Return of Bassompierre to the French Court--Frenzied passion of
Henri IV for the young Princesse de Condé--His extravagant
conduct--Condé flies with his wife to Flanders--Grief and
indignation of the King, who summons his most trusted counsellors
to deliberate upon the affair--Sage advice of Sully, which,
however, is not followed--The Archduke Albert refuses to surrender
the fugitives--Condé retires to Milan and places himself under the
protection of Spain--Failure of an attempt to abduct the
princess--Henri IV and his Ministers threaten war if the lady is
not given up--The “Great Design”--Bassompierre appointed Colonel of
the Light Cavalry and a Counsellor of State--His account of the
last days and assassination of Henri IV.
On Bassompierre’s return to Court, Henri IV expressed himself highly
satisfied with the results of his mission and “gave him very great
proofs of his good-will.” Scarcely, however, had he concluded his
account of his diplomatic activities than the King “requested an
audience of _him_, in order to tell him of his passion for _Madame la
Princesse_ and of the unhappy life that he was leading separated from
her.” “And assuredly,” adds Bassompierre, “this love of his was a
frenzied one, which could not be contained within the bounds of
decorum.”
We must here explain that this interesting little affair had not been
developing at all in accordance with his Majesty’s anticipations. Condé
had accepted with becoming gratitude the handsome pension which the King
had bestowed upon him and appeared far more interested in his wife’s
dowry than in her person; while the fair Charlotte, on her side,
scarcely troubled to conceal her indifference to a husband who was shy,
awkward, and close-fisted, and lacking in all those qualities calculated
to appeal to the imagination of a young girl. Indeed, there can be no
doubt that she preferred the company of the King, despite his grey hairs
and his wrinkled visage, and she appears to have given the amorous
monarch no little encouragement, though perhaps innocently enough.
But Condé, with all his faults, was an honourable man, and when he
clearly understood the odious part which his royal “uncle” intended
should be his; when he saw the King, usually so painfully neglectful of
his person, powdered and scented and bedecked like the youngest gallant
of his Court; when he learned that he was bombarding his wife with
passionate sonnets, obligingly composed for him by Malherbe and other
facile rhymesters; when he heard that the princess had stepped one night
on to the balcony of her apartments and there unbound her hair and
allowed it to fall about her shoulders to gratify a whim of her elderly
admirer, who stood beneath “transported with admiration”; when, in
short, he found that the King’s infatuation was the talk of Court and
town, he began, as his Majesty expressed it, “to play the devil.” And,
after several angry scenes, in which Henri IV entirely lost his temper,
and all sense of dignity and decorum along with it, and Condé appears to
have forgotten the respect which he owed to his sovereign in his
resentment against the man who wished to dishonour him, the prince
carried off his wife to the Château of Muret, in Picardy, not far from
the Flemish frontier.
The lovelorn King followed his inamorata, and, dressed as one of his own
huntsmen, and with a patch over his eye, stood by the roadside to see
her pass; and, in the same disguise, penetrated into a house where she
was dining, and when she appeared at a window, kissed one hand to her,
while he pressed the other to his heart.
A few days later, Condé received a letter from the King, written in a
strain half-coaxing, half-menacing, summoning him to Court, to be
present at the approaching accouchement of the Queen. Etiquette required
that the first Prince of the Blood should be in attendance on these
auspicious occasions, and it was impossible for him to refuse. But he
came alone. Henri IV was furious, and his anger rendered him so
insupportable to those about him, that Marie de’ Medici herself begged
Condé to send for his wife, promising to keep strict watch over her.
Such was the King’s wrath that he could not trust himself to interview
his kinsman personally, but sent for his secretary, Virey, and bade him
tell his master that, if he declined to bow to his will, or attempted
any violence against his wife, he would give him cause to rue it. He
added that, if he had been still only King of Navarre, he would have
challenged the prince to a duel.
