MARION DE L'ORME.
After putting my costume in proper order, I placed a new plume in my
hat, pointed up my moustache, perfumed my hair like a court gallant,
and sent little Poquelin about dusk for a fiacre, in which I was
driven to the house of Marion de l'Orme, for whom I had no less than
six billets, one of which was from my friend the Marquis de Toneins,
son of the Marechal Duke de la Force.
I felt confused and anxious while I was driven through the streets;
and amid the clatter of wooden shoes and the cries of dealers in
nicotina, perfumed wash-balls, walking canes, and bonbons, I thought
only of the loss of the miniature, and its probable results if it
fell into evil hands. Mademoiselle de l'Orme's residence was in the
Rue St. Jacques, and adjoined an old house which was one of the
sights of Paris, for therein Alexander II. of Scotland, when on a
visit to Queen Blanche, the mother of Louis IX., visited St.
Dominique, the confessor, in 1219, so it was old enough, you may be
assured.
As I rang the bell at the gate of the Hôtel de l'Orme--for so was her
handsome mansion styled--and gazed upward at its row of illuminated
windows, I felt a glow of interest at the anticipation of being
tête-à-tête with this remarkable woman, who had become so celebrated
throughout all France for her gallantries, the number of her lovers,
the lustre of her beauty, and the reckless manner in which she broke
through and trampled under her pretty foot all the rules by which the
women of the Christian world have hitherto been guided.
I gave my name to a porter in the court; he, in turn, gave it to a
valet in the vestibule, who repeated to a third on the staircase, and
in due time I was ushered into a magnificent saloon, where waxlights,
perfume, persons in glittering dresses, gorgeous furniture, and rich
hangings appeared on all sides, like a brilliant scene at the Opera
Française, and forming a strange contrast to those which I had seen
for some time past--the trenches of La Mothe and the tents of
Hepburn's army.
On three sides of this saloon, the tapestry of silk represented an
allegory of Fame proclaiming by trumpet-sound the happiness of
France; while Justice, sword in hand, drove away whole legions of
Sedition, Discord, and Envy. The fourth side portrayed the proudest
scene in the military history of 'Scotland's ancient enemies'--the
brave Black Prince waiting at supper upon the King of France, on the
same day he had conquered and taken him prisoner. The furniture was
all of walnut (each piece a miracle of carving), or of buhl, and
beautifully inlaid with shell and mother-of-pearl. Statues, bronzes,
pictures, and countless objects of virtù and bijouterie were strewed
around the tables of this long saloon, the carpets of which were of
the softest Persian manufacture. As I perceived all these details at
a glance, a gentleman, clad almost entirely in blue velvet and cloth
of silver, started forward from amid the splendid group that were
lounging around the low fauteuil, on which Marion de l'Orme was
seated like a princess. He was my new acquaintance, M. de Brissac,
then her most favoured lover; and, taking me by the hand, he at once
presented me as 'a gentleman of the Guard, just arrived from the camp
of the Chevalier Hepburn.' She received me with the most enchanting
grace; and, giving me her perfumed hand to kiss, placed the six
billets in a casket, to be read or burned when she was more at
leisure.
She made me sit beside her on the fauteuil, for she had a hundred
questions to ask--about the charge at Bitche; the storming of La
Mothe; who were killed, who were wounded, and who had escaped; and
whether I thought the ladies of Lorraine as charming as those of
Paris. Then, in her inquiries, she strung together the names of
counts, marquises, and chevaliers, captains, lieutenants, and
musketeers, without giving me time to reply; and among the names of
her friends she enumerated nearly all the cuirassiers of the Garde du
Corps Ecossais. The brilliance of her manner, her wit and vivacity,
dazzled and charmed, while it silenced and at times almost stunned me.
Her face was perfect in feature and regal in contour; her eyes were
dark, but full of light, and a hundred varying expressions passed
through them; her teeth and lips were as those of a child; her
jet-black hair was gathered in braids and folds, which displayed to
perfection the form and pure whiteness of her temples, her slender
neck, and little ears, from each of which hung a diamond pendant
worth six thousand francs, the gift, as I was afterwards informed, of
the young marquis, our captain. She was attired in rose-coloured
satin, trimmed with four flounces of black lace; her long peaked
stomacher was golden cloth; her necklace, bracelets, rings, and the
jewels among her hair, were sparkling with diamonds, which enhanced
the splendour and the delicacy of her beauty.
The passionate light that filled the eyes of this dangerous woman
made my heart flutter when she smiled on me, and caused me to dream
of the joy of being loved by her as she twice gave me her hand to
kiss--the loveliest hand in Paris.
