Bassenge[15] who entered heart and soul into the undertaking. The
execution of so rare an order was of course an affair of time. Not only
had the jewellers to raise funds to enable them to secure the largest
and finest diamonds that were in the market, but they had to hunt out
and employ the most skilful lapidaries to fashion them to their several
shapes. Every important city in Europe, and others far more remote,
were ransacked to collect these matchless gems. Some of the finest were
met with in Germany, others in Spain, others again in Russia, a few in
Brazil, and a very fine one indeed was picked up in the city of Hamburg.
“But,” says Carlyle, “to tell the various histories of these various
diamonds, from the first making of them, or even omitting all the rest,
from the first digging of them in far Indian mines.... How they served as
eyes of heathen idols, and received worship; how they had then by fortune
of war, or theft, been knocked out, and exchanged among camp-sutlers
for a little spirituous liquor, and bought by Jews; and worn as signets
on the fingers of tawny or white majesties; and again been lost, with
the fingers too, and perhaps life (as by Charles the Rash among the mud
ditches of Nancy), in old forgotten glorious victories; and so through
innumerable varieties of fortune had come at last to the cutting-wheel
of Böhmer, to be united in strange fellowship with comrades also blown
together from all ends of the earth, each with a history of its own.
Could these aged stones—the youngest of them six thousand years of age
and upwards—but have spoken, there were an experience for philosophy to
teach by. But now, as was said, by little caps of gold and daintiest
rings of the same, they are all being, so to speak, enlisted under
Böhmer’s flag,—made to take rank and file in new order, no jewel asking
his neighbour whence he came; and parade there for a season. For a season
only, and then to disperse and enlist anew _ad infinitum_.”[16]
For many of their purchases credit was obtained by the crown jewellers
for a limited period; for others, when they had exhausted their own
capital, they were obliged to have recourse to their friends. But they
were full of confidence, for two millions of livres (francs)—eighty
thousand pounds sterling—was the sum fixed to be paid by the king for
this jewel beyond price. The work went bravely on at the Böhmer and
Bassenge establishment, “_Au Grand Balcon_,” Rue Vendôme. The jewellers,
their friends, their working lapidaries, their trustful creditors, were
all in the highest spirits, when suddenly evil tidings cast dismay into
the Böhmer and Bassenge camp. One day comes the intelligence that the
king is ill; three days afterwards the news arrives that he is in danger;
another week brings the report that he is dead, and the late favourite
for whom the rich ornament was destined banished for ever beyond the
precincts of the court.
Alas! what was to be done now with the magnificent bauble commissioned
by one who, at the time, spite of all his low grovelling debauchery,
was nevertheless a king, but is now only so much corruption? Böhmer
and Bassenge, crown jewellers, find themselves deeply involved; their
creditors become clamorous, for their bills as they fall due are returned
protested. They have nothing to fall back upon but the Diamond Necklace,
which is worth, or at any rate valued at, two million livres. But where
is a purchaser to be found for it? Böhmer and Bassenge, crown jewellers
though they be, must still pay their debts. Kings, according to a certain
fiction of state, never die—“_Le Roi est Mort! Vive le Roi!_” Böhmer and
Bassenge, however, learn by sad experience not only that kings do die,
but that creditors, alas, do not.
What is to be done? Only one course suggests itself. A young and lovely
queen has just ascended the throne. Will it not be possible to induce her
to become the purchaser of this unrivalled specimen of _bijouterie_? The
office of crown jeweller carries with it the privilege of _entrée_ to the
presence of royalty at all times and seasons; while “other jewellers, and
even innumerable gentlemen and small nobility, languish in the vestibule.
With the costliest ornaments in his pockets, or borne after him by
assiduous shop-boys, the happy Böhmer sees high drawing-rooms and sacred
_ruelles_ fly open as with talismanic _sesame_, and the brightest eyes of
the whole world grow brighter: to him alone of all men the Unapproachable
reveals herself in mysterious _négligée_, taking and giving counsel.”[17]
It was to Versailles that Böhmer betook himself, carrying with him the
Diamond Necklace in its case of richest velvet, and ere many hours
have elapsed he is displaying its matchless variegated brilliancy—its
“flashes of star-rainbow colours” to the admiring gaze of the beauteous
Marie-Antoinette, then just twenty years of age, of a gay and lively
disposition, verging, some say, on to giddiness, yet perfectly innocent;
fond of pleasure, and, like other fair young creatures in this world,
not indifferent to those personal ornaments which help to enhance the
charms which Nature has bestowed upon them with so liberal a hand. Still,
pleased as she was with the gem, she nevertheless felt that the times
were unpropitious; or else she scorned, may be, to wear an ornament,
however beautiful, the original destination of which was, to say the
least of it, unfortunate. But be this as it may, one thing is quite
certain, the purchase of the Necklace was declined.
