Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2). Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ whole bearing is of one who would say, "I must do this, but I defy you." She knows that all the gentlemen take part with her, if the ladies side with her enemy. She walks straight up to the dais on which the Duchesse de Longueville, née Princesse de Condé, stands, stops, looks her full in the face, then leisurely and with the utmost unconcern casts her eyes round on the company, smiles sweetly to the Duc de Beaufort, and bows to those princes and nobles who are her champions, particularly to the Ducs d'Orléans and de Guise. Then she unfolds her painted fan, and with insolent unconcern reads what follows from a slip of pink paper attached to one of the jewelled sticks:

      "Madame, I come here to assure your highness that I am quite innocent of any intention of injuring you. Had it not been so I would humbly beg your pardon, and willingly submit to any punishment her Majesty might see fit to impose on me. I entreat you, therefore, to believe that I have never failed in the esteem which your virtues command, nor in the respect due to your high rank."

      The Duchesse de Longueville's soft blue eyes, usually incapable of any other expression but tenderness or supplication, look absolutely wicked, so defiant is the bearing of Madame de Montbazon. She advances to the edge of the estrade, draws herself up with an imperious air, and casting a haughty glance at her rival, who, crimson in the face, is fanning herself violently and ogling the Duc de Beaufort, reading also from her fan, pronounces the following words, dictated by Cardinal Mazarin:

      "Madame, I am willing to believe that you took no part in the calumny which has been circulated to my prejudice. I make this acknowledgment in deference to the commands of the Queen."

      Thus ends the quarrel; but not the consequences. The whole Court and city is in an uproar. The citizens are deeply interested, and to a man take part with the chère amie of Beaufort against the Duchesse de Longueville, and against Condé and Mazarin.

      Condé is not sure if he will not after all lead the Spaniards against France. The Duchesse de Montbazon feeds the flame for her private ends. She lays all the blame of her humiliation on Cardinal Mazarin, which exasperates Beaufort to madness. She incites Henri, Duc de Guise, another of her adorers – the wildest, bravest, and most dissolute of princes – to challenge the Comte de Coligni, whom she had designated as the writer of one of the love-letters. A duel is fought in the Place Royale. The Duchesse de Montbazon watches the while out of a window of the palace of the Duc de Rohan, her cousin. Coligni is killed. He falls, it is said, into the arms of the Duchesse de Longueville, who is present on the Place, disguised as a page.

      The Duc de Beaufort, whose turbulent folly foreshadows the grand seigneur of later reigns and almost excuses the great Revolution, refuses to receive a royal herald, sent to him by the Queen, turns his back upon her Majesty at her lever, and threatens the life of the Cardinal. The Duchesse de Montbazon is banished.

       CHAPTER IX.

      THE DUC DE BEAUFORT

      THE Duc de Beaufort is summoned to a private audience at the Louvre. On his way up the grand staircase entering from the inner quadrangle he meets his mother, the Duchesse de Vendôme, and his sister, the Duchesse de Nemours, who, their attendance on the Queen over, are descending.

      "Good God! Francis," cries his mother, raising her hands with a gesture of horror, "I thought you were safe at Rambouillet. You within the Louvre at this moment? You must be mad!" And she throws herself upon him and tries to bar his further passage.

      "Oh, my brother!" exclaims his sister Nemours, in the same breath, throwing her arms around his neck; "in the name of the Holy Virgin, do not tempt your fate. Fly, dear Francis – fly, while you can – our coach is waiting below – come with us instantly." And Madame de Nemours takes him by the arm, and tries to draw him downwards.

      Beaufort plants himself firmly on the stair. His first impulse is to push them both forcibly aside, and to proceed; his next to curse their folly in the spicy argot of the halles. He does neither; but stands open-mouthed, his fierce eyes demanding an explanation he does not condescend to ask. The explanation is soon forthcoming.

      "My son," cries his mother, bursting into tears, and seizing on his hand to detain him, as he makes a motion as if to evade them, "listen to me, I implore you. Your sister and I have been in waiting on the Queen many hours to-day. She is terribly incensed against you. People have been coming all day with tales to her here, at the Louvre. Crowds have filled her audience chamber."

      "Mille Diables! What do you mean, mother?" bursts out Beaufort, shaking himself free from both ladies. "You call me mad, if any one be mad it is yourselves. I am here, summoned by the Queen herself, to a private audience. Ventre de ma vie!" – Beaufort much affects some of the favourite oaths of his grandfather, Henri Quatre – "what are her Majesty's humours to me?"

      "Oh, Francis," sobs the Duchesse de Nemours, "what have you done? You have threatened the life of Cardinal Mazarin. The Queen knows it. She has sent for you to secure your person. She can have no other motive. Nothing can exceed her indignation. She said, in my hearing, that you had personally insulted her; that your party, the Importants, were the curse of her reign; and that the Duchesse de Montbazon corrupted the princes of the blood by her intrigues. In the name of Heaven, do not venture near her Majesty if you value your liberty, or even your life!"

      The Duchesse de Vendôme wrings her hands while her daughter is speaking.

      "For my sake, quit Paris, my dear son. If you remain, not even Gondi can save you. Come with us instantly, and cross the frontier while you can."

      Her words are broken; she trembles at her son's manifest danger; Beaufort looks at her, shakes his head, and bursts into a loud laugh.

      "You are a couple of lunatics, both of you" – and again he laughs – "I shall not leave Paris; I will not even hide myself. Calm yourself, mother," – and he kisses her on the cheek – "her Majesty has summoned me to a private audience. I shall obey her. She is no traitress. I have been guilty of rudeness towards her. I go to wipe out the remembrance of it. I am rough, but not brutal, especially to the Queen. Besides, they dare not arrest me." 1

      Saying which, he pushes his mother and sister, who still endeavour to stop him, on one side, and bounds up the stairs.

      It is evening. Anne of Austria is alone in a spacious withdrawing-room, from which her private writing-closet opens. Four lofty windows turn towards the river – one is open. She sits beside it, gazing at the dazzling tints of the summer sunset that lace the western heavens with bars of fire. In front rise the double towers of Notre-Dame. The fretted spire of the Sainte-Chapelle glistens against a bank of heavy clouds that are rapidly welling up from the south. These clouds deepen with the twilight. The lustre of a stormy sunset soon fades out. The sun disappears, and darker and denser clouds gather and thicken, and obscure the light. Low thunder rumbles in the distance, and a few heavy raindrops descend. Long shadows fall across the floor, the corners of the room grow dark, and only a few bright gleams, lingering low on the horizon, rest on the Queen's face and figure.

      Anne of Austria has now passed into middle life; her form is full, her movements heavy. The glorious eyes are still lustrous, but no longer flash with the fire of youth. Her hair, though still abundant, has lost its glossy brightness. Her dress is rich, her bearing cold and stately. She affects a distant, almost a haughty manner, and is severe in exacting the most rigid etiquette from all who approach her, save alone the Cardinal. He comes and goes as he lists, smiling and obsequious, but no longer humble or subservient as of yore. Indeed, at times he treats her Majesty with absolute familiarity, to the utter dismay of the Duchesse de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle de Hautefort. When not engaged with Mazarin in state affairs, or in giving audiences, the Queen passes her time in her oratory. Not only is she devout herself, but exacts at all events the same outward show of piety from her СКАЧАТЬ