mother and son endure this trying ordeal. At length it was over. The last
burgher had departed, the great gates were closed, the guards were
replaced, and, as shouts of "_Vive le roi_" came from the jubilant crowd
without, the boy king sprang from his splendid bed and, quivering with
shame and rage, shook his little fist toward the cheering people. For,
from boyhood, young Louis of Bourbon had been taught to regard himself as
the most important lad in all the world. Think, then, what a terrible
shock to his pride must have been this invasion of his palace by the
people, whom he had been taught to despise.
The angry quarrel of the Fronde raged high for full five months after this
midnight reception in the king's bedchamber, but at last came the eventful
day which was to fulfil the boy's oft-repeated wish--the day of his
majority. For, according to a law of the realm, a king of France could be
declared of age at thirteen; and young Louis of Bourbon, naturally a
high-spirited lad, had been made even more proud and imperious by his
surroundings and education. He chafed under the restraints of the regency,
and hailed with delight the day that should set him free.
It was the seventh of August, 1651. Through the echoing streets of Paris
wound a glittering cavalcade, gay with streaming banners and a wealth of
gorgeous color. With trumpeters in blue velvet and heralds in complete
armor, with princes and nobles and high officials mounted on horses
gleaming in housings of silver and gold, with horse-guards and
foot-guards, pages and attendants, in brilliant uniforms and liveries,
rode young King Louis, "Louis the God-given," as his subjects called him,
to hold his "Bed of Justice," and proclaim himself absolute king of
France. He was a noble-looking young fellow, and he rode his splendid
Barbary horse dressed so magnificently that he looked almost "like a
golden statue." What wonder that the enthusiastic and loyal Aubery is
carried away by his admiration of this kingly boy. "Handsome as Adonis,"
writes the chronicler. "August in majesty, the pride and joy of humanity,
the king looked so tall and majestic that his age would have been thought
to be eighteen."
And so through the same mob that five months before had howled around the
palace of the imprisoned king, young Louis of Bourbon, rode on to the
Palace of Justice while the streets echoed to the loyal shouts of "Vive le
roi!" The glittering procession swept into the great hall of the palace
and gathered around the throne. And a singular throne it was. On a broad
dais, topped with a canopy of crimson and gold, five great cushions were
arranged. This was the young king's "Bed of Justice," as it was called.
Seating himself upon one cushion, "extending his arms and legs upon three
others and using the fifth to lean against," this boy of thirteen, with
his plumed and jewelled cap on his head, while every one else remained
uncovered, said, in a clear and steady voice: "Messieurs: I have summoned
my Parliament to inform its members that, in accordance with the laws of
my realm, it is my intention henceforth to assume the government of my
kingdom." Then princes and lords, from little "Monsieur," the ten-year-old
brother of the king, to the gray old Marshals of France, bent the knee in
allegiance, and back to the Palais Royal with his glittering procession,
and amid the jubilant shouts of the people, rode the boy king of France,
Louis of Bourbon, "King Louis Quatorze."
But alas for the ups and downs of life! This long-wished-for day of
freedom did not bring to young Louis the absolute obedience he expected.
The struggles of the Fronde still continued, and before the spring of the
next year this same haughty young monarch who, in that gorgeous August
pageant, had glittered like a "golden statue," found himself with his
court, fugitives from Paris, and crowded into stuffy little rooms or
uncomfortable old castles, fearful of capture, while not far away the
cannons of the two great generals, Turenne and Conde thundered at each
other across the Loire, in all the fury of civil war. Something of a bully
by nature, for all his blood and kingliness, young Louis seems to have
taken a special delight, during these months of wandering, in tormenting
his equally high-spirited brother, the little "Monsieur"; and there
flashes across the years a very "realistic" picture of a narrow room in
the old chateau of Corbeil, in which, upon a narrow bed, two angry boys
are rolling and pulling and scratching in a bitter "pillow-fight," brought
on by some piece of boyish tyranny on the elder brother's part. And these
two boys are not the "frondeurs" of the Paris streets, but the highest
dignitaries, of France--her king and her royal prince. There is but little
difference in the make-up of a boy, you see, whether he be prince or
pauper.
