La Grande Mademoiselle

Although Mademoiselle did not go as far as to say "no," she ceased to say "yes" to everything. Her reason for doing so was baseless. She had acquired the conviction that the young King, Louis XIV., loved the tall cousin who seemed so old to his thirteen-year mind.153 La Grande Mademoiselle appalled him; her abrupt ways and her explosions of anger drove back his timid head into its tender shell; but she had persuaded herself that he wished to marry her. And she was so sure of her facts that she dropped the oars provided by Mme. de Choisy, and sat up proudly in her rudderless bark, without sail or compass. She believed that the King loved her, she was thankful to be at rest, and she left to her supposed lover the care of the royal betrothal; she sighed ingenuously: "That way of becoming Queen would have pleased me more than the other." That is easily understood; however, nothing came of it. Anne of Austria had sworn to her niece that she would give her the King; but when Mademoiselle's back was turned she, the Queen, said stiffly: "He would not be for her nose even were he well grown!"154

Mazarin had done well in supposing that there would be some advantage in intermarrying the junior branches as a means of ending the family quarrels.

I have learned from different sources [he wrote to the Queen] that Mademoiselle's marriage to the King would arrange everything. Le Tellier155 came expressly to see me; he came from Retz and the Princess Palatine and for that very purpose. And the others also have written to me about it; but if the King and the Queen have the same feeling in regard to that matter that they did have, I do not think that it would be easy to arrange it (7th January, 1652).

Mazarin dared not insist; he felt that he was no longer in a posture where he could indulge in displeasing exactions. While Parliament was rendering decisions against Mazarin, the people close to the Queen were working to obliterate his image from her heart, and their efforts were successful.156 They occupied the Queen's mind with other friends, the thought of whom filled Mazarin with the torments of jealousy. He was in retreat in Brühl. May 11th he wrote to the Queen: "I wish that I could express the hatred that I feel for the mischief-makers who are unceasingly working to make you forget me so that we shall never meet again."

The 6th July Mazarin had heard that Lyonne had boasted that he pleased the Queen, and he wrote:

If they could make me believe such a thing either I should die of grief or I should go away to the end of the world. If you could see me you would pity me … there are so many things to torment me so that I can hardly bear it. For instance, I know that you have several times asked Lyonne why he does not take the Cardinal's apartments,157 showing your tenderness for him because he gets wet passing through the court. I have endured the horrors of two sleepless nights because of that!

Mazarin spoke passionately of his love; he told the Queen that he was "dying" for her; that his only joy was to read and re-read her letters, and that he "wept tears of blood" when they seemed cold; although, as he said, he knew that no one on earth could break the tie that bound them. We have none of the Queen's answers, but we know that they called forth Mazarin's despairing declaration that he should return to Rome. Three weeks later the Queen caused the King to sign a declaration which the betrayed lover answered by a pathetic letter.

26th September. I have taken my pen ten times to write to you … I could not … I could not … I am so wretched … I am so beside myself at the mortal blow that you have given me, that I do not know that there will be any sense in what I say. By an authenticated act the King and the Queen have declared me a traitor, a public thief, a being inadequate to his office, an enemy to the repose of Christianity… Even now that declaration is sounding all over Europe, and the most faithful, the most devoted Minister, is held up before the world as a scoundrel … an infamous villain. I no longer hope for happiness or for rest. I ask for nothing but my honour. Give that back to me and let them take the rest… Let them strip me, even to my shirt … I will renounce all – cardinalates – benefices, – everything! if I can stand with sustained honour … as I was before I dreamed of your love.

Time passed, and Mazarin regained his senses, "made arrows of all sorts of wood," raised an army, and entered France. As he drew near Poitiers, where the Court was staying, the Queen's heart softened, and when he arrived she had been at her window an hour watching for him.

IV

In 1651 Mademoiselle was busy. She attended all the sessions of Parliament and all the seditious soirées of the Luxembourg. She urged the Frondeurs to violence, and as she was a magnetic speaker, her influence was great. Her leisure was given to the pleasures which Paris offers even in time of revolution. She accompanied the King in his walks and drives; she rode with him to the hunt; whenever he was in Paris they were together. Mademoiselle had again refused the hand of Charles II. of England. Charles was still waiting for his kingdom, but his interest in his future had been awakened; his mind had developed, and he had determined to enter into possession of his States.

