Christina’s Modes and Robes—Encumbering Favour—A Comedy at the Petit-Bourbon—The Liberty of the Queen and the Liberty of the Subject—Tears and Absolutions—The Tragedy in the Galérie des Cerfs—Disillusions.
Christina, ex-Queen of Sweden, was not more nice in style of dress than she was in the choice of a word to add strength to her affirmations, and “sacré-bleu” was a mild sponsor for the swear-word she really selected on the occasion. The startling force of it, combined with the extraordinary costume she wore, excited an irrepressible burst of laughter from the queen and from Mazarin, and all present followed suit—all but the king, who looked disconcerted and rebukeful.
Christina wore a wig, standing up high over her forehead, with tufts of curls sticking out, all rough and tousled, on each side of her face, which was, however, far from really ill-looking. She had on a coat, which was a cross between a man’spourpointand a woman’s cape, put on so carelessly that it left one shoulder half-exposed. Her skirt was not cutà la modeinto a long train; it was merely a round petticoat, so short as to afford ample display of leg. A man’s shirt and a man’s boots completed this costume, in which the great King of Sweden’s daughter presented herself to the Majesties of France.
She met the risible gaze of the Court with displeasure,and inquired what they were all staring at. “Am I humpbacked?” she demanded, “or aren’t my legs well-shaped?” The king, with courtly good-nature, threw oil on the troubled waters, and Christina was pacified, observing that Louis spoke like the king and gentleman he was. “And as for you others,” she added to the rest, “mind yourselves.”
Ninon, who was indisposed, was not present at this scene; but recovering some days later, she went to the Louvre, where, thanks to her friend Madame de Choisy, she came and went constantly; and as she passed along a gallery leading to that lady’s apartments she met Madame de Choisy and Christina, who was attired in very much the same manner as already described, but slightly lessoutré.
The queen was fascinated at first sight with Ninon. She placed her two hands on her shoulders and gazed long and fixedly into her face. “Now I understand, my dear,” she said at last, “all the follies the men commit, and will commit for you. Embrace me,” and she bestowed two such sounding kisses on Ninon’s cheeks, as she had bestowed on the king’s. Then taking her by the arm, she led her to her own assigned apartments, at the door of which stood two bearded men, one of them Count Monaldeschi, her Grand Master of the Horse, the other the successor of the redoubtable Desmousseaux, the Chevalier Sentinelli, captain of her guard.
Some time before her visit to Paris, Christina had abdicated, declaring that the formalities andrestrictions of the existence of a crowned queen were unendurable, the cares of a kingdom rendered life a slavery, and she desired perfect liberty. The liberty she sought for herself, however, she in no wise extended to others; for while she renounced her claims to her inherited kingdom, she reserved to herself absolute and supreme authority, with the right of life and death over all who should enter her service or be of her suite. Then, a Protestant born, she joined the Catholic communion. It was probably a mere caprice; for she did not spare her coarse witticisms on the newly-adopted faith, and very soon she contrived so seriously to offend the College of Cardinals that she was forced to leave Rome, which she had entered on horseback, dressed almost like a man. After a while she had come to France, and probably somewhat impressed with the elegancies of the Court, she made some modification of the hideous attire she had first appeared in. When Ninon first met her in the Louvre gallery, Her Majesty wore a grey petticoat skirt of decent length, trimmed with gold and silver lace, a scarlet camlet coat, her wig was of the unvarying pale yellow hue, and she carried a handkerchief of costly lace, and a broad-brimmed hat, plumed with black ostrich feathers. With her white skin, her aquiline nose and fine teeth, she would have made a very presentable boy.
She was very voluble, and her immeasurable admiration of Ninon to her face, was almost disconcerting, even to one so very well accustomed to compliments. At last, the subject being exhausted,the ex-queen fell to asking all sorts of questions about the king, the queen, the cardinal, the new palace at Versailles, the Italian Opera. Then she had much to say about her own country and her abdication; about Descartes, who had died at her Court a victim to the climate; about Count Monaldeschi, with whom, she confided to Ninon, she was on terms of very close intimacy, and about a hundred other things.
During Christina’s stay in Paris, Ninon had the delight of seeing again that most dear friend and protégé of hers, Molière, after his long absence in the provinces. Christina was with Ninon when he arrived, and as he and his company were to play that same night theCocu Imaginaire, at the Petit-Bourbon, it was arranged that the two ladies should be present.