Thus in a moment, as it were, all those fond hopes with which the crown
jewellers had buoyed themselves up for many months past were dissipated,
and they were again constrained to ask each other, “what is now to be
done?” Poor men, they were not to blame, for how could they have foreseen
that their royal customer, full of health in November, 1773, when he gave
the order, should be dead of small-pox on the 10th of May following?
After several days spent in deliberation the partners decided that a
drawing of the Necklace should be made and an engraving executed, and
that printed copies of this should be sent to all the courts of Europe,
to see whether a customer could not be obtained for a jewel which,
ransack the entire world through, would be found without its equal.
This scheme, however, clever as it was, proved abortive; for what kind
of idea could the cunningest graver and the most liquescent of printing
inks possibly give of brilliants of the very finest water? The jewellers
next resolved that one of the firm—Bassenge being the younger and more
active was eventually fixed upon—should devote himself to travelling over
Europe, and to visiting the various courts, where he might personally
solicit the different empresses, queens, princesses, landgravines,
margravines, electresses, infantas, and grand and arch-duchesses, to
purchase this costly jewel, which only a neck flushing with the blood
of royalty was worthy to wear. During this time Böhmer was to remain in
Paris, to avail himself of any opportunity that might offer for reopening
negotiations with Marie-Antoinette. One circumstance, however, rendered
the prospect of success doubtful. The queen had become indebted to the
crown jewellers in the sum of 348,000 livres (francs), for a pair of
diamond earrings, of which amount she had herself only been able to pay
some 48,000 livres,[18] leaving 300,000 livres still due.
In this way several years went by. Shortly after the birth of Madame
Royale, the Necklace was again offered to the queen, but although the
reduced price of one million eight hundred thousand livres was named
for it, there was a more serious obstacle than ever in the way of its
purchase. France was at this period engaged in a war with England on
behalf of the American Colonists, and her navy was in a most crippled
condition. No sooner did the crown jeweller name the subject of the
Necklace, than Marie-Antoinette interrupted him with this queen-like
remark, “Monsieur, we have more need of men-of-war now than of
diamonds.”[19] What reply could a crown jeweller make to so pertinent an
observation as this? All he could do was to feel affronted, and hastily
making his obeisances, he flung himself into the corner of his carriage,
and set off down the long Avenue de Paris on his return to the Rue
Vendôme in no very amiable mood.
V.
1779–1780.
AT BAR-SUR-AUBE.—COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.
While Monsieur Bassenge Calaphibus-like is wandering up and down Europe
trying to dispose of the ill-fated Diamond Necklace, let us see what
our heroine is doing now that she has freed herself from the restraints
of a conventual life in order to launch forth into the great world
with no one to direct, no one to control her. On leaving the abbey of
Longchamp the two sisters decided upon making their way to Bar-sur-Aube,
and embarked on board one of the Seine barges plying between Paris and
Nogent, from which latter place they proceeded up the river Aube to their
destination.[20] The youngest sister, it seems, was possessed with a
certain longing to return to the place of her birth. Whether this arose
from a feeling of vanity, a desire to show off before the simple rustics
of Fontette, or whether love was the actuating principle—for she had left
a sweetheart behind her when she was summoned to Paris—is more than we
can tell. Arrived at Bar-sur-Aube, our heroine informs us that she and
her sister at once entered a convent, where many visitors called upon
them, and invited them to a round of entertainments at which every one
present vied with his neighbour as to who should pay them the greatest
amount of attention. She even asserts that they received invitations from
the different noble families in the neighbourhood, and, in pursuance
of these, entered upon a series of visits varying from a few days to a
week in extent. When these visits were over, we are told that a Madame
de Suremont enticed them to board at her house, where they were “very
elegantly entertained” for four hundred livres (sixteen pounds) per
annum.[21]
Other accounts, which we believe to be more trustworthy, assert that
the sisters arrived at Bar-sur-Aube with merely a few livres in their
pockets, and a single change of linen beyond the clothes they had on, and
that, instead of entering a convent, they put up at a miserable little
inn called “_La Tête Rouge_,” where they made good their footing by
their high titles and the claims they set up to the manors of Essoyes,
Fontette, and Verpilière, in the neighbourhood. The great expectations
they announced soon became generally known in a small country town, and
the consequence was that the good people round about flocked to see them
out of curiosity, and it was then that Madame de Suremont, touched by
their distress, offered the fugitives the use of her house for a few days
until they could manage to provide some other lodging for themselves.