Marion de l'Orme was then in her twenty-fourth year, having been born
at Chalons sur Marne, in Champagne. Her father was a gentleman of
property, who could have given her about sixty thousand francs as a
marriage portion; but she preferred a life of gallantry and freedom,
such as the reigns of Henry IV. and his successors had made
fashionable, and thus she wickedly despised a reputable settlement.
Lovers taught her soon--too soon--that she was beautiful, that she
was witty, and that there was a divine grace in all she did. She
sang well, excelled in the guitar, and was wont to admit that she had
loved passionately--at least while the love lasted--eight or nine
consecutive lovers. The first was Des Barreaux, the next was
Rouville, of whom she soon wearied, as he was not handsome enough;
but the poor fellow fought a duel about her with his successor, La
Ferte Senecterre, and left this valley of tears with three feet of a
rapier in his body. Then came Miossens, to whom she took a fancy as
he caracoled his horse along the Boulevardes, and to whom she bluntly
sent a little pink note, inviting him to come and sup with her. Then
followed Arnauld, the unfortunate Cinq Mars, who was beheaded by
Richelieu; M. de Chatillon; the Marquis de Gordon, who was forgotten
as soon as our drums died away on the road to Lorraine; and lastly,
my new friend, M. de Brissac, whom I should have found little
difficulty in supplanting had I been so disposed. Cardinal Richelieu
himself was among her lovers. He gave her a cane worth six hundred
francs, and she used to visit his Eminence dressed as a page; for her
whims were ever rash, fantastic, and unaccountable.
Love excepted, Marion had no frailty, and she had many virtues. She
chatted away of her past amours with a coolness which surprised me.
Perceiving that M. de Brissac was admiring Cupid and Psyche, a
beautiful group in bronze--
'Ah!' said she, 'that was a gift from poor Senecterre; and the buhl
pedestal on which it stands, was given to me by that wretch Miossens,
whose moustache had always such a horrid odour of nicotina.'
'And this beautiful casket,' said I, 'excels that of the Duchess
d'Ancre.'
'Scarcely, in size at least,' said Marion; 'for the Duchess, in her
famous casket, carried all her jewels, together with her best locks
and bosom. The buhl table that it stands on was a present from dear
Cinq Mars, who thought himself so handsome. There was a time when I
thought him so too, but then he was such a self-willed toad that he
bored me. And so, M. Blane, my gay friend, the little Marquis de
Toneins was actually wounded at your terrible La Mothe?'
'Yes, mademoiselle, in ascending the breach.'
'Ah! he sought the bubble reputation even at the cannon's mouth, but
in lieu of the bubble got the ball, which M. Shakespeare forgot to
consider. I doubt not, my dear M. Blane, your despatches will cause
many a tear to be shed in France.'
'True, mademoiselle,' said De Brissac, with a sentimental air; 'many
an eye, lovely as your own, that God made only for smiling, now is
compelled to weep.'
'But their tears will only render brighter the laurels which bedeck
the brows of the survivors. The number who have fallen saddens,
doubtless, our glory and triumph, but,' she added, with her fine eyes
flashing, 'they fell for France, bequeathing victory to her and to
their comrades. Is it not so, my dear M. Blane?'
A burst of applause from her admirers prevented me from replying; and
then she asked, in a low voice--
'Is the wound of De Toneins severe?'
'Rather, mademoiselle; yet I know of a pain greater than even a
musket-shot can inflict.'
'Indeed; what is it, pray?'
'To feign indifference where we feel but--love,' said I, with an air
so gallant and tender that it won me an approving smile from Marion
and a frown from M. de Brissac, of which mark of displeasure I was
resolved to be quite oblivious; for what the deuce was M. de Brissac
to me?
'And you feel this often, M. Blane?' she asked, with an inexplicable
glance, in which drollery predominated.
'Nay, mademoiselle, I never felt it until now,' I replied, sinking my
voice, as an irresistible spirit of gallantry urged me on; 'I am
unused to the society of one so beautiful; so pray, mademoiselle,
excuse my diffidence.'
'Gentlemen are ever telling me that I am beautiful,' said Marion,
pettishly; 'I would rather be beloved.'
