The Book of Princes and Princesses
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Title: The Book of Princes and Princesses
Author: Mrs. Lang
Editor: Andrew Lang
Illustrator: H. J. Ford
Release date: June 30, 2014 [eBook #46145]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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THE BOOK OF
PRINCES AND PRINCESSES
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE FAIRY BOOK SERIES
EDITED BY ANDREW LANG
_Crown 8vo, gilt edges._
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: CAMILLA TELLS HER TALE]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BOOK OF
PRINCES AND PRINCESSES
BY
MRS. LANG
EDITED BY ANDREW LANG
[Illustration]
_WITH EIGHT COLOURED PLATES AND
NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. FORD_
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
LONDON, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
1908
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
_All rights reserved_
_The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DEDICATED TO
ELIZABETH ANGELA MARGARET BOWES LYON
BY
THE AUTHORESS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_PREFACE_
ALL the stories about Princes and Princesses in this book are true
stories, and were written by Mrs. Lang, out of old books of history.
There are some children who make life difficult by saying, first that
stories about fairies are true, and that they like fairies; and next
that they do not like true stories about real people, who lived long
ago. I am quite ready to grant that there really are such things as
fairies, because, though I never saw a fairy, any more than I have seen
the little animals which lecturers call _molecules_ and _ions_, still I
have seen people who have seen fairies—truthful people. Now I never
knew a lecturer who ventured to say that he had seen an ion or a
molecule. It is well known, and written in a true book, that the
godmother of Joan of Arc had seen fairies, and nobody can suppose that
such a good woman would tell her godchild what was not true—for
example, that the squire of the parish was in love with a fairy and used
to meet her in the moonlight beneath a beautiful tree. In fact, if we
did not believe in fairy stories, who would care to read them? Yet only
too many children dislike to read true stories, because the people in
them were real, and the things actually happened. Is not this very
strange? And grown-ups are not much wiser. They would rather read a
novel than Professor Mommsen's 'History of Rome'!
How are we to explain this reluctance to read true stories? Is it
because children are _obliged_, whether they like it or not, to learn
lessons which, to be sure, are often dry and disagreeable, and history
books are among their lessons. Now Nature, for some wise purpose
probably, made most children very greatly dislike lesson books. When I
was about eight years old I was always reading a book of true stories
called 'The Tales of a Grandfather': no book could be more pleasant. It
was in little dumpy volumes that one could carry in his pocket. But when
I was sent to school they used this book as a school book, in one large
ugly volume, and at school I never read it at all, and could not answer
questions in it, but made guesses, which were not often right. The truth
seems to be that we hate doing what we _must_ do; and Sir Walter Scott
himself, who wrote the book, particularly detested reading or writing
what he was obliged to read or write, and always wanted to be doing
something else.
This book about Princes and Princesses is not one which a child is
_obliged_ to read. Indeed the stories are not put in order, beginning
with the princes who lived longest ago and coming down gradually to
people who lived nearest our own time. The book opens with the great
Napoleon Bonaparte, who died when some very old people still living were
alive. Napoleon was not born a prince, far from it; his father was only
a poor gentleman on a wild rough little island. But he made himself not
merely a king, but the greatest of all emperors and generals in war. He
is not held up as a person whom every boy should try to imitate, but it
is a truth that Napoleon always remained a boy in his heart. He liked to
make up stories of himself, doing wonderful things which even he was
unable to do. When he was a boy he played at being a general, making
snow fortresses and besieging them, just as many boys do. And when he
was a man he dreamed of conquering all the East, Asia, and India, and
Australia; and he tried to do all that, but it was too much even for
him.
He used to think that he would write a new religious book, like Mahomet,
and ride on a dromedary to conquer India, with his own book in his hand.
Can anything be more like a boy's fancy? He even set out in the
direction of India, but he stopped to besiege a little weak ruinous town
called Acre, in the Holy Land, and the Turks and English, under Sir
Sidney Smith, defeated him, and made him turn back, so that, later, he
never came nearer India than Moscow, whence he was driven back to France
by the snow and frost and the Russian army. After that he never had much
luck, though he had won so many battles, and made himself an Emperor,
and married an Emperor's daughter, like a poor young man in a fairy
tale. I am sure that no fairy prince ever did such extraordinary things
of all sorts as Napoleon; but another story shows how his only son was
very unfortunate, and had a very short and unhappy life, always longing
to be like his famous father. No doubt he might have been happy and
fortunate if Napoleon—like the great boy he was—had not tried to do
more than was possible even for himself. It was like a great boy to take
no trouble to learn difficult languages, and to write such a bad hand
that his marshals and generals could not read his notes written on the
battlefield, and could not be certain what he wanted them to do. Now the
Duke of Wellington, though not so wonderful a general as Napoleon, wrote
a very good hand, when shot and shell were falling all round him, and
there could be no mistake as to what he meant.
In fairy stories the princes and princesses are not always fortunate and
happy, though they are always brave, good, beautiful, and deserving. If
they were always happy and fortunate, nobody would care to read about
them; the stories would be very dull. For example, Prince Meritorio was
the eldest son of Meritorio III., King of Pacifica. He was born healthy,
brave, and clever. At the age of twenty-one years, all of them spent
serenely in learning his lessons, including fencing and fortification,
Prince Meritorio married the eldest daughter of King Benevolo, of the
happy island of Crete. The two kingdoms were always at peace; on the
death of Meritorio III. and Benevolo II. Prince Meritorio came to the
throne of both countries. He had eleven sons, who used to play the
Eleven of the island of Crete and beat them; and when Prince Meritorio
died, at a great age, beloved by all his subjects, he was succeeded by
his eldest son, Prince Sereno.
No doubt Prince Meritorio was happy and fortunate, but as he never had
any troubles or sorrows, as he married his first and only love with the
full consent of the dear and royal parents of both, never was changed
into a rabbit by a wicked magician, never had to fight a dragon or
giant, never was a starving, banished man, but continually had his
regular meals, why, the Life of Prince Meritorio is not worth reading.
Nobody cares a penny about him, any more than they care about George
II., who was a brave man, and as fortunate as a king can be, and yet we
prefer to read about Prince Charlie, who was nearly as unfortunate as
King George was lucky.
Even Napoleon himself, with all his wonderful victories, is more
interesting because he was defeated at last, and died like an imprisoned
eagle, a captive on a little island, than he would be if he had been
constantly fortunate and enormously fat.