After receiving this message, Condé decided to feign submission, and
accordingly begged his Majesty’s permission to fetch his wife. This
request, as we may suppose, was readily granted, and on November 25--the
day on which the ill-starred Henrietta Maria was born--he set out for
Picardy.
On the evening of the 29th, while Henri IV was playing cards with the
Comte de Soissons--_Monsieur le Comte_, as he was styled--Bassompierre,
Guise, d’Épernon, and Créquy in his private cabinet, word was brought
him that a messenger had arrived from Picardy, with intelligence that
_Monsieur le Prince_ had early that morning left Muret in a coach with
his wife, accompanied by his equerry the Baron de Rochefort, Virey, and
two of the princess’s ladies. Condé had given out that he was bound on a
hunting-expedition; but the messenger--an archer of the Guard named
Laperrière--had ascertained from his father, who was in the prince’s
service, that the party had taken the road to Flanders.
“I sat nearest to the King,” writes Bassompierre, “and he whispered
in my ear: ‘Bassompierre, my friend, I am lost. That man is taking
his wife into a wood. I know not if it is to kill her or to take
her out of France. Take care of my money and continue the game,
while I go to learn further particulars.’ Then he went with
d’Elbène[72] into the Queen’s apartments.
“After the King had gone, _Monsieur le Comte_ begged me to tell him
what had happened. I replied that his nephew and niece had fled.
MM. de Guise, d’Épernon and de Créquy asked me the same question,
and I gave them the same answer. Upon this they all withdrew from
the game, and I, taking the opportunity of returning to the King
the money which he had left on the table, entered the room where he
was.
“Never did I see a man so distressed or so frantic. The Marquis de
Cœuvres, the Comte de Cramail, d’Elbène, and Loménie were with
him, and to each suggestion that one of them made he forthwith
assented: such as to send the Captain of the Watch after _Monsieur
le Prince_ with his archers; to send Balagny[73] to Bouchain to try
and catch him; to send Vaubecourt [governor of the county of
Beaulieu-en-Argonne], who was then in Paris, to the frontier of
Verdun to prevent his passage in that direction; and other
ridiculous things.”
Meanwhile, the distracted monarch had sent to summon his most trusted
counsellors, as though for an affair of State of the first importance;
and, as each one arrived, he hurried up to him to inform him of what had
occurred and to ask his advice.
“The Chancellor[74] was the first to arrive, and the King, having
acquainted him with the matter, demanded of him what ought to be
done. He answered gravely that this prince was taking the wrong
road; that it was to be regretted that he had not been better
counselled; and that he ought to have moderated his impetuosity.
‘That is not what I am asking you, _Monsieur le Chancelier_,’ cried
the King angrily. ‘What I desire is your advice.’ The Chancellor
then said that severe proclamations ought to be issued against him
and against all who should follow him or render him aid, whether by
money or counsels.
“As he said this, M. de Villeroy entered, and the King impatiently
demanded his advice. He shrugged his shoulders and appeared to be
very astonished at the news; and then said that letters ought to be
written to all the King’s Ambassadors at foreign Courts to acquaint
them with _Monsieur le Prince’s_ departure without permission of
the King and contrary to his orders, and to instruct them to take
such steps with the princes to whom they were accredited as would
cause them to refuse him an asylum in their dominions, or to send
him back to his Majesty.”
The Président Jeannin had arrived at the same time as Villeroy, and the
King demanded his advice also. The President was for strong measures,
and said without hesitation that his Majesty ought immediately to send
one of the captains of his Guards after _Monsieur le Prince_ to
endeavour to bring him back. If that could not be effected, then an
envoy ought to be despatched to the sovereign in whose dominions he had
taken refuge to demand that he should be surrendered, and, in case that
was refused, to threaten war. In his opinion, there could be little
doubt that he had gone to Flanders, to demand an asylum of the Archduke
Albert, Sovereign of the Netherlands; but, since Condé was not
personally acquainted with that prince, he did not suppose that the
latter was privy to his flight, and, unless he were to receive express
orders from Madrid to protect him, he would in all probability prefer to
send him back, or, at any rate, order him to leave Flanders, rather than
risk trouble with France.
