‘Madame,’ Lenet whispered. ‘Your Highness’s illness would be a blessing from heaven if you were not suffering so much. Take to your bed and spread the rumour of this illness. You, Madame,’ he went on, turning to the young princess, ‘have them call for your doctor, Bourdelot, and since we are going to have to requisition the stables and the equipment, let it be known everywhere that you intend to hunt a deer in the park. In that way, no one will be surprised to see a bustling of men, weapons and horses.’
‘You do it, Lenet. But how is it that a man as far-sighted as you has not realized that people might be amazed at this odd hunt, taking place at the very moment when my mother-in-law falls ill?’
‘That’s all arranged, Madame. Isn’t the day after tomorrow the Duke d’Enghien’s seventh birthday, and so the day when he leaves the care of women?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we say that the hunt is being given to mark the young prince’s first knee-breeches and that Her Highness was so insistent that her illness should not interrupt this solemn occasion that you had to give in to her entreaties.’
‘Excellent idea!’ the dowager exclaimed with a happy smile, in pride at the first proclamation of her grandson’s manhood. ‘Yes, it is a good excuse, and you, Lenet, are indeed a good and worthy counsellor.’
‘But will the Duke d’Enghien be in a carriage then to follow the hunt?’ the princess asked.
‘No, on horseback. Oh, don’t let your maternal heart feel any anxiety. I have designed a little saddle that his groom, Vialas, will put in front of the pommel of his own and in this way the Duke d’Enghien will be seen. That evening, we can leave safely, because whether he’s on foot or on horseback, the duke will be able to go anywhere, while if he were in a carriage, he would be stopped at the first barrier.’
‘So when do you think we should leave?’
‘The day after tomorrow in the evening, Madame, if Your Highness has no reason to delay this departure.’
‘No, on the contrary, let’s escape from our prison as soon as possible, Lenet.’
‘And once you are out of Chantilly, what will you do?’ the dowager asked.
‘We shall go through Monsieur de Saint-Aignan’s army, finding some way to pull a blindfold over his eyes. We shall join Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld and his escort and arrive in Bordeaux where we are expected. Once in the second city in the kingdom, the capital of the south, we can either negotiate or make war, as Your Highnesses prefer; however, I have the honour to remind you, Madame, that even in Bordeaux we shall not have a hope of holding out for long if we do not have a few strongholds around us that will force the royal troops into a diversion. Two of these sites will be of particular importance: Vayres, which commands the Dordogne and allows supplies to reach the town, and the Ile Saint-Georges, which is considered by the people of Bordeaux themselves as the key to their town. But we can think about that later. For the moment, let us just consider getting out of here.’
‘Nothing will be easier, I think,’ said the princess. ‘We are alone and in charge here, whatever you say, Lenet.’
‘Don’t count on anything, Madame, before you are in Bordeaux. Nothing is easy against the diabolical mind of Monsieur de Mazarin, and if I waited for us to be alone before telling Your Highnesses of my plan, it was to leave my conscience clear, I assure you, because at this very moment, I fear for the security of the project that my head alone dreamed up and that your ears alone have just heard. Monsieur de Mazarin does not learn news, he guesses it.’
‘Well, I defy him to frustrate this,’ said the princess. ‘But let us help my mother-in-law to go back to her apartment. I shall then immediately spread the story of our hunting party the day after tomorrow. You look after the invitations, Lenet.’
‘You can count on me, Madame.’
The dowager returned to her room and got into bed. Bourdelot, the doctor of the Condé family and tutor to the Duke d’Enghien, was called. The news of this unexpected illness at once spread through Chantilly, and in half an hour the groves, the galleries and the lawns were deserted, the guests of the two princesses hastening to the dowager’s antechamber.
Lenet spent the whole day writing, and that same evening more than fifty invitations were taken in all directions by the many servants of this royal house.
