Vigée Lebrun--was born about 1755, at Ville-Neuve-de-Berg, in Le
Vivarais. He claimed descent from the celebrated d’Antraigues, the
companion-in-arms of Henri IV., to whom that monarch wrote, in 1588:
“...I hope that you are by this time recovered of the wound that you
received at Coutras, fighting so valiantly by my side; and, if it be as
I hope, do not fail (for by God’s aid, in a little while, we shall have
fighting to do, and, consequently, great need of your services) to start
immediately to rejoin us.” Later, when the count was sitting in the
States-General, as the representative of Le Vivarais, this claim, which
would have entitled him to certain privileges, was contested; but he was
indisputably of good family, and his mother was a Saint-Priest, sister
to the Minister of that name. He appears to have begun life in the army
in the Regiment du Vivarais, which, however, he soon quitted, according
to one account, because he had declined to fight a duel. Afterwards, he
spent several years in foreign travel, and on his return to France,
divided his time between his country-seat and Paris, where he frequented
the society of philosophers and men of science, among whom were Jean
Jacques Rousseau and the Montgolfiers.
An ardent politician and possessed of considerable literary gifts, he,
in 1788, made his _début_ as a publicist by a _Mémoire sur les états
généraux, leurs droits et la manière de les convoquer_, which showed a
marked predilection for republican government, and created no small
sensation. However, his opinions underwent a sudden and startling
transformation soon after he had taken his seat in the States-General,
and thenceforth he combated with warmth the very doctrines of which he
had once been the ardent advocate. So complete a _volte-face_ naturally
excited the ridicule and contempt of his former political friends, and
Mirabeau, in a published letter addressed to him, compared him to a
weather-cock; but that he was animated by sincere conviction there can
be no question.
At what period began the connection between the count and the singer,
which was to end in so tragic a manner, is uncertain. But, according to
a letter written by d’Antraigues to his wife, after their secret
marriage in 1790, their first relations went back to 1783. However that
may be, d’Antraigues did not immediately become the lady’s lover, for
his early letters, several of which were in the possession of Edmond de
Goncourt, at the time when he wrote his monograph on the actress,
reveal him as still in the character of a _soupirant_, and a very humble
one at that. “I beg you,” one of these epistles concludes, “to continue
your kindness towards me, and to be well assured of the esteem and
attachment with which you have inspired me.”
Gradually, however, the esteem and attachment develop into a warmer
feeling, and we find him imploring her not to forget “a man who loves
her heart and her virtues,” though two hundred leagues separate them.
One of these later letters, written in answer to some complaints of
Madame Saint-Huberty in regard to the envious and jealous persons by
whom she was surrounded, is of interest, since it shows that at the
height of her fame the great singer still led a simple life, and that,
even if she were the abandoned woman that Dauvergne declared her to be,
she did not stoop to venal amours:
“I have heard them (her enemies), it is true, seek to turn you into
ridicule, accuse you of loving to save money, jeer at your simplicity,
and laugh at you for driving about Paris in a hackney-coach. But I have
also seen honest and excellent men love and admire you on account of
this very simplicity. Do you think that one can see, without sympathy,
without enthusiasm, an amiable and celebrated woman leave her house in a
hackney-coach, when it would be easy for her to be drawn in the gilded
chariot of vice and infamy? It is beautiful, it is noble, to exhibit
honesty and virtue in the haunt of baseness, greed, and the most abject
passions. It is sweet to see talent in all its brilliancy associated
with the virtues of a noble soul. It is delightful, for those who can
appreciate it, to be able to yield to the most true enthusiasm. It is
glorious for the woman who inspires it not to excite in the heart of her
admirers that regret which is occasioned by the sight of a sublime
talent exercised by a man or woman who personally, is
contemptible.”[209]
Madame Saint-Huberty, on her side, was far from insensible to the
count’s devotion. Writing from Bordeaux, in September 1784, she informed
him that she keeps his bust in her room, and that all the crowns she
receives in the theatre from her enthusiastic admirers she places on his
head. And, at length, three years later, comes a very tender and
charming letter, which shows us that the thin dividing line between
friendship and love has already been passed:
“Endeavour to make Cabanis love me a little, in order that he may cure
me.[210] I fear to die, since thou hast told me that thou dost believe
that thou canst love me always. I believe thee, so far as it is in me to
believe that which does not depend on ourselves. See what it is to love
people for themselves or their virtues. For myself, I am well assured
that I shall love thee always, whatever may happen, because before I
loved thee, I desired for thee all thy good qualities.... My beloved,
when I think that nothing stands in the way of our happiness, my heart
thrills with pleasure; but this thought does not render the present
moment very agreeable. I am working to become independent, and I am
killing myself.