Christina had the appetite of an ogress, and before they started for the theatre, she did ample justice to the handsome repast Perrote served up. Then Her ex-Majesty summoned her captain of the Guards, and Grand Master of the Horse—who had been regaled in another room on turkey and other dainties, and they repaired to the Petit-Bourbon.
The evening proved anything but enjoyable to Ninon. A market-woman would have comported herself more decently than this eccentric, semi-barbarous royal person. She greeted the sallies of the actors with loud shouts of laughter, and used language that was rankly blasphemous; while she wriggled and lolled in her chair, and stretched her feet out among the footstools and cushions, inappalling fashion. It was in vain Ninon respectfully intimated that the eyes of everybody were upon them; Christina’s only reply was to beg her to let her laugh as much as ever she wanted.
The queen’s liking for Ninon grew embarrassing. Six months of her constant society were almost more than the most good-natured tolerance could endure, and for that length of time the favour of the queen’s presence was bestowed on Paris. Then Cardinal Mazarin, also more than tired of her, entertaining moreover, suspicions that she was brewing political mischief, contrived to tempt her to seek change of air and scene at Fontainebleau.
Christina caught the wily cardinal’s bait. Very well—yes, it was a good idea. She had a great desire to see the renowned palace that Francis I. had loved so well, and to Fontainebleau, to the relief of Ninon and of divers other people, the ex-queen went: not to remain long, however. One morning, at a very early hour, the Chevalier Sentinelli arrived at the rue des Tournelles and informed Ninon that she was wanted at the Palais Royal, by his royal mistress, who had returned to Paris.
It was useless to devise some excuse for not obeying the summons—invitation, or what it might be—for that was only to bring the queen herself to the rue des Tournelles; and so to the Palais Royal Ninon went, to find Christina stretched upon a miserable pallet-bed, with an evil-smelling, just-extinguished candle on the table beside her. A serviette did duty for a night-cap, tied round her head, which was denuded of everyhair; for she had had it shaved close on the previous night. Christina presented a strangely grotesque and wretchedly miserable picture. Seizing Ninon by both hands, she told her that she was suffering the deepest agony of mind—a grief that was horrible—and begged her to stay by her. At this moment, Sentinelli entered, and a whispered conversation ensued. “Oh, they will prevent me?” she cried then. “They will prevent me, will they? Let them dare. Am I not a queen? Have I not a right to high justice? Very well, then,” she went on, when again Sentinelli had bent to whisper again. “We must dissimulate. I will go back to Fontainebleau. There at least, I can do as I please,” and she prevailed on Ninon to accompany her. And there in the Galérie des Cerfs at Fontainebleau the hideous tragedy was enacted. The farce of this woman’s daily life fades out in the thought of her ferocity and revengeful instincts. Monaldeschi had offended her: he had done worse, he had been treacherous towards her. Pitiless, with eyes glittering with rage and hatred, she stood in the Galérie, where the fading daylight was illumined by the flare of the torches held by her pages, and taxed the wretched culprit—pleading for mercy at her feet—with his crimes; but it was not accorded; “Ah, let me live!” he entreated—“let me live!”
And Ninon, who had dreaded something, but was utterly unprepared for such a frightful scene, joined her entreaties to his and to those of his confessor, the monk Lebel. “Ah, no! A woman,” she sobbed, “cannot give an order for this man to die.”
“I am not a woman,” replied Christina; “I am a queen, and I have the right to punish a traitor.” She gave the signal. There was a fearful struggle, the flash of Sentinelli’s sword, an agonised cry, a crimson stream upon the floor—and then the silence of death.
It had been with extreme reluctance that Ninon had accompanied the queen to Fontainebleau; but for all Christina’s enigmatical and elaborate preparations before starting, any conception of her murderous intentions did not occur to Ninon. She had grown accustomed to the royal lady’s freaks and eccentricities. On this occasion, Christina had sent for a confessor, and having attired herself from head to foot in black, she knelt before him when he arrived, and first desiring Ninon not to leave the apartment, but to seat herself in a distant corner of it, she muttered out to the perplexed-looking Bishop of Amiens—whom she had sent for, he staying at that time at the Tuileries, spending a kind of brief retreat—what she had to say.