XIII
The day after next, which was intended to see the accomplishment of Pierre Lenet’s plans, was one of the darkest days of spring, that season generally called the finest of the year, yet which is almost always the most disagreeable, particularly in France.
The rain was falling, fine, but dense, across the lawns of Chantilly, cutting through a grey mist that blurred the flowerbeds in the garden and the woods in the park. In the huge courtyards, lined up beside the posts to which they were tethered, fifty horses waited, ready saddled, their ears lowered, their eyes sad, impatiently scraping their hooves on the ground. Packs of hounds on leashes were waiting, grouped twelve by twelve, exhaling noisily amid long yawns and trying, by a joint effort, to pull away the attendant who was holding them, wiping the rain-soaked ears of his favourites.
Here and there, the whippers-in, with their buff uniforms, were walking around with their hands behind their backs and their hunting horns hanging on straps. A few officers, hardened to bad weather by the army camps at Rocroi and Lens, braved the downpour and relieved the tedium of waiting by chatting in groups on the terraces and steps.
Each of them knew that this was a ceremonial occasion and had put on a solemn air to see the Duke d’Engien dressed in his first knee-breeches, hunting his first deer. Every officer in the prince’s service and every client of the illustrious family, invited by Lenet’s circular letter, had accomplished what he considered a duty by hurrying to Chantilly. Their initial fears for the health of the dowager princess were dispelled by a favourable report from Bourdelot: the princess had been bled and that same morning taken an emetic, the universal panacea at the time.
By ten o’clock, all the personal guests of Madame de Condé had arrived. Each had been introduced on presentation of a letter, and those who happened to have lost this, but were recognized by Lenet, were ushered in by a sign from him to the footman. Together with the family servants, these made a party of eighty or ninety people, most of whom were crowded around the magnificent white horse, which, almost with pride it seemed, in front of its great, French-style saddle, bore a little velvet seat with a back for the young Duke d’Enghien, who would take his place there when his groom, Vialas, had mounted into the main saddle.
Meanwhile, no one was talking about the hunt; they seemed to be expecting some other guests.
At half past ten, three gentlemen, followed by six valets, all armed to the teeth and carrying bags so full that you would imagine they were going on a round tour of Europe, rode into the castle and, seeing posts in the courtyard that appeared to have been set up for that purpose, went to tie up their horses at them.
At once, a man dressed in blue, with a silver baldric, went up with his halberd in his hand to accost the newcomers, who, from their rain-soaked harness and their mud-stained boots, could be seen to be long-distance travellers.
‘Where are you from, gentlemen?’ asked this kind of doorkeeper, crossing his body with his halberd.
‘From the north,’ said one of the horsemen.
‘And where are you going?’
‘To the burial.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘You can see our crape.’
And indeed, each of the three had a black ribbon tied to his sword.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ replied the doorman. ‘The castle is at your disposal. There is a table laid, a heated gallery and footmen, who await your orders. As for your servants, they will be looked after in the pantry.’
The three honest countrymen, hungry and inquisitive, bowed, dismounted, threw the reins of their horses into the hands of their grooms and, having been shown the direction of the dining room, headed in that direction. A chambe
rlain was waiting for them at the door and guided them in.
Meanwhile the horses were taken out of the hands of the foreign grooms by those of the house, led to the stables, combed, brushed, rubbed down and put beside a trough full of oats and a rack full of hay.
Hardly had the three gentlemen sat down at table, than six other horsemen, followed by six lackeys, armed and equipped just like those that we described earlier, rode in as they had done, and, like them, seeing the posts, went to tie up their horses to the rings. But the man with the halberd, who had strict instructions, came over and asked them the same questions.
‘Where are you from?’
‘From Picardy. We are officers in Turenne.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the burial.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘You can see our crape.’
Like the previous party, they showed the ribbons hanging from the hilts of their swords.
After them, four others arrived, and the same scene was played out again.
