We were greatly amazed when late one January evening Cecile rushed into
my room like one distracted, crying:
‘The monsters, they have arrested him!’
We knew there was only on of the nobler sex in the eyes of my poor
Cecile, and my first question was:
‘What has he done?’ expecting to hear that he had been fighting a duel,
or committing some folly. My surprise was greater when I heard her
answer:
‘He was going to carry off the Cardinal’s nieces.’
‘He seems to have a turn for such exploits,’ Annora said. ‘Who wanted to
marry them?’
‘It was for no such thing!’ Cecile said, with as much heat as she could
show; ‘it was to take them as hostages.’
‘As hostages!’
‘Oh, yes! Do not you know? For the Prince.’
Our astonishment was redoubled.
‘Eh, quoi! Messieus les Prince de Conde and Conty, and the Duke of
Longueville, are all arrested, coming from the council, by the treason
of the Cardinal. They are sent off no one knows where, but my husband,
you understand, was with M. de Boutteville and a hundred other brave
officers in the garden of the Hotel de Conte when the news came. M.
de Boutteville immediately proposed to gallop to Val de Grace and
then seize on the Demoiselles Mazarin and Mancini as the best means
of bringing the Cardinal to reason, and instantly it is done; but the
cunning Cardinal had foreseen everything; the young ladies had been
seized and carried off, I know not where,’ and she burst into a flood of
tears.
With some difficulty we elicited from her that she had learned the
tidings from a sergeant who had been in attendance on the Count, and had
fled when he was taken. At the same time horrible noises and shouts were
heard all over the city.
‘Treason! Treason! Down with the Cardinal! Beaufort is taken! The
Coadjutor! Vengeance! Vengeance!’
Sir Francis hurried out to learn the truth, and then my mother in her
fright cried out:
‘Will no one come and protect us? Oh! where is M. Darpent?’ while Annora
called to me to take our cloaks and come up to the roof of the house to
see what was going on. She was in high spirits, no doubt laughing within
herself to see how every danger made my mother invoke M. Darpent, and
finding in a tumult a sure means of meeting him, for she could trust to
him to come and offer his protection.
I SAW that she heard his voice on the stairs before he actually made his
appearance, telling my mother that he had hastened to assure her that we
were in no danger. The rising was due to M. de Boutteville, who, being
disappointed in his plan of seizing the Cardinal’s nieces as hostages,
had gone galloping up and down Paris with his sword drawn, shouting that
the two darlings of the people, M. de Beaufort and the Coadjutor, had
been seized. He wildly hoped that the uproar this was sure to excite
would frighten the Queen-Regent into releasing the Princes as she had
before released Broussel.
But the Coadjutor had come out with torches carried before him, and had
discovered the name of the true prisoners, whose arrogance had so deeply
offended the populace. He had summoned the Duke of Beaufort--the King of
the Markets, as he was called--and he was riding about the streets with
a splendid suite, whose gilded trappings glistened in the torchlight.
So deeply had the Prince’s arrogance offended all Paris that the whole
city passed from rage into a transport of joy, and the servants came
and called us up to the top of the house to see the strange sight of the
whole city illuminated. It was wonderful to behold, every street and all
the gates marked out by bright lights in the windows, and in the open
spaces and crossings of the street bonfires, with dark figures dancing
wildly round them in perfect ecstasies of frantic delight; while guns
were fired out, and the chorus of songs came up to us; horrid, savage,
abusive songs, Sir Francis said they were, when he had plodded his way
up to us on the roof, after having again reassured my mother, who had
remained below trying to comfort the weeping Cecile.
Sir Francis said he had asked a tradesman with whom he dealt, ordinarily
a very reasonable and respectable man, what good they expected from
this arrest that it should cause such mad delirium of joy. The man was
utterly at a loss to tell him anything but that the enemies of Paris
were fallen. And then he began shouting and dancing as frantically as
ever.
It was to his wife and me that the English knight told his adventures;
Annora and M. Darpent had drawn apart on the opposite side of the
paraget. If to Madame d’Aubepine this great stroke of policy meant
nothing but that her husband was in prison, to my sister a popular
disturbance signified chiefly a chance of meeting Clement Darpent; and
Lady Ommaney and I exchanged glances and would not look that way. Nay,
we stayed as long as we could bear the cold of that January night to
give them a little more time. For, as I cannot too often remind you, my
grand-daughters, we treated an English maiden, and especially one who
had had so many experiences as my sister, very differently from a simple
child fresh from her convent.
