THE LADIES' WAR.
When the citizens of Paris find that the Court had left the Palais
Royal, instead of coming to their senses, they were furious. The
Coadjutor, who had broken with the Regent, ruled supreme. He skilfully
availed himself of the crisis, and caused the parliament to pass the
act against aliens. This measure outlawed Mazarin as an enemy of
the King and of the State, a conspirator, a perjurer, and a thief;
confiscated his possessions, and enjoined all faithful subjects to
shoot him without trial.
Civil war breaks out. The troops of the Queen-Regent were but feebly
attacked. It was the _hearts_ of her generals that were vigorously
assailed by the lady commandants of the Fronde, whose artillery was
blandishments and enticements.
Every soul in Paris armed himself, and took the field in whatever
costume he usually wore. The nobles led the way in feathered hats,
satin doublets, silk stockings, and high-heeled boots. No one knew
what they were fighting for. The cry was, "_Vive la Fronde!_" "_Mort à
Mazarin!_"
The Duchesse de Longueville, supported by her brother, the great Condé,
took possession of the executive government at the Hôtel de Ville. She
was quickly joined by the Duchesses de Chevreuse and de Montbazon.
The Duc de Beaufort was set at liberty. But as it was quite a "Ladies'
War," he acted only as subordinate. The Duchesses distributed all the
military posts and honours among themselves—they created themselves
generals, lieutenants, and colonels, like so many Bellonas. War was
waged on quite new principles: Maréchal d'Hocquincourt, defending
Peronne for the Queen-Regent, assured the Duchesse de Montbazon, who
invested it for the Fronde, "That Peronne was at the service of the
fairest of the fair."
[Illustration: DUCHESSE DE LONGUEVILLE.]
Not so _la Grande Mademoiselle_. She ranged herself on the popular side
against the Court, and commanded at the Bastille. She fought in good
earnest, and pointed the well-loaded guns of that fortress against her
King and cousin, who, with his army, lay encamped without the walls of
Paris. Louis retreated precipitately to Saint-Denis.
We are in the Hôtel de Ville, within the apartment of one of the very
prettiest aides-de-camp attached to the Duchesse de Longueville. This
fair lady, Mademoiselle de Rosny, has just finished a most elaborate
toilette, and having arranged the innumerable little curls (then so
much in vogue) round her face, and fastened the proper quantity of
ribbon in her dark locks, takes a last fond look in the glass, and then
seats herself in the happiest possible state of expectation. Now there
is a certain all-conquering beau—Monsieur d'Aumale by name—who has
more than half achieved the conquest of her heart; and she has a kind
of presentiment that the morning will not pass without a visit from
this pearl of cavaliers. Nor is she mistaken: a soft knock at her door
announces the approach of some one. How her heart beats! It must be M.
d'Aumale! So she says "_Entrez!_" in a trembling voice, and D'Aumale
stands before her.
"Mademoiselle de Rosny," he exclaims, "I am in the utmost haste, I am
come to beg you to be present at the most singular spectacle you ever
beheld!"
"What may it be?" replies she, rather chagrined that instead of a
tender love-scene, such as she anticipated, M. d'Aumale seems so
preoccupied.
"It is but a review, mademoiselle, ordered by the council; but, ha! ha!
such a review! _Morbleu_, you will never guess of whom—the oddest idea!
It is no other than a review of priests, monks, and seminarists, all
sword in hand, and ready to charge the enemy. It is the strangest idea
of defence that ever was conceived; but as we have lady-generals, and
the _Grande Mademoiselle_ for commander-in-chief, we are now to have an
army of priests for them to lead to battle. Those tonsured recruits are
actually now all assembling on the bridge near Notre-Dame. You must be
quick."
"Was ever anything so ridiculous!" and Mademoiselle de Rosny laughs.
"But I shall be terrified at their awkwardness; they will be sure to
fire too low and hit us."
"Oh, but you must come. I will be your guard; I pledge myself that you
shall return uninjured," and D'Aumale gives the lady a tender glance.
"Besides, to reassure you, I believe that these monk-warriors are not
even to be trusted with matches; the arquebuses and cannon are as empty
and as innocent as when in the arsenal; so there is nothing to fear.
If you will come, I will conduct you in my new coach—the very model of
elegance—I will answer for it there is not such another in all Paris."
"That will be delightful!" cries the lady. "I do admire those new
coaches so much, if it were not for this abominable war, I suppose they
would become universal. Well, Monsieur d'Aumale, I am ready! let us see
these monks; it will be a good story with which to entertain Madame la
Duchesse de Longueville this evening at her reception. How the Duc de
Beaufort will laugh!"
