a cordial to the brave

farmer, and ordered her surgeon to examine the wounded robber, who was

a young man dressed in woman’s clothes, and it was then learned from

the farmer that the other criminal was that infernal beggar who had

been sheltered beneath the porch of the abbey, before which he now lay

on a litter waiting to be put in the dungeon. He had the torso of a

giant, but no legs or arms, only a kind of stump of one arm. His head

was enormous....

“When everything was disposed for the general safety Mme. de

Montivilliers raised her veil, and every one knelt to receive her

benediction.”

The robbers, who were both executed, were father and son. Their plan

was for the cripple to beg for money to be dropped into his hat, then

with his stump he pulled down a heavy weight hung in the tree above

him which stunned the victim, who was then finished by the other. The

farmer had been too quick for them. In the hollow or small cellar

under the arch where he slept were found gold, ornaments, hair cut

off the nuns, which was always sold for the profit of the Order of

the Saint-Rosaire, daggers, and knives. How he got them all was never

discovered.

The young Comtesse de Genlis was very happy at Origny, and amused

herself like a child amongst the nuns. She ran about the corridors at

night dressed like the devil, with horns; she put rouge and patches

on the nuns while they were asleep, and they got up and went down to

the services in the church in the night without seeing themselves thus

decorated; she gave suppers and dances amongst the nuns and pupils to

which no men were, of course, admitted; she played many tricks, and

wrote constantly to her husband and mother, the latter of whom came

to spend six weeks with her. When her husband came back they went to

Genlis, where her brother, who had just gone into the Engineers, paid

them a long visit, to her great joy.

Then they went to Paris, where her first child, a daughter, was born.

FOOTNOTES:

[112] An office in the household of the eldest son of the heir to the

throne, only given to young men of distinction. It was abolished after

the death of the Duc de Bourgogne. It was the same as _les menins du

Dauphin_ under Louis XIV.

[113] The Grenadiers de France had twenty-four colonels.

CHAPTER III

Presentation at Versailles—La Rosière—Father and son—Mme. de

Montesson—A terrible scene—The Comtesse de Custine—Mme. de Genlis

enters the Palais Royal.

After her confinement the Maréchale d’Etrée came to see Félicité,

brought her a present of beautiful Indian stuffs, and said that her

parents, M. and Mme. de Puisieux, would have the pleasure of receiving

her when she was recovered. Also that Mme. de Puisieux would present

her at Versailles.

To this she looked forward with some trepidation, being dreadfully

afraid of Mme. de Puisieux, who at first did not like her, and was

extremely stiff. She drove down to Versailles in her carriage alone

with her, Mme. de Puisieux saying very little, but criticising the way

she did her hair. They slept at Versailles, in the splendid apartment

of the Maréchal d’Etrée, who was very kind and pleasant to Félicité,

and with whom she felt more at home. The next day she was obliged to

spend such an enormous time at her toilette that by the time they

started she was nearly tired out. Her hair was dressed three times

over; everything was the object of some tiresome fuss, to which

policy obliged her to submit in silence.

At last, however, it was finished, and she stood in the presence of

Louis XV. He was no longer young, but she thought him handsome and

imposing. He had intensely blue eyes, a short but not brusque manner

of speaking, and something royal and majestic about his whole bearing

which distinguished him from other men. He talked a great deal to Mme.

de Puisieux, and made complimentary remarks about Félicité, after

which they were presented to the Queen, who was lying in a reclining

chair, already suffering from the languor of the fatal illness

caused by the recent death of her son, the Dauphin. Then came the

presentation to Mesdames, and to the “Children of France,” and in the

evening they went to the “_jeu de Mesdames_.”

After this Félicité and her husband returned to Genlis, where they

spent the summer with the Marquis and the wife he had recently married.

They passed their time in all the amusements of the _vie de château_

in those days.

The brothers went out shooting; there were visits, dances, village

_fêtes_; they dressed up, wrote verses, acted plays, and went to see

the “Rosière,” an institution which, in this century, would be an

impossibility, and which even then many people were beginning to find

silly and useless, as may be shown by the remarks of a M. de Matigny,

a magistrate and _bailli_, who was staying in the house for some

theatricals, and whom they tried to persuade to stop another day.

“I can’t,” he said. “I am obliged to go to another village.”

“What for?”

“Oh! for that nonsense they do every year.”

“What nonsense?”

“I have to go there as a judge to hear all the rubbish and gossip you

can imagine for forty-eight hours.”

“What about?”

“A most stupid thing, as I will tell you. It is not to adjudge a

house, or a field, or an inheritance, but a rose!”

“How? A rose? You are to give a rose?”

“Eh! _Mon Dieu!_ Yes, it is I who have to decide this important

affair. It is an old custom established there in barbarous times. It

is astonishing that, in a century so enlightened as ours, they should

not have done away with a folly that gives me a journey of ten or

twelve leagues every summer, through abominable cross-lanes, for I

have to make two journeys for that absurdity.”

“A rose does not seem to me particularly barbarous. But who do you

give it to?”

“To the peasant girl declared to be the most virtuous and obedient to

her parents.”

“And they assemble to give her a rose in public?”

“Yes. A fine reward for a poor creature who perhaps has not bread

to eat, isn’t it? I shall have to go to-morrow to hear the evidence

... and again in a month for what they call the coronation. It might

amuse you to see it once.... But the strangest thing is the importance

these good people attach to the ceremony, and the exultation of

the relations of the ‘_rosière_.’ One would think they had gained a

valuable prize. It may amuse one for the moment, but when one has to

see it every year, it is a ridiculous thing for a reasonable man.”

Félicité soon managed to make friends with all her husband’s

relations. M. and Mme. de Puisieux not only got over their prejudice

against her, but were devoted to her. She spent months together with

them at Sillery, and was a great deal with them at Paris, where her

great delight was to know every one who could remember the court of

Louis XIV., for which she had the most ardent admiration.

There were, of course, still those to be met with whose appearance,

manners, and ways recalled that stately, magnificent court, which long

afterwards was the _beau ideal_ Napoleon vainly tried to realise.

Amongst others was the Duc de Richelieu, one of the most brilliant,

the most polished, the most dissipated, and the most heartless figures

of the courts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. His son, the Duc de Fronsac,

was, though not equally attractive, quite as vicious as his father,

and they entertained for each other a hatred they generally veiled, at

any rate in public, under the most polished sarcasm.

On one occasion the Duc de Richelieu so far departed from his usual

habit as to recommend to the Duc de Fronsac a lad who bore a strong

resemblance to himself, begging him to give him a post in his

household and look after him. Fronsac, struck with jealousy of this

_protégé_ of his father’s, did all he could to corrupt and ruin him,

taught him to be a gambler and reprobate, and finally led him into

collision with himself in some love intrigue, challenged him to a

duel, and killed him.

Shortly afterwards, passing his father in the great gallery at

Versailles, the Duc de Richelieu said to him—

“Monsieur, you have killed your brother.”

“I knew it,” replied Fronsac, and passed on.

Within the first few years of her marriage, Félicité had three

children—two girls and a boy.

The Comte de Genlis passed part of his time with her and the rest with

his regiment, during which Félicité lived at Paris or stayed with his

relations, chiefly the de Puisieux, leading a life of gaiety mingled

with study and music, and going constantly into society, which has,

perhaps, never been equalled in fascination and charm.