Nicolas at last came up with a message from Madame la Baronne to beg
that we would come down. We found that the Intendante Corquelebois (erst
Gringrimeau) had brought the children in a panic, lest the houses of the
partisans of the Princes should be attacked. She had put on a cloak and
hood, made them look as like children of the people as she could, and
brought them on foot through the streets; and there stood the poor
little things, trembling and crying, and very glad to find their mother
and cling to her. She had never thought of this danger, and was shocked
at herself for deserting them. And it was a vain alarm; for, as M.
Darpent assured her, M. d’Aubepine was not conspicuous enough to have
become a mark for public hatred.
She was a little affronted by the assurance, but we appeased her, and
as the tumult was beginning to die away, M. Darpent took his leave,
promising my mother to let her know of any measure taken on the morrow.
He offered to protect Madame d’Aubepine and her children back to their
own hotel, but we could not let the poor wife go back with her grief,
nor the children turn out again on the winter’s night. I was glad to see
that she seemed now on perfectly good terms with herdame de compagnie,
who showed herself really solicitous for her and her comfort, and did
not seem displeased when I took her to my room. I found my poor little
sister-in-law on the whole less unhappy than formerly. People do get
accustomed to everything, and she had somehow come to believe that it
was the proper and fashionable arrangement, and made her husband more
distinguished, that he should imitate his Prince by living apart from
her, and only occasionally issuing his commands to her. He had not
treated her of late with open contempt, and he had once or twice take
a little notice of his son, and all this encouraged her in her firm
and quiet trust that in process of time, trouble, age, or illness
would bring him back to her. Her eyes began to brighten as she wondered
whether she could not obtain his liberty by falling at the Queen’s
feet with a petition, leading her children in her hands. ‘They were
so beautiful. The Queen must grant anything on the sight of her little
chevalier!’
And then she had a thousand motherly anecdotes of the children’s
sweetness and cleverness to regale me with till she had talked herself
tolerably happily to sleep.
We kept her with us, as there were reports the next day of arrests
among the ladies of the Princes’ party. The two Princesses of Conde
were permitted to retire to Chantilly, but then the Dowager-Princess was
known to be loyal, and the younger one was supposed to be a nonentity.
Madame de Longueville was summoned to the Palace, but she chose instead
to hide herself in a little house in the Faubourg St. Germain, whence
she escaped to Normandy, her husband’s Government, hoping to raise the
people there to demand his release and that of her brothers.
The Prince’s INTENDANT was taken, and there was an attempt to arrest the
whole Bouillon family, but the Duke and his brother, M. de Turenne, were
warned in time and escaped. As to the Duchess and her children, their
adventures were so curious that I must pause to tell their story. A
guard was sent to her house under arms to keep her there. There were
four little boys, and their attendants, on seeing the guards, let them
straight out through the midst of them, as if they were visitors, the
servants saying: ‘You must go away. Messieurs les petits Princes cannot
play to-day. They are made prisoners.’ They were taken to the house
of Marshal de Guesbriant, where they were dressed as girls, and thus
carried off to Bellechasse, whence they were sent to Blois.
There the little Chevalier of seven years old (Emmanuel Theodore was his
name, and he is now a Cardinal) fell ill, and could not go on with his
brothers when they were sent southwards, but was left with a lady named
Flechine. By and by, when the Court came to Guienne, Madame de Flechine
was afraid of being compromised if she was found to have a son of the
Duke of Bouillon in the house. She recollected that there was in a very
thick wood in the park a very thick bush, forming a bower or vault,
concealed by thorns and briers. There she placed the little boy with
his servant Defargues, giving them some bread, wine, water, a pie, a
cushion, and an umbrella in case of rain, and she went out herself very
night to meet Defargues and bring him fresh provisions. His Eminence
has once told me all about it, and how dreadfully frightened he was
a thunderstorm in the valet’s absence, and when a glow-worm shone out
afterwards the poor child thought it was lightning remaining on the
ground, and screamed out to Defargues not to come in past it. He says
Defargues was a most excellent and pious soul, and taught him more
of his religion than ever he had known before. Afterwards Madame de
Flechine moved them to a little tower in the park, where they found a
book of the LIVES OF THE SAINTS, and Defargues taught his little master
to make wicker baskets. They walked out on the summer nights, and
enjoyed themselves very much.