On retiring for the night their hostess, a very stout lady, kindly lent
them two of her own dresses to wear, observing, however, that she was
afraid they would be too large to fit them. What was Madame de Suremont’s
astonishment to see her young guests enter the sitting-room the following
morning with the dresses, which they had spent the night in cutting and
adapting to their own slim figures, fitting them to perfection! Instead,
too, of stopping merely a week at this hospitable house, according to the
terms of their invitation, the Demoiselles de Valois managed to remain
in it for twelve months, flirting with all the young fellows who visited
there, and exhibiting more levity and freedom than was becoming to their
sex.[22] The ladies, naturally enough, all shrank aghast from this bold
behaviour, but the gentlemen were more or less amused at it.
In due course several of these young fellows became smitten with our
heroine, and amongst those who contested for the honour of her smiles
were two who stood out in advance of the rest. One was M. Beugnot, the
writer of the Memoirs we have been quoting, and son of a well-to-do
citizen of Bar-sur-Aube. The latter, however, was so alarmed at the mere
idea of having Mademoiselle de Valois for a daughter-in-law that he
packed off his son to Paris to study law, politics, and human nature,
which he did to such good purpose as to escape the guillotine, and get
created a councillor of state and a count by Napoleon, by whom he was
appointed administrator of one of the Rhine provinces. At the Restoration
he was named _ad interim_ minister of the interior, then minister of
police, next minister of marine, afterwards postmaster-general, and
finally director-general of the administration of finances; and was
altogether so eager a place-hunter, that a pamphleteer of the time said
of him that he would have hired himself out to the plague if the plague
only gave pensions. The other was M. de la Motte, a nephew of Madame de
Suremont’s, and son of a chevalier of St.-Louis killed at the battle of
Minden. This young gentleman, an officer, or as Madame Campan and the
Abbé Georgel say, a private in the _gendarmerie_, and destitute of any
fortune whatever, had already managed to involve himself deeply in debt.
Previous to the Revolution the _gendarmerie_, very different from the
force now known by that name, was the first cavalry regiment in France,
and the usual refuge for young men of good family but poor estate.
Let us hear what the lady herself has to say respecting this young man
(who had only his sword with which to cut his way to fortune), and his
pretensions to be considered the accepted suitor of a descendant of the
royal house of Valois.
“Amongst many other species of amusement, we frequently performed
comedies, in one of which I engaged to take a part. M. de la Motte, an
officer in the gendarmes, and nephew of Madame de Suremont, being on a
visit to Bar-sur-Aube, acquired great reputation for his performance, and
became remarked for his assiduity and attention to please. The part of a
valet was assigned to him, and that of a waiting-maid to me. We divided
the applause of the company, for having, as they pleased to express,
sustained our characters with so much propriety.
“From the moment of our first interview M. de la Motte paid me very
pointed attention. He eagerly seized every opportunity of showing me how
solicitous he was to please. His compliments were not glaring, but of
that delicate nature which could only proceed from the genuine dictates
of an honest heart. Elegant in person and manners, and insinuating in
address, the honourable intention which he manifested could not prove
disagreeable to me. I listened, and, as I believe, is generally the
consequence where any of our sex listen to the persuasions of youth,
elegance, and accomplishments in the other, I was soon not far from
loving him.
“Madame de Suremont perceived the growing attachment of her nephew, and
afforded him every opportunity of urging his suit. She frequently left us
together when the company were gone, engaging M. de la Motte to remain
and write out my parts, and give me instructions in acting them.
