DEATH AND POISON.
"Anne, daughter of Philip III., King of Spain, and Margaret of Austria,
his wife, married to Louis XIII., King of France, surnamed the Just,
mother of Louis XIV., surnamed Dieudonné, and of Philip of France, Duc
d'Orléans, born September, 1601, died January, 1666."
These words stood at the head of a will which was signed "_approved_,
Louis." Anne of Austria has stood before us from her fifteenth year
until now; first, the golden-haired girl, next the prosecuted wife,
then the stately regent, finally the devoted and conscientious mother.
And now her time has come; she is dying at the Louvre. Her malady
is a cancer in the breast, long concealed, now aggravated by the
ignorance of quacks. Latterly it has become an open wound, the seat
of intense suffering. Her daintily nurtured body and sensitive skin,
which could not bear the touch of any but the finest and softest linen,
the delicate habits of her daily life, her extreme refinement of mind
and person (not common in those days even among princes), have come
to this: "God punishes me in that body which I have too carefully
tended," she said. But the Queen's mind had long been weaned from
the world, her once lofty spirit schooled to the uses of adversity,
and she bears her protracted sufferings with admirable meekness and
resignation. Her face shrunken, drawn, and ashen, her frame bowed with
intense pain rather than the weight of years, have lost all trace of
their singular beauty; but the hands and arms are still white, plump,
and shapely. To the last, her son Louis XIV. reverently kisses those
taper fingers that had fondly entwined themselves among his clustering
curls from boy to man. As long as that silvery voice could make itself
heard, it was as a peacemaker and as a friend. When Maria Theresa, her
niece, complained to her of the King's too apparent _liaison_ with La
Vallière, the dying Queen stroked her cheek, and comforted her, praying
her to pardon the fire of youthful blood, and to remember that
Louis, if erring, both loved and respected her. She reminded her, "that
she [Maria Theresa] had at least a much happier lot than her own."
Overcome by suffering during the long watches of the night, when she
could not sleep, she weeps; as the tears roll down her wrinkled cheeks,
Mademoiselle de Beauvais wipes them away with her handkerchief.
[Illustration: Maria Theresa.
From a painting by Velasquez in the Louvre.]
"I do not really weep, _ma bonne_," said the dying Queen; "these tears
that I shed are forced from me by intense anguish; you know I never
cry." The Archbishop d'Auch, seeing her condition, told her plainly
that the doctor despaired of her life.
"I thank God," she answered. "Do not lament," added she, turning to her
ladies, whose sobs caught her ear; "we must all die. I am still among
you; when I am gone, then grieve for me, not yet."
Her son, Philippe d'Orléans, sat constantly beside her bed. While he
was present she never allowed herself to utter a complaint, but when
he left her, she turned to Madame de Motteville and said, "I suffer
horribly. There is no single part of my whole body that is not rent
with pain." Then raising her eyes to heaven she exclaimed, "Praised be
God, it is His will, His will be done—I submit to it with all my heart;
yes, with all my heart." Yet in this condition she took the liveliest
interest in all that concerned her sons and the King of Spain, and
caused every letter to be read aloud to her coming from Madrid. Two
nights before her death she bade good-night to her children with a
haste unusual to her. It was because she did not wish them to witness
sufferings she could no longer conceal. As soon as they were gone she
desired that the litany of the Passion should be chanted throughout
the weary hours of the night. Now and then her groans interrupted the
solemn office. When her women strove to mitigate her agony, she pushed
them away, saying,
"My vile body is given up to the justice of God. I care not what
becomes of it."
In the morning the King, of whom she was ever devotedly fond, and who
warmly returned her love, remained many hours with her. That afternoon
she grew worse. During the night her son Monsieur hid himself in the
curtains of her bed, not to leave her, as she had earnestly desired
he would do. The next morning, it was deemed advisable to administer
extreme unction. The King and Queen, Monsieur d'Orléans, Madame his
wife, and Mademoiselle de Montpensier were present. They went out to
meet the Lord's body and to bear it to her. After she had communicated,
a heavenly expression spread over her countenance, her eyes shone with
unnatural brilliancy, and the colour returned to her cheeks.
"Observe my dear mother," whispered the King, who was standing at the
foot of her bed, to Mademoiselle de Beauvais, "I never saw her look
more beautiful." Then she called her children round her, and solemnly
blessed them. These four, her two sons and their wives, knelt by her
bedside. They kissed her hands and shed tears of a common grief. The
curtains were then closed, that the Queen might take a little rest.
