We arrived at Paris late in the day, entering the city through a great
fortified gateway, and then rolling slowly through the rough and narrow
streets. You know them too well, my children, to be able to conceive
how strange and new they seemed to me, accustomed as I was to our smooth
broad Thames and the large gardens of the houses in the Strand lying on
its banks.
Our carriage turned in under the porte cochere of this Hotel de
Nidemerle of ours, and entered the courtyard. My husband, his uncle,
and I know not how many more, were already on the steps. M. de Nidemerle
solemnly embraced me and bade me welcome, presenting me at the same time
to a gentlemen, in crimson velvet and silver, as my brother. My foolish
heart bounded for a moment as if it could have been Eustace; but it was
altogether the face of a stranger, except for a certain fine smile like
my mother’s. It was, of course, my half-brother, M. le Baron de
Solivet, who saluted me, and politely declared himself glad to make the
acquaintance of his sister.
The Marquis then led me up the broad stairs, lined with lackeys, to our
own suite of apartments, where I was to arrange my dress before being
presented to Madame de Nidemerle, who begged me to excuse her not being
present to greet me, as she had caught cold, and had a frightful megrim.
I made my toilet, and they brought me a cup of eau sucree and a few
small cakes, not half enough for my hungry English appetite.
My husband looked me over more anxiously than ever he had done before;
and I wished, for his sake, that I had been prettier and fitter to make
a figure among all these grand French ladies.
My height was a great trouble to me in those unformed days. I had so
much more length to dispose of than my neighbours, and I knew they
remarked me the more for it; and then my hair never would remain in curl
for half an hour together. My mother could put it up safely, but since
I had left her it was always coming down, like flax from a distaff;
and though I had in general a tolerably fresh and rosy complexion, heat
outside and agitation within made my whole face, nose and all, instantly
become the colour of a clove gillyflower. It had so become every
afternoon on the journey, and I knew I was growing redder and redder
every moment, and that I should put him, my own dear Viscount, to shame
before his aunt.
‘Oh! my friend,’ I sighed, ‘pardon me, I cannot help it.’
‘Why should I pardon thee?’ he answered tenderly. ‘Because thou hast so
great and loving a heart?’
‘Ah! but what will thine aunt think of me?’
‘Let her think,’ he said. ‘Thou art mine, not Madame’s.’
I know not whether those words made me less red, but they gave me such
joyous courage that I could have confronted all the dragoons, had I been
of the colour of a boiled lobster, and when he himself sprinkled me for
the last time with essences, I felt ready to defy the censure of all the
marchionesses in France.
My husband took me by the hand and led me to the great chamber, where in
an alcove stood the state bed, with green damask hangings fringed with
gold, and in the midst of pillows trimmed with point-lace sat up Madam
la Marquis, her little sallow face, like a bit of old parchment, in the
midst of the snowy linen, and not--to my eyes--wearing a very friendly
aspect.
She had perhaps been hearing of my wilfulness and insubordination, for
she was very grand and formal with me, solemnly calling me Madame la
Vicomtesse, and never her niece, and I thought all the time that I
detected a sneer. If I had wished for my husband’s sake to accompany
him, I wished it ten thousand times more when I fully beheld the
alternative.
Ah! I am writing treason. Had I been a well-trained French young girl
I should have accepted my lot naturally, and no doubt all the
family infinitely regretted that their choice has fallen on one so
impracticable.
I was happier as the supper-table, to which we were soon summoned, for
I had become accustomed to M. de Nidemerle, who was always kind to me.
Poor old man, I think he had hoped to have something young and lively in
his house; but I never thought of that, and of course my husband was my
only idea.
M. de Solivet set by me, and asked many questions about my mother and
the rest of the family, treating me more as a woman than anyone else
had done. Nor was it long before I caught slight resemblances both to my
mother and to my brother Berenger, which made me feel as home with
him. He was a widower, and his two daughters were being educated in
a convent, where he promised to take me to visit them, that I might
describe them to their grandmother.
Poor little things! I thought them very stiff and formal, and pitied
them when I saw them; but I believed they were really full of fun and
folic among their companions.
M. de Solivet was consulted on this wild scheme of mine, and the
Marchioness desired him to show me its absurdity. He began by arguing
that it was never when to act in the face of custom, and that he had
only known of two ladies who had followed their husbands to the
wars, and both them only belonged to the petite noblesse, and were
no precedent for me! One of them had actually joined her husband when
wounded and made prisoner, and it was said that her care had saved his
life!