“I will ingenuously confess that I loved M. de la Motte. He possessed a
sincerity of heart, seldom to be found excepting in the country, blended
with those polished manners which mark the _habitué_ of the metropolis.
He seized every opportunity of rendering himself agreeable, and I had
every reason to suppose he entertained favourable sentiments towards me,
at least I wished so, and the gradation is so natural that it will not
appear strange if I believed it.
“M. de la Motte, I had remarked for some days, appeared thoughtful and
melancholy; but as he had never communicated to me the cause, though I
was uneasy at the effect of it, I forebore to make inquiry. He advised
me to go to Paris to see my brother, and to make known his pretensions
to Madame de Boulainvilliers, my worthy mother, and endeavour to obtain
her consent to our union. Fearful that breaking this matter suddenly
to the marchioness, after having carried it on so far without her
knowledge, might give her offence, I hesitated some time ere I could form
a resolution to acquaint her; but, trusting to her goodness, I at length
yielded to M. de la Motte’s arguments in favour of a determination which
was also consonant to the dictates of my own heart.
“When I had resolved on a journey to Paris, which highly gratified M.
de la Motte, I at once wrote a letter to Madame de Boulainvilliers,
informing her that having heard of my brother’s arrival, and being
anxious to see him, I should be at Paris the Saturday following by
eight o’clock. The interval was occupied by M. de la Motte in giving
me directions for my behaviour, and earnestly pressing me to return as
soon as possible, and complete his happiness by the celebration of our
nuptials. Not a single person in the house, not even my sister, was
acquainted with what was in agitation. The attentions of M. de la Motte
had long been observed, but our marriage was whispered of only as a
conjecture.
“On the Wednesday following, about three in the morning, I set off in
the diligence, and after a very tedious and disagreeable journey, over
roads which at once prove the neglect of the government and the patience
of the people, I arrived near Paris, and found Julia, the marchioness’s
first woman, waiting with a coach at the Porte Saint-Antoine. I was not a
little pleased at being so near the end of my journey, and felt no regret
at quitting my disagreeable vehicle for the one which conveyed me to the
Hôtel de Boulainvilliers.
“I was impatient to see my brother, but I was disappointed; he had
received orders to join his squadron at Brest. Madame de Boulainvilliers
received me with that cordiality and affection with which the tenderest
of mothers would receive her daughter after a long absence. She told me
that my brother would not have written to inform me of his arrival if
it could have been foreseen how soon he was to depart. This information
gave me much uneasiness, which Madame de Boulainvilliers used the utmost
assiduity to dissipate.
“The evening was occupied by many questions which the marchioness asked
me relative to Bar-sur-Aube, concerning our reception and the diversions
and entertainments of the place. I took advantage of this opportunity
to mention the comedy. I perceived, from a sign she made to Madame de
Tonneres, her daughter, that she had some private correspondent in that
place, who had informed her of more than I knew, and that the information
I had to give was by no means novel. This surprised me not a little.
“A day or two after they resumed the topic, and Madame de Tonneres asked
me what character I played. I told her that of a waiting-maid. She seemed
surprised that I should choose a part like that, when there were many
others for which I was much better adapted. ‘But who,’ said Madame de
Boulainvilliers, ‘was the young man who played the part of Jasmin? Is he
a young man? Pray how old is he?’ I could not well comprehend the drift
of these questions, which, nevertheless, I found myself constrained to
answer. ‘He is a young gentleman,’ I replied, ‘who has a commission in
the gendarmes,’ and I then proceeded to give them information respecting
his family. ‘And what do you think of him?’ ‘That he has a pleasing
address, is much of a gentleman, and has received a very good education;
understands music, and dances to perfection: everybody gives him the
credit of being a very accomplished young man, and all admit that he
played his character like an experienced actor.’ Perceiving me growing
warm in my encomiums, the marchioness smiled. Her daughter observed it,
and they exchanged some very significant glances with each other, and
then, to avoid giving me any suspicions, changed the subject of the
conversation.
