Christina’s Modes and Robes—Encumbering Favour—A Comedy at the
Petit-Bourbon—The Liberty of the Queen and the Liberty of the
Subject—Tears and Absolutions—The Tragedy in the Galérie des
Cerfs—Disillusions.
Christina, ex-Queen of Sweden, was not more nice in style of
dress than she was in the choice of a word to add strength to
her affirmations, and “_sacré-bleu_” was a mild sponsor for the
swear-word she really selected on the occasion. The startling force
of it, combined with the extraordinary costume she wore, excited an
irrepressible burst of laughter from the queen and from Mazarin, and
all present followed suit—all but the king, who looked disconcerted
and rebukeful.
Christina wore a wig, standing up high over her forehead, with tufts
of curls sticking out, all rough and tousled, on each side of her
face, which was, however, far from really ill-looking. She had on a
coat, which was a cross between a man’s _pourpoint_ and a woman’s
cape, put on so carelessly that it left one shoulder half-exposed.
Her skirt was not cut _à la mode_ into a long train; it was merely
a round petticoat, so short as to afford ample display of leg. A
man’s shirt and a man’s boots completed this costume, in which the
great King of Sweden’s daughter presented herself to the Majesties of
France.
She met the risible gaze of the Court with displeasure, and inquired
what they were all staring at. “Am I humpbacked?” she demanded, “or
aren’t my legs well-shaped?” The king, with courtly good-nature,
threw oil on the troubled waters, and Christina was pacified,
observing that Louis spoke like the king and gentleman he was. “And
as for you others,” she added to the rest, “mind yourselves.”
Ninon, who was indisposed, was not present at this scene; but
recovering some days later, she went to the Louvre, where, thanks to
her friend Madame de Choisy, she came and went constantly; and as
she passed along a gallery leading to that lady’s apartments she met
Madame de Choisy and Christina, who was attired in very much the same
manner as already described, but slightly less _outré_.
The queen was fascinated at first sight with Ninon. She placed her
two hands on her shoulders and gazed long and fixedly into her face.
“Now I understand, my dear,” she said at last, “all the follies the
men commit, and will commit for you. Embrace me,” and she bestowed
two such sounding kisses on Ninon’s cheeks, as she had bestowed
on the king’s. Then taking her by the arm, she led her to her own
assigned apartments, at the door of which stood two bearded men,
one of them Count Monaldeschi, her Grand Master of the Horse, the
other the successor of the redoubtable Desmousseaux, the Chevalier
Sentinelli, captain of her guard.
Some time before her visit to Paris, Christina had abdicated,
declaring that the formalities and restrictions of the existence of
a crowned queen were unendurable, the cares of a kingdom rendered
life a slavery, and she desired perfect liberty. The liberty she
sought for herself, however, she in no wise extended to others; for
while she renounced her claims to her inherited kingdom, she reserved
to herself absolute and supreme authority, with the right of life
and death over all who should enter her service or be of her suite.
Then, a Protestant born, she joined the Catholic communion. It was
probably a mere caprice; for she did not spare her coarse witticisms
on the newly-adopted faith, and very soon she contrived so seriously
to offend the College of Cardinals that she was forced to leave Rome,
which she had entered on horseback, dressed almost like a man. After
a while she had come to France, and probably somewhat impressed
with the elegancies of the Court, she made some modification of the
hideous attire she had first appeared in. When Ninon first met her
in the Louvre gallery, Her Majesty wore a grey petticoat skirt of
decent length, trimmed with gold and silver lace, a scarlet camlet
coat, her wig was of the unvarying pale yellow hue, and she carried
a handkerchief of costly lace, and a broad-brimmed hat, plumed with
black ostrich feathers. With her white skin, her aquiline nose and
fine teeth, she would have made a very presentable boy.
She was very voluble, and her immeasurable admiration of Ninon to her
face, was almost disconcerting, even to one so very well accustomed
to compliments. At last, the subject being exhausted, the ex-queen
fell to asking all sorts of questions about the king, the queen,
the cardinal, the new palace at Versailles, the Italian Opera. Then
she had much to say about her own country and her abdication; about
Descartes, who had died at her Court a victim to the climate; about
Count Monaldeschi, with whom, she confided to Ninon, she was on terms
of very close intimacy, and about a hundred other things.
During Christina’s stay in Paris, Ninon had the delight of seeing
again that most dear friend and protégé of hers, Molière, after his
long absence in the provinces. Christina was with Ninon when he
arrived, and as he and his company were to play that same night the
_Cocu Imaginaire_, at the Petit-Bourbon, it was arranged that the two
ladies should be present.