“If I have lost, by the constant labours and fatigues which I have
undergone, the freshness of youth, in which coarse-grained men find
pleasure, I hope that, in forming my heart on that of the one I love,
it will take the place of all that another than thyself might desire. I
love thee with passion, and it is not blind; thou canst not change thy
nature, and that is all that interests me in thee.”
* * * * *
Madame Saint-Huberty’s assertion that she was “killing herself” was
merely a figure of speech; but, at the same time, there was no disputing
the fact that the immense amount of work she voluntarily imposed on
herself during her provincial tours had told heavily upon her, and was
gradually destroying the freshness of her voice, so that she now never
sang more than twice a week, and had been compelled to abandon several
of her most famous rôles, which she dared no longer attempt.
“Yesterday,” writes Dauvergne to La Ferté, “the demoiselle Saint-Huberty
appeared to the public to have lost much of her voice. I predicted to
you that this woman would not last another two years. I am persuaded
that, if she makes another provincial tour, she will finish herself
altogether.” Nevertheless, she still retained her hold on the affections
of the public, and, on the evenings on which she was announced to sing,
all Paris flocked to the Boulevard Saint-Martin.
It was well for the administration of the Opera that, in the splendid
houses which Madame Saint-Huberty never failed to draw they were able to
find some compensation for the lady’s insolence and insubordination
which, in these later years, passed all bounds. At the beginning of
October 1789, she, as usual at the eleventh hour, declined to sing the
part of Chimène, in Sacchini’s opera of that name, on the ground of
feeling too fatigued. The authorities, aware that this was merely an
excuse, insisted on her appearing, when she replied that she would
“make an effort,” on condition that an employé of the theatre, named
Parisis, who had recently been discharged for drunkenness and insolence,
should be at once reinstated. This, however, was too much even for the
long-suffering Dauvergne to submit to; and the threat of mulcting her in
a month’s salary saved the situation.
At the weekly meetings of the company, at which it was customary to
settle the répertoire for the ensuing week, and where the administrative
correspondence was read, Madame Saint-Huberty never failed to create
some unpleasantness or other. Now, she would encourage some unruly
actress or _danseuse_ to resist the authority of the director; now, she
would punctuate the reading of the comminatory letters of La Ferté with
bursts of derisive laughter (no wonder that the old Intendant alludes to
her, in writing to Dauvergne as “_une impudente coquine_”); anon, she
would object to the arrangements for the week. How was it possible, she
would inquire, for her to sing Alceste on Friday, after singing Didon on
Tuesday? Did they wish to kill her? Dauvergne would innocently suggest
that another actress should sing Didon, and that Madame Saint-Huberty
should rest, that her voice might be fresh for Alceste. What! Allow
another actress to sing Didon!--her own rôle!--her own creation! No one
but herself should sing it, so long as she remained a member of the
company.
Finally, the unfortunate administration, for the sake of peace and
tranquillity, agreed that the lady should not be required to sing more
than once a week, that is to say on Fridays, the fashionable night at
the Opera.
In March 1790, the Comte d’Antraigues openly accused of apostacy,
denounced by the revolutionary Press to public vengeance, and the
recipient, every day, of violent anonymous letters threatening
assassination, deemed it prudent to quit France. On April 3, Madame
Saint-Huberty obtained a passport to Geneva and, accompanied by her
_femme de chambre_ and two men-servants, set out for Switzerland, where
she joined the count in the environs of Lausanne.
