Monsieur becomes jealous of the Duke of Buckingham
While the Comte de la Fere was proceeding on his way to Paris,
accompanied by Raoul, the Palais-Royal was the theatre wherein a scene
of what Moliere would have called excellent comedy was being performed.
Four days had elapsed since his marriage, and Monsieur, having
breakfasted very hurriedly, passed into his ante-chamber, frowning and
out of temper. The repast had not been over-agreeable. Madame had had
breakfast served in her own apartment, and Monsieur had breakfasted
almost alone; the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp were the only
persons present at the meal which lasted three-quarters of an hour
without a single syllable having been uttered. Manicamp, who was less
intimate with his royal highness than the Chevalier de Lorraine, vainly
endeavored to detect, from the expression of the prince’s face, what
had made him so ill-humored. The Chevalier de Lorraine, who had no
occasion to speculate about anything, inasmuch as he knew all, ate his
breakfast with that extraordinary appetite which the troubles of one’s
friends but stimulates, and enjoyed at the same time both Monsieur’s
ill-humor and the vexation of Manicamp. He seemed delighted, while he
went on eating, to detain the prince, who was very impatient to move,
still at table. Monsieur at times repented the ascendancy which he had
permitted the Chevalier de Lorraine to acquire over him, and which
exempted the latter from any observance of etiquette towards him.
Monsieur was now in one of those moods, but he dreaded as much as he
liked the chevalier, and contented himself with nursing his anger
without betraying it. Every now and then Monsieur raised his eyes to
the ceiling, then lowered them towards the slices of pate which the
chevalier was attacking, and finally, not caring to betray his
resentment, he gesticulated in a manner which Harlequin might have
envied. At last, however, Monsieur could control himself no longer, and
at the dessert, rising from the table in excessive wrath, as we have
related, he left the Chevalier de Lorraine to finish his breakfast as
he pleased. Seeing Monsieur rise from the table, Manicamp, napkin in
hand, rose also. Monsieur ran rather than walked, towards the
ante-chamber, where, noticing an usher in attendance, he gave him some
directions in a low tone of voice. Then turning back again, but
avoiding passing through the breakfast apartment, he crossed several
rooms, with the intention of seeking the queen-mother in her oratory,
where she usually remained.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning. Anne of Austria was engaged in
writing as Monsieur entered. The queen-mother was extremely attached to
her son, for he was handsome in person and amiable in disposition. He
was, in fact, more affectionate, and, it might be, more effeminate than
the king. He pleased his mother by those trifling sympathizing
attentions all women are glad to receive. Anne of Austria, who would
have been rejoiced to have had a daughter, almost found in this, her
favorite son, the attentions, solicitude, and playful manners of a
child of twelve years of age. All the time he passed with his mother he
employed in admiring her arms, in giving his opinion upon her
cosmetics, and receipts for compounding essences, in which she was very
particular; and then, too, he kissed her hands and cheeks in the most
childlike and endearing manner, and had always some sweetmeats to offer
her, or some new style of dress to recommend. Anne of Austria loved the
king, or rather the regal power in her eldest son; Louis XIV.
represented legitimacy by right divine. With the king, her character
was that of the queen-mother, with Philip she was simply the mother.
The latter knew that, of all places of refuge, a mother’s heart is the
most compassionate and surest. When quite a child he always fled there
for refuge when he and his brother quarrelled, often, after having
struck him, which constituted the crime of high treason on his part,
after certain engagements with hands and nails, in which the king and
his rebellious subject indulged in their night-dresses respecting the
right to a disputed bed, having their servant Laporte as
umpire,—Philip, conqueror, but terrified at victory, used to flee to
his mother to obtain reinforcements from her, or at least the assurance
of forgiveness, which Louis XIV. granted with difficulty, and after an
interval. Anne, from this habit of peaceable intervention, succeeded in
arranging the disputes of her sons, and in sharing, at the same time,
all their secrets. The king, somewhat jealous of that maternal
solicitude which was bestowed particularly upon his brother, felt
disposed to show towards Anne of Austria more submission and attachment
than his character really dictated. Anne of Austria had adopted this
line of conduct especially towards the young queen. In this manner she
ruled with almost despotic sway over the royal household, and she was
already preparing her batteries to govern with the same absolute
authority the household of her second son. Anne experienced almost a
feeling of pride whenever she saw any one enter her apartment with
woe-begone looks, pale cheeks, or red eyes, gathering from appearances
that assistance was required either by the weakest or the most
rebellious. She was writing, we have said, when Monsieur entered her
oratory, not with red eyes or pale cheeks, but restless, out of temper,
and annoyed. With an absent air he kissed his mother’s hands, and sat
himself down before receiving her permission to do so. Considering the
strict rules of etiquette established at the court of Anne of Austria,
this forgetfulness of customary civilities was a sign of preoccupation,
especially on Philip’s part, who, of his own accord, observed a respect
towards her of a somewhat exaggerated character. If, therefore, he so
notoriously failed in this regard, there must be a serious cause for
it.