As to poor Madame de Bouillon, her baby was born on that very day of the
arrest. Her sister-in-law and her eldest daughter remained with her, and
Madame Carnavalet; the captain of the guards had to watch over them all.
He was of course a gentleman whom they already knew, and he lived with
them as a guest. As soon as Madame de Bouillon had recovered, they
began to play at a sort of hide-and-seek, daring him to find them in the
hiding-places they devised, till at last he was not at all alarmed at
missing them. Then M. de Boutteville and her daughter escaped through a
cellar-window, and they would have got safely off, if the daughter
had not caught the smallbox. Her mother, who was already on the way to
Boxdeaux, came back to nurse her, and was taken by the bedside, and shut
up in the Bastille.
The two Princesses were at Chantilly, and rumours reached us that the
younger lady was about to attempt something for the deliverance of he
husband, and thereupon M. d’Aubepine became frantic to join them, and to
share in their councils. We tried to convince her that she could be
of no use, but no--suppose they were going to raise their vassals, she
could do the same by those of d’Aubepine, and she, who had hitherto been
the most timid and helpless of beings, now rose into strong resolution
and even daring. It was in vain that I represented to her that to raise
one’s vassals to make war on the King was rank rebellion. To her there
was only one king--the husband who deserved so little from her. She had
given him her whole devotion, soul and body, and was utterly incapable
of seeing anything else. And Madame Croquelebois, being equally devoted
to M. le Comte, was thus more in her confidence than we were. She told
us at last with a thousand thanks that she had resolved on offering her
services to the Princesses, and that she should send the children with
Madame Croquelebois into Anjou; where she thought they would be safer
than at Paris. We were sorry, but there was a determination now in our
little Cecile that made her quite an altered woman. So she repaired
to Montroud, where the younger Princess of Conde had retired, and was
acting by the advice of M. Lenet, the Prince’s chief confidant.
The next thing we heard of her was astonishing enough. The Princess,
a delicate sickly woman, together with our little Countess, had left
Montroud in the night with fifty horses. The Princess rode on a pillion
behind M. de Coligny, Cecile in the same way, and the little Duke of
Enghien was on a little saddle in front of Vialas, his equerry. On they
went, day and night, avoiding towns and villages, and seldom halting
except in the fields. Happily it was the month of May, or those two
delicate beings never could have lived through it, but Cecile afterwards
told us that she had never felt so well in her life.
Near the town of Saint Cere they met the Dukes of Bouillon and La
Rochefoucauld, with eight hundred men, mostly gentlemen, who were ready
to take up their cause. The Princess, hitherto so shy, gracefully and
eagerly greeted and thanked them, and the little Duke made his little
speech. ‘Indeed I am not afraid of Mazarin any more, since I see you
here with so may brave men. I only expect the liberty of my good papa
through their valour and yours.’
There were great acclamations at this pretty little address, and then
the boy rode with his mother through the eight squadrons in which the
troop was drawn up, saluting the officers like a true little Prince,
with his hat in his hand, while there were loud shouts of ‘Vive le Roi!
Vivent les Prince!’ and such a yell of ‘Down with Mazarin!’ as made
Cecile tremble.
She was expecting her own share in the matter all along, and presently
she had the delight of seeing twenty more men coming with Croquelebois
at their head, and by his side, on a little pony, her own little
Maurice, the Chevalier d’Aubepine. Was not Cecile a proud woman then? I
have a letter of hers in which she says (poor dear thing!) that he was
a perfect little Prince Charmant; and he really was a pretty little
fellow, and very well trained and good, adoring her as she deserved.
I will go on with her story, though only at second hand, before I
proceed with my own, which for a time took me from the scene of my
friend’s troubles. This is written for her grandchildren as much as my
own and my sister’s, and it is well they should know what a woman she
truly was, and how love gave her strength in her weakness.