Her aunt, Mme. de Montesson, had, since her marriage, been on very

friendly and intimate terms with her, although the two had never any

real affection for each other, and now, M. de Montesson having died,

his widow was aiming at nothing less than becoming the Duchess of

Orléans, and found her niece a most useful and sympathetic confidant.

For it had suited Mme. de Montesson to have a niece so well placed

in society and so much sought after as the young Comtesse de Genlis.

Félicité, on her part, was by no means blind to the advantage of

having her aunt married to the first prince of the blood, and did

everything in her power to forward her plans. The Duke had long

been an admirer of Mme. de Montesson, who encouraged his devotion,

was continually in his society, but had no intention whatever that

their love-making should end in any way but one. It was an ambition

that seemed barred with almost insuperable difficulties, and yet it

succeeded, though not to the full extent she desired.

The excellent M. de Puisieux died, and Félicité found her life still

more taken up by his widow, with whom she now passed much of her time.

Just then took place the marriage of the Duc de Berri, now Dauphin,

with the Archduchess Marie Antoinette. Mme. de Puisieux would not go

herself, but sent Félicité to see the fireworks in the _place Louis

XV._

As M. de Genlis was with his regiment, she went with a friend, the

Marquise de Brugnon, who was also young and pretty, MM. de Bouzolle

and de Nedonchel. A room had been lent them on the ground floor of

a new house from which to see the _fête_, and, fearing there would

be a great crowd, they arrived directly after dinner. There was some

delay before the fireworks began, and Félicité, who was, with all

her talents, very often extremely silly and affected, declared that

she had waited so long she did not care to see the fireworks, and

persisted in keeping her eyes shut until they were over.

The two gentlemen then went to look for the carriage, which had not

come. They were away a long time. A fearful noise seemed to be going

on in the _place Louis XV._, and when, after midnight, they did

return, they assured the anxious, rather frightened young women that

they could not find either carriage or servants, that the crowd was

fearful, and there would be no chance of getting away for at least

two hours, so they had brought them some cakes and a chicken for

supper. They did not tell them of the fire, the horrible confusion,

and the people being crushed to death in the _place_. But presently

groans and cries were heard just under their window, and, looking out,

they saw two old ladies in full evening dress, with _paniers_—the

Marquise d’Albert and the Comtesse de Renti, who, while trying to get

to their carriage, had got separated from their servants and carried

along by the crowd. As it was impossible to get them to the door, they

leaned out of the window and drew them up with great difficulty. Mme.

d’Albert was covered with blood, as some one in the crowd had snatched

out one of her diamond ear-rings.

Their carriage never came, so Mme. de Genlis had to take them home in

hers, which appeared about two o’clock, and it was half-past three

when she arrived at the _hôtel de Puisieux_, where everybody was up

and in a fever of anxiety, thinking she was killed, for they knew what

she did not, that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of persons had perished.

Mme. de Puisieux was in tears on the staircase, and saw her come

in with transports of joy. She had, for the first time since her

widowhood, gone to supper with Mme. d’Egmont, daughter of the Duc

de Richelieu, close to whose _hôtel_ there was a _corps de garde_,

to which numbers of bodies had been brought. The next day was one

of desolation, especially among the artisans and the people of the

lower classes, most of whom had lost some relative or friend. Mme. de

Genlis’s maid had to go to the Morgue to identify the body of her

sister; the _maître d’hôtel_ lost a cousin. The _place Louis XV._,

fated to be the scene of the murder of Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette,

and so many innocent victims, had been a scene of death and horror at

the celebration of their wedding _fêtes_. No wonder people said it was

an unlucky beginning, especially those who were only too glad to find

evils attending the Austrian marriage.[114]

The enthusiasm of Félicité for the court of Louis XIV. found worthier

objects of admiration than the Duc de Richelieu, in the excellent

Maréchal de Balincourt, and his friends, the Maréchal de Biron and

the Marquis de Carrillac. This last was ninety-one years old, Biron

was eighty-six or seven, and Balincourt not more than seventy. He

used to speak with envy of Biron, saying: “He was thirty years old at

the death of the late king.” When hearing them talk together she felt

herself transported into the days of that magnificent reign.

They had all of them the stately courtesy, the chivalrous gallantry,

and the delicate sense of honour which made them so bright a contrast

to the vice and depravity around them.

Just after the last recorded incidents Félicité experienced a

great sorrow in the loss of her friend, the Comtesse de Custine,

an angelic woman, who, in spite of her beauty and youth (she was

only twenty-four), lived as far as she could apart from the world,

fearing the corruption and vice around her, and devoting herself

to her religious and domestic duties. Her husband, who adored her,

was necessarily absent with his regiment for long periods. Her

brother-in-law, the Vicomte de Custine, of a character as bad as

that of his brother was admirable, professed openly the most violent

passion for Mme. de Genlis, who did not care at all for him, gave

him no encouragement, but was rather flattered by the excess of his

devotion and despair.

When the Comtesse de Custine died, after a short illness, her husband

was away with his regiment, and did not arrive in time to see her

alive. During the first days of his despair, while looking over her

papers, he came upon a packet of letters which proved beyond all doubt

the infamous treachery of the Vicomte, who had made his pretended love

for Mme. de Genlis a shield to hide his real passion for his brother’s

wife, which had been the horror and torment of her life, and which she

had dreaded to reveal to her husband, whose temper was violent when

aroused.

For some time Félicité had been wishing to obtain a place at court,

and it had been suggested that she should be placed in the household

of the comtesse de Provence, whose marriage with the second _fils de

France_ was about to take place.

But her aunt, Mme. de Montesson, was most anxious that she should

enter the service of the Duc de Chartres, who was the eldest son

of the Duc d’Orléans, and very much opposed to Mme. de Montesson’s

designs upon him.

It appeared after a time that the post in the household of

the Comtesse de Provence was not attainable, and in the first

disappointment of this refusal, Mme. de Montesson told her niece that

she had only to ask and she would receive an appointment at the Palais

Royal.

Mme. de Custine, whom she consulted, was absolutely opposed to it,

and after urging the strongest reasons against it, added that it was

evidently her duty to stay and take care of Mme. de Puisieux as long

as she lived.

However, she allowed herself to be persuaded: she went with her

aunt constantly to Raincy, the country place just bought by the Duc

d’Orléans; she was attracted by the gentle, charming Duchesse de

Chartres, she listened to the representations of the advantages she

might secure for her children, and at length she laid the case before

Mme. de Puisieux, who, unselfishly putting away the consideration of

her own grief at their separation, and thinking only of the advantages

to Félicité and her family, advised her to accept the position offered

her.

Félicité seems, however, to have always considered that she made

a mistake, or, indeed, as she says, committed a fault, one of the

greatest in her life, by doing so; if so, it does not appear to be

a surprising one, as the plan certainly would have offered strong

attractions and inducements even to a woman less vain and ambitious

than she was, but it is certain that it caused many calamities and

exercised an evil influence for which no advantages could compensate.