Mademoiselle was courted and ardently admired. The people worshipped her, the popular voice echoed the spirit of the "Mazarinades" sung by the street singers. Paris was determined to place her upon the Throne of France. Well employed though her time had been, she had done nothing to distinguish herself, nothing to give her a place among heroines like the Princesse de Condé and the enticing Mme. de Longueville. But the year 1652 was on its way, and it was to bring her her long-awaited glory.

After an unsuccessful attempt to make peace, Condé had again taken the field and called his allies, the Spaniards, to his assistance. He had carried on his parleys as he had carried on his chastisement of the suburbs, and his exactions had confirmed hostilities. Maddened by his failure, he had set out with eyes flaming to break the spirit of the people and to turn the absolute power instituted by Richelieu to his own account. Monsieur sustained him against the King. Retz and a party of Frondeurs were trying to make an alliance with the Queen; they were ready to consent to everything, even to the return of Mazarin. Parliament was working for France upon its own responsibility; it opposed Condé as it opposed Mazarin. Mazarin had bought Turenne and led the army into the West to fight the rebels. Monsieur's appanage, the city of Orléans, was menaced by both parties, and it had called its Prince to its assistance. The people of Orléans had sent word to Paris that either Monsieur or Mademoiselle must go to Orléans at once: "If Monsieur could not go Mademoiselle must take his place." Mademoiselle heard the news and went to the Luxembourg to see her father. She reported her visit thus:

"I found Monsieur very restless. He complained to me that M. le Prince's friends were persecuting him by trying to send him to Orléans; he assured me that to abandon Paris would be to lose our cause. He declared that he would not go."

The evening of the day of the visit thus reported when Mademoiselle was at supper in her own palace, an officer approached her and said in a low voice: "Mademoiselle, we are too happy! it is you who are coming with us to Orléans."

Mademoiselle's joy knew no bounds. She passed the greater part of the night preparing for the journey. In the morning she implored the blessing of God upon her enterprise; and that done, went to the Luxembourg to take leave of her father. She appeared before Monsieur dressed for the campaign and followed by her staff. Under the helmets of her field marshals appeared the bright eyes of women. Inquisitive people, all eager to see Mademoiselle depart for war, had assembled in and around the Luxembourg. Some of Monsieur's friends applauded; others shrugged their shoulders. Monsieur was of too alert a mind to be blind to the ridiculous side of his daughter's chivalry, and though his affections were sluggish, he realised that he had set loose a dangerous spirit. He knew that Mademoiselle was an ardent enemy, that she was impetuous; that she cared nothing for public opinion; when once started what could arrest her progress? His paternalism overcame his prudence, and in a loud, commanding voice he ordered the astonished generals to obey Mademoiselle as if she were himself; then, dragging the most serious officers of his staff into a far corner of the room where Mademoiselle could not hear him, he commanded them to hold his daughter in leash and prevent her from doing anything important "without explicit orders from her father."

Mademoiselle was in high spirits; her fair hair was coiled under her helmet, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes blazed; the records of the day tell us that she was "every inch a handsome queen and soldier," that she was "dressed in grey," and that her habit was "all covered with military lace of pure gold." She took leave of her father amidst the hurrahs of the people, and all through the city her subjects wished her joy, called upon God to bless her arms, or blasphemously proclaimed that such a goddess had no need of the god of the priests. The day following her departure she was met by the escort sent forward in advance of her departure by the generals of the Fronde. She was received by them as chief of the army, and long after that time had passed with all its triumphs, she proudly noted the fact in her memoirs:

"They were in the field and they all saluted me as their leader!"

To prove her authority she arrested the couriers and seized and read their despatches. At Toury, where the greater part of the army of the Fronde was encamped, she presided over the council of war. The council was all that she could have wished it to be, and her advice was considered admirable. After the council Mademoiselle gave orders for the march. In vain the generals repeated her father's last instructions; in vain they begged her to "await the consent of his Royal Highness." She laughed in their faces; she cried "En avant!" with the strength of her young lungs. All the trumpets of her army answered her; the batons of the tambour majors danced before high Heaven; and, fired by such enthusiasm as French soldiers never knew again until the Little Corporal called them to glory, the army of the Fronde took the road, lords, ladies, gallant gentlemen, and raw recruits.