“What is the matter, Philip?” inquired Anne of Austria, turning towards
her son.
“A good many things,” murmured the prince, in a doleful tone of voice.
“You look like a man who has a great deal to do,” said the queen,
laying down her pen. Philip frowned, but did not reply. “Among the
various subjects which occupy your mind,” said Anne of Austria, “there
must surely be one that absorbs it more than others.”
“One indeed has occupied me more than any other.”
“Well, what is it? I am listening.”
Philip opened his mouth as if to express all the troubles his mind was
filled with, and which he seemed to be waiting only for an opportunity
of declaring. But he suddenly became silent, and a sigh alone expressed
all that his heart was overflowing with.
“Come, Philip, show a little firmness,” said the queen-mother. “When
one has to complain of anything, it is generally an individual who is
the cause of it. Am I not right?”
“I do not say no, madame.”
“Whom do you wish to speak about? Come, take courage.”
“In fact, madame, what I might possibly have to say must be kept a
profound secret; for when a lady is in the case——”
“Ah! you are speaking of Madame, then?” inquired the queen-mother, with
a feeling of the liveliest curiosity.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, if you wish to speak of Madame, do not hesitate to do so.
I am your mother, and she is no more than a stranger to me. Yet, as she
is my daughter-in-law, rest assured I shall be interested, even were it
for your own sake alone, in hearing all you may have to say about her.”
“Pray tell me, madame, in your turn, whether you have not remarked
something?”
“‘Something’! Philip? Your words almost frighten me, from their want of
meaning. What do you mean by ‘something’?”
“Madame is pretty, certainly.”
“No doubt of it.”
“Yet not altogether beautiful.”
“No, but as she grows older, she will probably become strikingly
beautiful. You must have remarked the change which a few years have
already made in her. Her beauty will improve more and more; she is now
only sixteen years of age. At fifteen I was, myself, very thin; but
even as she is at present, Madame is very pretty.”
“And consequently others have remarked it.”
“Undoubtedly, for a woman of ordinary rank is noticed—and with still
greater reason a princess.”
“She has been well brought up, I suppose?”
“Madame Henrietta, her mother, is a woman somewhat cold in manner,
slightly pretentious, but full of noble thoughts. The princess’s
education may have been neglected, but her principles, I believe, are
good. Such at least was the opinion I formed of her when she resided in
France; but she afterwards returned to England, and I am ignorant what
may have occurred there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that there are some heads naturally giddy, which are easily
turned by prosperity.”
“That is the very word, madame. I think the princess rather giddy.”
“We must not exaggerate, Philip; she is clever and witty, and has a
certain amount of coquetry very natural in a young woman; but this
defect in persons of high rank and position is a great advantage at a
court. A princess who is tinged with coquetry usually forms a brilliant
court around her; her smile stimulates luxury, arouses wit, and even
courage; the nobles, too, fight better for a prince whose wife is
beautiful.”
“Thank you extremely, madame,” said Philip, with some temper; “you
really have drawn some very alarming pictures for me.”
“In what respect?” asked the queen, with pretended simplicity.
“You know, madame,” said Philip, dolefully, “whether I had or had not a
very great dislike to getting married.”
“Now, indeed, you alarm me. You have some serious cause of complaint
against Madame.”
“I do not precisely say it is serious.”