It occupied some five minutes, and as she proceeded, an expression of deep discomfiture and perplexity overspread the bishop’s face. He gave her a hurried absolution, and departed, while Christina went to the chapel of the Feuillants and communicated. All these pious preparations had disarmed Ninon of any extreme of uncomfortable suspicion she might have entertained. Christina could not possibly be nursing any evil intentions—while Ninon was a woman, and curiosity had impelled her to Fontainebleau, to see what was the end of the affair, and find out the cause of such floods of tears.
In the coach with them were Monaldeschi and Sentinelli. To the first she did not address a single word throughout the journey. It was nearing five o’clock, and night was shadowing in, when they arrived; and when they had had supper, Christina commanded Monaldeschi to go to the Galérie des Cerfs, where she would presently come to him. Then she bade Sentinelli follow the count, and motioning Ninon to accompany her, she proceeded between two rows of Swiss Guards, armed with halberds tied about with black crape, to the Galérie. Now thoroughly fearful, Ninon had followed with trembling limbs. “In Heaven’s name,” she faltered, “what does this mean, Madame?—something terrible is about to happen.” With an evil smile Christina threw open the double doors, disclosing Monaldeschi, with his hands fast bound, kneeling at the feet of Lebel, whose features were ghastly with consternation at the task imposed on him, of hearing the doomed man’s confession.
At sight of Christina, Monaldeschi turned, and his agonised cry for pardon rang through the Galérie; but there was no mercy in that hideously hate-distorted face; and so, in cold blood, the murder was perpetrated, and out into the darkness Ninon rushed, calling for a carriage to bear her from the terrible place, heedless of the queen’s gibes and endeavours to persuade her at least to remain till morning. It was nothing—what she had done, she said; “only a traitor had received his deserts, and the world was well rid of him.”
But the coach drew up, and Ninon fled into itsshelter, never stopping till she reached home. There she took to her bed in a high state of fever, having ever before her the terrible scene of blood at Fontainebleau, and for three weeks she remained prostrated by the memory of it. She never saw Christina again, neither did Paris. Though the Court took no proceedings against her—insult to hospitality as her act was, all other considerations apart—she was avoided, and regarded with loathing, and she planned for herself a visit to England. But Cromwell had already supped full of murder. The image of it was sufficiently haunting, and the endeavours of his conscience to make peace with Heaven before he died were not to be disturbed by the presence of such a woman. He turned his face from her instead, and Christina betook herself to Rome, where she fell deep in debt, and quarrelled fiercely with the pope.
Overweening ambition was the bane of this undoubtedlyclever woman. In the murder at Fontainebleau, it is thought that vanity and the love of power tempted her to display what she was pleased to regard as a full length of it. Exactly the nature of Monaldeschi’s offence remains unexplained. Christina said he had grossly betrayed her, and some assert that it was politically he had done so; but it seems more probable that he was a traitor in love. She defended herself by saying that she had reserved every right of life and death over all who were in her service. The atrocious deed caused a sensation in Paris; especially amongthose of whom the ex-queen had been a guest, and Anne of Austria sent for Ninon to relate all the details of her fearful experience at Fontainebleau.
The chief topic of conversation and speculation now was the marriage of the young king. It was well known that Mazarin hoped to crown his successful ambitions, by marrying his niece, Marie Mancini, to Louis, and that Anne of Austria was as strongly opposed to any such alliance was equally well-known. It was her wish and her will that Louis should wed the Infanta Maria Théresa. Any thwarting of this project, the queen vowed, should bring about the setting aside of Louis, and placing her second son on the throne of France in his stead—“La reine le veut.” Mazarin had to bite the dust. The preliminaries for the Spanish marriage were set on foot. The French and Spanish emissaries met on the Isle of Pheasants. Poor Marie Mancini, who had a sincere affection for her young royal admirer, was sent out of the way for a month into the convent of the Daughters of Calvary, which was hard by Ninon’s house. Louis whispered in her ear at parting, that if the king was separated from her, the man would never cease to think of her. Then he whistled to his dogs, and with his courtly train went hunting in the woods of Chambord. So ended the love-story of Mazarin’s niece, Marie Mancini. So much “for the snows of yester year”; but there had been warm affection between Ninon and the young girl, and they parted with many tears.