It cannot be said that the princes and princesses in this book were too
happy. The Princess Jeanne was perhaps the luckiest, and she had
troubles enough while still a little girl, with being nearly forced to
marry a prince whom she did not want. Indeed all young princesses and
princes were much to be pitied, when they were being vexed with marrying
before they were out of the nursery or the school room. They were
obliged to marry first, and fall in love afterwards if they could, which
is quite the wrong arrangement. Think of King Hacon's mother, too, who
was obliged to prove that she was good by carrying a red-hot iron in her
hands without being burned. The best little girl now alive will be wise
not to try this experiment, if she is accused of breaking anything which
she did not break. Then poor Marie Louise was obliged to marry a king
who was little better than an idiot; and no amount of diamonds, nor all
the gold of Peru, could console her for living such a strange life as
hers was in a foreign country with such a very foolish king. However, he
was fond of her, at least, whereas Henry VIII. was not fond of his many
wives for more than a very short time, and then he cut their heads off,
or sent them away. It was a wise princess who said, when he asked her to
marry him, that if she had two heads he would be welcome to one of them,
but as she had only one she would prefer some other monarch. The
Princess Henriette, too, after all her wanderings, when she was as poor
as a goose girl in a fairy tale, found a very unsatisfactory prince to
marry her at last, and perhaps was not sorry to die young. Truly they
all had strange adventures enough; even Henry VII., though, when once he
was king, he took good care to have no more adventures.
The story of Mary, Queen of Scots, who had so much unhappiness, is not
told here, because very little is known of her childhood. But there are
two tales of her childhood worth remembering. When she was a very little
girl in Scotland, the Governor of the country was Cardinal Beaton. He
was a Catholic, and Henry VIII., being a Protestant, was always at war
with Scotland, and often tried to seize Mary when she was a little
child. Now she had been told a fairy tale about the Red Etin of Ireland,
a kind of red ogre, who stole a king's daughter, 'the flower of fair
Scotland,' and beat her every day. So when Mary, being about three years
old, first saw Cardinal Beaton in all his scarlet clothes, she thought
that _he_ was the Red Etin of Ireland, and was terribly frightened,
crying, 'Kill Red Etin! Kill Red Etin!' They _did_ kill him, presently,
but not because of her command.
The other story is merely that when she was about ten years old, or not
so much, she was taken across the sea with her four little friends, the
four Maries, to France, to marry the king's son. They had a very stormy
voyage, and she was the only one of the company who was not sea-sick. So
she was very merry at the expense of all the others. No doubt a saintly
little princess would have been sorry for their sufferings; still,
perhaps many little girls would have laughed. Many princes have had
disagreeable uncles, like Crookedback Richard; indeed one might think,
like a little girl who had read history books, that 'all uncles are
_villains_.' But perhaps no prince ever had such a terrible ogre of a
father as Prince Frederick of Prussia, who became the great king and
general. Though his father was very particular about making Frederick
clean and neat, we do not find that he ever had a bath, or did more than
wash his hands and face. Indeed Frederick's father was a horrible ogre
in every way, though perhaps it was not unnatural that he did not like
the prince to be perpetually playing the flute, even when out hunting!
After all, when a child thinks of his own father and mother, and his
excellent uncles and aunts, he may be glad that he was not born to be a
prince, and be hidden from his enemies in a bundle of hay, like Duke
Richard, or dressed as a little boy, when she is a little girl; or
locked up for a year in a cold sanctuary; or be smothered in the Tower;
or run all the many uncomfortable risks of all these poor royal
children. The greater a man or woman is, the more terrible are the falls
from greatness, as in the case of the most unhappy of all queens, Marie
Antoinette. To be a good king a man must be far better and wiser than
other men, far more clever too; if he is not, he does more mischief, and
probably has to bear more misfortunes, like Richard II., than any
ordinary person. When we read about kings like Charles II., who only
lived to amuse himself; or Charles VII. of France, who was little
better—and not nearly so amusing—and think how many people far fitter
to be kings died for these unworthy princes, we begin to wonder at
kingship, at making a man king merely because he is his father's son.
However, to consider thus is to consider too curiously, and certainly
the lives of princes and princesses have been full of great adventures,
and are rather more interesting to read about than the lives of the sons
and daughters of the Presidents of Republics. Nobody tries to run away
with them; they have not to be dressed up as beggar boys, or hidden in
bundles of hay, and their fathers never burn their books, break their
flutes, shut them up in prison, and threaten to cut their heads off.
Thus we learn that there is a good side to everything, if we know where
to look for it, which is a very comforting reflection. But only a truly
sagacious person knows where to look for it, if the misfortune happens
to himself.
Meanwhile let British children remember that their forefathers were
loyal even to kings not of the best—"at least, as far as they were
able"—and that we have in our time been blessed with the best Queen who
ever lived. So, as the old song says:
_Here's a health unto his Majesty!
And he who will not drink his health,
We wish him neither wit nor wealth,
But only a rope to hang himself!_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_CONTENTS_
PAGE
_Napoleon_ 1
_His Majesty the King of Rome_ 28
_The Princess Jeanne_ 56
_Hacon the King_ 79
_Mi Reina! Mi Reina!_ 99
_Henriette the Siege Baby_ 129
_The Red Rose_ 157
_The White Rose_ 172
_Richard the Fearless_ 198
_Frederick and Wilhelmine_ 214
_Une Reine Malheureuse_ 249
_The 'Little Queen'_ 275
_Two Little Girls and their Mother_ 311
_The Troubles of the Princess Elizabeth_ 328
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_
_COLOURED PLATES_
(_Engraved by Messrs. André & Sleigh, Ltd., Bushey_)
_Camilla tells her Tale_ (_p._ 4.) _Frontispiece_
_The Oubliettes_ _to face p._ 58
_Inga trusts the Baby to Erlend_ " 80
_Marie Louise makes her Petition to the King_ " 104
_The Red Rose for Lancaster, the White Rose for York_ " 158
_'You are the first King who has entered Sanctuary'_ " 176
_William Longsword is proud of his Son Richard_ " 200
_Isabel 'in the dark evenings'_ " 276
_FULL-PAGE PLATES_
_'Why did they ever let these beasts enter?'_ _to face p._ 20
_'Open, I want Papa.' 'Sire, I must not let in your
Majesty'_ " 34
_Inga endures the Ordeal of the Hot Iron_ " 92
_Richard's last Charge on Bosworth Field_ " 168
_Frederick practises his Flute even when out Hunting_ " 224
_Frederick bids farewell to Katte_ " 240
_Marie Antoinette and Mozart_ " 250
_'Led by the King and the Dauphin'_ " 262
_Marie Antoinette goes Hunting with the Dauphin_ " 270
_ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT_
PAGE
_Bonaparte commands his first Army_ 9
_Bonaparte hears the 'Marseillaise' for the first time_ 18
_Bonaparte in the Battery of the Fearless_ 26
_Feeding the Gazelles with Tobacco_ 31
_Napoleon shows the Portrait to the Generals_ 39
_Jeanne and the King_ 63
_Jeanne's rudeness to the Duke of Clèves_ 70
_The Cardinal reads the King's Letter to Jeanne_ 74
_'To make him grow taller'_ 84
_Marie Louise receives the Visits of Condolence_ 102
_Two Spanish Gentlemen rescue the Queen_ 116
_The Camarera Mayor gets her Ears boxed!_ 120
_The Queen envies the Flemish Skaters_ 127
_'If capture is sure blow up the vessel,' she said_ 131
_Lady Dalkeith's Journey to Dover_ 135
_'She only waved him out of her path'_ 143
_'Here, Madame,' said Mazarin, 'are the prizes for a lottery'_ 149
_Herbert brings little Henry to his Wife's Tent_ 161
_The King shows Elizabeth her Map of Destiny_ 178
_'Desolate and dismayed'_ 187
_The Queen entrusts little Richard to the Cardinal_ 191
_'Elizabeth goes to the inn to meet the conspirators'_ 195
_The Truss of Hay_ 209
_The Wig-inspector at Work_ 215
_'Good gracious, what a figure! Why, she looks like a little
dwarf'_ 220
_'He stamped it down with his heavy boot'_ 229
_Brother and Sister meet again_ 248
_She delighted in her Dancing Lessons_ 257
_The Swiss Guard present Arms to Marie Antoinette_ 267
_'Look, look!' she cried to her brothers and sisters_ 278
_Richard and Isabel come to London_ 284
_The King stops the Duel_ 290
_Richard's last Farewell to Isabel_ 295
_King Richard, Duke Henry and Math the Greyhound_ 298
_NAPOLEON_
IF you look out of your window in a clear dawn on the French Riviera you
may, if you are fortunate, see, far away to the south, a faint mountain
range hanging on the sea, and if you _do_ see it, it is a sight so
beautiful that you will never forget it. The mountain range belongs to
Corsica, and under its shadow was born the most wonderful man the world
has ever seen—Napoleon.