The Prince of Conde, whose history and whose troubles were only too like
her own, already loved her extremely, and welcomed her little son as a
companion to the Duke of Enghien. The Duke of Bouillon took them to
his own fortress-town of Turenne, where they remained, while the little
bourg of Brive la Gaillarde was taken from the royal troops by the
Dukes. The regiment sent by the Cardinal to occupy the place was Prince
Thomas of Savoy’s gendarmes, and as of course they loved such generals
as Turenne and Conde better than any one else, the loyalty of most of
them gave way, and they joined the Princess’s little army.
The Duke of Bouillon entertained his guests splendidly, though his poor
Duchess was absent in the Bastille. The ladies had to dine every day
in the great hall with all the officers, and it was a regular banquet,
always beginning and ending with Conde’s health. Great German goblets
were served out to everybody, servants and all, and the Duke of Bouillon
began by unsheathing his sword, and taking off his hat, while he vowed
to die in the service of the Princes, and never to return his sword
to the scabbard--in metaphor, I suppose--till it was over. Everybody
shouted in unison, waved the sword, flourished the hat, and then drank,
sometimes standing, sometimes on their knees. The two little boys, with
their tiny swords, were delighted to do the same, though their mothers
took care that there should be more water than wine in their great
goblets.
I afterwards asked Cecile, who was wont to shudder at the very sight of
a sword, how she endured all these naked weapons flourishing round her.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘did not I see my husband’s liberty through them?’
The ladies were then escorted, partly on horseback, partly by boat, to
Limeuil, and that same day their Dukes gained a victory over the royal
troops, and captured all their baggage, treasure, and plate, so that
Cecile actually heard the sounds of battle, and her husband might say,
as the Prince did at Vincennes: ‘A fine state of things that my wife
should be leading armies while I am watering pinks.’
The wives had their pinks too, for the whole road to Bordeaux was
scattered with flowers, and every one trooped out to bless the Princess
and her son. As she entered the city the 400 vessels in the port fired
all their guns three times over, and 30,000 men, escorting a splendid
carriage, in which she went along at a foot’s pace, came forth to
welcome her. Her son was dressed in white taffety turned up with black
and white feathers. He was held in a gentleman’s arms at the window, and
continually bowed, and held out his little hands to be kissed, saying
that his father and grandfather had been quite right to love people who
had such an affection for their house as these seemed to have. Maurice
d’Aubepine, at the opposite window, was nodding away with a good-will
at the people who were obliged to put up with him instead of the little
Duke.
They came to a handsome house, which had been appointed for the Prince’s
gentleman, took great care of them, though the two Dukes remained
outside with their little army. The next day the Princess, attended
of course by Madame d’Aubepine, and a whole train of noblesse and
influential people, went to the Parliament of Bordeaux with her petition
for aid. She personally addressed each counsellor in the passage to
the great hall, and represented to them the cruelty and ingratitude of
Mazarin towards her husband, while her little son kissed and embraced
and begged them for his father’s liberty.
When all had assembled in the great chamber, and they had begun to
deliberate, the Princess burst in on them, threw herself on her knees,
and began a speech. When she broke off, choked by tears, her little son
fell on his knees and exclaimed: ‘Gentlemen, be instead of a father to
me; Cardinal Mazarin has taken away mine!’
Then there was a general weeping, and the Parliament promised the
Princess their protection. There was more hesitation about admitting the
two Dukes, but at last it was done. There were the headquarters of the
army that resisted the Crown. At least this was the principle on which
the Duke of Bouillon acted. His family had from the first tried to
maintain the privileges which the old feudal vassals attributed to
themselves, and he was following up their traditions, as well as
fighting for the deliverance of his wife from her captivity.
The Duke of Rochefoucauld was throughout more the lover of Madame de
Longueville then anything else, and the Princess of Conde simply thought
of obtaining her husband’s release, and nothing else. She had no notions
of State policy nor anything else of the kind, any more than had Madame
d’Aubepine, who assisted daily at her little agitated court. They were
the two gentlest, simplest, weakest conspirators who ever rebelled
against the Crown, and it was all out of pure loyalty to the two
husbands who had never shown a spark of affection, scarcely of courtesy,
to either of them.