Such a confession on his part rendered me the more determined, and
we reminded M. de Nidemerle of his promise to consult Madame de
Rambouillet, though I would not engage even then to abide by any
decision except my father’s, which I daily expected. I overheard people
saying how much M. de Bellaise was improved by his marriage, and how
much more manly and less embarrassed he had become, and I felt that my
resolution made him happy, so that I became the more determined.
Children, you who have laughed at Les Precieuses can have little idea
what the Hotel de Rambouillet was when, three nights after arrival, I
went thither with my husband and his uncle and aunt.
The large salon, hung and draped with blue velvet, divided by lines of
gold, was full of people ranged in a circle, listening eagerly to
the recital of poem by the author, an Abbe, who stood in the midst,
declaiming each couplet with emphasis, and keeping time with his foot,
while he made gestures with his uplifted hand. Indeed, I thought at
first he was in a furious passion and was going to knock someone down,
till I saw calmly everyone sat; and then again I fancied we had come
to a theatre by mistake; but happily I did not speak, and, without
interrupting the declamation, chairs were given us, and exchanging a
mute salutation with a lady of a noble cast of beauty, who guided us
to seats, we quietly took our places. She was Julie d’Argennes, the
daughter of Madame de Rambouillet. A gentlemen followed her closely, the
Duke of Montausier, who adored her, but whom she could not yet decide on
accepting.
I found it difficult to fit from laughing as the gestures of the Abbe,
especially when I thought of my brother and how they would mock them;
but I knew that this would be unpardonable bad taste, and as I had come
in too late to have the clue to the discourse, I amused myself with
looking about me.
Perhaps the most striking figure was that of the hostess, with her
stately figure, and face, not only full of intellect, but of something
that went far beyond it, and came out of some other higher world, to
which she was trying to raise this one.
Next I observed a lady, no longer in her first youth, but still
wonderfully fair and graceful. She was enthroned in a large arm-chair,
and on a stool beside her sat her daughter, a girl of my own age, the
most lovely creature I had ever seen, with a profusion of light flaxen
hair, and deep blue eyes, and one moment full of grave thought, at
another of merry mischief. A young sat by, whose cast of features
reminded me of the Prince of Wales, but his nose was more aquiline,
his dark blue eyes far more intensely bright and flashing, and whereas
Prince Charles would have made fun of all the flourishes of our poet,
they seemed to inspire in this youth an ardour he could barely restrain,
and when there was something vehement about Mon epee et ma patrie he
laid his hand on his sword, and his eyes lit up, so that he reminded me
of a young eagle.
This was the Princess of Conde, who in the pride of her youthful beauty
had been the last flame of Henri IV., who had almost begun a war on her
account; this was her lovely daughter, Mademoiselle de Bourbon, and her
sons, the brave Duke of Enghien, with his deformed brother, the Prince
of Conti.
When the recital was over, there was a general outburst of applause, in
which M. de Nidemerle joined heartily. Madame de Rambouillet gave her
meed of approbation, but her daughter, Mademoiselle d’ Argennes, took
exception at the use of the word chevaucher, for to ride, both as being
obsolete, and being formed from the name of a single animal, instead of
regularly derived from a Latin verb.
The Abbe defended his word, and for fully twenty minutes there was an
eager argument, people citing passages and derivations, and defining
shades of meaning with immense animation and brilliant wit, as I now
understand, though then it seemed to me a wearisome imbroglio about a
trifle. I did not know what real benefit was done by these discussions
in purifying the language from much that was coarse and unrefined. Yes,
and far more than the language, for Madame de Rambouillet, using her
great gifts as a holy trust for the good of her neighbour, conferred
no small benefit on her generation, nor is that good even yet entirely
vanished. Ah! If there were more women like her, France and society
would be very different.
When the discussion was subsiding, Mademoiselle d’ Argennes came to take
me by the hand, and to present us to the queen of the salon.
‘Here, my mother, are our Odoardo and Gildippe,’ she said.
You remember, my children, that Odoardo and Gildippe are the names
bestowed by Tasso on the English married pair who went together on the
first crusade, and Gildippe continued to be my name in that circle,
my nom de Parnasse, as it was called--nay, Madame de Montausieur still
gives it to me.