The two lovers remained for nearly three months at Lausanne, and then
removed to a château, near Mindrisio, belonging to the Count Turconi,
and here, on December 29, they were secretly married in the neighbouring
church of Saint-Eusèbe.
For grave reasons known to himself, the Bishop of Como, in whose diocese
the marriage took place, had granted to the officiating priest
permission to perform the ceremony without inquiries or proofs, at
whatever date, hour, or place the parties might select.
The day after the marriage, the count addressed to his wife the
following letter:
“I may die, my dear wife, and cannot acquit myself too soon of the most
sacred of duties.
“It is possible that there may be wanting to our union some of the
formalities, which, according to the law of France, are required for the
legalisation of marriages, and imperious circumstances may prevent me
from fulfilling them for some time to come.
“If I happen to die before that time, I wish you to render to my memory
the honour which you owe it, by rendering to yourself that which is due
to you.
“I declare then that, after seven years of mutual confidence, I have
united by marriage to my destiny the woman who has had the courage to
wish to share my misfortunes; that, on December 29, 1790, after having
obtained from the Bishop of Como a dispensation for the publication of
banns, and permission for us to marry at any time and place that might
please us, I married you in the Château of Castel San-Pietro, in the
presence of two priests as witnesses.
“With several reasons for keeping this marriage secret, I did not
conceal from you the most imperative of all: the grief it would cause my
worthy and venerable mother. But I knew her; if she had only tears to
give to my memory, she would forgive our secret union, and would see
only the wife of her son in the woman who watched over his destinies,
who softened their rigour, and who received the last sighs of his
heart.”
* * * * *
Towards the end of the following year, the Comtesse d’Antraigues became
_enceinte_. The marriage having been kept secret, the count was anxious
that the birth of the child should not be known in the neighbourhood;
and it was at a little village on the outskirts of Milan that, on June
26, 1792, the ex-singer presented him with a son, baptized two days
later, under the names of Pierre Antoine Emmanuel Jules, born of the
illustrious Emmanuel Louis Alexandre Henri de Launai, Comte d’Antraigues
and of the dame Antoinette Clavel. So soon as the countess was
sufficiently recovered to travel, she, with her husband and infant son,
returned to Mindrisio.
From this quiet corner of Italian Switzerland, where he lived with the
former queen of the Opera, the Comte d’Antraigues combated the men and
things of the new France, in a series of very able brochures, wherein
he constituted himself the speaking-trumpet of the counter-Revolution.
But he was very far from being content with this warfare of the pen. He
became the devoted servant of the Bourbons, the intermediary between
them and the Courts of St. James’s, Madrid, Berlin, and Vienna, and
rendered material assistance in weaving that network of secret intrigue,
which, in spite of the successes of the French armies, for long rendered
doubtful the establishment of the new order of things.[211]
In discharge of these diplomatic missions, he travelled incessantly,
accompanied everywhere by his wife, who shared his fatigues and dangers,
and received, in return, his full confidence. The count and countess
were at Venice, in May 1795, when the city was occupied by the French
troops. The count, who was at the time specially attached to the Russian
legation, left with the Minister and his suite, accompanied by his wife
and child; but at Trieste the party was stopped by orders of Bernadotte,
who commanded the French there, and d’Antraigues arrested.
On being told that he was to be sent to Milan, the count begged the
Russian Minister to take charge of Madame Saint-Huberty--for by that
name she was still known--but the ex-singer insisted on sharing his
captivity.
Touched by so much devotion, d’Antraigues explained to his captors that
the lady was his lawful wife, and obtained permission for her to
accompany him to Milan. “I declared at once to my tyrants,” he says,
“that I was married, that I had a son, and that I desired to see him.
They acceded to my request. She came, with that dear child of five years
old, who threw himself upon me. That moment, which made her mine for
ever, caused me to forget my foes, my persecutors, the future and the
present. I owe that to my persecutors. To say how much I was indebted to
my wife in these frightful circumstances is beyond my power. Never did
there exist a courage more firm, a soul more mistress of itself, a
character stronger in adversity; never did one behold more
self-confidence in misfortune.”