Christina had the appetite of an ogress, and before they started for
the theatre, she did ample justice to the handsome repast Perrote
served up. Then Her ex-Majesty summoned her captain of the Guards,
and Grand Master of the Horse—who had been regaled in another room
on turkey and other dainties, and they repaired to the Petit-Bourbon.
The evening proved anything but enjoyable to Ninon. A market-woman
would have comported herself more decently than this eccentric,
semi-barbarous royal person. She greeted the sallies of the
actors with loud shouts of laughter, and used language that was
rankly blasphemous; while she wriggled and lolled in her chair,
and stretched her feet out among the footstools and cushions, in
appalling fashion. It was in vain Ninon respectfully intimated that
the eyes of everybody were upon them; Christina’s only reply was to
beg her to let her laugh as much as ever she wanted.
The queen’s liking for Ninon grew embarrassing. Six months of
her constant society were almost more than the most good-natured
tolerance could endure, and for that length of time the favour of the
queen’s presence was bestowed on Paris. Then Cardinal Mazarin, also
more than tired of her, entertaining moreover, suspicions that she
was brewing political mischief, contrived to tempt her to seek change
of air and scene at Fontainebleau.
Christina caught the wily cardinal’s bait. Very well—yes, it was a
good idea. She had a great desire to see the renowned palace that
Francis I. had loved so well, and to Fontainebleau, to the relief of
Ninon and of divers other people, the ex-queen went: not to remain
long, however. One morning, at a very early hour, the Chevalier
Sentinelli arrived at the rue des Tournelles and informed Ninon that
she was wanted at the Palais Royal, by his royal mistress, who had
returned to Paris.
It was useless to devise some excuse for not obeying the
summons—invitation, or what it might be—for that was only to bring
the queen herself to the rue des Tournelles; and so to the Palais
Royal Ninon went, to find Christina stretched upon a miserable
pallet-bed, with an evil-smelling, just-extinguished candle on the
table beside her. A serviette did duty for a night-cap, tied round
her head, which was denuded of every hair; for she had had it
shaved close on the previous night. Christina presented a strangely
grotesque and wretchedly miserable picture. Seizing Ninon by both
hands, she told her that she was suffering the deepest agony of
mind—a grief that was horrible—and begged her to stay by her. At
this moment, Sentinelli entered, and a whispered conversation ensued.
“Oh, they will prevent me?” she cried then. “They will prevent me,
will they? Let them dare. Am I not a queen? Have I not a right to
high justice? Very well, then,” she went on, when again Sentinelli
had bent to whisper again. “We must dissimulate. I will go back
to Fontainebleau. There at least, I can do as I please,” and she
prevailed on Ninon to accompany her. And there in the Galérie des
Cerfs at Fontainebleau the hideous tragedy was enacted. The farce
of this woman’s daily life fades out in the thought of her ferocity
and revengeful instincts. Monaldeschi had offended her: he had done
worse, he had been treacherous towards her. Pitiless, with eyes
glittering with rage and hatred, she stood in the Galérie, where the
fading daylight was illumined by the flare of the torches held by
her pages, and taxed the wretched culprit—pleading for mercy at her
feet—with his crimes; but it was not accorded; “Ah, let me live!” he
entreated—“let me live!”
And Ninon, who had dreaded something, but was utterly unprepared for
such a frightful scene, joined her entreaties to his and to those of
his confessor, the monk Lebel. “Ah, no! A woman,” she sobbed, “cannot
give an order for this man to die.”
“I am not a woman,” replied Christina; “I am a queen, and I have the
right to punish a traitor.” She gave the signal. There was a fearful
struggle, the flash of Sentinelli’s sword, an agonised cry, a crimson
stream upon the floor—and then the silence of death.
It had been with extreme reluctance that Ninon had accompanied
the queen to Fontainebleau; but for all Christina’s enigmatical
and elaborate preparations before starting, any conception of her
murderous intentions did not occur to Ninon. She had grown accustomed
to the royal lady’s freaks and eccentricities. On this occasion,
Christina had sent for a confessor, and having attired herself from
head to foot in black, she knelt before him when he arrived, and
first desiring Ninon not to leave the apartment, but to seat herself
in a distant corner of it, she muttered out to the perplexed-looking
Bishop of Amiens—whom she had sent for, he staying at that time at
the Tuileries, spending a kind of brief retreat—what she had to say.