She left the _hôtel de Puisieux_ before Madame was up in the morning,

as she dreaded the parting, and as her apartment in the Palais Royal

was not ready she was lodged in one that had belonged to the Regent,

with a door into the _rue de Richelieu_. She nearly had an accident

before she got out of the carriage, and felt low-spirited and unhappy,

wishing herself back in her own room at the _hôtel de Puisieux_ as she

looked round the luxurious boudoir lined with mirrors, which she did

not like at all, and which seemed associated with the orgies of the

Regency, of which it had been the scene.

She felt that she had exchanged security, the protection of a

beautiful and well-ordered home, and the society of those she loved

and respected, for dependence and danger.

FOOTNOTE:

[114] In an old German town is a large and ancient house belonging to

one of the principal families of the place. It contains a beautiful

ball-room in the Venetian style, white and gold, with numbers of

mirrors. But it is never used, being supposed to be unlucky, as the

only occasions on which people have danced there were two: first, when

Marie Antoinette passed through the town to be married to the Dauphin,

when the room, which had been decorated on purpose for her, was only

just finished in time, the Italian workmen leaving the ball-room as

she entered it. The second time it was used was by Marie Louise, her

niece, as she was on her way to marry the Emperor Napoleon. I have

myself seen the room and been told the story.—Note by Author.

CHAPTER IV

Society of the Palais Royal—Philippe-Égalité—An Apparition—Mlle.

Mars—M. Ducrest—Marriage of Mme. de Montesson—Marly—The Prime

Minister of France.

The society of the Palais Royal was at that time the most brilliant

and witty in Paris, and she soon became quite at home there. The

Comtesse de Blot, lady of honour to the Duchesse de Chartres, was

pleasant enough when she was not trying to pose as a learned woman, at

which times her long dissertations were tiresome and absurd; she was

also ambitious, and what was worse, avaricious.

Mme. de Clermont had been married at fifteen to the Comte de Choisi,

who was much older than herself, and of whom she was dreadfully

afraid; but he was killed at the battle of Minden, and she had just

married the Comte de Clermont, who was deeply in love with her. She

was young, pretty, very capricious, and a friend of Mme. de Montesson,

and with all her faults never dull or tiresome, but full of merry

talk and amusing stories; the Comtesse de Polignac and the Marquise

de Barbantour were also among the ladies of the household with whom

Félicité was now associated; two much older ones were the Comtesses de

Rochambault and de Montauban.

The Duchesse de Chartres, _née_ Mlle. de Penthièvre, was an angel

of goodness and kindness. She had conceived so violent a passion

for the Duc de Chartres, when she had met him for the first time,

that she declared she would either marry him or take the veil. It

was a most unfortunate choice to have been made, especially by so

saintly a personage, for the court and society of Louis XV. did not

include a more corrupt and contemptible character than the notorious

Philippe-Égalité.

The attraction he felt for Mme. de Genlis, which had such a powerful

influence upon her life and so disastrous an effect upon her

reputation, had not begun when she first took up her abode at the

Palais Royal.

It was said by his illegitimate brothers, MM. de Saint-Far and

Saint-Albin, to have begun on a certain evening when a quadrille

arranged by Mme. de Genlis, in which each couple represented proverbs,

went to the Opera ball, as the custom of those days permitted, and was

suddenly disarranged by an enormous cat, which, mewing and clawing,

rolled itself suddenly into the midst of the dancers. The cat proved

to be a little Savoyard boy, dressed up in fur, dreadfully frightened

at the abuse and kicks he received.

This elegant trick was traced to the Duc de Chartres and his friends;

and the good temper and general demeanour of Mme. de Genlis on this

provoking occasion struck the Duke with admiration and compunction.

Philippe-Égalité, contemptible as his disposition undoubtedly was, had

also been very badly brought up, and when he was fifteen his father

had given him a mistress who was afterwards notorious as Mlle. Duthé;

he was always surrounded with a group of the fastest young men at

court, the Chevalier de Coigny, MM. de Fitz-James, de Conflans, &c.

“The social existence of Mme. de Genlis,” writes Mme. d’Abrantès,[115]

“is always a problem difficult to resolve; it is composed of a

mass of contradictions, one more extraordinary than the other. Of

a noble family, whose name and alliances gave her the right to be

_chanoinesse_ of the Chapter of Alix, she was called until her

marriage Comtesse de Lancy. She married M. de Genlis, a man of high

rank, nearly related to most of the great families in the kingdom,

and yet Mme. de Genlis had never in society the attitude of a _grande

dame_.... The important part this woman played in the destinies of

France is of such a nature that one must notice it, more especially as

she denies a mass of facts, the most notorious of the time in which

her name is mixed up, ... pretending never to have spoken to men of

whom she must not only have been an acquaintance but a friend. Long

before the first outbursts of the Revolution, Mme. de Genlis helped to

prepare the influence which afterwards burst like an accursed bomb,

covering with its splinters even the woman who had prepared the wick

and perhaps lighted the match.

“It was an eccentric existence that she led in her youth, it must be

confessed. That wandering, restless life had a character all the more

strange because at that time it was so unusual; going perpetually

from one _château_ to another, roaming about the country disguised as

a peasant, playing tricks on everybody, eating raw fish, playing the

harp like Apollo, dancing, acting, fencing....”

And now she was _dame pour accompagner_ to the Duchesse de Chartres,

and her influence was soon felt in the society of the Palais Royal.

On the nights when there was an opera, the Palais Royal was open to

any one who had been presented there. The first invitation to supper

meant a standing one for those days, therefore the Palais Royal was

then crowded with guests; and on other evenings the _petits soupers_,

generally consisting of eighteen or twenty guests, were composed of

those of the intimate society of the Duke and Duchess, who also had a

general invitation.

The Duchesse de Chartres continued for a long time very fond of

Mme. de Genlis, who was exceedingly attractive, not only because of

her beauty, talents, and accomplishments, but because she was so

interesting and amusing that it was impossible to be dull in her

company. And though she had many faults she had also many excellent

qualities. She was very affectionate and kind to those for whom she

really cared, she was charitable, good tempered, and courageous; her

reputation so far was good, and her respect for religion made her

shun the atheistical philosophic set whose opinions on those points

she detested. One friend she had among them, the Comte de Schomberg,

was an exception to this rule. He was a friend of Voltaire, and a

pronounced atheist, but it was an understood thing that no religious

subject should be discussed between them, and no word of impiety

spoken in her presence. The events of the Revolution converted M. de

Schomberg, and he died some years after it an ardent Christian.

Many of these disbelievers in Christianity were terribly afraid of

ghosts. “_Je n’y crois pas, mais je les redoute_,” as somebody once

remarked.

She made one or two journeys to Holland and Belgium when she wished

for a change, but in 1775 a terrible grief overtook her, in the death

of her son, now five years old. The children were living near, and

her mother was then with them when she herself caught measles, and as

often happens when they are taken later in life than is usual, she was

extremely ill, and it was impossible to tell her that her children had

the same complaint.

[Illustration:

_E. H. Bearne_

AMSTERDAM]

M. de Genlis, who had also a post at the Palais Royal, was nursing

her, and her mother came every day to see her.