In the year 1769 two babies were born in widely distant places, both
destined to spend the best years of their lives in a life and death
struggle with each other. The birthday of Arthur Wellesley, afterwards
Duke of Wellington, was on May 1, and his home was an Irish castle;
while Napoleon Buonaparte saw the light in a small house in the little
town of Ajaccio, in Corsica. Napoleon's ancestors came over from Tuscany
early in the sixteenth century, and found in the island a large number
of colonists like themselves, some Italian and some Greek, but all of
them seeking refuge from the foreign armies which for fifty years had
been trying to parcel out Italy among themselves. Though distant only a
few hours' sail from its coasts, the inhabitants of the island were as
different from those of the mainland as if the whole world lay between
them. In Italy men were lazy, yet impulsive, lovers of beauty, of art,
of literature, and of luxury; in Corsica they were gloomy, silent,
watchful, living hardly, careless of everything which had not to do with
their daily lives.
Their hatreds were not only deep and strong, but lasting. As in old
Rome, it was the rule that he 'who slew the slayer' should himself be
slain, and these blood feuds never died out. No wonder that a traveller
was struck with the sight of nearly the whole population wearing
mourning. Almost everyone was related to the rest, and in almost every
family one of its members had recently fallen a victim to a
_vendetta_—what we call a 'blood feud.' Periods of mourning were long,
too, often lasting for ten years, sometimes for life. So the country was
dismal to look at, with the high bare mountains shadowing all. While in
Italy things moved fast, and new customs seemed best, in Corsica they
seldom altered. The father was in some ways as absolute over his wife
and children as in ancient Rome. He gave his orders and they were
obeyed, no matter how hard they might be or how much disliked. His wife
was not expected or wished to be a companion to her husband or a teacher
to her children. Even if a lady by birth, like the mother of Napoleon,
she worked as hard as any servant, for there was little money in
Corsica, and people cultivated their ground so that they might have
produce to exchange with their neighbours—olive oil for wine, chestnuts
for corn, fish for garments woven by the women, from the hair of the
mountain sheep or goats.
The life led by both boys and girls in Corsica made them grow old early,
and Charles Buonaparte, Napoleon's father, married at eighteen the
beautiful Laetitia Ramolino, four years younger than himself. Charles
had studied law in the University of Pisa, and, unlike his
fellow-countrymen, was able to talk French, so that his friends looked
up to him with awe, and often consulted him about their affairs, which
greatly pleased him, as he loved to think himself a person of
importance. He was both restless and ambitious, and in the disturbed
state of the island he saw his chance for advancement. The Corsicans had
lately risen against the rule of Genoa, under the leadership of Paoli,
who wished to form a Republic. But his party was not powerful enough of
itself to drive out the Genoese, so Paoli sent over to Paris to beg the
help of France. It is curious that his common-sense did not tell him
what would be the consequence of this step. The French arrived, and by
their aid the islanders got the upper hand, but when the Genoese had
sailed away the newcomers refused to follow their example. Charles
Buonaparte had at first been one of the strongest partisans of Paoli,
but he was not proof against the offer of the title of 'Conseiller du
Roi,' and of some small legal appointments that were given him by the
French governor. He forsook his former leader and took service with the
French. Henceforward he was no longer 'Buonaparte,' after the Italian
manner, but 'Bonaparte.'
So Napoleon, who was born a few months after this event, was a
Frenchman. He was the fourth child of his parents, but only Joseph, a
year older than himself, was living; and though by-and-by Napoleon
completely ruled his elder brother, for a long while the two stood apart
from the younger children, Joseph sharing Napoleon's affections with
Marianna, his next sister, who died at the age of five. The others who
lived were all much younger, Lucien, the next, being born in 1775.
Madame Bonaparte was so much occupied after Napoleon's birth with trying
to put things straight which had been upset by the war that she was
forced to get a nurse for him. This woman, Camilla Ilari, was the wife
of a man who picked up a living on the seashore, and all her life was
devoted to her nursling, whom she always addressed as 'my son.'
Napoleon, on his part, fully returned her affection, and was never too
great or too busy to give her proofs of it. Thirty-five years later,
when the world was at his feet, she sent to say that she wished to be
present at his coronation in Nôtre Dame. 'There is no one who will be
more welcome,' was his reply, and when she had made the journey and
braved the perils of the sea, and weary days of travel that seem so
strange and so long when you do not understand a word of what is being
said around you—when all this was over, and the Tuileries was reached,
she found Méneval, the Emperor's own secretary, awaiting her, saying
that he was to place himself at her orders and to show her everything
she wished to see. Oh, how happy that old woman was, and what stories
she had to tell when she got back to Corsica! She had long talks with
'Madame Mère,' as the Emperor's mother was now called, and with all her
children, one by one. Even Marianna—or Elise, to give her the new name
she thought more elegant—and Caroline, the youngest, forgot for a few
minutes how grand they had become, and laughed as Camilla reminded them
of the old days and the scoldings she had given them, while Paulette,
who gave herself no airs, but only wanted admiration and petting, asked
fifty questions all at once, and never waited for the answers!