At Milan, the count was at first imprisoned in a convent, where
prisoners of war were confined, but, soon afterwards, taken to the
citadel, and there placed in a dungeon, twelve feet long by six broad.
Thanks, however, to the urgent representations of his wife, he was, some
weeks later, liberated on parole, the understanding being that he was
not to leave the city or even change his residence. But, in the early
hours of the morning of August 25, he broke his parole and escaped, his
flight, thanks to the ingenuity of his wife, who gave out that he was
ill in bed, and went about the house preparing broth and other remedies,
not being discovered till some days later.
It has been suggested that, for reasons of their own, the French
authorities at Milan connived at the count’s escape; but it seems more
probable that he fled through fear of being sent to Paris, where he
would certainly have been brought to trial and very possibly executed.
Such was undoubtedly the opinion in Royalist circles, and, to recognise
the countess’s courage and devotion and her services to the “cause,” the
Comte de Provence, in his theoretical character of King of France, sent
her the order of Saint-Michel.[212]
Successively we find the adventurous couple at Vienna, Berlin, and
Dresden, in which last-named city they seemed to have passed the greater
part of the year 1804, the whole of the year 1805, and the first months
of the year 1806, the count, who had been nominated a Counsellor of
State by the Emperor Alexander of Russia, corresponding with Sweden,
through Alopeus, the Swedish Minister in London, and working generally
to bring about a European coalition against Napoleon. In September 1806,
driven from Dresden by Napoleon’s victories, and unable to find an
asylum on the Continent, they quitted Germany and established themselves
in England. Here they resided in a pretty cottage at Barnes, and lived
in good style on the various pensions which they had received. The count
lost no time in entering into negotiations with the English Government,
to whom he is said to have communicated the articles, real or imaginary,
of the Treaty of Tilsit, though how he contrived to obtain particulars
of a treaty drawn up with so much privacy is somewhat difficult to
understand.
However, that may be, it is certain that d’Antraigues was employed by
the Foreign Office in certain delicate negotiations and that he received
a pension in return for his services; and it was this which, according
to a legend which still finds acceptance with some French writers,
brought about the tragic end of both himself and his wife, on the
morning of July 22, 1812.
The story went that Fouché, desirous of discovering what was going on
between d’Antraigues and the English Government, despatched two trusted
agents to London, with orders at all costs to intercept the
correspondence. The agents succeeded in bribing the count’s Piedmontese
servant Lorenzo, to tamper with the letters which passed between his
master and the Foreign Office; and that this man, finding that his
treachery was certain to be discovered, through a visit which the count
was on the point of making to Canning, in a moment of frenzied despair,
assassinated both his master and mistress, and then took his own life.
From the evidence given at the inquest, however, it would appear that
Lorenzo committed the crime, in a fit of frenzy, due simply to his
having received notice to leave the count’s service.
The _Times_ of July 23, 1812, contained the following account of the
tragedy:
“The Count and Countess d’Antraigues, French noblesse, and distantly
related to the unfortunate family of the Bourbons, resided on Barnes
Terrace, on the banks of the Thames. They lived in a style which, though
far from what they had formerly moved in, yet was rather bordering on
high life than the contrary. They kept a carriage, coachman, footman,
and a servant out of livery. The latter was an Italian or Piedmontese,
named Lawrence, and it is of this wretch that we have to relate the
following particulars. The Count and Countess, intending to visit London
as yesterday, ordered the carriage to be at the door by eight in the
morning, which it accordingly was; and, soon after that hour, they were
in the act of leaving the house to get into it, the Countess being at
the door, the Count coming downstairs, when the report of a pistol was
heard in the passage, which, it has since appeared, took no effect, nor
was it then ascertained by whom it was fired. Lawrence was at the time
in the passage, and, on the smoke subsiding, was seen to rush past the
Count and proceed with great speed upstairs. He almost immediately
returned, with a dirk in his hand, and plunged it up to the hilt into
the Count’s left shoulder; he continued his course and made for the
street door, where stood the Countess, whom he instantly despatched by
plunging the same dirk into her left breast. This last act had scarcely
been completed when the Count appeared also at the door, bleeding, and
following the assassin, who made for the house and ran upstairs. The
Count, though extremely weak and faint, continued to follow him; but so
great was the terror occasioned that no one else had the same
resolution. The assassin and the Count had not been upstairs more than a
minute when the report of another pistol was heard, which satisfied
those below that Lawrence had finally put an end to the existence of his
master. The alarm was now given, and the cry of ‘Murder, murder!’