The child died at five o’clock one morning. “At the same hour,” she

writes, “of the same day, I was alone with my nurse, and, raising my

eyes to the canopy of my bed, I distinctly saw my son in the form of

an angel ... holding out his arms to me. This vision, without exciting

any suspicions, caused me great surprise. I rubbed my eyes several

times, but always saw the same figure. My mother and M. de Genlis

came at about eleven; they were overcome with grief, but I was not

surprised, for I knew I was ill enough to make them very anxious. I

could not help looking always at the canopy of my bed with a sort of

shudder, and my mother, knowing that I was afraid of spiders, asked

if I saw one ... at last I said I would not tell them what I saw lest

they should think my brain was deranged, but they pressed me until I

told them.”

They concealed the calamity for five weeks, and then brought her a

miniature of the child as an angel.

Félicité recovered, and went to Spa, and to travel in Belgium. After

her return, as she was walking one day in the Palais Royal gardens,

she met a young girl with a woman of seven or eight and thirty, who

stopped and gazed at her with an earnest look. Suddenly she exclaimed—

“It is Mlle. Mars!” Embracing each other with joy, they arranged to

meet the following day, and Mlle. Mars presented herself accordingly

at the Palais Royal, where they spent the morning talking of old times

and of present circumstances. Mlle. Mars was not very happy where she

now lived, and Félicité succeeded in placing her as governess to the

children of the Princess Louise de Condé, meanwhile seeing her every

day. She married soon afterwards.

About this time she arranged for her brother an excellent marriage

which turned out very happily. She had the young people to live with

her at first, and M. de Genlis was extremely kind to them; but at the

end of some months Mme. de Montesson, in whom she had contrived to

arouse an interest in them, took them to live permanently with her.

As Saint-Aubin had long been sold, her brother now called himself M.

Ducrest.

In her “Memoirs,” Mme. de Genlis says that the years she spent at the

Palais Royal were the most brilliant and the most unhappy of her life.

The brilliant social success, and the life, a perpetual scene of

pleasure, excitement and intense interest, were chequered with all

sorts of annoyances. The envy she excited by her social triumphs, the

favour of the Duchess, and later, of the Duc de Chartres, displayed

itself as usual in slanders, misrepresentations, and different

spiteful actions; while the hostility she aroused caused her more

astonishment than would have been expected in a woman possessing so

much knowledge of the world, and more unhappiness than one might

suspect in one so entirely self-satisfied.

And although she was undoubtedly maligned, like many persons who gave

less opportunity for gossip; still it was the consequence of her own

act in placing herself in such a position, and identifying herself

with such a crew. Her futile attempts to whitewash Philippe-Égalité

can deceive nobody: he was too well-known. When she lays all his

faults to his being badly brought up and surrounded with bad

companions, one recollects the numbers of men and of women too, who,

brought up and living under the same conditions, suffered and died

with a heroism and loyalty that redeemed the faults and follies of

their past.

And as to Mme. de Genlis, it appears more than probable that if she

had followed the advice of Mme. de Custine, as she promised to do, and

remained at the _hôtel de Puisieux_ she would still have been a great

literary and social success and also a better and happier woman.

Mme. de Montesson had so far succeeded in her plan that she had, in

1773, been privately married to the Duke of Orléans. The marriage was

celebrated at midnight in the presence of a small number of persons

of high position. But the marriage, though known and recognised in

society, was only a morganatic one. Louis XV. would never hear of her

taking the rank and title of Duchess of Orléans, or any precedence

that would have been the consequence. This was of course a continual

grievance to her, but she was obliged to resign herself and make

the best of the position, at any rate far more exalted than any to

which she had the least pretension to aspire. She had an unbounded

influence over the Duc d’Orléans, in whose household and amongst whose

friends she was always treated as a princess, and with whom she led

a life of unbounded luxury and magnificence. Like Mme. de Maintenon

after her morganatic marriage with Louis XIV. she renounced the title

of Marquise and was known as Mme. de Montesson, possibly thinking

like the hero of the well-known incident: “Princesse je ne puis pas,

Marquise je ne veux pas, Madame je suis.”[116]

The year after the marriage Louis XV. died, but Louis XVI. would not

depart from the attitude his grandfather had assumed, with regard to

the morganatic marriage of the Duc d’Orléans.

The journeys of the court to the different country palaces,

Versailles, Compiègne, Fontainebleau, Marly, &c., were affairs of

enormous expense, and ceremony so preposterous, that, for instance,

there was one sort of court dress for Versailles, and another, equally

magnificent and uncomfortable, for Marly. On the 1st of January

Louis XV. always arranged with care and consideration the journeys

for the year to the different palaces, of which there were a great

number. Mme. Campan[117] in her “Mémoires,” says that Marly, even

more than Versailles, transported one vividly to the reign of Louis

XIV.; its palaces and gardens were like a magnificent scene in an

opera; fountains, pavilions, statues, marble basins, ponds and canals,

thickets of shrubs, groups of tall trees, trellised walks and arbours,

amongst which the ladies and gentlemen of the royal households and

court walked about in full dress; plumes, paniers, jewels, and

trains making any enjoyment of the country out of the question, but

impressing with awe and admiration the crowds who were admitted to the

gardens, and to the suppers and gambling at night. Every trace of this

palace and gardens disappeared in the Revolution.

During the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. the rule of perpetual

court dress at Marly was given up, and when Louis XVI. came to the

throne he tried, but without success, to discourage the gambling,

which he hated; but what Marie Antoinette disliked was the stiffness,

fatigue, and restraint of these journeys, and she insisted that at

Trianon, which the King had given her, she should be free from the

intolerable _gêne_ of the etiquette which the last two reigns had so

increased as to be an intolerable burden, in former centuries unknown

at the court of France.

The party in opposition to the Queen, absolutely unscrupulous and

vindictive, hesitated at no calumny or exaggeration that might do her

injury; and everything seemed to create fresh enemies for her.

When she received the ladies of the Court on her accession, Mme. de

Clermont-Tonnerre, a thoughtless girl of sixteen, sat on the carpet

all the time, hidden by the ladies of the household who stood before

her, making grimaces behind her fan, whispering nonsense, pulling the

dresses of her companions and making them all, even the Queen herself,

unable to restrain their laughter; so that great offence was given

and the blame of course laid on the Queen. The King was very angry,

sent for Mme. de Clermont-Tonnerre and reprimanded her; whereupon she

turned all her spite against the Queen, and all the Clermonts went

into opposition.

When first he succeeded to the throne and the question arose who

was to be prime minister, Madame Victoire wrote to Louis XVI.,

recommending M. de Machault, then exiled from Paris.

The King accordingly wrote a letter summoning him; but meanwhile

Madame Adélaïde, supported by her two youngest sisters, Mesdames

Sophie and Louise, and having persuaded the Queen to join them,

appealed to him in favour of M. de Maurepas, a man as stupid,

prejudiced, and incapable as could be found.

However, the King soon began to yield.

“But my letter has gone,” he said; “what shall I do?”

“I hope not,” said the Queen, “we shall see.” And she rang the bell.

“Campan, the King has an order to give you.”

“Go,” said Louis XVI. in a tone of vexation, “and tell the page of the

_grande écurie_ to bring me back the letter I gave him.” “But Madame,”

turning to the Queen, “I warn you that if he is gone it is all the

better for M. de Machault. I cannot recall my confidence when he holds

the proof in his hand.”[118]

Campan ran; the page was already in the saddle, but was altering a

stirrup, which changed the destiny of France. The letter was brought

back.