“In that case, then, throw aside your doleful looks. If you show
yourself to others in your present state, people will take you for a
very unhappy husband.”
“The fact is,” replied Philip, “I am not altogether satisfied as a
husband, and I shall not be sorry if others know it.”
“For shame, Philip.”
“Well, then, madame, I will tell you frankly that I do not understand
the life I am required to lead.”
“Explain yourself.”
“My wife does not seem to belong to me; she is always leaving me for
some reason or another. In the mornings there are visits,
correspondences, and toilettes; in the evenings, balls and concerts.”
“You are jealous, Philip.”
“I! Heaven forbid. Let others act the part of a jealous husband, not I.
But I am annoyed.”
“All these things you reproach your wife with are perfectly innocent,
and, so long as you have nothing of greater importance——”
“Yet, listen; without being very blamable, a woman can excite a good
deal of uneasiness. Certain visitors may be received, certain
preferences shown, which expose young women to remark, and which are
enough to drive out of their senses even those husbands who are least
disposed to be jealous.”
“Ah! now we are coming to the real point at last, and not without some
difficulty. You speak of frequent visits, and certain preferences—very
good; for the last hour we have been beating about the bush, and at
last you have broached the true question. This is more serious than I
thought. It is possible, then, that Madame can have given you grounds
for these complaints against her?”
“Precisely so.”
“What, your wife, married only four days ago, prefers some other person
to yourself? Take care, Philip, you exaggerate your grievances; in
wishing to prove everything, you prove nothing.”
The prince, bewildered by his mother’s serious manner wished to reply,
but he could only stammer out some unintelligible words.
“You draw back, then?” said Anne of Austria. “I prefer that, as it is
an acknowledgment of your mistake.”
“No!” exclaimed Philip, “I do not draw back, and I will prove all I
asserted. I spoke of preference and of visits, did I not? Well,
listen.”
Anne of Austria prepared herself to listen, with that love of gossip
which the best woman living and the best mother, were she a queen even,
always finds in being mixed up with the petty squabbles of a household.
“Well,” said Philip, “tell me one thing.”
“What is that?”
“Why does my wife retain an English court about her?” said Philip, as
he crossed his arms and looked his mother steadily in the face, as if
he were convinced that she could not answer the question.
“For a very simple reason,” returned Anne of Austria; “because the
English are her countrymen, because they have expended large sums in
order to accompany her to France, and because it would be hardly
polite—not politic, certainly—to dismiss abruptly those members of the
English nobility who have not shrunk from any devotion or from any
sacrifice.”
“A wonderful sacrifice indeed,” returned Philip, “to desert a wretched
country to come to a beautiful one, where a greater effect can be
produced for a crown than can be procured elsewhere for four!
Extraordinary devotion, really, to travel a hundred leagues in company
with a woman one is in love with!”
“In love, Philip! think what you are saying. Who is in love with
Madame?”
“The Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you will defend him, too.”
Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. The name of the
Duke of Buckingham recalled certain recollections of a very tender and
melancholy nature. “The Duke of Buckingham?” she murmured.
“Yes; one of those arm-chair soldiers——”
“The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,” said Anne of Austria,
courageously.
“This is too bad; my own mother takes the part of my wife’s lover
against me,” exclaimed Philip, incensed to such an extent that his weak
organization was effected almost to tears.
“Philip, my son,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, “such an expression is
unworthy of you. Your wife has no lover and, had she one, it would not
be the Duke of Buckingham. The members of that family, I repeat are
loyal and discreet, and the rights of hospitality are sure to be
respected by them.”
“The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, madame,” said Philip; “and
may I ask if the English so very religiously respect what belongs to
princes of France?”
Anne blushed a second time, and turned aside under the pretext of
taking her pen from her desk again, but in reality to conceal her
confusion from her son. “Really, Philip,” she said, “you seem to
discover expressions for the purpose of embarrassing me, and your anger
blinds you while it alarms me; reflect a little.”
“There is no need for reflection, madame. I can see with my own eyes.”
“Well, and what do you see?”
“That Buckingham never quits my wife. He presumes to make presents to
her, and she ventures to accept them. Yesterday she was talking about
sachets a la violette; well, our French perfumers, you know very well,
madame, for you have over and over again asked for it without
success—our French perfumers, I say, have never been able to procure
this scent. The duke, however, wore about him a sachet a la violette,
and I am sure that the one my wife has came from him.”