“The King,” continues Bassompierre, “approved of this expedient,
but he did not wish to decide until he had heard what M. de Sully
had to say about the matter. The latter entered some time after the
others, in a rough,
[Illustration: HENRI IV., KING OF FRANCE.]
abrupt manner. The King went up to him and said: ‘M. de Sully,
_Monsieur le Prince_ has fled and has taken his wife with him.’
‘Sire,’ answered he, ‘I am not surprised; and, if you had followed
the counsel I gave you a fortnight since, when he left to go to
Muret, you would have put him in the Bastille, and I should have
kept him safe for you.’ ‘Well,’ said the King, ‘the thing is done;
it is useless to say more about it; but tell me what I ought to do
now.’ ‘By God, Sire! I know not,’ he replied; ‘but let me go back
to the Arsenal, where I shall sup and sleep, and in the night I
shall think of some good counsel, which I will bring you in the
morning.’ ‘No,’ said the King, ‘I wish you to give it me at once.’
‘I must think,’ said he, and with that he turned to the window
which looked into the courtyard, and for a little time drummed upon
it with his fingers. Then he came back to the King, who said:
‘Well, have you thought of something?’ ‘Yes, Sire,’ said he. ‘And
what ought I to do?’ ‘Nothing, Sire.’ ‘What! Nothing?’ cried the
King. ‘Yes, nothing,’ said M. de Sully. ‘If you do nothing at all,
and show that you do not care about him, people will despise him;
no one will assist him, not even the friends and servants whom he
has here; and in three months, urged by necessity,[75] and by the
little account that one takes of him, you will get him back on
whatever conditions you please. But if you show that you are uneasy
and are anxious to have him back, they will regard him as a
personage of importance; he will be assisted with money by those
without the realm; and divers persons, thinking to do you a
despite, will protect him, although they would have left him alone
if you had not troubled about him.’”
The King, however, was in no mood to follow this sage counsel, and
preferred the strong measures proposed by Jeannin. He accordingly
launched the Captain of the Watch in pursuit of the fugitives, and, when
that officer returned empty-handed, sent Praslin to Brussels, where, as
was generally expected, Condé had taken refuge, to demand his surrender
from the Archduke Albert. The Archduke felt that he could not without
shame deliver up a prince who came to seek an asylum against an
all-powerful monarch who was endeavouring to dishonour his wife. On the
other hand, he did not wish to offend Henri IV and afford him a pretext,
which he might be only too ready to seize, for breaking the peace. He
therefore tendered his good offices and made every effort to bring about
an accommodation. But the King insisted on Condé’s unconditional
submission and immediate return; while the prince demanded a place of
surety on the frontier, with a convenient back-door, to enable him, at
the first alarm, to leave the kingdom again.
The attitude assumed by Henri IV was so threatening, that Condé, judging
it to be unsafe to remain in Flanders, confided his wife to the care of
the Archduchess and took refuge at Milan, the governor of which, the
Count de Fuentes, was a declared enemy of Henri IV and France. He had
already appealed to Spain for protection; and Philip III instructed his
Ambassador at the French Court, Don Inigo de Cardenas, to inform Henri
IV that “he had taken the Prince de Condé under his protection, with the
object of acting as a mediator in the matter and contributing by all
means in his power to the repose and happiness of the Very Christian
King.” The remainder of the despatch, however, shows that Philip was
actuated by very different motives.
Condé’s departure from Brussels did not leave the Archduke in a less
difficult position. It was not the prince, but the princess, whose
return Henri IV most eagerly desired. He endeavoured to have her carried
off, but the attempt failed.[76] He obliged the Constable to demand that
she should be sent back to the paternal roof. The Archduke replied that
he could not do so, except by her husband’s desire.