When they were undrawn, the film of death had gathered on her eyes.
* * * * *
Beautiful Saint-Cloud, enfolded in softly undulating hills, its
sheeny lawns and majestic avenues descending to the Seine, whose clear
waters dance and ripple below in the soft spring light;—Saint-Cloud,
with its dimpling uplands and lofty summits, on whose topmost verge
stands what was once a Roman watch-tower, looking towards Lutetia, the
ancient Paris, now a Grecian temple called the Lanterne de Diogène;
Saint-Cloud, dense, leafy, forest-like; yonder a deep glen, in which
the morning shadows lie; above, grassy meads of finest greensward,
where the primrose and the cowslip, the anemone and the foxglove
blossom under scattered groups of noble trees, gay with every shade of
green, oaks yellow with new leaves; delicate beech and the soft foliage
of the tufted elm; all rising out of a sea of paler tinted copsewood.
Midway on the hill-side, the ground suddenly falls; and the woods melt
into sculptured terraces, on which the spray of many fountains catch
and reflect the morning sun. These terraces are again broken by a
magnificent cascade, which dashes downwards, to be presently engulfed
by the overhanging trees, before it falls into the river.
It is early summer. The air is full of perfume. The scent of new-made
hay and the odour of dew-laden flowers are wafted from the terraces
towards the palace, lying in the lowest lap of the hills, shut in by
hanging gardens, its pillared portico basking in the sunshine.
From the days of Gondi, the Italian banker, the friend of Zametti,
who was more than suspected of poisoning _la belle_ Gabrielle—for
both Gondi and Zametti had country houses there—Saint-Cloud was a
fair and pleasant place. Hither came Catherine de' Medici to give
great fêtes and banquets, and to visit such of her countrymen as lived
near the palace, all of them skilful Italian Jews, dealing largely
in money, with which they were ready to supply the royal coffers,—on
exorbitant interest, be it well understood—who received her with
Oriental magnificence, and dressed out height, the terrace, and garden
with silken flags and embroidered banners, in the Italian style, to
do her honour. Within the palace of Saint-Cloud was struck down Henry
III., the last of Catherine's sons, the last prince of the royal house
of Valois, by the hand of Jacques Clément, the Dominican. Here Henri
Quatre was proclaimed king, and here, in due process of time, came to
live the Duc d'Orléans, brother of Louis XIV. Philippe d'Orléans, once
a peevish child, is now a soft, effeminate gentleman. In person he is
the _replica_ of the King, only in fainter colours; a water-colour
sketch of an original design in oils. He lives among his favourites,
whom the world stigmatises as gamblers and scoundrels, especially the
Chevalier de Lorraine, who governs Monsieur despotically.
All the world (except her husband) adores the brilliant Henriette,
Duchesse d'Orléans, his wife and cousin-german, who, with her mother,
Henrietta Maria, suffered so much at the Louvre from poverty, that
they lay in bed for warmth. Now, her brother, Charles II., sits on the
throne of England, and she loves not to have the days of her adversity
recalled. Henriette d'Orléans is not an absolute beauty. Like her
mother, her features are irregular, and her mouth large, but her fresh
English colouring tells well among the olive-complexioned ladies of
the Court. She is tall, and eminently graceful. Her sunny smile, her
ready wit, her joyous manners, win every heart she cares to gain. But,
as we have seen, she can be both haughty and cruel. Once she had hoped
to marry her elder cousin, the King; but the Mancini girls stepped in,
and she was forced to content herself with his younger brother, Philip,
whom she despises and dislikes.
Now matters have grown worse than ever between the spouses, for the
Duke of Monmouth—illegitimate son of Charles II. by Lucy Waters—has
come to Court, and does not conceal his admiration for his English
relative, nor observe those precise rules of etiquette needful at the
French Court. What makes matters worse is, that Madame, exasperated
by her husband, is defiant, and publicly encourages his attentions.
Monsieur, weak-headed and irritable, complains to everybody. He says he
shall leave the Court, unless Madame conducts herself better. Madame
rejoins that he only persecutes her because she happens to be aunt to
the Duke of Monmouth. To spite Monsieur, she uses her influence with
the King, and Monsieur's favourite, the Chevalier de Lorraine,—who
whispers these tales about her into her husband's ear,—is packed off;
exiled to the sea-girt fortress of the Château d'If, near Marseilles.