resounded from every mouth. The Countess was still lying at the front
door, by which the turnpike road runs, and at length men of sufficient
resolution were found to venture upstairs, and, horrible to relate, they
found the Count lying across his own bed, groaning heavily and nearly
dead, and the bloodthirsty villain lying by his side a corpse. He had
put a period to his own existence by placing a pistol that he found in
the room in his mouth and discharging its contents through his head.
The Count only survived about twenty-five minutes after the fatal blow,
and died without being able to utter a single word.
“The Countess had by this time been brought into the house; the wound
was directly on her left breast, extremely large, and she died without
uttering a single word. The servants of the house were all collected
last night; but no cause for so horrid an act was at that time known;
all was but conjecture.
“The following circumstance, in so extraordinary a case, may be, however
worth while relating. The Count it appears, always kept a brace of
pistols loaded in his bedroom, and a small dirk. About a month ago the
Countess and the servants heard the report of a pistol upstairs, and
were, in consequence, greatly alarmed; when one of the latter, a female,
went upstairs and looked into her mistress’s room, it was full of smoke
and she screamed out. On its clearing away, she saw Lawrence standing,
who told her nothing was the matter: he had only fired one of his
master’s pistols. It afterwards appeared that he had fired into the
wainscot; it was loaded with ball, and the ball from the pistol is yet
to be seen.
“The Count and Countess were about sixty years of age. The latter was
highly accomplished, a great proficient in music, and greatly admired
for her singing in fashionable parties. There is no reason whatever to
believe that Lawrence was insane. Only about ten minutes previous to his
committing this deed of blood, he went over to an adjoining public-house
and took a glass of gin. He had lived only three months in the family,
and, report says, was to be discharged in a few days.
“The Count and Countess had resided in Barnes for four or five years,
and have left an only son, who, we understand, is at present in this
country, studying the law.
“Besides his house on Barnes Terrace, Count d’Antraigues had a town
establishment, No. 7 Queen Anne Street, W. He was fifty-six, and the
Countess fifty-three years of age. The Count had eminently distinguished
himself in the troubles which have convulsed Europe for the past
twenty-two years. In 1789, he was actively engaged in favour of the
Resolution, but during the tyranny of Robespierre he emigrated to
Germany, and was employed in the service of Russia. At Venice, in 1797,
he was arrested by Bernadotte, who pretended to have discovered in his
portfolio all the particulars of the plot upon which the 18th Fructidor
was founded. The Count made his escape from Milan, where he was
confined, and was afterwards employed in the diplomatic mission of
Russia at the Court of Dresden. In 1806 he was sent to England, with
credentials from the Emperor of Russia, who had granted him a pension,
and placed great dependence upon his services. He received here letters
of denization, and was often employed by the Government. The Countess
was the once celebrated Madame Saint-Huberty, an actress at the
Théâtre-Français.[213] She had amassed a very large fortune by her
professional talents.”[214]
And the same impression of the _Times_ contained this other account:
“The Count d’Antraigues, a very eminent political character, formerly a
deputy of the nobility of Vivarais to the States-General, author of many
eloquent tracts, who had married the celebrated singer and actress of
the Royal Academy of Music at Paris, Madame Saint-Huberty, was murdered
yesterday morning at seven o’clock, along with his lady, in their summer
residence on Barnes Terrace, by one of their servants named Lorenzo, a
Piedmontese, aged twenty-five years, who had been only a few months in
their service, and whom they had no reason to suspect of such a
diabolical design.