In high glee Mademoiselle de Rosny departed, accompanied by her
admirer, her pleasure not a little heightened by the idea of appearing
in a coach, then by no means common in Paris, and reserved generally
for royalty, or for grand occasions, or state processions—heavy
lumbering vehicles, such as figure in the old prints of that period,
with a sloping roof like a house, and drawn by Flemish horses of huge
dimensions. On arriving near the bridge, they stop under the shadow
of the Cathedral, and there behold the most extraordinary spectacle.
All the young monks in Paris are crowded near Notre-Dame, with the
exception of the Benedictines and some other orders, who refused to
take any part in this mummery. At least fifteen hundred ecclesiastics,
drawn up in excellent order, are executing the various manœuvres of
march, halt, right-about face, etc., with tolerable precision. The
greater number have fastened up their black robes, and invested their
lower limbs with most uncanonical garments. The reverend fathers, with
their hoods hanging over their shoulders, are booted and spurred,
many wear helmets and cuirasses, and all carry such halberts, lances,
swords, and bucklers as they had been able to lay hands on. Others
grasp a crucifix in one hand, and in the other a pistol, a scythe, an
old dagger or a knife, with which each intends to perform prodigies of
valour against the enemies of the Fronde. As they advance and retreat
on the dusty soil in lines and columns, they present the appearance of
an immense flight of crows hovering over a field of newly cut wheat.
To this martial array is added the clamour of drums, trumpets,
and warlike instruments, accompanied with no end of benedictions,
_Oremus_, and chanted psalms. At the head of the troops is a bishop,
metamorphosed into a commander. He moves very slowly, by reason of
his corpulence, and the weight of the armour he wears, and looks like
a dilapidated St. George, minus the dragon. Then come Carthusians,
Begging Friars, Capuchins, and Seminarists, each different order led
by their abbot or prior. They all advance gravely with the orthodox
goose-step. Cries of "Down with the Regent!" "Death to Mazarin!" "_A
bas_ the Italian beggar!" "Long live the Union!" "_Vive la Duchesse!_"
"_Vive la Fronde!_" add to the clamour of the martial music and
the psalms. Mademoiselle de Rosny is fain to hold both her ears,
notwithstanding all the sweet things her companion is whispering. The
mob of Paris _en masse_ is assembled to witness this extraordinary
review, and to rejoice in the unexpected aid contributed by the Church
in the general emergency. Nor is M. d'Aumale's the only coach on the
Quai Notre-Dame that day; many other possessors of such vehicles have
been attracted by the scene. The Legate is among the number. The crowd
is immense, the applause enthusiastic.
"_Ciel!_" calls out Mademoiselle de Rosny, on a sudden. "Look—Oh, look!
Monsieur d'Aumale, you have deceived me, I am sure. They are going to
fire!"
"No, no," replies D'Aumale, "believe me, you are mistaken. 'Give the
monk his rosary, the soldier his sword,' says the motto. _Messieurs les
moines_ will not venture to burn their hands in attempting to handle
firearms."
"But I tell you," cries the lady, "they are going to fire! Good
heavens, the guns are all turned this way! Oh, D'Aumale, we shall be
murdered. Help! help! I implore you!" And she catches hold of him, and
begins to scream after the most approved fashion preparatory to a fit
of hysterics.
D'Aumale looks out of the window. "In the name of Heaven,
beware—beware!" he shouts to the priests. But in the confusion his
voice is inaudible. The ecclesiastical artillerymen, awkward and
inexperienced, have already lighted the matches, and the cannon, which
were loaded, explode right and left in the crowd. A fearful cry arises
from the Legate's coach.
"Thank Heaven, D'Aumale, we have escaped,—this time at least," gasps
Mademoiselle de Rosny in a low voice, for she is now calmed by
excessive fear.
"Yes, but I fancy some one else has been seriously wounded. I will
alight and see," says D'Aumale, unfastening the door.
A dense crowd surrounds the coach belonging to the Legate. The
secretary of his eminence had been shot dead by a bullet through the
chest, the Legate's confessor is wounded in the head, and his two
valets also much injured. Never was there such confusion. M. d'Aumale
hastens back to secure the safe retreat of the fair De Rosny. They are
soon disengaged from the crowd, and rolling back over the muddy ground
to the Hôtel de Ville. Here we must bid them farewell, assuming that
mademoiselle soon secured the possession of the much-admired coach by a
speedy marriage with its handsome owner.