The allusion was a fortunate one; it established a precedent, and,
besides, English people have always been supposed to be eccentric. I am,
however, doing the noble lady injustice. Arthenice, as she was called by
an anagram of her baptismal name of Catherine, was no blind slave to the
conventional. She had originality enough to have been able to purify the
whole sphere in which she moved, and to raise the commonplace into the
ideal. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to her friends, and she led my husband
apart into a deep window, and there, as he told me, seemed to look him
through and through. And verily he was one who needed not to fear such
an inspection, any more than the clearest crystal.
Then, in like manner, she called for me, and made me understand that I
was condemning myself to a life of much isolation, and that I must
be most circumspect in my conduct, whole, after all, I might see very
little of my husband; I must take good care that my presence was a help
and refreshment, not a burden and perplexity to him, or he would neglect
me and repent my coming. ‘It may seem strange,’ she said, ‘but I think
my young friend will understand me, that I have always found that,
next of course to those supplied by our holy religion, the best mode of
rendering our life and its inconveniences endurable is to give them a
colouring of romance.’ I did not understand her then, but I have often
since thought of her words, when the recollection of the poetical aspect
of the situation has aided my courage and my good temper. Madame de
Rambouillet looked into my eyes as she spoke, then said: ‘Pardon an old
woman, my dear;’ and kissed my brow, saying: ‘You will not do what I
have only dreamt of.’
Finally she led us forward to our great-uncle, saying: ‘Madame le
Marquis, I have conversed with these children. They love one another,
and so long as that love lasts they will be better guardians to one
another than ten governors or twenty dames de compagnie.’
In England we should certainly not have done all this in public, and my
husband and I were terribly put to the blush; indeed, I felt my whole
head and neck burning, and caught a glimpse of myself in a dreadful
mirror, my white bridal dress and flaxen hair making my fiery face look,
my brothers would have said, ‘as if I had been skinned.’
And then, to make it all worse, a comical little crooked lady, with a
keen lively face, came hopping up with hands outspread, crying: ‘Ah, let
me see her! Where is the fair Gildippe, the true heroine, who is about
to confront the arrows of the Lydians for the sake of the lord of her
heart?’
‘My niece,’ said the Marquis, evidently gratified by the sensation I had
created, ‘Mademoiselle de Scudery does you the honour of requesting to
be presented to you.’
I made a low reverence, terribly abashed, and I fear it would have
reduced my mother to despair, but it was an honour that I appreciated;
for now that I was a married woman, I was permitted to read romances,
and I had just begun on the first volume of the Grand Curus. My husband
read it to me as I worked at my embroidery, and you may guess how we
enjoyed it.
But I had no power of make compliments--nay, my English heart recoiled
in anger at their making such an outcry, whether of blame or praise,
at what seemed to me the simplest thing in the world. The courtesy
and consideration were perfect; as soon as these people saw that I was
really abashed and distressed, they turned their attention from me.
My husband was in the meantime called to be presented to the Duke of
Enghien, and I remained for a little while unmolested, so that I
could recover myself a little. Presently a soft voice close to me
said ‘Madame,’ and I looked up into the beautiful countenance of Anne
Genevieve de Bourbon, her blue eyes shining on me with the sweetest
expression. ‘Madame,’ she said, ‘permit me to tell you how glad I am for
you.’
I thanked her most heartily. I felt this was the real tender sympathy
of a being of my own age and like myself, and there were something so
pathetic in her expression that I felt sorry for her.
‘You are good! You will keep good,’ she said.
‘I hope so, Mademoiselle,’ I said.
‘Ah! yes, you will. They will not make you lose your soul against your
will!’ and she clenched her delicate white hand.
‘Nobody can do that, Mademoiselle.’
‘What! Not when they drag you to balls and fete away from the cloister,
where alone you can be safe?’
‘I hope not there alone,’ I said.
‘For me it is the only place,’ she repeated. ‘What is the use of wearing
haircloth when the fire of the Bourbons is in one’s blood, and one has a
face that all the world runs after?’
‘Mais, Mademoiselle,’ I said; ‘temptation is only to prove our
strength.’
‘You are strong. You have conquered,’ she said, and clasped my hand.
‘But then you loved him.’
I suppose I smiled a little with my conscious bliss, for this strange
young princess hastily asked: ‘Did you love him? I mean, before you were
married.’
‘Oh no,’ I said, glad to disavow what was so shocking in my new country.