This aggravates Monsieur, who treats Madame worse than ever. They have
fresh quarrels every day, during one of which Monsieur calls Madame
a "_vaurienne_." Even when they ride together in the King's coach,
Monsieur must insult and taunt his wife. "He believes in astrology," he
says, "and as his horoscope foretells he shall be the husband of many
wives, and Madame looks ill, he hopes he shall soon have a change." At
this rude speech Madame weeps, but says nothing. All this is very bad,
and creates such a scandal that Louis interferes; he expostulates with
his brother.
The King, to give Madame a little respite, appointed her at this time
his ambassadress into England, to treat with her brother, Charles
II. In her suite she carried the beautiful Bretonne, Louise de la
Querouaille, who became afterwards so well known in this country as the
Duchess of Portsmouth.
After a time Madame returns from England, blooming in health and joyous
in spirits. She cannot bring herself even to affect common concern for
the death of her mother,—poor broken-down Henrietta Maria,—who has
just died from taking an overdose of opium. Monsieur refuses to meet
his wife at Amiens, a public slight which nettled her exceedingly,
especially as the Chevalier de Lorraine has returned from banishment,
and is again at Saint-Cloud.
Madame is now twenty-six, and as strong and healthy as any young woman
can be. Very early on a certain morning, in the first days of June, a
page rides out of the park gates of Saint-Cloud in furious haste. He
bears a message of life and death to the King, who is at Saint-Germain.
He spurs his steed along the paved roads which lead from palace to
palace, along the heights. The word he carries is—_that Madame is
dying_. Never did messenger of evil cause such consternation. The King
flies to Saint-Cloud; he loved the sweet princess. He is followed by
the Queen, accompanied by _la Grande Mademoiselle_. When the royal
coach draws up under the grand portico, Valtot, the Court doctor, is
there to receive them. He says the illness of Madame is nothing but a
violent attack of colic, and is of no consequence whatever. But this
attack of colic had seized Madame so suddenly she could not bear to
be carried to her own bed, but lay on a little couch in a recess of
one of the reception-rooms. A very serious attack of colic, truly.
When Maria Theresa enters, she finds Madame in convulsions; her long
hair streaming over her face and pillow, her limbs cramped, her body
contorted, her nightgown unfastened to relieve her breathing, her arms
bare and hanging out of the sleeves, her face bearing every appearance
of approaching death.
"You see what a state I am in," she whispers to the Queen between the
paroxysms. "Save me, oh, save me—my sufferings are horrible!"
The Queen kisses her hand. Every one was affected. The King leans over
her with the utmost affection.
"Surely," cries the King to Valtot, "you will not let her die without
help?"
Except the royal party no one seems to care about her. Monsieur is
quite indifferent. He laughs and talks in the very room where she is
lying.
The end came soon. In a few hours, Madame died in horrible agony. Her
corpse immediately turned black.
* * * * *
Louis XIV. is in his private closet at Saint-Germain. He is in his
_robe de chambre_, and he has been weeping; three extraordinary events
for the King, not to hold his usual levee, to wear his _robe de
chambre_, and to weep.
A dreadful rumour has just reached him—the words _poison_ and _murder_
have passed from mouth to mouth about the Court. At last he has heard
them. What!—his beloved sister-in-law, she who but two days before
had danced with him in a ballet, dressed as Aurora; she—the pride of
his Court, the cynosure of all eyes—poisoned! Oh, horrible! By whom
was this poison given? By his brother? Impossible. By one of his
disgraceful favourites whom Madame hated? The Chevalier de Lorraine,
perhaps? Was he the murderer? The King cannot brook suspense or delay.
He sends privately for Morel, the _maître d'hôtel_ of his brother.
Morel comes trembling; he guesses the reason of the summons.
"Morel," says the King in an unsteady voice, "I have sent for you
to tell me the truth. Now, on pain of instant death, answer me. Who
murdered my sister-in-law? Presume not to equivocate or to deceive me.
Did the Duchess die by poison?"
"She did, your Majesty."
Louis shudders. "By whose order was it administered?"
"By the order of the Chevalier de Lorraine," answers Morel. "Poison was
put into a cup of chicorée-water, the Duchess's usual beverage, by the
hands of the Marquis d'Effiat. Before God, your Majesty, I am innocent
of all save the knowledge of this crime."