But even intrigue and quarrel may wear themselves out. Court and people
alike wearied of the foolish and ineffectual strivings of the Fronde, and
so it came about that in the fall of 1652, after a year of exile, the
gates of Paris opened to the king, while the unpopular Mazarin, so long
the object of public hatred, the man who had been exiled and outlawed,
hunted and hounded for years, now returned to Paris as the chief adviser
of the boy-king, with shouts of welcome filling the streets that for so
many years had resounded with the cry of "_Down with Mazarin!_"
And now the gay court of King Louis Fourteenth blazed forth in all the
brilliancy of pomp and pleasure. The boy, himself, as courageous in the
trenches and on the battle-field as he was royal and imperious in his
audience-chamber, became the hero and idol of the people. Life at his
court was very joyous and delightful to the crowd of gay, fun-loving, and
unthinking young courtiers who thronged around this powerful young king of
fifteen; and not the least brilliant and lively in the royal train were
Olympia Mancini and the young Count of Guiche, both proud of their
prominence as favorites of the king.
One pleasant afternoon in the early autumn of 1653, a glittering company
filled the little theatre of the Hotel de Petit Bourbon, near to the
Louvre. The curtain parted, and, now soft and sweet, now fast and furious,
the music rose and fell, as the company of amateurs--young nobles and
demoiselles of the court--danced, declaimed, and sang through all the
mirth and action of one of the lively plays of that period written for the
king by Monsieur Benserade.
In one of the numbers of the _ballet_, Mars and Venus stood at the wings
awaiting their cue and watching the graceful dancing of a nimble dryad
who, beset by a cruel satyr, changed speedily into the tuneful Apollo,
vanquished the surprised satyr, and then sang to the accompaniment of his
own lute the high-sounding praises of the great and glorious "King Louis
Quatorze."
And Mars said to Venus: "Our noble brother Immortal sings divinely; does
he not, Olympia?--or thinks he does," he added, in a whisper.
"Hush, Count Armand," Venus replied, holding up a warning finger. "Your
last words are barely short of treason."
"Is it treason to tell the truth, fair Olympia?" asked the boy courtier.
"Sure, you hear little enough of it from royal lips."
Olympia tossed her pretty head disdainfully. "And how can you know, Sir
Count, that his Majesty does not mean truthfully all the pretty things he
says to me? Ay, sir, and perhaps----"
"Well! perhaps what, Mam'selle?" Count Armand asked, as the imperious
little lady hesitated in her speech.
"Perhaps--well--who knows? Perhaps, some day, Count Armand, you may rue on
bended knee the sharp things you are now so fond of saying to me--to me,
who may then be--Olympia, Queen of France!"
Armand laughed softly. "Ho, stands my lady there?" he said. "I kiss your
Majesty's hand, and sue for pardon," and he bent in mock reverence above
the beautiful hand which the young king admired, and the courtiers,
therefore, dutifully raved over. "But----" he added, slowly.
"But what, Count?" Olympia exclaimed, hastily withdrawing her hand.
"Why, his Majesty says just as many and as pretty things, believe me, to
all the fair young demoiselles of his court."
"Ay, but he _means_ them with me," the girl protested. "Why, Count, who
can stand before me in the king's eyes? Can the little square-nozed
Montmorency, or the straw-colored Marie de Villeroi? Can--ah, Count, is
it, think you, that very proper little girl sitting there so demurely by
her mamma in the _fauteuil_ yonder--is it she that may be foremost in the
king's thoughts?"
"What, the Princess Henrietta of England?" exclaimed the count. "Ah, no,
Olympia; trust me, _le Dieu-donne_ looks higher than the poverty-stricken
daughter of a headless king and a crownless queen. There is nought to fear
from her. But, come, there is our cue," and, with a gay song upon their
gossipy lips, Mars and Venus danced in upon the stage, while a terrible
Fury circled around them in a mad whirl. And amid the applause of the
spectators the three bowed low in acknowledgment, but the Fury received by
far the largest share of the _bravas_--for you must know that the nimble
dryad, the tuneful Apollo, and the madly whirling Fury were alike his
gracious Majesty, Louis, King of France, who was passionately fond of
amateur theatricals, sometimes appearing in four or five different
characters in a single _ballet_.
That very evening the most select of the court circle thronged the
spacious apartments of the queen-mother in attendance at the ball given to
the widowed queen of England, who, since the execution of her unfortunate
husband, Charles the First, had found shelter at the court of her cousin
Louis. And with her came her daughter, the little Princess Henrietta, a
fair and timid child of eleven.