Fortunately--for there was a malevolent gleam in the eyes of De
Brissac--the servants appeared with a cold collation, served up in
silver and Bohemian crystal of crimson flowered with gold. We had
wines of the most expensive description to overflowing, and a hundred
gay anecdotes and witty remarks were given on all sides; for the
boudoir of Marion de l'Orme was not a place to repress the liveliest
sallies of the wits and sparks who hovered about her, and who courted
her smiles. I remember that De Brissac made us all laugh by the
pointed and satirical manner in which he related a droll story of the
Bishop of Auvergne, who was sorely tried and tempted by the devil,
who met him in his cathedral church at night in the form of a
handsome woman with very scanty garments. Then Marion assumed her
guitar, and sang to us first an old ballad of the Palatines of
Champagne; and then a Spanish romance, in which a lover declared that
once when thinking of his mistress he fell into a pond, where _the
heat of his passion_ had such an effect on the water, that it bubbled
up and boiled all the fish--the trout, perch, and carp--so that his
friends who came to hook him out, forgot all about him in the
delicious repast afforded them by the ready-cooked spoil of the
waters.
These songs, stories, and the generous wine put us all in excellent
humour.
'Everything here is princely,' said I to a grave-looking cavalier,
who wore the Grand Cross of Malta.
'Yes,' he replied with a sardonic grin; 'for the love of Mademoiselle
is a commodity that rises in value according to the season in Paris,
and the rank of her adorers.'
This was evidently a disappointed man; but Marion gave more to the
poor than any ten Priors of his order.
'Fill your glasses, gentlemen,' exclaimed De Brissac, standing on one
of the rich tapestry chairs; 'fill them to the brim. I mean to
parody old Martial for the occasion, thus:--
'Let six full cups to Nævia's health go round,
And _fair de l'Orme's_ with _seven_ full cups be crowned.'
'Vivat, messieurs! off with them!' and the mad cavaliers drained
seven in succession; but after this it pleased M. de Brissac to
become very cross, jealous, and suspicious; and, assuming his plumed
hat and long sword, he proposed to leave.
'Well, if you are determined to be unpleasant, assuredly I shall not
detain you,' said Marion, with a tone of pique; 'but,' she added in a
kinder whisper, 'when am I to have that diamond necklace from the
queen's jeweller?'
'I know not,' he answered, gloomily; 'and I care not.'
'Indeed!'
'Yes,' he replied, twisting his right moustache.
'It is only six hundred paltry crowns.'
'Crowns of the sun--mordieu! my wife's cost but two hundred.'
'What is Madame to me?'
'More than I am, apparently,' retorted de Brissac, as he thrust his
broad beaver on his head, and retired in a gust of wine and passion;
but not without levelling a dark glance at me.
In an hour after, I tired of this witty and brilliant but loose
company, and bade Marion adieu. As I kissed her hand, she gave me a
glance so bright and tender, that I would not have given a brass
bodle for the chances of M. de Brissac, had I deemed it worth my
while to attempt supplanting him in her favour; for the silver
saltire of the Scottish Guard bore all before it in Paris; but, save
once in her coach on the Boulevards, I never saw Marion again.
This wild and remarkable girl, whose beauty turned the heads of all
the gallants in Paris, died at the early age of thirty-nine, after
four days' illness, when she was still lovely as ever. Of the cause
of her death, I dare not trust myself to write; and but for the
reckless life she led, she might have preserved her wondrous beauty
longer. She had divine hands, and never wore a pair of gloves for
more than three hours. She left sixty thousand francs' worth of
dresses and ornaments. She never accepted a denier from a lover; but
yet had presents of dresses, jewellery, plate, and furniture
sufficient to stock the Louvre.
During her last illness, which made a great sensation in Paris and in
the French camp, she confessed ten times to a priest, having always
something new, some little forgotten sin to communicate. The
gallants of Paris, and all her former admirers, laid her body in
state for twenty-four hours, with a maiden crown on her head; but the
austere curé of St. Gervais very properly denounced this proceeding
as a ridiculous scandal, and tore it from the corpse; yet Marion
looked so beautiful in her pure white shroud, that the 'Gazette
Historique de Loret,' of the 30th June, 1650, has the following
epigram upon her:--
'Le pauvre Marion de l'Orme,
De si rare et plaisante forme;
A saissi ravis au tombeau,
Son corps si charmant et si beau!'
Marion had three sisters, all very attractive girls. The eldest,
Madame de la Montague, a beautiful blonde, was wont somewhat rashly
to boast--'we have no riches, but we have honour;' yet my friend
Viscount Dundrennan, like M. de Moret, nearly broke his neck when
descending one night from her chamber window.
The youngest and least artful was married, to M. Maugiron, Treasurer
of the Artillery du Roi, who served with me in the campaign of
Alsace. As they lived in the arsenal, old Marechal de la Meilleraye,
though he had not a tooth in his head, fell in love with her; but
finding that she was carrying on an intrigue with the Cardinal de
Retz, he revengefully deprived her poor husband of his commission;
and this is all that I know of the family of the gayest woman that
ever influenced the scandalous, joyous, and immoral city of Paris.