Night saw them gaily marching; the next morning they thundered at the gates of Orléans (27th March, 1652).

Mademoiselle announced her presence, but the gates did not open. From the parapet of the ramparts the garrison rendered her military honours; she threatened, and the Governor of the city sent her bonbons. The people locked in the city hailed her with plaudits, but not a hinge turned. The authorities feared that to let in Mademoiselle would be to open the city to the entire army. Tired of awaiting the pleasure of the provost of the merchants, Mademoiselle, followed by Mesdames de Fiésque and de Frontenac, her field marshals, went round the city close to the walls, searching for some unguarded or weak spot where she might enter. All Orleans climbed upon the walls to watch the progress of the gallant and handsome cavalier-maiden and her aids. It was an adventure! Mademoiselle was happy; she looked up at the people upon the walls and cried merrily, "I may have to break down the gates, or scale the walls, but I will enter!"

Thus, skirting the city close to the walls, the three ladies reached the banks of the river Loire, and the river-men ran up from their boats to meet them, and offered to break in a city gate which opened upon the quay. Mademoiselle thanked them, gave them sums of money, told them to begin their work, and the better to see them climbed upon a wine-butt. She recorded that feat, as she recorded all her feats, for the benefit of posterity: "I climbed the wine-butt like a cat; I caught my hands on all the thorns, and I leaped all the hedges." Her gentlemen, who had followed her closely, surrounded her and implored her to return to her staff. Their importunities exasperated her, and she ordered them back to their places before the principal gates. She animated the river-men to do their best, and they worked with a will. The people within the walls had become impatient, and while the river-men battered at the outside of the gates they battered at the inside. Gangs of men, reinforced by women, formed living wedges to help on the good work. Suddenly a plank gave way and an opening was made. Mademoiselle descended from her lookout, and the river-men gently carried her forward and helped her to enter the city. To quote her own words:

As there was a great deal of very bad dirt on the ground, a valet-de-pied lifted me from the ground and urged me through the opening; and as soon as my head appeared the people began to beat the drums… I heard cries … "Vive le Roi!" "Vive les Princes!" … "Point de Mazarin!" Two men seated me on a wooden chair, and so glad was I … so beside myself with joy, that I did not know whether I was in the chair or on the arm of it! Every one kissed my hands, and I nearly swooned with laughter to find myself in such a pleasant state!

The people were transported with delight; they carried her in procession; a company of soldiers, with drums beating, marched before the procession to clear the way. Mmes. de Fiésque and de Frontenac trudged after their leader through the "quantity of very bad dirt," surrounded by the people, who did not cease to caress them because, as is explicitly stated, "they looked upon the two fairly beautiful ladies as curiosities." The local contemporary chronicles lead us to suppose that the people were not the only ones who indulged in kisses on that occasion; the beautiful Comtesse de Fiésque is said to have kissed the river-men; she was in gallant spirits; la Frontenac finished the last half of her promenade with "one shoe off and one shoe on," though the legendary dumpling supposed to attend a parade in "stocking feet" was lacking.

After events had resumed their regular course, the people wrote and sung a song which was known all over France:

Deux jeunes et belles comtesses,Ses deux maréchales de camp,Suiverent sa royale altesseDont on faisait un grand cancan.Fiésque, cette bonne comtesse!Allait baisant les bateliers;Et Frontenac (quelle detresse!)Y perdit un de ses souliers.

On the way to the Hôtel de Ville the procession met the city authorities, who stood speechless before them. Mademoiselle feigned to believe that they had started to open the gates. She greeted them blandly, listened to their addresses, returned their greetings, and closed a very successful day by sending a triumphant message to her father. One by one her staff had entered by the broken gate, and the generals saluted her with heads low; they were abashed; they had taken no part in the capture of Orleans.