It occupied some five minutes, and as she proceeded, an expression
of deep discomfiture and perplexity overspread the bishop’s face. He
gave her a hurried absolution, and departed, while Christina went
to the chapel of the Feuillants and communicated. All these pious
preparations had disarmed Ninon of any extreme of uncomfortable
suspicion she might have entertained. Christina could not possibly be
nursing any evil intentions—while Ninon was a woman, and curiosity
had impelled her to Fontainebleau, to see what was the end of the
affair, and find out the cause of such floods of tears.
In the coach with them were Monaldeschi and Sentinelli. To the first
she did not address a single word throughout the journey. It was
nearing five o’clock, and night was shadowing in, when they arrived;
and when they had had supper, Christina commanded Monaldeschi to
go to the Galérie des Cerfs, where she would presently come to
him. Then she bade Sentinelli follow the count, and motioning
Ninon to accompany her, she proceeded between two rows of Swiss
Guards, armed with halberds tied about with black crape, to the
Galérie. Now thoroughly fearful, Ninon had followed with trembling
limbs. “In Heaven’s name,” she faltered, “what does this mean,
Madame?—something terrible is about to happen.” With an evil smile
Christina threw open the double doors, disclosing Monaldeschi, with
his hands fast bound, kneeling at the feet of Lebel, whose features
were ghastly with consternation at the task imposed on him, of
hearing the doomed man’s confession.
At sight of Christina, Monaldeschi turned, and his agonised cry for
pardon rang through the Galérie; but there was no mercy in that
hideously hate-distorted face; and so, in cold blood, the murder was
perpetrated, and out into the darkness Ninon rushed, calling for a
carriage to bear her from the terrible place, heedless of the queen’s
gibes and endeavours to persuade her at least to remain till morning.
It was nothing—what she had done, she said; “only a traitor had
received his deserts, and the world was well rid of him.”
But the coach drew up, and Ninon fled into its shelter, never
stopping till she reached home. There she took to her bed in a
high state of fever, having ever before her the terrible scene of
blood at Fontainebleau, and for three weeks she remained prostrated
by the memory of it. She never saw Christina again, neither did
Paris. Though the Court took no proceedings against her—insult to
hospitality as her act was, all other considerations apart—she was
avoided, and regarded with loathing, and she planned for herself a
visit to England. But Cromwell had already supped full of murder.
The image of it was sufficiently haunting, and the endeavours of his
conscience to make peace with Heaven before he died were not to be
disturbed by the presence of such a woman. He turned his face from
her instead, and Christina betook herself to Rome, where she fell
deep in debt, and quarrelled fiercely with the pope.
Overweening ambition was the bane of this undoubtedly clever woman.
In the murder at Fontainebleau, it is thought that vanity and the
love of power tempted her to display what she was pleased to regard
as a full length of it. Exactly the nature of Monaldeschi’s offence
remains unexplained. Christina said he had grossly betrayed her, and
some assert that it was politically he had done so; but it seems
more probable that he was a traitor in love. She defended herself by
saying that she had reserved every right of life and death over all
who were in her service. The atrocious deed caused a sensation in
Paris; especially among those of whom the ex-queen had been a guest,
and Anne of Austria sent for Ninon to relate all the details of her
fearful experience at Fontainebleau.
The chief topic of conversation and speculation now was the marriage
of the young king. It was well known that Mazarin hoped to crown his
successful ambitions, by marrying his niece, Marie Mancini, to Louis,
and that Anne of Austria was as strongly opposed to any such alliance
was equally well-known. It was her wish and her will that Louis
should wed the Infanta Maria Théresa. Any thwarting of this project,
the queen vowed, should bring about the setting aside of Louis, and
placing her second son on the throne of France in his stead—“_La
reine le veut_.” Mazarin had to bite the dust. The preliminaries
for the Spanish marriage were set on foot. The French and Spanish
emissaries met on the Isle of Pheasants. Poor Marie Mancini, who had
a sincere affection for her young royal admirer, was sent out of the
way for a month into the convent of the Daughters of Calvary, which
was hard by Ninon’s house. Louis whispered in her ear at parting,
that if the king was separated from her, the man would never cease
to think of her. Then he whistled to his dogs, and with his courtly
train went hunting in the woods of Chambord. So ended the love-story
of Mazarin’s niece, Marie Mancini. So much “for the snows of yester
year”; but there had been warm affection between Ninon and the young
girl, and they parted with many tears.