‘But he is lovable? Ah! that is it. While you are praying to Heaven, and
devoting yourself to a husband whom you love, remember that if I ruin my
soul, it is because they would have it so!’
At that moment there was a pause. A gentleman, the Marquis de
Feuquieres, had come in, bringing with him a very young lad, in the
plian black gown and white collar of a theological student; and it was
made known that the Marquis had been boasting of the wonderful facility
of a youth was studying at the College of Navarre, and had declared
that he could extemporise with eloquence upon any subject. Some one
had begged that the youth might be fetched and set to preach on a text
proposed to him at the moment, and here he was.
Madame de Rambouillet hesitated a little at the irreverence, but the
Duke of Enghien requested that the sermon might take place, and she
consented, only looking at her watch and saying it was near midnight,
so that the time was short. M. Voiture, the poet, carried round a velvet
bag, and each was to write a text on a slip of paper to be drawn out at
haphazard.
We two showed each other what we wrote. My husband’s was--‘Love is
strong as death;’ mine--‘Let the wife cleave unto her husband.’ But
neither of them was drawn out. I saw by the start that Mademoiselle
de Bourbon gave that it was hers, when the first paper was taken
out--‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!’ a few minutes were offered to
the young Abbe to collect his thoughts, but he declined them, and he was
led to a sort of a dais at the end of the salon, while the chairs were
placed in a half-circle. Some of the ladies tittered a little, though
Madame de Rambouillet looked grave; but they composed themselves. We all
stood and repeated the Ave, and then seated ourselves; while the youth,
in a voice already full and sweet, began solemnly: ‘What is life? what
is man?’
I can never convey to you how this world and all its fleeting follies
seemed to melt away before us, and how each of us felt our soul alone
in the presence of our Maker, as though nothing mattered, or ever
would matter, but how we stood with Him. One hardly dared to draw one’s
breath. Mademoiselle de Bourbon was almost stifled with the sobs she
tried to restrain lest her mother should make her retire. My husband
held my hand, and pressed it unseen. He was a deeper, more thoughtful
man ever after he heard that voice, which seemed to come, as it were,
from the Angel at Bochim who warned the Israelites; and that night we
dedicated ourselves to the God who had not let us be put asunder.
I wished we could have gone away at once and heard no more, and so
must, I think, the young preacher have felt; but he was surrounded with
compliments. M. Voiture said he had never heard ‘so early nor so late a
sermon;’ while others thronged up with their compliments.
Madame de Rambouillet herself murmured: ‘He might be Daniel hearing
the compliments of Belshazzar on his deciphering the handwriting,’
so impassively did he listen to the suffrages of the assembly, only
replying by a bow.
The Duke of Enghien, boldest of course, pressed up to him and, taking
his hand, begged to know his name.
‘Bossuet, Monseigneur,’ he answered.
There were one or two who had the bad taste to smile, for Bossuet (I
must tell my English kindred) means a draught-ox; but once more the
lovely sister of the young Duke grasped my hand and said: ‘Oh, that I
could hide myself at once! Why will they not let me give myself to my
God? Vanity of vanities! why am I doomed?’
I was somewhat frightened, and was glad that a summons of ‘my daughter’
from the Princess of Conde interrupted these strange communications.
I understood them better when we were called upon to ell the old
Marchioness the names of every one whom we had met at the Hotel de
Rambouillet, and on hearing of the presence of Mademoiselle de Bourbon
she said: ‘Ah! yes, a marriage is arranged for the young lady with the
Duke of Longueville.’
‘But!’ exclaimed my husband, ‘the Duke is an old man, whose daughter is
older than I.’
‘What has that to do with it?’ said his aunt. ‘There is not much blood
in France with which a Montmorency Bourbon can match. Moreover, they
say the child is devote, and entetee on Madam de Port Royal, who is more
than suspected of being outree in her devotion; so the sooner she is
married the better!’
Poor beautiful girl, how I pitied her then! Her lovely, wistful, blue
eyes haunted me all night, in the midst of my own gladness; for a
courier had come that evening bringing my father’s reply. He said my
mother deplored my unusual course, but that for his part he liked his
little girl the better for her courage, and that he preferred that I
should make my husband’s home happy to my making it at court. All
he asked of me was to remember that I had to guard the honour of my
husband’s name and of my country, and he desired that I should take
Tryphena with me wherever I went.