Louis, seeing that Morel is about to cast himself on his knees before
him, by a stern gesture forbade it. He then motions him to proceed.
"The Duchess, Sire, complained of thirst; soon after a cup of
chicorée-water—the cup of porcelain, which her Highness always used—was
presented; she drank its contents to the last drop. Soon after she was
seized with convulsions. Your Majesty knows the rest."
There is a pause. "Tell me," asks Louis, speaking with a great effort,
"tell me, had my brother—had the Duc d'Orléans any part in this crime?"
"I believe not, Sire," answers Morel, shaking from head to foot, for
the King's looks are not reassuring. "They dared not trust him; he
would have betrayed them. But it was believed that the death of Madame
would not be——"
"Answer as I desire you, sir. Answer the questions I address to you,
nothing more," interrupts the King, scowling at him, at the same time
greatly relieved by hearing that his brother was not an accomplice. "I
have heard what I want to know. I am satisfied. I will spare your life,
wretched man," and he turns from Morel with disgust, "because you have
spoken the truth; but you must leave France for ever. Remember, the
honour of princes is in your hand, and that wherever you fly, their
vengeance can pursue you. Therefore, be silent, if you value your life."
The King dared investigate no further; too foul a picture of his
brother's life would have been revealed to public curiosity. The death
of this charming, though frivolous princess, remained unavenged, her
murderers unpunished, and she was soon forgotten in the dissipation
of a Court where the Sovereign set an example of the most heartless
egotism.
As for Monsieur, nothing daunted by the suspicions attached to his
name, and although believed by many to have been a direct accomplice
in Henriette's death, he determined to bring home a fresh wife to
Saint-Cloud and the Palais Royal. This he did in the person of a German
princess (ever the refuge of unfortunate royalty in search of wives),
a formidable she-dragon rather, by name Charlotte de Bavière, a lady
certainly well able to defend herself in case of need. What a contrast
to the feminine, fascinating Henriette! Charlotte's autobiography
remains to us, a lasting evidence of her coarseness of mind and of
body. This is the opening page:—
"I am naturally rather melancholy. When anything annoys me, I have
always an inflammation in my left side, as if I had a dropsy. Lying in
bed is not at all my habit. As soon as I wake I must get up. I seldom
take breakfast. If I do, I only eat bread and butter. I neither like
chocolate, coffee, nor tea. Foreign drugs are my horror. I am entirely
German in my habits, and relish nothing in the way of food but the
_cuisine_ of my own country. I can only eat soup made with milk, beer,
or wine. As to _bouillon_, I detest it. If I eat any dish that contains
it, I am ill directly, my body swells, and I am fearfully sick. Nothing
but sausages and ham restore the tone of my stomach. I always wanted to
be a boy," this extraordinary "Princess" continues, "and having heard
that Marie Germain became one by continually jumping, I used to take
such fearful leaps, that it is a miracle I did not break my neck a
thousand times."
This was the mother of the Regent Orléans.
[Illustration: GALLERY OF HENRY II. AT FONTAINEBLEAU.]
Charlotte de Bavière was walking one evening alone in the dusk through
the almost interminable suite of rooms which encircled the four garden
fronts of the Palais Royal. Many of these rooms had been constantly
inhabited by her predecessor, Madame Henriette. It was stormy weather,
and the gathering clouds were rapidly darkening what little daylight
was left. The wind moaned among the branches of the trees without; it
whistled through the rooms within, swaying the rich curtains to and
fro. The shutters were not yet closed. The Duchess wandered on from
room to room until she reached a remote apartment on the ground-floor,
which had been much frequented by Madame Henriette—a garden pavilion
opening by large windows and a flight of steps to a parterre. At this
window Charlotte stood watching the clouds passing over the moon which
had just risen, as they were drifted rapidly onwards, driven by the
wind. How long she remained there she could never tell. All at once a
slight sound behind her, like the rustling of drapery along the floor,
caught her ear. She turned, and saw advancing from the door towards
the spot where she stood a white figure, wearing the form of the late
Duchess, her predecessor, Henriette of England. She knew her instantly
from her portraits. What passed between these two—the dead and the
living wife—never was told. Charlotte, all her life long, insisted on
the perfect truth of this story, but would say nothing more. In time
it came to be understood that some awful secret connected with the
Orléans family, only to be known to the head of the house, was revealed
by the phantom.