The Orleanists were firm in their refusal to let the army enter the city, and the young general, accepting the situation, ordered her troops to encamp where they were, outside of the chief gates of the city. The following day at seven o'clock in the morning, Mademoiselle, enthroned upon the summit of one of the city's towers, looked down scornfully upon "a quantity of people of the Court" who had hurried after her hoping to share her victory. The people of Orleans were quick to catch the spirit of their Princess; they climbed upon the city walls and jeered at the wornout laggards, and Mademoiselle's cup of joy was full. She looked with delight upon the discomfiture of the belated courtiers and upon the envious tears of the travel-stained ladies.

That day she made her first appearance as an orator. Her memoirs tell us that at first she was "as timid as a girl"; then, regaining her self-possession, she expounded the theories of the Fronde and told the people why the nobles had arisen to deliver the country from the foreigner. When she had said all that she had to say she returned to her quarters. In her absence the Duc de Beaufort had sallied out, attacked a city, and been repulsed. Mademoiselle was indignant; she had not given de Beaufort orders to leave the camp. She called a court-martial to try him for insubordination and breach of discipline. Court was convened very early in the morning, in a wine-shop outside of the city. Despite the long skirts of the field marshals, it was a stormy meeting. Messieurs de Beaufort and de Nemours came to words, and from words to blows. They tore off each other's wigs; they drew their swords. Mademoiselle's hands were full. She passed that day and the night which followed it in strenuous efforts to calm the tumult. All the people within hearing of the mêlée had hastened to the field of action, and being on the spot and in fighting trim, every man had seized his occasion and settled his difficulty with his neighbour, and all, civil and military, had fought equally well.

The 30th, letters of congratulation arrived from Paris. Monsieur wrote: "My daughter, you have saved my appanage, you have assured the peace of Paris; this is the cause of public rejoicing. You are in the mouths of the people. All say that your act did justice to the Granddaughter of Henry the Great." This, from her father, was praise. Condé supplemented it: "It was your work and due to you alone, and it was a move of the utmost importance."

Mademoiselle's officers assured her that she had "the eye of a general," and she accepted as truth all that they told her and considered it all her due. About that time she wrote to some one at Court a letter which she intended for the eyes of the Queen, and in the letter she said in plain words that she intended to espouse the King of France, and that any one – no matter who it might be – would be unwise to attempt to thwart her wishes, because she, Mademoiselle, held it in her power to put affairs in such a state that people would be compelled to beg favours of her on their knees.158 Anne of Austria read the letter and scoffed at it.

Despite her brilliant débuts, Mademoiselle was tired of life. The authorities of Orleans considered her a girl, and no one in the city government honoured her orders. Her account of those days is a record of paroxysms: "I was angry!.. I flew into a passion… I was in a rage… I berated them furiously… I was so angry that I wept!"

Yes, Mademoiselle, whose will had been law to the people of Paris, could not make the people of Orleans obey her. In answer to her commands the town authorities sent her sweetmeats, bonbons, and fair words. When Mademoiselle commanded them, they answered: "Just what Mademoiselle pleases we shall do!" and having given their answer, they acted to please themselves. The general commanding the army of the Fronde was ill-at-ease, sick for Paris, tired of Orleans. She begged to be permitted to leave Orleans, but her father commanded her to remain. He enjoyed her absence. She had tried in vain to persuade him to relieve her of her command; human nature could endure no more; forgetting her first duty as a soldier, she disobeyed orders and joined the army of the Fronde at Étampes (May 2d). The weather was perfect; she had escaped from Orleans, she was on her horse, surrounded by her ladies. All the generals and "a quantity of officers" had gone on before, and she could see them, as in a vision, in the golden dust raised by the feet of their horses; the cannon of the fortified towns thundered, the drums of her own army rolled; she was in her element; she was a soldier! Condé once told her, when speaking of a march which she had ordered, that Gustavus Adolphus could not have done better.

The morning after her arrival at Étampes she went to Mass on foot, preceded by a military band.159 After Mass she presided at a council of war, mounted. After the council she rode down the line and her troops implored her to lead them to battle.

The review over, she turned her horse toward Paris, not knowing that Turenne had planned to circumvent the army of the Fronde. Turenne knew that the presence of the Amazons distracted the young generals, and he considered the moment favourable to his advance. Near Bourg la Reine Condé appeared, followed by his staff. Immediately after his return from the South he had set out for Étampes to salute the General-in-Chief of the army of the Fronde.