From half past ten to midday, two by two and four by four, or five by five, alone or in groups, magnificently dressed or plainly, but all well mounted, well armed and well equipped, a hundred riders arrived, were questioned by the halberdier in the same manner and replied in the same way as to where they had come from, adding that they were going to the burial and showing their crape.
When finally all had dined and got to know each other, while their servants were taking refreshment and their horses resting, Lenet came into the room where they had gathered and said: ‘Gentlemen, the princess thanks you through me for the honour you have done her by stopping here on your way to see the Duke de La Rochefoucauld, who is waiting for you to celebrate the funeral of his father. Consider this house as your own home and please join us for an entertaining hunt, which has been arranged for this afternoon for the Duke d’Enghien, who today takes his first knee-breeches.’
A murmur of flattering approval and thanks greeted this first part of Lenet’s speech: being a skilled orator, he had paused in his address at this particular point.
‘After the hunt,’ he continued, ‘you will take supper with the princess, who wishes to thank you herself, and after that you will be free to continue on your way.’
A few of the listeners paid particular attention to the details of this programme, which seemed rather to limit their freedom of choice, but they had no doubt been warned by the Duke de La Rochefoucauld to expect something of the sort, because no one protested. Some went to look at their horses, others turned to their luggage so that they could make themselves worthy to appear before the princess, while still others remained at the table, talking about the news of the day which, given recent events, seemed to have a certain uniformity.
Many of them walked around under the great balcony, on which, once he was prepared, the Duke d’Enghien was due to appear, having been for the last time entrusted to the care of women. The young prince, in his apartment surrounded by nursemaids and his rocking chairs, was unaware of his own importance. He was, however, already full of aristocratic pride and looked impatiently at the rich, yet austere costume in which he was to be dressed for the first time: a coat of black velvet embroidered with unpolished silver thread, which gave his dress the sombre look of mourning, because his mother wanted above all to be considered a widow and had thought of inserting the words ‘poor orphan prince’ into a speech she had made.
But it was not the prince who was looking most covetously at these magnificent clothes, the mark of his long-awaited coming of age. A couple of yards from him, another child, a few months at most older than he, with rosy cheeks and blond hair, bursting with health, strength and high spirits, was eagerly staring at the splendour surrounding his more fortunate companion. Several times already, unable to contain his curiosity, he had dared go over to the chair on which the fine clothes were set out and had slyly felt the cloth and stroked the embroidery, while the little prince was looking in the other direction. But the Duke d’Enghien did once happen to look back in time to catch him, and Pierrot’s hand was removed too slowly.
‘Take care!’ the little prince said sharply. ‘Take care, Pierrot, or you’ll spoil my breeches. It’s embroidered velvet, you see… it loses its bloom when you touch it. I won’t let you touch my knee-breeches.’
Pierrot hid the guilty hand behind his back, twisting his shoulders backwards and forwards with that movement of annoyance that is common to all children, whatever their class.
‘Don’t be angry, Louis,’ the princess said to her son, whose face was twisted into a rather ugly snarl. ‘If Pierrot touches your clothes again, we’ll have him whipped.’
Pierrot changed his pout into something more threatening and said: ‘Monseigneur is a prince, but I’m a gardener. And if Monseigneur won’t let me touch his clothes, I’ll stop him playing with my guinea fowl. Huh! And I’m stronger than Monseigneur, as he well knows…’
Hardly had he spoken these rash words than the prince’s nursemaid, Pierrot’s mother, grasped the unruly infant by the wrist and told him: ‘Pierrot, you’re forgetting that Monseigneur is your master and the lord of everything in this château and around it, so that means your guinea fowl belong to him.’
‘Huh!’ said Pierrot. ‘And I thought he was my brother.’
‘I was his wet nurse, so he’s your foster brother…’
‘So, if he’s my brother, we should share things, and if my guinea fowl belong to him, then his clothes belong to me.’