“On another occasion Madame de Tonneres, with whom I was frequently left
alone, examined me yet more closely respecting M. de la Motte. ‘What!’
inquired she, in a tone of raillery, ‘did this presumptuous wretch
ever aspire to be your husband?’ ‘Oh, yes! he proposed demanding me in
marriage through his mother, at the same time informing me of his fortune
and expectations.’ ‘And what answer did you make, my dear?’ ‘That I would
beg Madame de Boulainvilliers to give her consent,’ replied I. ‘But did
you give no promise of your own accord, and are you really partial to
him?’ I answered these questions in the affirmative. ‘Well, then, my
dear,’ replied she, ‘from your approbation, I will believe him worthy
of your love.’ ‘Then do me the favour,’ replied I, ‘to represent my
affections to my dear mother, at some convenient opportunity when I am
not present; and you may, if you please, inform her, at the same time,
that M. de la Luzerne, bishop of Langres, can give her every information
concerning the family with which he is well acquainted: indeed, he has
been requested by the mother of M. de la Motte to demand me in marriage.’
The result was that Madame de Tonneres kindly undertook my cause with the
marchioness, who, having my happiness at heart, wished me, in a matter
which could but once be resolved on, to take time for deliberation.
“Though Madame de Boulainvilliers seemed rather to dissuade me from my
purpose than consent to its accomplishment, she nevertheless consented
to write to the Bishop of Langres, who the very next evening paid her a
visit. As soon as he arrived I made my obedience and retired, leaving
him and the marchioness to their private conference.
“I was in no small state of anxiety to learn the result of a negotiation
to me of such importance, yet was at a loss of whom to inquire. The next
morning I was relieved from suspense, for I received a letter from the
reverend prelate, informing me of their conversation the evening before.
He gave me some hopes of obtaining the consent of the marchioness, and
this was all; as for the marquis, I learnt that he positively refused his
consent to the match.
“In a few days I departed for Bar-sur-Aube: my regret at parting with the
marchioness was increased by my having to return home without obtaining
her consent to our marriage, which, though this had been the express
object of my journey, I could not consistently with delicacy or duty
press any further, lest I should appear too precipitately to reject the
prudent advice which she had given me.
“My return to Bar-sur-Aube was much more agreeable than my journey to
Paris. I had written to my sister and M. de la Motte to apprise them
of it, and was met by them about two leagues from Bar-sur-Aube, at a
beautiful seat, the residence of M. de la Motte’s mother.
“The news of my departure, and the object of my journey, had transpired
and spread through the village; every one spoke of my marriage with M. de
la Motte. It was whispered that Mademoiselle de Valois had returned with
the consent of her brother and Madame de Boulainvilliers to solemnize
this marriage; all welcomed me with as much pleasure as if, instead of a
week, I had been absent a year.
“M. de la Motte received me with heartfelt satisfaction, but his
countenance seemed to speak a degree of anxiety; he feared that it was
the intention of Madame de Boulainvilliers to have married me to some
other husband, and trembled for the success of my embassy: he read in my
looks that all was not as it should be, while the words which dropped
from Madame de Boulainvilliers made me doubtful whether I should be able
to obtain her consent. The uneasiness which on this account overspread
my countenance was intelligible only to M. de la Motte, by whose advice
I was prevailed upon to take the only steps prudence dictated in so
delicate and embarrassing a position.
“My pen was the instrument by which I disclosed a secret my timidity
could never suffer my tongue to discover; I immediately wrote to
Madame de Boulainvilliers three successive letters, entreating her to
compassionate my distress, and to let her consent grace our union. I also
wrote to the Bishop of Langres, asking that worthy prelate, who before
had done me signal service, to intercede with the marchioness in my
behalf. The intercession of the bishop I was confident would have its due
weight, and indeed it at length produced that consent so essential to my
future happiness.
“The approbation of Madame de Boulainvilliers having now given a sanction
to our proceedings, an early day was appointed, by the advice of the
friends of M. de la Motte, for the celebration of our nuptials, which
took place, according to the custom of the province, at midnight on the
6th of June, 1780.
“The day after our marriage a grand dinner was given by Madame de
Suremont. The entertainment was profusely elegant. There were two tables,
one in the antechamber, and the other in the dining-room. Every apartment
was open and very soon crowded; the health of the bride was an apology
for drinking wine as though it had been water. When the company quitted
the table, all were desirous to salute and wish me joy. The remainder of
the day was spent in dancing.