The violins sounded the call to places in the _bransle_, the favorite
dance of the gay court, and Count Armand noted the smile of triumph which
Mam'selle Olympia turned toward him, as King Louis solicited her hand for
the dance. And yet she paused before accepting this invitation, for she
knew that the honor of opening the dance with the king belonged to the
little Henrietta, the guest of the evening. She was still halting between
desire and decorum, when Anne, the queen-mother, rising in evident
surprise at this uncivil action of her son, stepped down from her seat and
quietly withdrew the young girl's hand from that of the king.
"My Louis," she said, in a low voice, "this is but scant courtesy to your
cousin and guest, the Princess of England."
The boy's face flushed indignantly at this interference with his wishes,
and looking towards the timid Henrietta, he said, with singular rudeness:
"'T is not my wish, madame, to dance with the Princess. I am not fond of
little girls."
His mother looked at him in quick displeasure. And the Queen of England,
who had also heard the ungallant reply, keenly felt her position of
dependence on so ungracious a relative, as she hastened to say: "Pardon,
dear cousin, but do not, I beg, constrain his Majesty to dance contrary to
his wishes. The Princess Henrietta's ankle is somewhat sprained and she
can dance but ill."
The imperious nature of Anne of Austria yielded neither to the wishes of a
sulky boy nor to the plea of a sprained ankle. "Nay, your Majesty," she
said, "I pray you let my desire rule. For, by my word, if the fair
Princess of England must remain a simple looker-on at this, my ball,
to-night, then, too, shall the King of France."
With a face still full of anger Louis turned away, and when the music
again played the opening measures, a weeping little princess and a sulky
young king danced in the place of honor. For the poor Henrietta had also
overheard the rude words of her mighty cousin of France.
As, after the ball, the king and his mother parted for the night, Anne
said to her son: "My dear Louis, what evil spirit of discourtesy led you
to so ungallant an action towards your guest, this night? Never again, I
beg, let me have need openly to correct so grave a fault."
"Madame," said Louis, turning hotly towards his mother, "who is the lord
of France--Louis the King or Anne of Austria?"
The queen started in wonder and indignation at this outburst; but the
boy's proud spirit was up, and he continued, despite her protests.
"Too long," he said, "have I been guided by your leading-strings.
Henceforth I will be my own master, and do not you, madame, trouble
yourself to criticise or correct me. I am the king."
And thus the mother who had sacrificed and suffered so much for the son
she idolized found herself overruled by the haughty and arrogant nature
she had, herself, done so much to foster. For, from that tearful evening
of the queen's ball to the day of his death, sixty-one years after, Louis
of Bourbon, called the Great, ruled as absolute lord over his kingdom of
France, and the boy who could say so defiantly "Henceforth I will be my
own master," was fully equal to that other famous declaration of arrogant
authority made, years after, in the full tide of his power, "_I_ am the
state!"
On the afternoon of an April day in the year 1654 a brilliant company
gathered within the old chateau of Vincennes for the royal hunt which was
to take place on the morrow. In the great hall all was mirth and fun, as
around the room raced king and courtiers in a royal game of
"clignemusette"--"Hoodman Blind," or "Blindman's Buff," as we now know it.
Suddenly the blindfolded king felt his arm seized, and the young Count of
Guiche, who had just entered, whispered: "Sire, here is word from Fouquet
that the parliament have moved to reconsider the registry of your decree."
The boy king tore the bandage from his eyes. "How dare they," he said;
"how dare they question my demands!"
Now it seems that this decree looked to the raising of money for the
pleasures of the king by M. Fouquet, the royal Minister of Finance, and so
anxious had Louis been to secure it that he had attended the parliament
himself to see that his decree received prompt registry. How dared they
then think twice as to the king's wishes?
"Ride you to Paris straight, De Guiche," he said, "and, in the king's
name, order that parliament reassemble to-morrow. I will attend their
session, and then let them reconsider my decree if they dare!"
Olympia Mancini heard the command of the king. "To-morrow? Oh, sire!" she
said; "to-morrow is the royal hunt. How can we spare your Majesty? How Can
we give up our sport?"
"Have no fear, mam'selle," said the king, "I will meet my parliament
to-morrow, but this trivial business shall not mar our royal hunt.
Together will we ride down the stag."