When Maurepas received this summons he jumped and capered with joy;

danced round the room with his wife and told his cat it should have

the _entrée_ at Versailles. Thus he prepared to govern the kingdom of

France.

FOOTNOTES:

[115] “Salons de Paris,” t. 1, p. 435 (Duchesse d’Abrantès, ed.

Garnier).

[116] It was one of the family of Rohan who said: “Roi ne puis, prince

ne daigne, Rohan je suis.”

[117] “Souvenirs” (Campan), p. 209.

[118] “Souvenirs de Marie Antoinette,” t. 2, p. 11 (Adhémar).

CHAPTER V

La Muette—Sunrise—Italy—Nocturnal adventure—Governess to

the children of Orléans—Scandalous reports—Marriages of her

daughters—Death of the elder one—The Comte de Valence

One of the Royal palaces was La Muette, and it was on one of the

journeys there that the Queen took it into her head to see the sun

rise. It appeared a harmless fancy enough, and she suggested it to the

King.

“Indeed,” he said, “you have a strange fancy. Night is made to sleep

in; however, if it amuses you I have no objection so long as you do

not expect me to be of the party.”

Mme. de Noailles, to whom it was also necessary to speak of the

proposed plan, was much perturbed.

“Really,” she said, “this question seems to me very difficult to

solve. A Queen go to see the sun rise! I do not know whether in the

days of Louis XIV. it would not have been thought——”

“Eh! Madame,” cried the Queen impatiently, “spare us ceremonial in the

face of nature.”

“However, it is impossible to dispense with an escort of equerries,

pages, _valets de pieds_ to carry torches, _piqueurs_, _gardes du

corps_, and a detachment of the _maison rouge_.”

“Comtesse de Noailles, you forget the _grand-aumônier_, to bless the

rising sun after having exorcised the spirits of darkness.”

The Comtesse de Noailles frowned.

“Ah! Madame l’Etiquette,” cried Marie Antoinette, laughing, “God made

patience the virtue of kings.”

Directly the Duc de Chartres heard of the project he came to ask to

be of the party, and as he was not as yet the open enemy of the royal

family, his request was granted.

On the night fixed upon the party, consisting of the Queen, the Comtes

and Comtesses de Provence and d’Artois and some ladies and gentlemen

of their households, started at three in the morning for Meudon, where

a banquet was prepared, after which they went out on the terraces

to see the sun rise. It was a lovely night, lamps were scattered

about the gardens, guards were posted everywhere, the Queen’s ladies

followed her closely. There was a splendid sun rise and all passed

off well; but a few days afterwards came out an infamous libel called

“_l’Aurore_,” containing accusations and statements so atrocious that

the King, taking it to the Queen, said—

“Madame, do you know what it costs to wish for once in one’s life to

see the sun rise? Read that and tell me what you think of the poetry

of our friends.”

The Queen read it, burst into tears, and demanded justice and

vengeance, which the King, throwing down and trampling on the infamous

paper, promised; but said it was difficult to find the persons

guilty of writing and selling it—it seemed to have been printed in

Holland and the authorship was guessed to be one of the Radical set:

Voltaire, Brissot, or perhaps the Duc de Chartres.

Marie Antoinette spoke to the latter about it, and of course he

indignantly denied all complicity, but confessed that the libel had

been sent him in an envelope, adding that he had thrown it into the

fire, and if any of his people had been more imprudent he would

dismiss them at once.

For the first circulation had been traced to some of his household. He

sent away two men in his service, but it was well known that he paid

them their wages all the time and soon took them back again.

It was asserted by one person that she had seen the MS. of the

“_Aurore_” on the table of Mme. de Genlis, but it is not likely that

she would have been guilty of mixing herself in such an infamy; it

was one of the slanders, probably, of which she complained, but was

the result of associating intimately with such a man as the Duc de

Chartres.

[Illustration:

_E. H. Bearne_

NICE]

The Count and Countess de Genlis accompanied the Duke and Duchess

de Chartres to Bordeaux, where he embarked, after a naval review;

and the Duchess proceeded on a tour in Italy. To Félicité this was a

time of enchantment. The journeys at that time were adventurous, and

the _Cornice_ road was then an affair of difficulty if not danger.

They went by sea to Nice, spent a week in that delicious climate,

and determined to make what she called “the perilous journey” from

Nice to Genoa. They went on mules over the pass by Turbia, and found

the _Cornice_ as she says truly a _corniche_—so narrow that in some

places they could hardly pass singly, and often they had to get down

and walk. They slept at Ospedaletto, the Duchess, Félicité, and the

Countess de Rully in one room; the Duchess on a bed made of the rugs

of the mules, the others, on cloaks spread upon a great heap of corn.

After six days of perils and fatigues, and what they called horrible

precipices, they got to Genoa.

They went to Rome, Venice, Naples, and all the little Italian Courts,

at which they were received with great honour.

Félicité flirted and amused herself as usual, and at the court of

Modena, the Comte de Lascaris took a violent fancy to her. He was

_surintendant_ of the palace, and arranged the distribution of the

different apartments, and Félicité found her room was at a great

distance from that of the Comte de Genlis, and lined with mirrors.

After supper one evening she had retired to her room and was sitting

up late, writing; when one of the mirrors moved, and from a door

behind it entered M. de Lascaris, and threw himself at her feet. She

sprang up with a cry, the table fell upon him, the lamp went out, her

maid rushed in—alarmed by her mistress calling loudly for her—in her

nightdress candle in hand, while M. de Lascaris disappeared through

the door he had came in by, with a cut on his cheek from the table,

which excited the curiosity and laughter of the court. To Félicité

Italy was one long enchantment, and with reluctance she came back to

France.

For some years Mme. de Genlis had been _dame pour accompagner la

Duchesse de Chartres_, though it was suggested that it was more the

Duke than the Duchess whom she accompanied; but she now exchanged this

designation for that of “governess to the Princesses of Orléans.” The

Duchess, who had always longed for a daughter, was delighted with

these two and Mme. de Genlis, who wished to have charge of them from

the first.

As, during the first years of their lives, even Félicité herself could

not begin to instruct them, she paid a daily visit of an hour to them,

and occupied herself in writing a book on education for their use and

that of her own children. She also wrote “Adèle et Théodore,” and

numbers of other books, novels, essays, plays, treatises on education,

&c., which had great success.

When the twin daughters of the Duc de Chartres were five years

old, one of them caught the measles, got a chill and died, to the

great grief of the Duchess and the remaining twin, Madame Adélaïde

d’Orléans. One day the Duc de Chartres came to consult Félicité,

as he was in the habit of doing on all occasions; and on this one

he confided to her that he could not find a tutor he liked for his

boys, that they were learning to speak like shop boys, and that he

wished she would undertake their education as well as that of their

sister; to which she agreed. It was arranged that the Duke should buy

a country house at Belle Chasse, where they should spend eight months

of the year; the Duchesse agreed to the plan, all was settled, and

Mme. de Genlis embarked on the career of education, which had always

been a passion with her, and which she could now pursue with every

advantage.

The three young Orléans princes were, the Duc de Valois, afterwards

Louis Philippe, the Duc de Montpensier, and the Comte de Beaujolais.