Of course, Camilla had no intention of going home without seeing the
wife of 'mon fils,' and Napoleon's wife, Josephine, sent for her into
her rooms, and, though she could not make out a word that Camilla said,
smiled and nodded in reply, and presented her with two beautiful
diamonds. Most wonderful of all, His Holiness Pope Pius VII. announced
that he wished to give her an audience! Camilla was the proudest woman
in the world when she received that message, but at the same time she
was rather frightened. Why, she had never spoken to a bishop, and how
was she to behave to a Pope? However, M. Méneval, who was the messenger,
suggested that obedience was her first duty, so Camilla rose up and
followed him meekly into the apartments of His Holiness.
'Be seated, my daughter,' said a gentle voice; and Camilla, who had
knelt down at the threshold, got up slowly, and sat very upright in the
chair which Méneval placed for her. For an hour and a half the audience
lasted, the Pope putting to her all sorts of questions as to Napoleon's
infancy and childhood. To begin with she only answered in as few words
as possible, but gradually she ceased to remember where she was and to
whom she was speaking, and poured forth a torrent of recollections about
the nursling whom she loved better than her own son.
'Ah, the Signora Laetitia was a grand lady, and beautiful as an angel!
Yes, there were many children to be sure, and much work needing to be
done for them, but the Signora Laetitia saw to their manners and never
suffered them to lie, or be greedy or rude to each other. Punished? Oh
yes, they were punished; in Corsica punishments were many, but the
children loved their mother none the less for that; and had not her
Napoleone told her only last night how much he had all his life owed to
the advice of his mother? How the poor darling had suffered when he had
gone, at five, for a few months to a girls' school, and how the horrid
little creatures had laughed at him because his stockings would not keep
up! Did they make him cry? Napoleone? She could count on one hand the
tears he had shed since he was born! Well, it was true she _had_ heard
he had wept a little when Joseph, whom he loved better than anyone in
the world, was separated from him at that French school where they were
together; but then, as everyone knew, one tear of Napoleone's was worth
bucketsful of Joseph's! What friends they were, those two, though they
_did_ quarrel sometimes! And how, big and little, they _did_ love water!
If ever you missed them, you might be certain they were bathing in one
of the streams that came down from the mountains, and even when they
were being driven in state to see their noble relations the boys would
be sure to wriggle out of the carriage and jump into the river with
their clothes on!'
Not since he was a boy himself had the Pope been so well amused, but all
kinds of important people were waiting to see him, and very unwillingly
he must put a stop to Camilla's interesting talk. So, reaching some
chaplets and rosaries from a table beside him, he held them out to her,
and signing her to kneel before him, he gave her his blessing. A few
days after the great ceremony Camilla returned to Corsica laden with
gifts, and richer by a pension and many vineyards from 'Napoleone.'
---------------------
Like other Corsican ladies Laetitia Bonaparte knew nothing of books,
probably not even as much as her friend, the mother of Madame Junot, who
had only read one in her whole life, and that was the 'Adventures of
Telemaque,' which perhaps accounts for her never wishing to read
another! She wrote very badly, and could not speak even her own
language, which was Italian, without making many mistakes, and in this
Napoleon resembled her. In spite of all his wars, of his reading, of the
people he came in contact with, he never succeeded in learning either
German or English, and was forced to speak Spanish through an
interpreter.
It was this inability to 'pick up' languages which made him feel so
dreadfully lonely when, in 1778, he and Joseph were taken by their
father to France, and placed at school at Autun. Neither of them knew a
word of French, but Joseph soon managed to learn enough to make himself
understood, while Napoleon was tongue-tied. For five months they were
left together, and then the younger boy, who was nine, was removed to
the great military school of Brienne, in Champagne, for which the King
had given his father a nomination. It was on this occasion that he shed
the 'few tears' of which Camilla had told the Pope. Poor little boy! he
had no one he could speak to, and hated games unless they had to do with
soldiers. His schoolfellows did not like him, and thought him sulky
because he spent most of his time by himself. Occasionally he wrote
home, but letters to Corsica cost nineteen sous apiece, and he knew that
there was not much money to spare for postage.
Now and then he sent a letter to Joseph, in which he begs him to do his
work and not be lazy; and once he writes to his uncle pointing out that
it would be a pity to make Joseph into a soldier, for he would be no
good in a fight. And as to this Napoleon could speak with certainty, for
in all their boyish quarrels Joseph was never known to return a blow.
One friend he did have, Bourrienne, in after-years his military
secretary, who entered Brienne only a month after he did, and has
written memoirs of his own life. But the rest of the boys stood aloof,
though Napoleon seems to have got on better with the masters. When he
had been at Brienne four years, his father again returned to France to
place Marianna, who was six, at school at St. Cyr, near Paris, and
Lucien, who was eight, at Brienne. Napoleon was glad to see his father,
who died about fifteen months later; but he and Lucien were, of course,
far apart in the school, and, what was more important, they never got on
together, so that Napoleon was not much less lonely than before.
Besides, he was fourteen now, and would soon be going to the military
school in Paris.
That winter it was very cold, and snow fell heavily in Champagne. In
England it would have been welcomed heartily by the boys, who would have
spent hours in snowballing each other; but the masters at Brienne never
thought of this, and gave orders that exercise was to be taken in the
big hall of the college. Now the hall, which only had a fire at one end,
looked very dreary, and nobody felt inclined to play. The older boys
stood round the chimney and the younger ones peered disconsolately out
of the windows, hoping in vain to catch a glimpse of blue sky. Suddenly
young Bonaparte left the fireplace where he had been leaning, and
touched Bourrienne on the shoulder.
'I am not going to stay here,' he said. 'Let us go and make a snow
castle, and besiege it. Who will come?'
'I,' and 'I,' and 'I,' they all shouted, and in a moment they were all
gathered round Napoleon in the courtyard, begging him to tell them what
to do.
'Get as many shovels as you can find in the tool house, and we will make
a castle,' he answered. 'A proper castle with a keep, and a donjon and
battlements. Then we must dig some trenches for cover. When we have
finished we must garrison the castle, and I will lead the attacking
party.' Unfortunately, the spades and shovels left by the gardeners only
numbered about one to every fifteen or twenty boys, so they had to take
them in turns, the others using any tools they could find, or even their
own hands. All the afternoon they worked without a moment's pause, and
at sunset, just before the bell for lessons sounded, the castle was
finished. That night, when the lights were put out in their cold
dormitory, they asked each other anxiously, before they went to sleep,
if they were _quite_ sure that it did not feel any warmer. It would be
dreadful to wake up and to find that their beautiful castle had crumbled
away! Never before had there been so little difficulty in getting out of
bed as when the boys woke up the next morning. No, it was certainly not
warmer; in fact, it was a good deal colder, and their fingers were so
frozen that they could hardly fasten the buttons of their uniforms, but
their faces were rosy and smiling as they trooped down the stairs. At
the classes they were more attentive than usual, and no pranks were
played; nothing must be done which could earn them a punishment, or risk
their being deprived of that glorious sport. So when the hour of
recreation came the whole school filled the courtyard.