At nine o'clock the next morning parliament re-assembled, as ordered by
the king, and the representatives of the people were thunderstruck to see
the king enter the great hall of the palace in full hunting costume of
scarlet coat, high boots, and plumed gray beaver. Behind him came a long
train of nobles in hunting suits also. Whip in hand and hat on head, this
self-willed boy of sixteen faced his wondering parliament, and said:
"Messieurs: It has been told me that it is the intention of some members
of your body to oppose the registration of my edicts as ordered yesterday.
Know now that it is my desire and my will that in future all my edicts
shall be registered at once and not discussed. Look you to this; for,
should you at any time go contrary to my wish, by my faith, I will come
here and enforce obedience!"
Before this bold assertion of mastership the great parliament of Paris
bent in passive submission. The money was forthcoming, and in less than an
hour the boy king and his nobles were galloping back to Vincennes, and the
royal hunt soon swept through the royal forest.
Thus, we see, nothing was permitted to stay the tide of pleasure. Even the
battle-field and the siege were turned into spectacles, and, by day and
night, the gay court rang with mirth and folly.
In the great space between the Louvre and the Tuileries, since known as
the Place de Carrousel, the summer sky of 1654 arched over a gorgeous
pageant. Lists and galleries in the fashion of the tournaments of old,
fluttering streamers, gleaming decorations, and rich hangings framed a
picture that seemed to revive the chivalry of by-gone days. Midway down
the lists, in the ladies' gallery, a richly-canopied _fauteuil_ or
arm-chair, draped in crimson and gold, held the "queen of beauty," the
fair-faced Olympia Mancini--the imperious young lady "whom the king
delighted to honor." The trumpets of the heralds sounded, and into the
lists, with pages and attendants, gallant in liveries of every hue, rode
the gay young nobles of the court, gleaming in brilliant costume and
device, like knights of old, ready to join in the games of the mock
tournament. But the centre of every game, the victor in all the feats of
skill and strength, was the boy king, Louis of Bourbon, as in a
picturesque suit of scarlet and gold he rode his splendid charger like a
statue. And as the spectators noted the white and scarlet scarf that fell
from the kingly shoulder in a great band, and the scarlet hat with
snow-white plume, they saw, by looking at the fair young "queen of
beauty," Olympia Mancini, in her drapery of scarlet damask and white, that
King Louis wore her colors, and thus announced himself as her champion in
the lists.
And Count Armand could see by the look of triumph and satisfaction in
Olympia's pretty face, as she ruled queen of the revels, that already she
felt herself not far from the pinnacle of her ambition, and saw herself in
the now not distant future as Olympia, Queen of France!
But alas for girlish fancies! Louis, the king, was as fickle in his
affections as he was unyielding in his mastership.
"Sire," said the Count de Guiche, as the next day a gay throng rode from
the mock tournament to another great hunt in the forest of Vincennes,
"why does not the fair Olympia ride with the hunt to-day?"
"Ah, the saucy Mazarinette," the king said, surlily, using the popular
nickname given to the nieces of his minister, "she played me a pretty
trick last night, and I will have none of her, I say"; and then he told
the condoling count, who, however, was in the secret, how at the great
ball after the tournament, the maiden, whose colors he had worn, had
exchanged suits with his brother, the little "Monsieur," and so cleverly
was the masquerading done, that he, the great King Louis, was surprised by
the laughing Olympia, making sweet speeches to his own brother, thinking
that he was talking to the mischievous maiden.
"My faith, sire," said the laughing count, "Monsieur makes a fair dame
when he thus masquerades. Did he not well bear off the character of the
Mancini?"
"Pah, all too well, the ugly little _garcon_," ruefully replied the king.
"But I gave him such a cuff for his game on me as he shall not soon
forget. And as for her----"
"Well," said the young count, "what did you, sire, to the fair Olympia?"
"Fair, say you?" said the king, wrathfully; "she is aught but fair, say I,
Armand--a black face and a black soul! What think you? She strutted forth
with all the airs of the great Bayard or--of myself, and clapping hand to
sword, she rescued Monsieur from my clutch, saying: 'I am a chevalier of
France, and brook no ill usage of so fair a dame!'"