The King was the more exasperated by the resistance of the Archduke, as
he had reason to believe that his ridiculous passion was returned. The
princess, this child of sixteen, who had no affection for her husband
and resented the inconvenience to which he had subjected her in order to
save her honour, weary of her exile, far from her relatives and the
Court of France, did not refuse the letters and presents of the King.
Her entourage and Madame de Berny, the wife of the French Ambassador at
Brussels, chanted continually the praises of her crowned adorer. She
received verses in which Malherbe depicted in touching terms the grief
of the great Alcandre. But Henri IV himself, in a letter to one of his
agents, is not less pathetic:--
“I am writing to my beautiful angel: I am so worn out by these pangs
that I am nothing but skin and bone. Everything disgusts me. I avoid
company, and if, to observe the usage of society, I allow myself to be
drawn into some assemblies, my wretchedness is complete.”
The princess, in her turn, appealed to “his heart,” and besought him, as
“her knight,” to effect her deliverance.
For his “pangs” Henri IV regarded the Archduke and the Spaniards as
responsible. Already on December 9, 1609, he had caused the Pope to be
informed that “if the Spaniards contemplated employing the person of
_Monsieur le Prince_ to stir up trouble in his realm, he had the means
and the courage to resent it, and to avenge the injuries and the
offences which they might be able to do him.” The conduct of the
Archduke was irreproachable; he had merely safeguarded his own dignity,
and it was certainly not his fault that Condé was not reconciled to the
King. But Philip III and his Government, although they had neither
foreseen nor aided the prince’s flight, were now asking themselves what
advantage they might derive from it. In the event of war with France,
the first Prince of the Blood would be a valuable ally, and it is not
improbable that a most imprudent manifesto which Condé issued at Milan,
wherein, after detailing his grievances against Henri IV, he claimed to
be the rightful heir to the throne of France, on the ground that the
King’s first marriage had not been truly annulled, was inspired by
Spain, with the idea of still further widening the breach between him
and his sovereign.
Henri IV and his Ministers, finding persuasion of no avail with the
Court of Brussels, had recourse to threats, representing that, unless
the fair Charlotte were surrendered, war would follow. “Peace and war
depend on whether the princess is or is not given up,” said Jeannin to
Pecquius, the Archduke’s Ambassador in Paris; and the King himself
reminded him that Troy fell because Priam would not surrender Helen.
The gravity of the situation was enhanced by the warlike preparations
which were going on all over France for the execution of the “Great
Design”: the scheme of liberating Europe from the domination of the
House of Austria and of giving France her rightful place in the world
which Henri IV had cherished ever since his accession to the throne. It
was, however, believed by many that these formidable preparations had no
other object that the forcible recovery of the Princesse de Condé, and
Malherbe wrote:--
“Deux beaux yeaux sont l’empire
Pour que je soupire.”
The question of how far the course of events was influenced by Henri
IV’s infatuation for the Princesse de Condé has been much discussed. The
probability is that the affair did little more than determine the King
to hasten by a few weeks the war so long resolved upon, and that this
was due rather to his irritation against the Spaniards for their support
of Condé than to the refusal of the Court of Brussels to surrender the
princess. Henri had not scrupled to use the large forces assembled for
quite a different purpose as a bugbear to frighten the Archduke. But
when the latter refused to purchase security by a compliance
inconsistent with his honour, it was not on Brussels that the French
armies prepared to march. On the contrary, a few days before his death,
the King in the most friendly terms requested the Archduke’s permission
to lead his troops across his territory to the assistance of his German
allies, a permission granted by the Archduke, notwithstanding the
opposition of the Spanish party in his Council.
By the end of April France was ready to strike. Châlons, Mezières and
Metz were the chief rendezvous. The King hoped to have 30,000 men on
foot, to join them on May 15, and to march at their head into the
duchies. A second army under Lesdiguières was to enter Piedmont, where
it would effect a junction with the forces of the Duke of Savoy, and
then proceed to invade the Milanese. A third army was to observe the
Pyrenees. Maurice of Nassau, with 30,000 Dutch, was to join Henri IV in
Clèves.