[Illustration: BONAPARTE COMMANDS HIS FIRST ARMY]
It was wonderful, if anyone had cared to notice, what a change had taken
place in the feelings of the boys towards the gloomy, masterful youth
who stood apart, and was disliked and shunned by the rest. Now it was to
_him_ that they looked for orders, and a word from _him_ made them glow
with pleasure. For fourteen happy days the siege went on, sometimes one
party getting the better and sometimes the other, the faults on both
sides being pointed out clearly by Bonaparte himself. At the end of that
time the snow had wasted, and the snowballs had a way of getting mixed
with the small stones of the courtyard, so that the wounds were no
longer imaginary. Then the principal of the college stepped in, and
commanded the fort to be dismantled.
After this the young cadets looked on Napoleon with different eyes. As
to the professors, they had long ago made up their minds about him, and
their opinion agreed in most points with that of M. de Kéralio, who came
to inspect the school in 1784. The inspector found that he was backward
in Latin, in all foreign languages, and wanting in grace of manner, but
that he was distinguished in mathematics, and fond of geography and
history, especially of Plutarch. In conduct he was obedient and
well-behaved, except when his temper got the better of him. In fact,
that he would make an excellent sailor! But Napoleon did _not_ make a
sailor; indeed, except on his voyages to Corsica, Egypt, and St. Helena,
he never went to sea. Instead, one day he climbed to the top of a heavy
lumbering old coach, and travelled slowly to the great military school
in Paris, to which he had a nomination as 'King's Cadet.' The school was
a beautiful building in the Champs Elysées, and had been founded by
Louis XV. for the sons of the nobles. Everything was on the grandest
scale, and the cost was enormous. An immense number of servants were
attached to the institution, besides a quantity of grooms to attend to
the horses in the large stables. There was a private hospital on the
premises, with doctors, surgeons, and four nursing sisters, and a staff
of seven servants. The food was abundant, and consisted, even on fast
days, of soup, two kinds of vegetables, eggs, fish, and three sorts of
fruit for dessert. Two suits of uniform were allowed the cadets in the
year, and these were put on punctually on the first of May and on the
first of November, while their linen was changed three times a week. Of
course, officials of all sorts were necessary to superintend these
departments, and they were legion. The overseer of the kitchen, with its
seven cooks and numerous scullions, was called 'the controller of the
mouth,' and seven porters kept the seven doors. In all, counting the
priests, who said mass daily at half-past six in the morning and prayers
at a quarter to nine at night, a hundred and eleven people were employed
about the school, and this without reckoning any of the professors. For
there were, of course, professors for everything—riding, fencing,
dancing, gunnery, mathematics, artillery, languages, history, geography,
fortification, drawing, and many other things, besides a professor for
special training in all that was then considered essential to good
manners, which included being able to write a well-expressed letter and
to move in society without awkwardness.
At the time that Napoleon Bonaparte entered the Ecole Militaire by far
the greater number of the cadets were young nobles belonging to rich
families, whose reckless waste of money was one of the causes of the
coming Revolution. The luxury of the school was to them a necessary part
of life, but it bore hardly on the King's Cadets—Elèves du Roi—who,
like Napoleon, were all poor. Soon after his arrival he wrote to M.
Berton, the head of the school at Brienne, describing the state of
things he had found in Paris, and the indignation he felt on the
subject. 'It is specially harmful,' he says, 'to the King's Cadets, who
have no money, and, in order to foster their vanity and be on the same
footing as their rich comrades, run into debt, besides rendering them
discontented with their homes. It would be far better only to give them
all a dinner of two courses, and to teach them to wait on themselves, to
brush their clothes, to clean their boots, and to groom their horses.'
And when, years after, he founded his military school at Fontainebleau,
the ideas he had held at sixteen were carried out to the letter. As for
his companions, the effect of the life of luxury was less harmful than
he thought. After the Revolution, now so soon to break out, almost all
of them became _emigrés_, to avoid the vengeance of the Republican
leaders on the whole class of the nobility. Numbers fled to England,
having lost everything they possessed, and we all know with what
splendid courage and gaiety they bore the worst hardships and supported
themselves by teaching their own language and the dances they had
learned in the Ecole Militaire. It is strange that out of the hundreds
of youths who were Napoleon's comrades in Paris only one was destined to
fight by his side, and this was a boy whom he hardly knew by sight, so
recently had he come—Davoust, the future Duke of Auerstädt.
Stern and solitary, yet outspoken when he was strongly moved, Napoleon
was no more a favourite in Paris than he had been at Brienne, yet the
cadets, as well as the greater part of the professors, felt that in some
way or other he stood apart. The director of studies, Valfort, was
struck by the weighty words and keen insight of this boy of sixteen when
he thought it worth his while to speak, which was not often. 'His style
is granite melted in a volcano,' says the professor of grammar about his
exercises, and the phrase may be applied to his life-long character. M.
de l'Esguille, on reading his historical essays on Plutarch, Cæsar,
Rousseau, Tacitus, Voltaire, and a score of other famous writers,
declared that he had a great future before him if he was helped by
circumstances—perhaps not seeing that men like Napoleon fashion their
circumstances for themselves. 'He is the best mathematician in the
school,' replies a student to a question of the German professor, driven
to despair by the dense stupidity of Napoleon over the language; for, as
we have said, neither then nor later could he ever make himself
understood in any foreign tongue; neither could he learn to dance,
although he took lessons. But when he was not at his classes, or engaged
in working for them, the boy might have been found in the great library,
forgetful of cold or hunger, poring over the histories of the past. It
may have been there that he first dreamed the dream of his life—that
some day he too, like Alexander, would march across the desert at the
head of an army, and, entering India on the back of an elephant, would
restore the broken French Empire in the East.
It was the custom of the cadets to remain for three or even four years
in the Ecole Militaire, but Napoleon had only been there ten months
before he passed for the artillery, and was given a commission in the
regiment of La Fère, then quartered in the town of Valence, with pay
amounting to 45_l._ a year. He left Paris at the end of October, the
only Corsican who had ever been admitted to the great military school,
and, accompanied by his friend Des Mazis, arrived at Valence on one of
the early days of November. Here lodgings had been found for him in the
house of a certain Madame Bou, who looked after him and made him
comfortable. The pale sad-looking youth was grateful for her kindness,
and fifteen years later, when he passed through the town on his way from
Egypt, he sent a message that he wished to see her, and gave her a
beautiful Indian shawl that a queen might have envied, and a silver
compass that still may be seen in the Museum at Valence.
Madame Bou's house was the only home he had known for nine years, and
while there he grew for a time younger and happier in the society of
some of her friends. Not that his work gave him much leisure. For three
months he studied hard, for he had to learn drill and to study gunnery
and fortifications. His ardour and quick mastery of all that was most
difficult drew attention and praise from his commanding officers, but
from his equals, as usual, he held aloof. For one thing, he had no money
to enable him to share their pleasures, though he was too proud to
confess it; and for another, his interests and ambitions were widely
different from theirs. To the end he remained the 'Spartan' that the
boys at Brienne had called him. The pomp and glory of his later life was
only put on for purposes of state—an ill-fitting garment, in which he
never felt at ease.