The nursemaid was about to reply by demonstrating the difference between a true brother and a foster brother, but the young prince, who wanted Pierrot present to witness his triumph – because Pierrot was the person whose admiration and envy he chiefly wanted to excite – did not give her time.
‘Don’t worry, Pierrot,’ he said. ‘I’m not angry with you, and you’ll soon see me on my fine white horse and my pretty little saddle. I’m going out hunting, and I’m the one who’ll kill the deer!’
‘Oh, yes?’ said the disrespectful Pierrot, in the most impertinent tone of irony. ‘You’ll stay on horseback a long time, I should think! The other day you tried to get up on my donkey, and it threw you off.’
‘Yes,’ said the young prince with all the majesty that he could summon up and recall from memory. ‘But today I’m representing my papa, and I won’t fall off… Anyway, Vialas will have his arms round me.’
‘Come now, come,’ said the princess, to cut short this discussion between Pierrot and the Duke d’Enghien. ‘Come on, let’s get the prince dressed! One o’clock has struck, and all our gentlemen are waiting impatiently. Lenet, get them to sound the start.’
XIV
At the same moment, the sound of the horn echoed outside in the courtyards and rang through all the rooms in the château. So everyone hurried to mount his horse, fresh and rested thanks to the care that had been taken of it. The master with his bloodhounds and the whippers-in with their packs set out first. Then the gentlemen formed a row and the Duke d’Enghien, mounted on his white horse and supported by his groom Vialas, appeared surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, grooms and gentlemen, and followed by his mother, splendidly dressed and riding on a jet-black horse. Near her, on a horse that she handled with elegant charm, was the Viscountess de Cambes, lovely to see in women’s clothes, to which she had finally reverted, much to her own delight.
As for Madame de Tourville, people had been looking in vain for her since the previous day. She had disappeared: like Achilles, she had retired to her tent.69
This brilliant procession was greeted with cheering on all sides. Some were standing up in their stirrups, pointing out the princess and the Duke d’Enghien, who were unknown to most of these gentlemen since they had never been at court and were unaccustomed to all this royal pomp and ceremony. The child responded with his delightful smile and the princess with gentle majesty: they were the wife and son of the man whom even his enemies called the first captain in Europe. This same first
captain was hunted down, persecuted and imprisoned by the very people whom he had saved from the enemy at Lens and defended against the rebels at Saint-Germain. This was more than enough to excite enthusiasm, so the enthusiasm was at its height.
The princess wallowed in all this evidence of her popularity. Then, in response to a few words whispered by Lenet in her ear, she gave the signal for the hunt to start and the party soon passed from the gardens into the park, where all the gates were guarded by soldiers from Condé’s regiment. These gates were closed behind the huntsmen, and, as though this precaution was still not enough to prevent unwanted guests, the soldiers remained on sentry duty behind the railings and beside each of them stood a doorkeeper, dressed like the one in the courtyard and armed, like him, with a halberd, with orders not to open up to anyone who could not answer the three questions that were the password.
A moment after the gates were closed, the sound of the horn and the baying of the hounds announced that the fallow deer had been sprung.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the park, opposite the wall built by Constable Anne de Montmorency,70 six horsemen had caught the sound of the horns and the baying of the dogs, and had stopped on the side of the road, stroking the necks of their panting horses and appearing to confer with one another.
Seeing their brand-new clothes, the shining harness of their mounts, the glossy cloaks fashionably hanging from their shoulders on to their horses’ rumps and the array of weapons that could be glimpsed through artistically arranged gaps in their clothing, one might have been surprised at finding these gentlemen all alone, so handsome and so spruce, at a time when all the nobility of the region was gathered in the château of Chantilly.
However, their brilliance was eclipsed by the magnificence of their leader – or the man who seemed to be their leader: feathers in his hat, gilded baldric, fine boots with golden spurs and a long sword with openwork chiselling – this, together with a spendid sky-blue mantle, Spanish fashion, was the man’s accoutrement.
The Women's War Page 18