This was too much even for the young courtier, and he burst out
a-laughing. But the king was sulky. For Louis of Bourbon, like many a
less-titled lad, could enjoy any joke save one played upon himself, and
the mischievous Olympia lived to regret her joking of a king. Once at odds
with her, the king's fancies flew from one fair damsel to another, finally
culminating when, in 1660, he married, for state reasons only, in the
splendid palace on the Isle of Pheasants, reared specially for the
occasion, the young Princess Maria Theresa, Infanta of Spain, and daughter
of his uncle, King Philip the Fourth.
From here the boy merges into the man, and we must leave him. Strong of
purpose, clear-headed and masterful, Louis the Fourteenth ruled as King of
France for seventy-two years--the most powerful monarch in Christendom.
Handsome in person, majestic in bearing, dignified, lavish, and proud;
ruling France in one of the most splendid periods of its history--a period
styled "the Augustan age" of France; flattered, feared, and absolutely
obeyed, one would think, boys and girls, that so powerful a monarch must
have been a happy man. But he was not. He lived to see children and
grandchildren die around him, to see the armies of France, which he had
thought invincible, yield again and again to the superior generalship of
Marlborough and Prince Eugene, and to regret with deep remorse the follies
and extravagance of his early days. "My child," he said, in his last
hours, to his great-grandson and heir, the little five-year-old Louis,
"you are about to become a great king; do not imitate me either in my
taste for building, or in my love of war. Endeavor, on the contrary, to
live in peace with the neighboring nations; render to God all that you owe
him, and cause his name to be honored by your subjects. Strive to relieve
the burdens of your people, as I, alas! have failed to do."
It is for us to remember that kings and conquerors are often unable to
achieve the grandest success of life,--the ruling of themselves,--and that
flattery and fear are not the true indications of greatness or of glory.
No sadder instance of this in all history is to be found than in the
life-story of this cold-hearted, successful, loveless, imperious,
all-supreme, and yet friendless old man--one of the world's most powerful
monarchs, Louis of Bourbon, Louis "the Great," Louis "the God-given,"
Louis the _Grande Monarque_, Louis the worn-out, unloving and unloved old
man of magnificent Versailles.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XI.
CHARLES OF SWEDEN: THE BOY CONQUEROR.
(_Known as King Charles the Twelfth of Sweden._)
[A.D. 1699.]
[Illustration]
In an old, old palace on the rocky height of the _Slottsbacke_, or Palace
Hill, in the northern quarter of the beautiful city of Stockholm, the
capital of Sweden, there lived, just two hundred years ago, a bright young
prince. His father was a stern and daring warrior-king--a man who had been
a fighter from his earliest boyhood; who at fourteen had been present in
four pitched battles with the Danes; and who, while yet scarce twelve
years old, had charged the Danish line at the head of his guards and shot
down the stout Danish colonel, who could not resist the spry young
warrior; his mother was a sweet-faced Danish princess, a loving and gentle
lady, who scarce ever heard a kind word from her stern-faced husband, and
whose whole life was bound up in her precious little prince.
[Illustration]
And this little Carolus, Karl, or Charles, dearly loved his tender mother.
From her he learned lessons of truth and nobleness that even through all
his stormy and wandering life never forsook him. Often while he had swung
gently to and fro in his quaint, carved, and uncomfortable-looking cradle,
had she crooned above him the old saga-songs that told of valor and
dauntless courage and all the stern virtues that made up the heroes of
those same old saga-songs. Many a time she had trotted the little fellow
on her knee to the music of the ancient nursery rhyme that has a place in
all lands and languages, from the steppes of Siberia to the homes of New
York and San Francisco:
"Ride along, ride a cock-horse,
His mane is dapple-gray;
Ride along, ride a cock-horse,
Little boy, ride away.
Where shall the little boy ride to?
To the king's court to woo"----
and so forth, and so forth, and so forth--in different phrases but with
the same idea, as many and many a girl and boy can remember. And she had
told him over and over again the saga-stories and fairy tales that every
Scandinavian boy and girl, from prince to peasant, knows so well--of
Frithiof and Ingeborg, and the good King Rene; and about the Stone Giant
and his wife Guru; and how the Bishop's cattle were turned into mice; and
about the dwarfs, and trolls, and nixies, and beautiful mermaids and
stromkarls. And she told him also many a story of brave and daring deeds,
of noble and knightly lives, and how his ancestors, from the great
Gustavus, and, before, from the still greater Gustavus Vasa, had been
kings of Sweden, and had made the name of that northern land a power in
all the courts of Europe.