The eldest was eight years old.

Besides, she educated her own two daughters, her nephew, César

Ducrest, whose mother died and whose father (her brother) was given

a post at the Palais Royal, a young cousin, Henriette de Sercey,

and later on one or two other children she adopted. But what caused

considerable speculation and scandal was the sudden appearance of a

little girl, who was sent, she said, from England, to speak English

with the other children amongst whom she was educated. On perfectly

equal terms with the Princes and Princesses of Orléans, petted and

made much of by every one, she was, and still is supposed by many,

perhaps by most people, to have been really the daughter of Mme. de

Genlis and the Duc de Chartres. At any rate, no English relations

were ever forthcoming, and it was never clearly established where she

came from, except that she was announced to have been sent over from

England at the request of the Duc de Chartres. She was remarkably

beautiful and talented, and Mme. de Genlis brought her forward, and

did everything to make her as affected and vain as she had been made

herself.

The life at Belle Chasse was, as she says, delicious. She had supreme

authority, she was dispensed from the trouble of paying visits to any

one but Mme. de Puisieux; she had her mother and children to live

with her; her husband and brother had posts in the household of the

Duc de Chartres.

She could receive her friends as she pleased; her literary reputation

stood very high; the Duchesse de Chartres was still infatuated about

her; while the Duke——

Mme. de Genlis made a great display of disinterestedness, she refused

the 20,000 francs a year offered her by the Duke as governess to his

children, declaring that she would educate them for nothing; she

refused also the diamonds sent by the Duke and Duchess as a wedding

present to her daughter, neither of which refusals there was the

slightest occasion to make, but theatrical, unnecessary things were

always what she preferred to do. And at the same time she and her

family were becoming very rich. Of course her books, bought by all her

friends at court, in society, and everywhere, brought her a good deal,

but she always had money for everything she wanted. She was promised

for her eldest daughter on her marriage, her own former place at the

Palais Royal, and a regiment for her son-in-law, her relations were

placed and provided for, and she, of course, lived in state and luxury

with the Orléans children, amongst whom her own were educated.

Her eldest girl, Caroline, was of a charming disposition, and

remarkably beautiful. She inherited her own musical talents and was

extremely clever and accomplished. When she was fourteen she was

married to a Belgian, the Marquis de Lawoestine; and the wedding was

celebrated with great state at the Palais Royal, the Maréchal Prince

de Soubise acting as father to the bridegroom. She gave the young girl

a magnificent trousseau, diamonds, plate, porcelaines, &c., and after

the ceremony her daughter was left under her care for two years more.

In many ways it is probable that no one was more capable of giving

a first-rate education than Mme. de Genlis, who had herself so much

knowledge and experience, such superior talents and genuine love of

art, books and study. She was also careful and strict in the religious

education of her pupils, and perfectly free from any of the atheistic

opinions of the day.

But her practice cannot be said to have been altogether in accordance

with all the professions and talk about virtue and duty, which she

made such a parade.

She was so talked about with the Duc de Chartres that the Queen would

not receive her at her balls,[119] for Marie Antoinette was trying to

bring some reform into the licence prevalent at court, where there was

no end to the scandalous incidents that kept happening.

One or two of the gentlemen-in-waiting were found stealing the

valuable _porcelaines de Sèvres_ in the ante-rooms, to the great anger

of the King.

A gentleman of the court came home late one night, and could not get

into his wife’s room, because the maid, who slept in an ante-room,

could or would not be awakened. As he was going very early in the

morning to hunt, he changed his clothes in a hurry without going

to bed, and on arriving at the place of meeting was greeted by his

friends with a shout of laughter, and inquiries if he wished to

exchange his hunting dress for the costume of the Queen’s pages; as he

had put on in haste and half-darkness the _haut-de-chausse_ of one of

them, which certainly had no business to be in his room.

Like many other persons, Mme. de Genlis, though she chose to act in a

way that she must have known to be suspicious, even if there had been

no real harm in it, made a great outcry when the remarks were made,

and conclusions drawn that might have naturally been expected.

She posed as a victim, talked of jealousy, slander, ingratitude, &c.,

and went on with her intimacy with the Duc de Chartres, who was at

that time engaged in the most abominable intrigues and secret attacks

upon the Royal Family, especially the Queen; and whether rightly or

wrongly, Mme. de Genlis was supposed to be mixed up with them.

There had been no disunion or quarrel between her and the Comte de

Genlis; they had always been attached to one another, and no break

occurred between them; she continued to be devotedly loved by Mme. de

Puisieux, whose death she now had to lament.

But all kinds of stories were in circulation about her, which, of

course, she indignantly denied. One of them concerned the marriage she

now made for her second daughter with M. de Valence, a man of high

rank, large fortune, and remarkably bad character, who, moreover, had

been for years, and continued to be, the lover of her aunt, Mme. de

Montesson. It was positively declared that the Duke of Orléans, going

unexpectedly into the room, found Valence on his knees before Mme. de

Montesson, who with instant presence of mind, exclaimed—

“See this absurd Valence, on his knees to me, asking for the hand of

my niece.”

“And why not grant it?”

“Can I grant it without consulting you?”

“Well! we will promise it him; yes, we will promise him.”

And the marriage was decided.

Mme. de Genlis in her “Memoirs” denies this story, but goes on to say

with that half candour, which is perhaps the most deceptive, that she

cannot but confess that her ambition overruled her in this matter;

that she thought what was said about Mme. de Montesson and M. de

Valence might not be true, or if it were, this marriage would put an

end to the _liaison_; and what seems contradictory, that she believed

the reason her aunt was so eager for the marriage was, that she

thought it would be a means of attaching to her for ever the man she

loved. But that her daughter had great confidence in her, and would be

guided by her in the way she should behave.

Now Mme. de Genlis had without the least doubt many good and

distinguished qualities, and as we all know, human nature is fallible

and inconsistent; but it would surely have been better that a woman,

who could coolly and deliberately arrange such a marriage for her

young daughter, simply and solely from reasons of worldly ambition,

should not talk so much about disinterested virtue, contempt of

riches, and purity of motives.

It is probable that she deceived herself more than she did other

people, and her life in fact, between the Duke and Duchess and their

children, could not have been anything but a constant course of

deception.

Mme. de Genlis, however she might blind herself, must have known quite

well the real character of Philippe-Égalité, and if she had all the

desire she professed for the virtue and welfare of her pupils, she can

hardly have thought that the example of one of the most dissipated

scoundrels in France, whose health, as she owns, was early impaired by

his vices, would be desirable for them to follow.

But yet she took every opportunity of impressing his virtues upon

them, telling them what an excellent father they had, and insidiously

winning their affection away from their mother, under the form and

pretence of the deepest respect and submission.

The marriages of her daughters which had so delighted her ambition,

had not brought her all the happiness she expected.

Mme. de Lawoestine, the elder one, whom she describes as an angelic

creature in whom no fault could be seen, died at one and twenty in her

confinement. It was a terrible shock to her, and, it appears, also to

the husband, although the contents of certain tablets of his wife’s,

which he found and gave to Mme. de Genlis some days after her death,

would seem to imply that he would not be inconsolable.

One cannot help seeing in the sentiments expressed and the manner

of expressing them, the artificial, affected tone which with Mme.

de Genlis had become her second nature, and which she had evidently

inculcated into her daughter.