Having once satisfied his colonel as to his knowledge of drill, Napoleon
applied for leave in order to see after the affairs of his family in
Corsica. Charles Bonaparte had died in France of a most painful illness
about six months earlier, and had left behind him many debts, not large
in themselves, but more than Laetitia could pay, and Joseph, who had
been with his father, does not seem to have been able to help her. So in
September, shortly after his seventeenth birthday, Napoleon crossed the
sea once more, and remained in Corsica, with only a short interval, till
1788. He found many changes in the home that he had left eight years
before: Louis, who had then been a tiny baby, was now a big boy, and
there were besides Paoletta, Nunziata (afterwards known as Caroline) and
Jerome, the youngest of them all. Joseph was still his friend and
companion, with whom everything was discussed, for their mother had
become poorer than ever, and was obliged to look closely after
everything, and it was no easy matter to provide such a family with
food. She was heartily glad to see her son again, though like a true
Corsican she said little about it; but was a little disappointed that he
had almost forgotten his Italian, and had become, in everyone's opinion,
'so _very_ Frenchified.' How the cadets of the Ecole Militaire would
have laughed if they had heard it! Bonaparte, who could never learn to
dance, or to bow, or to turn a graceful compliment! But though Joseph
was perhaps pleasanter, and more popular, and made more friends, there
was something about Napoleon which gave his mother rest. She felt that
whatever he undertook would be done, and done thoroughly.
Meanwhile Napoleon began for the first time to enjoy games, even though
his playfellows were only his little brothers and sisters. Paoletta, or,
as he called her, Paulette, was very pretty, with little coaxing ways,
strange indeed to find in Corsica, and when he was not talking seriously
with Joseph of the disturbed state of the island, he was generally to be
seen with Paulette on one side and Louis on the other. For from the
first he was very fond of Louis, and all the time he was at home he
taught him regularly part of every day. He had some books with him that
he bought by denying himself things that most young men would have
thought necessaries. Among them were mathematical treatises, Corneille's
and Racine's plays, which told stories of old Rome and her heroes, the
Gallic wars of Cæsar, translated, of course, or Napoleon could not have
read it, and Rousseau's 'Social Contract'; but Louis was as yet too
young for that, being only eight. In his spare moments Napoleon studied
politics and made notes about the history of Corsica, hoping some day to
make them into a book, and chattered French to the little ones, who
picked it up much more easily than their teacher had done. It seems
strange that he should have been allowed to remain at home for nearly
two years, but in France events were rapidly marching towards the
Revolution, and rules were in many cases relaxed. Anyhow, it was not
till June 1788 that he returned to his regiment, then quartered at
Auxonne. His superior officers, especially Baron du Teil, all interested
themselves in the young man for whom no work was too hard as long as it
bore on military subjects, and encouraged him in every possible way. His
men liked him, and felt the same confidence in him that his mother had
done; but from his own comrades he still held aloof, and the walks that
he took round the city, pondering how best it could be attacked or
defended, were always solitary ones. In general he was left pretty much
alone—there was a feeling among them that he was not a safe person to
meddle with; but sometimes their high spirits got the better of them,
and when he was trying to puzzle out a problem in mathematics that had
baffled him for days, his thoughts would be put to flight by a sudden
blast of trumpets and roar of drums directly under his window. Then
Napoleon would spring up with a fierce burst of anger, but before he
could get outside the culprits were nowhere to be seen.
As time went on, and the Revolution drew nearer, Napoleon's thoughts
turned more and more towards Corsica, and when, in July 1789, the taking
of the great prison of the Bastille seemed to let loose the fury of the
mob all over France, he felt that he must play his part in the
liberation of his native island. So in September he applied for leave
and sailed for Ajaccio. On his arrival he at once began to take measures
for enabling the people to gain the independence which he hoped would be
formally granted them by the National Assembly in Paris. The White
Cockade, the Bourbon ensign, was to disappear from men's hats; a guard
must be enrolled; a club, composed of all who wished for a new order of
things, must be founded. Even when the French governor puts a stop to
these proceedings, Napoleon is not to be beaten, but turns his attention
to something else, taking care always to keep his men well in hand and
to enforce discipline.
In this way passed the winter and spring, and in 1790 the exiled Paoli
was, by virtue of decree of the National Assembly, allowed, after
twenty-two years, to return to the island. From Napoleon's childhood
Paoli had been his hero of modern days, as Hannibal was of ancient
times; but when they actually came face to face Napoleon's boyish
impatience chafed bitterly against the caution of the older man. It was
their first difference, which time only widened.
When Napoleon went back to Auxonne in February 1791 he was accompanied
by Louis, then thirteen years old. They travelled through a very
different France from that which Napoleon had beheld in 1778. Then all
was quiet on the surface, and it seemed as if nothing would ever change;
now, women as well as men met together in large numbers and talked
excitedly, ready at a moment's notice to break out into some deed of
violence. Everywhere the tricolour was to be seen, the 'Marseillaise' to
be heard. Napoleon's eyes brightened as he listened to the song, and
Louis watched and wondered. But not yet had the poor profited by the
wealth of the rich. Napoleon's lodging, which he shared with Louis, was
as bare as before; his food was even plainer, for now two had to eat it.
Masters were costly and not to be thought of, so Napoleon set lessons to
be learned during the day, and to be repeated at night when military
duties are over. And Louis was as eager for knowledge as Napoleon
himself had been. 'He learns to write and read French,' writes the young
lieutenant to his brother Joseph. 'I teach him mathematics and geography
and history. The ladies are all devoted to him' (probably the wives and
daughters of the officers), 'and he has become quite French in his
manners, as if he were thirty. As for his judgment, he might be forty.
He will do better than any of us, but then none of us had so good an
education.' So wrote Napoleon; and Louis on his side was deeply grateful
for the pains and care bestowed on him. 'After Napoleone, you are the
one I love most,' he says in a letter to Joseph, whose tact and good
nature made him everybody's favourite, though his stronger brother
always looked down on him a little. Louis was a good boy, with generous
feelings and a strong sense of duty, which in after-years, when he was
King of Holland, brought him into strife with Napoleon. But in 1791 that
was a long time off, and soon after this letter he writes another to
Joseph, in which he says, 'I make you a present of my two cravats that
Napoleone gave me.' Did he keep any for himself, one wonders?
[Illustration: Bonaparte hears the Marseillaise for the first time.]