“Indeed, monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “you build your pyramids on
needle points; be careful. What harm, I ask you, can there be in a man
giving to his countrywoman a receipt for a new essence? These strange
ideas, I protest, painfully recall your father to me; he who so
frequently and so unjustly made me suffer.”
“The Duke of Buckingham’s father was probably more reserved and more
respectful than his son,” said Philip, thoughtlessly, not perceiving
how deeply he had wounded his mother’s feelings. The queen turned pale,
and pressed her clenched hands upon her bosom; but, recovering herself
immediately, she said, “You came here with some intention or another, I
suppose?”
“Certainly.”
“What was it?”
“I came, madame, intending to complain energetically, and to inform you
that I will not submit to such behavior from the Duke of Buckingham.”
“What do you intend to do, then?”
“I shall complain to the king.”
“And what do you expect the king to reply?”
“Very well, then,” said Monsieur, with an expression of stern
determination on his countenance, which offered a singular contrast to
its usual gentleness. “Very well. I will right myself!”
“What do you call righting yourself?” inquired Anne of Austria, in
alarm.
“I will have the Duke of Buckingham quit the princess, I will have him
quit France, and I will see that my wishes are intimated to him.”
“You will intimate nothing of the kind, Philip,” said the queen, “for
if you act in that manner, and violate hospitality to that extent, I
will invoke the severity of the king against you.”
“Do you threaten me, madame?” exclaimed Philip, almost in tears; “do
you threaten me in the midst of my complaints!”
“I do not threaten you; I do but place an obstacle in the path of your
hasty anger. I maintain that, to adopt towards the Duke of Buckingham,
or any other Englishman, any rigorous measure—to take even a
discourteous step towards him, would be to plunge France and England
into the most disastrous disagreement. Can it be possible that a prince
of the blood, the brother of the king of France, does not know how to
hide an injury, even did it exist in reality, where political necessity
requires it?” Philip made a movement. “Besides,” continued the queen,
“the injury is neither true nor possible, and it is merely a matter of
silly jealousy.”
“Madame, I know what I know.”
“Whatever you may know, I can only advise you to be patient.”
“I am not patient by disposition, madame.”
The queen rose, full of severity, and with an icy ceremonious manner.
“Explain what you really require, monsieur,” she said.
“I do not require anything, madame; I simply express what I desire. If
the Duke of Buckingham does not, of his own accord, discontinue his
visits to my apartments I shall forbid him entrance.”
“That is a point you will refer to the king,” said Anne of Austria, her
heart swelling as she spoke, and her voice trembling with emotion.
“But, madame,” exclaimed Philip, striking his hands together, “act as
my mother and not as the queen, since I speak to you as a son; it is
simply a matter of a few minutes’ conversation between the duke and
myself.”
“It is that very conversation I forbid,” said the queen, resuming her
authority, “because it is unworthy of you.”
“Be it so; I will not appear in the matter, but I shall intimate my
will to Madame.”
“Oh!” said the queen-mother, with a melancholy arising from reflection,
“never tyrannize over a wife—never behave too haughtily or imperiously
towards your own. A woman unwillingly convinced is unconvinced.”
“What is to be done, then?—I will consult my friends about it.”
“Yes, your double-dealing advisers, your Chevalier de Lorraine—your De
Wardes. Intrust the conduct of this affair to me. You wish the Duke of
Buckingham to leave, do you not?”
“As soon as possible, madame.”
“Send the duke to me, then; smile upon your wife, behave to her, to the
king, to every one, as usual. But follow no advice but mine. Alas! I
too well know what any household comes to that is troubled by
advisers.”
“You shall be obeyed, madame.”
“And you will be satisfied at the result. Send the duke to me.”
“That will not be difficult.”
“Where do you suppose him to be?”
“At my wife’s door, whose levee he is probably awaiting.”
“Very well.” said Anne of Austria, calmly. “Be good enough to tell the
duke that I shall be charmed if he will pay me a visit.”
Philip kissed his mother’s hand, and started off to find the Duke of
Buckingham.