The tablets had two columns, over one of which was written,

“Calculations of the infidelities of my husband during the five years

of our marriage.” They were written down year by year, and when all

added up, came to twenty-one.

Over the other column was written, “Let us see mine,” and these were

represented by a column of noughts. At the bottom was written, “Total:

Satisfaction!!”

“And she really loved her husband!” exclaimed Mme. de Genlis in a

fervour of admiration.

Countless were the inconsistencies of the faddists of the party to

which she belonged, and in the crotchets of which she had educated her

daughter, but what duty or reason or “satisfaction” could there be in

such a calculation as this?

And what could be more contradictory to the jargon about Nature,

whose guidance, impulses, feelings, &c., were to be so implicitly

obeyed, than the spectacle of a woman in the height of her youth

and beauty, loving her husband, and yet amusing herself by writing

in her pocket-book in this cold-blooded manner, a long list of his

infidelities and ending by expressing her satisfaction?

As to the other daughter, Mme. de Valence, her marriage had turned

out just as might have been foretold by any one of common sense. M.

de Valence did not change his conduct in the least, he was still one

of the most dissipated men in Paris though he never stooped to the

dishonour of Philippe-Égalité. He remained always the favourite of

Mme. de Montesson, who at her death left her whole fortune to him.

Mme. de Valence seems to have accepted the situation, but by no means

with the Griselda-like “satisfaction” of her sister. Very soon her

reputation much resembled that of her husband, and many were the

anecdotes told to illustrate the manners and customs of their _ménage_.

Calling one day upon Mme. de Montesson, Mme. de Valence was told by a

new servant who did not know her, that Mme. de Montesson could not be

seen; she never received any one when M. de Valence was there.

“I am sorry for that,” she observed, as she gave her cards to the man,

“especially as M. de Valence is my husband.”

De Valence was very handsome and a brave soldier; he emigrated but

refused to fight against France; returned, obtained the favour of

Napoleon, and retained that of Mme. de Montesson, who more than once

paid his debts. He was supposed to be the son of a mistress whom his

father adored, and to have been substituted for a dead child born

to his father’s wife, who always suspected the truth, never would

acknowledge him as her son, nor leave him more money than she could

help doing as she had no other children.

Speaking of Pulchérie in her journal, Mme. de Genlis, it may be

remarked, does not venture to lavish upon her the unstinted praises

which she pours upon her sister; but remarks that when she left her

care and entered society on her marriage, she had the most excellent

ideas and sentiments, the purest mind, and the highest principles

possible.

It does not seem to occur to her that it was she herself who caused

the destruction of all this purity and principle by giving her child

to a man of notoriously bad character; but without taking any blame

to herself she goes on to say that Pulchérie was, and always would be

in her eyes, gentle, sweet-tempered, kind-hearted, and easy to live

with—which she probably was.

FOOTNOTE:

[119] “Souvenirs de Marie Antoinette,” t. ii. p. 164 (Ctsse.

d’Adhémar).

CHAPTER VI

Death of the Duc d’Orléans—M. de Genlis—Sillery—Coming

of the Revolution—The Bastille—Anger of the Duchesse

d’Orléans—Dissensions.

The Duke of Orléans died 1785, and Mme. de Montesson, having been

forbidden by Louis XVI. to put her household into mourning or assume

the position of a Duchess Dowager of Orléans, retired for a few weeks

into a convent and then returned to her usual life, having inherited a

great fortune from the late Duke.

Philippe-Égalité was now Duc d’Orléans, and his eldest son Duc de

Chartres. That young prince was about seventeen, and like all the

Orléans family, except the Duchess and the Comte de Beaujolais, was

thoroughly indoctrinated with the detestable spirit that prevailed at

the Palais Royal.

The Maréchale d’Etrée, daughter of M. de Puisieux, died, and left

all her large fortune, not to the spendthrift Marquis de Genlis, but

to the Count, who, finding himself now very rich, wished to retire

from the Palais Royal and live on his estates, and tried to induce

his wife to accompany him. He said with truth that her proper and

natural place was with him, and he tried by all means in his power to

persuade her to do what one would suppose a person constantly talking

of duty, virtue, self-sacrifice, and the happiness of retirement,

would not have hesitated about.

That she persistently refused proves how much all these professions

were worth, and this time she does in her memoirs blame herself for

her conduct; in fact, she declares that she felt ever afterwards

a remorse that never left her, and that would be eternal; as she

considered herself the cause of the death of her husband. If she had

gone with him as he entreated her to do and as she acknowledged that

she ought to have done, she could have induced him to leave France

with her, he had sufficient money to enable them to live comfortably

abroad, and his life would have been saved.

However, she refused to leave Belle Chasse, influenced by affection

for her pupils, jealous of any one who might succeed her with them,

fear of losing the prestige of having educated them, as she says; and,

of course, of being separated from the Duc d’Orléans, which she does

not say. At any rate she took her own way, and after a journey to

England where she was extremely well received, she resumed her usual

occupations. The Revolution was drawing nearer and nearer, though

people did not realise its approach. A few more far-seeing persons

foretold troubles and dangers in the future, but nobody except the

well-known Cazotte, had any notion of the fearful tempest about to

break over the unhappy kingdom of France.

Meanwhile, many who would have shrunk from the crimes and horrors for

which in their folly they were preparing the way as fast as possible,

went on playing with fire, by encouraging the disloyalty that was

in the air, sympathising with the outrageous demands put forward by

the Radical leaders, circulating libels and inventing lying stories

against the Queen and royal family, joining noisily in the abuse of

everything that had hitherto been held sacred or respectable, and

doing everything in their power to inflame the evil passions and

excite the cupidity and violence of the mob.

One cannot help feeling intense satisfaction in reflecting that most

of those who did all this mischief, at any rate, suffered for it, when

the danger, ruin, and death they had prepared for others came upon

themselves. One of the most abominable of the revolutionists, who had

fallen under the displeasure of his friends and been condemned by them

to be guillotined with his young son, begged to be allowed to embrace

him on the scaffold; but the boy sullenly refused, saying, “No; it is

you who have brought me to this.”

Among the Palais Royal set, it was the fashion to find fault with

everything done by the royalists, to go as seldom as possible to

Versailles and to pretend to find it a great bore when it was

necessary to do so.

If a play was popular at Versailles it was sure to be hissed at Paris;

a disgraced minister was the idol of the mob; the only liveries not

insulted were those of Orléans.

For the Duc d’Orléans was aiming at the crown, and it is impossible to

believe Mme. de Genlis was not aware of it. He suggested to the Queen

that Madame Royale should be married to his eldest son, which proposal

Marie Antoinette decidedly refused, remarking afterwards that to marry

her daughter to the Duc de Chartres would be to sign the death warrant

of her son.[120]

Mme. de Genlis states that one evening while the States-General were

sitting, the Duc d’Orléans, who was in her _salon_, declared that they

would be of no use and do nothing; not even suppress the _lettres de

cachet_. Mme. de Genlis and the Duc de Lauzun were of a different

opinion, and they bet each other fifty _louis_ on the subject. The bet

was put into writing and Mme. de Genlis showed it to more than fifty

people of her acquaintance, all of whom declared a Revolution to be

impossible. The Abbé Cesutti, one of the free-thinking school, was

editor of a paper called _La feuille villageoise_, intended for the

people. He asked Mme. de Genlis to write for it, and she sent some

papers called “The Letters of Marie-Anne,” in which she introduced

doctrines and principles of religion. Soon after the Abbé came and

asked her in future only to speak of morality and never to mention

religion. Knowing what that meant she declined to write any more for

that paper.