Deeply though he loved his military duties, Napoleon could not rest away
from Corsica, and in the autumn he again asked for leave from his
long-suffering colonel. He found the island in even a worse condition
than when he had last left it, for parties were more numerous and hatred
fiercer. More than once Napoleon narrowly escaped with his life, which,
by all the laws of war, he had really forfeited as a deserter by long
outstaying his leave. But this did not trouble Napoleon. With France
upset, with 'Paris in convulsions,' and with the war with the allied
Powers on the point of breaking out, no one was likely to inquire
closely into the conduct of an unimportant young soldier. Besides,
rumours had reached the island that the school of St. Cyr would shortly
be closed, and his mother was anxious about Marianna, who was still a
pupil there. Clearly his best plan was to go to Paris, and to Paris he
went in May 1792, hoping to be allowed quietly to take his old place in
the regiment. Scarcely had he arrived when, walking in the street,
watching all that passed and saying nothing, he came upon his old friend
Bourrienne, from whom he had parted eight years before. The young men
were delighted to meet, and spent their time making plans for the
future. 'He had even less money than I,' writes Bourrienne, 'and that
was little enough! We formed a scheme for taking some houses that were
being built, and subletting them at a higher rate. But the owners asked
too much, and we were forced to give it up. Every day he went to seek
employment from the Minister of War, and I from the Foreign Office.'
Towards the end of June they both visited Marianna at St. Cyr, and from
her Napoleon learned that the school was almost certain to be closed or
totally changed in its institutions, and the girls returned to their
relations without the present of 3,000 francs (120_l._) usually given to
them when they left. It is curious to think that at that time, when
girls grew up so early and married so young, they were expected to
remain at St. Cyr till they were twenty. Marianna was at this time
sixteen, 'but,' says Napoleon in a letter to Joseph at Ajaccio, 'not at
all advanced for her age, less so, indeed, than Paoletta. It would be
impossible to marry her without having her at home for six or eight
months first, but if you see any distant prospect of finding her a
suitable husband, tell me, and I will bring her over. If not, she had
better stay where she is till we see how things turn out. Still, I
cannot help feeling that if she remains at St. Cyr for another four
years she will be too old to adapt herself to life in Corsica, while now
she will glide into its ways almost without noticing them.' In the end
St. Cyr was closed, and Marianna threw off the white cap which the girls
so hated because its fashion dated back to the time of the foundress,
Madame de Maintenon, and set out with her brother for Corsica. She was a
dull and rather disagreeable young lady, with a great notion of her own
importance, and a bad temper. Some of the new ideas, especially those of
the superiority of women over men, had reached her ears in a confused
way, and had readily been adopted by her. She spent hours in talking
over these with Lucien, her next brother, a youth of rather peculiar
disposition, who did not get on with the rest.
[Illustration: 'Why did they ever let these beasts enter?']
But all this happened in the autumn, and meanwhile Napoleon stayed in
Paris, observing the course of events and roaming the streets with
Bourrienne. One day they saw collected near the Palais Royal a crowd of
five or six thousand men, dirty, ragged, evil-faced, and with tongues as
evil. In their hands were guns, swords, knives, axes, or whatever they
could seize upon, and, shouting, screaming, and gesticulating, they made
their way towards the Tuileries. 'Let us follow those brutes,' said
Bonaparte, and, taking a short cut, they reached the garden terrace
which overlooks the Seine, and from there they watched terrible scenes.
'I could hardly describe the surprise and horror they excited in him,'
writes Bourrienne, 'and when at length the King appeared at a window,
wearing the Red Cap of Liberty which had been thrust on his head by one
of the mob, a cry broke from Napoleon:
'Why did they ever let these beasts enter?' he exclaimed, heedless of
who might hear him. 'They should have mown down five hundred of them
with the guns, and the rest would have run away.' 'They don't know what
they are doing,' he said to Bourrienne a few hours after when they were
sitting at dinner in a cheap restaurant. 'It is fatal to allow such
things to pass unpunished, and they will rue it bitterly.' And so they
did; for the 10th of August was soon to come, and after that the
September massacres of nobles and great ladies.
With feelings like these—feelings often quite different from the
doctrines which he held—Napoleon must have had hard work to keep his
sword in its sheath on that very 10th of August when the Tuileries was
attacked and the Swiss Guards so nobly died at their post. He was
standing at a shop window in a side street, and his soul sickened at the
sight of the struggle. At last he could bear it no longer, and, dashing
into the midst of the fray, he dragged out a wounded man from the swords
of the rabble, who by this time were drunk with blood. 'If Louis XVI.
had only shown himself on horseback,' he writes to Joseph that same
evening, 'the victory would have been his.' But, alas! Louis never did
the thing that was wisest to do. Eager as he was to get away, Napoleon
had to linger on amidst the horrors of the September massacres till he
gained permission to take his sister back to Corsica. Here the state of
affairs seemed almost as desperate as in France, and no man could trust
his neighbour. Napoleon now fought openly against Paoli, whom the
execution of Louis XVI. threw into the arms of England, and fierce
battles and sieges were the consequence. Once he was imprisoned in a
house, and sentinels were placed before the door, but he contrived to
escape through a side window, and hurried back to Ajaccio. Here his
arrest was ordered, but warned by his friends Napoleon hid himself all
day in a grotto, in the garden of one of his Ramolino cousins. Still, as
it was clear that Ajaccio was no longer safe for him, he got on board a
boat and rejoined Joseph at Bastia.
Furious at his having slipped through their hands, the partisans of
Paoli turned their wrath upon Laetitia and her children. With the high
courage she had shown all her life 'Madame Mère' wished to stay and
defend her house, but was at last persuaded to fly, taking with her
Louis, Marianna, and Paoletta, with her brother Fesch to guard them,
leaving the two youngest children with her mother. Hardly had she gone
when her house was pillaged and almost destroyed. It would have been
burned to the ground but for fear of setting fire to the houses of the
Paolistes. It was only on June 11, after perils by land and perils by
sea, that the fugitives, now joined by Napoleon, set sail for Toulon.
The voyage lasted two days, and as soon as they touched land Napoleon's
first care was to find a lodging for his mother and the children, where
they might rest in peace till he could decide what was best to be done.
He then made his way to Nice, where a battery of artillery was
quartered, and found that by great good luck the brother of his old
general Baron du Teil was in command. In happier times he would most
likely have been put under arrest at once, before being shot as a
deserter; but, as in earlier days, the Republic was in need of every man
it could get, and he was at once employed to inspect the defences along
the coast and to collect guns and ammunition. In all this the warfare he
had carried on in Corsica stood him in good stead. It had taught him how
to deal with men, and his eye had learned to discover the strong and
weak points of a position, while his mind had grown rich in resource. As
in the case of many of the greatest men, he had been trained for victory
by defeat. It was at the siege of Toulon he gained the name at which for
eleven years 'the world grew pale.' Revolted by the cruelties of the
Convention in Paris, the town, like others in different parts of France,
had declared for Louis XVIII. A friendly fleet of English and Spanish
ships had cast anchor in the bay, and the French army which besieged the
city was undisciplined and ill commanded. All that it had in the way of
artillery was in so bad a condition as to be useless, the powder and
shot were exhausted, Dommartin, the artillery officer, was wounded, and
there was no man to take his place.