Never had Bassompierre stood higher in the royal favour than on the eve
of the outbreak of war. Henri, anxious to make amends to him for the
loss of Charlotte de Montmorency and her dowry, and to recompense him
for the zeal and ability which he had shown in his mission to Lorraine
and Germany in the previous year, overwhelmed him with benefits. He
appointed him, quite unsolicited, Colonel of the Light Cavalry, made him
a Counsellor of State, gave him 50 guards, and a pension of 4,000
crowns, and again proposed to marry him to the heiress of Beaupréau and
revive in her favour the duchy of that name. “But,” says Bassompierre
ingenuously, “I was then in the high follies of my youth, in love in so
many quarters, and well received in most, that I had not the leisure to
think of my advancement.”
But the sun which shone upon him with such warmth and splendour was now
about to be clouded for ever. The tragic end of the first Bourbon King
has been so often told that we have no intention of narrating it; but
there are circumstances recorded by Bassompierre which are not to be
found in the memoirs and correspondence of his contemporaries, and which
afford a curious insight into the state of Henri IV’s mind just before
his assassination:--
“We now entered that unhappy month of May, fatal to France, by the
loss sustained therein of our good King.
“I shall relate many things touching the presentiment which the
King had before his death, and which gave warning of that event. A
little while before, he said to me: ‘I know not how it is,
Bassompierre, but I cannot persuade myself that I am going into
Germany; neither does my heart tell me that you are going into
Italy.’ Several times he said to me, and to others also: ‘I believe
that I shall die soon.’ And on the first day of May he returned
from the Tuileries by way of the grand gallery, leaning upon M. de
Guise on one side, and upon me on the other (for he always leaned
on someone), and, on leaving us to enter the Queen’s cabinet, said:
‘Don’t go away; I am going to tell my wife to dress, that she may
not keep me waiting for dinner.’ For he usually dined with her.
While we waited, leaning on the iron balustrade overlooking the
courtyard of the Louvre, the maypole which had been planted in the
middle of the courtyard fell down, without being disturbed by the
wind or for any apparent cause, and tumbled in the direction of the
little staircase leading to the King’s chamber. Upon which I said
to M. de Guise: ‘I would have given a great deal rather than this
should have happened. It is a very bad omen. May God preserve the
King, who is the May of the Louvre!’ ‘How can you be so foolish as
to think seriously of such a thing?’ he replied. ‘In Italy and
Germany,’ I rejoined, ‘they would take much more account of such an
omen than we do here. May God preserve the King and all belonging
to him!’
“The King, who had but stepped into the Queen’s cabinet and out
again, here came up very softly to listen to us, for he imagined
that we spoke of some woman; and, hearing all that I said, broke
in upon our talk, saying: ‘You are fools to amuse yourselves with
such prognostications. For the last thirty years all the
astrologers and charlatans who pretend to be wise have predicted to
me every year that I was fated to die; and in that year wherein I
shall actually die, all the omens which have occurred in the course
of it will be remarked and thought a great deal of, while nothing
will be said of those which happened in preceding years.’
“The Queen had a peculiar and ardent desire to be crowned before
the King’s departure for Germany. The King did not wish it, both by
reason of the expense and because he did not like these grand
festivals. Yet, since he was the kindest husband in the world, he
consented and delayed his departure until she should make her entry
into Paris.[77] He commanded me to stay also, which I did because
of his desire, and also because the Princesse de Conti had asked me
to be her cavalier at the ceremony of the _Sacre_ and the
entry.[78]
“The Court went on May 12 to stay at Saint-Denis, to be in
readiness for the morrow, the day of the Queen’s _Sacre_, which was
celebrated with the greatest possible magnificence. The King, on
this occasion, was extraordinarily gay.[79] In the evening everyone
returned to Paris.