However, she was so far identified with the Revolutionary party as not

only to rejoice at the infamous attack of the mob upon the Bastille,

but to consent to her pupils’ request to take them to Paris to see

the mob finishing the destruction of that beautiful and historic

monument.

In the “Souvenirs,” written in after years, when her ideas and

principles had been totally changed by her experience of the

Revolution, the beginning of which had so delighted her, she was

evidently ashamed of the line she had taken, and anxious to explain it

away as far as possible.

“I was of no party,” she writes, “but that of religion. I desired

the reform of certain abuses, and I saw with joy the demolition of

the Bastille, the abolition of _lettres de cachet_, and _droits de

chasse_. That was all I wanted, my politics did not go farther than

that. At the same time no one saw with more grief and horror than I,

the excesses committed from the first moments of the taking of the

Bastille.... The desire to let my pupils see everything led me on this

occasion into imprudence, and caused me to spend some hours in Paris

to see from the Jardin de Beaumarchais the people of Paris demolishing

the Bastille. I also had a curiosity to see the Cordeliers Club....

I went there and I saw the orators, cobblers, and porters with their

wives and mistresses, mounting the tribune and shouting against

nobles, priests, and rich people.... I remarked a fishwoman....” This

pretty spectacle to which she was said to have taken her pupils,

was, of course, approved of by the Duke of Orléans, who made the Duc

de Chartres a member of the Jacobin Club, “by the wish of the Duc

d’Orléans, assuredly not by mine; but, however, it must be remembered

that that society was not then what it afterward became, although its

sentiments were already very exaggerated. However, it was a pretext

employed to estrange the Duchess of Orléans from me.”

And small wonder! Was the Duchess of Orléans—a woman of saintly

character and the great grand-daughter[121] of Louis XIV.—to tolerate

the governess of her children being seen in a den of blasphemy and

low, unspeakable vice and degradation like the Cordeliers Club, or

their being themselves shown with rejoicing a scene of horror and

murder, and join in the triumph of ruffians who were attacking their

religion, and the King and Queen, who were also their own cousins?

Was it possible that anybody in their senses would tolerate such a

governess? Added to which the Duchess was now aware of the terms on

which Mme. de Genlis and the Duke stood to each other. It could no

longer be said of her—

“The Duchess sees nothing, or will not see anything, but even shows a

strange predilection for Mme. de Genlis, which made Mme. de Barbantane

say that it is a love[122] which would make one believe in witchcraft.”

The Duc de Penthièvre, who knew his son-in-law and distrusted Mme. de

Genlis, foresaw what would happen and opposed her entrance into the

Palais Royal; but the influence of Mme. de Montesson had prevailed,

and she was soon not only all-powerful herself, but had placed the

different members of her family in lucrative posts there. And, though

they did not follow their party to the extreme excesses to which they

were already tending, they were, so far, all tarred with the same

brush.

In the “Memoirs of Louis XVIII,” he remarks, after the dismissal of

Necker: “A report was spread that the Queen and the Comte d’Artois had

given orders for a general massacre, to include the Duke of Orléans,

M. Necker, and most of the members of the National Assembly. Sillery,

Latouche, Laclos, Voidel, Ducrest,[123] Camille Desmoulin, and all

those who came from the Duc d’Orléans, were the first to spread these

lies.”[124]

After her proceedings at the Bastille and the Cordeliers, and

considering her connection with the revolutionary party, Mme. de

Genlis (or Sillery, as she was also called) need not have expressed

the surprise and indignation she did at the arrival of a body of

police to search her house for arms, reported to be stored there. They

were sent by La Fayette, who had done even more mischief than she

had; but for some reason they did not like each other. The touchy,

conceited Republican poet, Marie Joseph Chénier, who ranted against

religion, royalty, and everything and everybody superior to himself,

began to make love to Mme. de Genlis, and when she objected to his

impertinent familiarity, said furiously: “You are right; I am neither

a _grand seigneur_ nor a duke!”—which specimen of the manners of her

party disgusted her extremely. In her “Mémoires” she relates of this

worthy that he was accused of having participated in the condemnation

of his brother André, also a poet, executed under the Terror. This

was, however, almost certainly untrue, but it was said that he could

have saved him if he had made use of the influence he possessed with

the Terrorists, but that he either feared or did not care to do so.

The celebrated actress, Mlle. Dumesnil, then old and infirm, received

one day a visit from him, during which he tormented her to recite

something for him. She was ill in bed, but nevertheless he went on

begging that she would recite only one line that he might say he had

heard her, when, turning towards him with a violent effort she said—

“_Approchez-vous, Néron, et prenez votre place!_”

The first personal encounter of Mme. de Genlis with the Revolution was

one afternoon in 1790. She had driven with Mademoiselle d’Orléans, the

Comte de Beaujolais, Henriette de Sercey, and Pamela, to a village

about twelve miles from Paris, where, unluckily, a fair was going on

and a great many people collected together. They took it into their

heads that the party were the Queen, Madame Royale, and the Dauphin

trying to escape, and, surrounding them with anger, forced them to get

out of the carriage and refused to believe their explanations.

A young lieutenant of the _Garde-Nationale_ hurried up, harangued

them, and with difficulty persuaded the savage crowd to allow him to

take them into his own house, around which a drunken, furious crowd

kept guard while cries of “_A la lanterne!_” were every now and then

heard. They would not believe anything they said; they threatened to

hang any one who should go to Paris to make inquiries; they forced

their way into the house and garden, but suddenly a friendly voice

said in the ear of Mme. de Genlis: “I was a gamekeeper at Sillery;

don’t be afraid. I will go to Paris.” At last the crowd of ruffians

dispersed, leaving a dozen to guard their prisoners; the mayor of the

village gravely demanded that all her papers should be delivered to

him, upon which Mme. de Genlis gave him four or five letters, and when

she begged him to read them he replied that he could not read, but

took them away.

At five o’clock in the morning the gamekeeper came back from Paris

with an order of release from the municipality, and at half-past six

they arrived at Belle Chasse.

This foretaste of the Revolution Mme. de Genlis did not like at all,

and she began to think she would rather not be in France now that the

plans and friends so lately her admiration were succeeding so well.

Just then her mother died after a short illness, which was a great

shock to her; she had lived with or near her for many years since the

death of her second husband, and had been the object of her devoted

care.

But now at last an end had come to the Palais Royal life of prosperity

and power.

The patience of the Duchess of Orléans, which had for many years been

so extraordinary, and her blindness, which had been the wonder of

everybody, had for more than a year been worn out, and now had come to

a decided conclusion.

There is such a thing as being too angelic, and gentle, and

unsuspicious. If those who have to live in the world go about acting

as if other people were angels instead of men and women, believing all

they are told, trusting every one, and knowing as little as they can

of what is going on around them, no good ever comes of it.