The people had missed their Princess. In her absence they had rehearsed the sorrows of her life, and she had become doubly dear to them; they had magnified her trials and idealised her virtues; they had gloried in her exploits. Relaying one another along the road beyond the city's gates, they had waited for her coming. At last, after many days, the outposts of the canaille descried the upright grey figure followed by the glittering general staff and guarded by the staff of Condé.

The beloved of the people, insulted by the Queen, despoiled by the Queen's lover of the right of woman to a husband, imprisoned and forsaken by her father in her hour of need, had risen above humanity! She had been a heroine, she had forgiven all her enemies, had captured Orleans, had assured the safety of her own city, – and now she had come home! They laid their cheeks to the flanks of her horse; they clasped the folds of her habit; and a cry arose from their wasted throats that scared the wild doves in the blighted woods along the highway. Mademoiselle had come home! "Vive Anne-Marie-Louise, la petite-fille de la France!"

Anne-Marie-Louise d'Orléans, Duchesse de Montpensier, who had taken a stronghold unaided save by a few boatmen, heard thanksgiving on all hands, and to crown her joy – for she loved to dance – the city gave a great fête in her honour. But there was one bitter drop in her cup: her father had been made sick by her arrival. He dared not punish her in the face of the people's joy; but he retired to his bed and abandoned himself to the pangs of colic and, when Mademoiselle, flushed with pride, arrived at the Luxembourg, he refused to see her; he sent word to her to "Begone!" he was "too sick to talk of affairs of State."

Monsieur had cares of various species. Condé and his associates had forced him to take a prominent position in politics, and his terror of possible consequences made his life a torment. Condé was deep in treasonable plots. He had returned from his Southern expedition flaming with anger; he had goaded the people to the verge of fury, and reduced Parliament to such a state that it had adjourned its assemblies without mention of further sessions. He had made all possible concessions to the foreigners; he had so terrified Monsieur that the unhappy Prince saw an invasion in every corner. But Gaston had still another master; he had fallen a victim to the machinations of the wily Retz. For reasons of his own, the Archbishop's coadjutor had found it expedient to familiarise Monsieur with the canaille, and he had so impressed the people with the idea that "d'Orléans" sympathised with them that they fawned upon Gaston and dogged his footsteps. An incoming and outgoing tide of ignoble people thronged the Luxembourg. Monsieur's visitors were the lowest of the mobility, and they forced their way even into his bed-chamber. They sat by him while his coiffeur dressed his hair, they assisted at his colics, and officiously dropped sugar in his café-au-lait. Among his visitors were ex-convicts, half-grown daughters of the pavement, and street urchins, and they all offered him advice, sympathised with him, urged him to take courage, and assured him of their protection, until Gaston, helpless in his humiliation, writhed in his bed. When he had been alone and free from the sharp scrutiny of his natural critic, his daughter, his lot had been hard, but with Mademoiselle at hand it was torment. Mademoiselle was a general of the army; she had taken her father's place; she felt that her exploits had given her the right to speak freely, and one day when she visited Madame (she told the story herself), she "rated her like a dog." Madame was in her own apartment; she studied her complaints, sipped her "tisanes," swathed her head in aromatised linen, and neither saw nor heard the droning of the throngs who buzzed like flies about her husband.

It is worthy of note that the princes did not forecast the future. Reason ought to have shown them that the revolution would sweep them away as it swept all else should not Royalty intervene in their behalf. The Canaille was mistress of the streets, and her means was always violent. Her leaders were strong men. In 1651 she had her Marats and her Héberts, who used their pens to incite France to massacre; and her Maillards, who urged her on to pillage the homes of the nobility and to fell, as an ox is felled in the shambles, all, however innocent, whom it served their purpose to call suspicious. Such men did bloody work, and they did not ask what the nobles thought of it. Insolent, on fire with hate, lords of a day! they sprang from the slimy ooze with the first menace of Revolution to vanish with the Revolution when the last head rolled in the sawdust; cruel, but useful instruments, used by immutable Justice to avenge the wrongs of a tormented people!