“The following morning, the 14th of the said month, M. de Guise
passed by my lodging and took me to go and meet the King, who had
gone to hear Mass at the Feuillants. On the way we were told that
he was returning by the Tuileries, upon which we went to intercept
him and found him talking to M. de Villeroy. He left him, and
taking M. de Guise and myself, one on either side of him, said: ‘I
come from the Feuillants, where I saw the chapel which Bassompierre
is having built there, and on the door he has had placed this
inscription: _Quid retribuam. Domino pro omnibus que retribuit
mihi?_ And I said that, since he was German, he should have put:
_Calicem salutaris accipiam._’ M. de Guise laughed heartily and
said to him: ‘You are, to my mind, one of the most agreeable men in
the world, and our destiny created us for one another. For, had you
been a man of middling station, I would have had you in my service,
cost what it might; but, since God has made you a great king, it
could not be otherwise than that I must belong to you.’ The King
embraced him, and me also, and said: ‘You don’t know me now; but I
shall die one of these days; and, when you have lost me, you will
know my worth and the difference there is between me and other
men.’ Upon this I said to him: ‘_Mon Dieu_, Sire, why do you never
cease afflicting us by saying that you will soon die? These are not
good words to utter; you will live, if it please God, long and
happy years. There is no felicity in the world equal to yours; you
are but in the flower of your age, in perfect strength and health
of body, full of honours beyond any other mortal, in the tranquil
enjoyment of the most flourishing country in the world; loved and
adored by your subjects; possessed of property, of money, of
beautiful residences, a beautiful wife, beautiful mistresses and
beautiful children, who are growing up. What more could you have or
desire to have?’ Then he sighed and said: ‘My friend, all this I
must leave.’”
Before parting from the King, Bassompierre informed him that he had
received a complaint from the captains of the Light Cavalry, of which he
had recently been appointed Colonel, that their companies were
insufficiently armed and that they were unable to obtain the weapons
which they required, and begged his Majesty to give orders that these
should be supplied to them. Henri IV told him to come to him that
afternoon at the Arsenal, where he proposed to go to visit Sully, who
was ill, and he would direct the Minister to let him have the arms he
wanted. And, upon Bassompierre observing that he would very willingly
give Sully at the same time the money which they were worth, to enable
him to replace them, he laughingly replied by quoting two verses from a
well-known song, which ran:
“Que je n’offre à personne,
Mais à vous je les donne.”
Bassompierre thanked his Majesty, kissed his hand and withdrew, little
imagining that he was never to see him alive again.
“After dinner,” he says, “I went to visit Descures[80] in the
Place-Royale, to inquire about the routes which the different
companies [of the Light Horse] were to follow; and then I proceeded
to the Arsenal, to await the King, as he had told me to do. But
alas! it was in vain, for, shortly afterwards, came people crying
out that the King had been wounded, and that he was being carried
back to the Louvre. I ran like a madman, seized the first horse I
could find, and rode full gallop towards the Louvre. Opposite the
Hôtel de Longueville I met M. de Blérencourt,[81] who was returning
from the Louvre, and he whispered to me: ‘He is dead!’ I ran up to
the barriers which the French Guards and the Swiss had occupied,
with lowered pikes, and _Monsieur le Grand_ and I passed under the
barriers and ran to the King’s cabinet, where we saw him stretched
on his bed, and M. de Vic,[82] Counsellor of State, seated on the
same bed. He had put his cross of the Order to the King’s lips, and
was bidding him think of God. Melon, his chief physician, was in
the _ruelle_, and some surgeons, who wanted to dress his wounds;
but he was already gone.... Then the chief physician cried: ‘Ah! it
is all over; he has gone!’ _Monsieur le Grand_, on arriving, went
down on his knees in the _ruelle_ of the bed, and took one of the
King’s hands and kissed it. As for myself, I had thrown myself at
his feet, which I embraced, weeping bitterly....”