Well, the Queen herself and her son and all the Court came to reduce
Bordeaux, Mademoiselle and all, for she had been for the time detached
from the adoration of the Prince, by, of all things in the world, hopes
given her of marrying her little cousin, the King, though he was only
twelve and she was double that age. So Bordeaux was besieged, and held
out against the royal troops for some days, being encouraged by the
resolute demeanour of the Princess; but at last, when on the faubourgs
had been taken, the Parliament, uneasy in conscience at resisting the
Crown, decided on capitulating, and, to the bitter disappointment and
indignation of the ladies, made no stipulations as to the liberty of the
husband.
No attempt was made on the liberty of the lady herself, and she was
ordered to depart to Chantilly. Though unwell, she had visited every
counsellor in his own house, and done her utmost to prepare for the
renewal of the resistance in case her husband was not released; and she
was almost exhausted with fatigue when she went on board a vessel which
was to take her to Larmont, whence she meant to go to Coutras, where she
was to be permitted to stay for three days.
Many nobles and people of condition, and half the population of
Bordeaux, came down to the port with her, uttering lamentations,
benedictions on her and her boy, and curses on Mazarin.
While about to embark she met Marshal de la Meilleraye, who advised her
to go and see the Queen at Bourg, and she accordingly put herself under
his direction, Cecile of course accompanying her as her attendant. The
Duke of Damville came to fetch them in a carriage, and after alighting
at Marshal de la Meilleraye’s quarters, kind messages of inquiry were
sent them by the Court, even by the King and Queen. By every one indeed
except Mademoiselle, who kept up her dislike.
My son, who was present, described all to me, and how his blood boiled
at the scornful airs of Mademoiselle and the stiffness of the Queen. He
said, however, that his aunt looked quite like a changed woman as she
entered, leading Maurice in the rear of the other mother and son.
The poor Princess had been bled the day before, and had her arm in a
scarf, and Mademoiselle actually tittered at the manner in which it was
put on, when this devoted wife was presented to the Queen, leading her
little son.
Falling on her knees before the Queen she made her a really touching
speech, begging her to excuse the attempts of a lady who had the honour
of being married to the first Prince of the blood, when she strove to
break his fetters. ‘You see us on our knees, Madame, to beg for the
liberty of what is dearest to us. Grant it to the great actions the
Monsieur mon mari has performed for the glory of your Majesty, and the
life he has ventured so often in the service of the State, and do not
refuse our tears and humble prayers.’
The Queen answered coldly enough. Cecile told me afterwards that it was
like ice, dashing all her hopes, to see the stern, haughty dignity of
Anne of Austria unmoved by the tender, tearful, imploring form of Claire
Clemence de Breze, trembling all over with agitation, and worn down with
all she had attempted. ‘I am glad, cousin,’ said the Queen, ‘that you
know your fault. You see you have taken a bed method of obtaining what
you ask. Now your conduct is to be different, I will see whether I can
give you what you desire.’
In spite of her fright and the Queen’s chilly pride, Cecile, feeling
that this was her only chance, fell almost on her face before the Queen,
with Maurice by her side, and cried: ‘Grace, grace, great Queen, for my
husband.’
My little Marquis, as he told me, could not bear to see them thus alone,
so he ran forward, and knelt on her other side, holding her hand. And
he heard a horrid little laugh, something about a new edition and an
imitation; but the Queen, who had forgotten all about her, asked who she
was and what her husband was.
Then, when it was explained that the Count d’Aubepine had drawn his
sword and tried to aid Boutteville, there was another smile. Perhaps
it was that the contrast might mortify the poor Princess, but the Queen
said:
‘There! stand up, Madame la Comtesse! We will send orders that the Count
shall be released. He has expiated his own zeal, and will know better
another time.’
Can any one conceive our Cecile’s joy? She rose up and embraced both the
boys passionately, and Gaspard could not refrain from congratulating her
with the words, scarcely complimentary: ‘My aunt, is it not indeed the
lion and the mouse? Now my uncle must love you, as my papa loved my
mama.’
The Princess, always too sweet and gentle for envy, kissed and
congratulated Madame d’Aubepine, and left her on retiring to Milly. Nor
did Cecile quit the Court till she actually was the bearer of an order
for the release of her husband.