'Send for young Bonaparte,' said Salicetti, one of the commissioners of
the Convention, who had known him elsewhere; and from that moment the
tide began to turn. Messengers were despatched at once to bring in
horses from miles round, while an arsenal was built on one of the
surrounding hills. Day and night the men kept at work, and before a week
had passed fourteen big guns and four mortars were ready, and a large
quantity of provisions stored up. Day and night the men laboured, and
day and night Bonaparte was to be found beside them, directing,
encouraging, praising. When he could no longer stand, he wrapped himself
in his cloak and lay down beside them, present to guide them in any
difficulty, to repair any blunder. And the representatives of the
Convention noted it all, and one morning handed him his brevet of
general of battalion. Armed with this authority Napoleon's task became
easier. He had aides-de-camp to send where he would, and forthwith one
rode along the coast to bring up cannon from the army of Italy, and
another set out for Lyons to gather horses and food. But whatever he
did, his eyes were fixed on the key of the city—the Fort Mulgrave
which, it was plain to all, must be the first object of attack. Close
underneath the fort a French battery was erected and manned—only to be
swept clear by the guns from the English ships. Another set of
volunteers slipped out from the ranks, and fell dead beside their
comrades. For the third time Bonaparte gave the word of command, but
there was silence. 'Call it the Battery of the Fearless,' he said, and
in an instant every man had sprung forward. The battery was never
without its gunner till the fort was taken.
[Illustration: BONAPARTE IN THE BATTERY OF THE FEARLESS]
With the fall of Toulon we must bid farewell to Napoleon, whose youth
was over and whose manhood was now begun. You all know the story which
ended at last in Waterloo, and there is no need to repeat it. 'He was
not a gentleman,' is said by many. Well, perhaps he was not _always_ a
gentleman, but the hold he obtained on France, and particularly on the
men who followed him, was true and deep and lasting, for it endures even
to this day. Listen to a soldier standing in the Invalides, where his
body was laid when it was brought from St. Helena, with his hat and his
sword placed beside him.
'Ah! c'est Lui! c'est son chapeau! c'est son épée!' he cries, the
glorious memories of the past rushing over him, till he too feels that
he has fought at Austerlitz and at Marengo.
And when they asked for rights, he made reply
'Ye have my glory.' And so, drawing round them
His ample purple, glorified and bound them
In an embrace that seemed identity.
'He ruled them like a tyrant.' True. But none
Were ruled like slaves. Each felt Napoleon.
_HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME_
AT nine o'clock on the morning of March 20, 1811, the boom of a cannon
sounded through Paris. Peace reigned throughout France, yet the roar of
the gun had a magical effect on the hurrying passers-by. Every man,
woman, and child, whatever might be their business, stopped where they
stood, as if a fairy had waved her wand over them. No one moved; no one
spoke; not only did their feet seem enchanted, but their tongues too.
Silently they all remained in their places while the thunder of the
cannon still went on, but their faces wore a strained, intense look as
if they were counting something. Nineteen! twenty! twenty-one! one and
all they held their breath. Twenty-two! and a cry as of one man rung
out. The spell was broken, handkerchiefs were waved, hats flew into the
air, old soldiers embraced each other with tears in their eyes. The King
of Rome was born.
And who was this King of Rome, the only bearer of a noble name, and why
was his birth so dear to the citizens of Paris? He was the son of
Napoleon and the Archduchess Marie Louise, destined, so it was hoped, to
carry on the work of his father and to bear the eagles triumphant
through many a field of battle. And yet, if they could have looked
forward twenty-one years, they would have seen a youth dying of
consumption far from the country which he loved, after one of the
saddest lives that perhaps any child ever knew.
But now, on the day of his birth, nobody dreamed of the doom that lay on
him! Instead, he seemed the most fortunate baby in the whole world! He
had a lady-in-waiting in charge of him and his numerous nurses, and
chief attendant, the Comtesse de Montesquiou, 'Maman Quiou' as he called
her in after-days; his room was hung with soft green silk curtains, with
palm trees and golden lizards embroidered on them. He slept all night
long, and part of the day too, in a cot shaped like a boat, with a
gilded prow, and the green, myrtle broidered curtains that shaded him
from the light were caught together by a wreath of golden laurels. In
the room there was another cradle, more beautiful, given him by the City
of Paris, which was to go with him by-and-by into exile, and can still
be seen at the Palace of Schönbrunn. This cot had been the work of
famous artists; Prud'hon had drawn the designs, and the most skilful
sculptors and goldsmiths had carried them out. The curtains at his head
were of lace, sprinkled with golden stars, and an eaglet, with
outstretched wings, hovered over his feet.
When His Majesty the King of Rome was a month old, he was driven out to
the palace of St. Cloud, where he lived with Madame de Montesquiou in
rooms opening straight on to the gardens. Here, in the green and quiet,
he grew strong, and able to bear the fatigues of his christening, which
was celebrated in the Cathedral of Nôtre Dame, on June 9, with all the
pomp suitable to the occasion. Once again the bells rang out, and all
along the way troops took up their places. At five o'clock the Tuileries
gardens were filled with carriages, and the procession began to form.
The escort of troops rode first, and were followed by the gay-coated
heralds and the officers of State, these last in carriages drawn by four
horses. The Emperor's brothers and sisters came next, and after them was
a pause, till the Imperial carriage, drawn by eight horses, hove in
sight, containing Madame de Montesquiou, holding on her knees the King
of Rome. His long robe was of white satin covered with lace; a little
lace cap was on his head, and across his breast lay the red ribbon of
the Legion of Honour. 'Long live Napoleon Francis Charles Joseph, King
of Rome!' cried the heralds when the baptismal ceremony was over, and
the Emperor, snatching the child from the arms of its mother, held him
out to the crowd who thronged the church. 'Long live the King of Rome!'
it cried in answer: then the procession re-formed, and returned to the
Tuileries in the same order.
Marie Louise does not seem to have had the boy much with her, though
Isabey, the famous artist, was constantly ordered to paint his picture,
and it was his father whom he first learned to know. Napoleon had always
been fond of playing with children; and before the birth of his own son,
his nephews and nieces were constantly about him. Best of all, he had
loved the little Napoleon Charles, son of his brother Louis, King of
Holland, and Hortense Beauharnais, and Charles was never happier than
when trotting about at 'Nanon's' side. Nanon was the pet name of
Napoleon. Together they would go and feed the gazelles with
tobacco—which (if strong) was very bad for the gazelles, and made them
ill for a whole day after—or the Emperor would take him to parade, and
Charles would cry, 'Long live Nanon the soldier!' And how proud Nanon
was one day when Charles, who had been lost at a review held at
Boulogne, was found wandering between the line of fire of the two
armies, not a bit afraid of the guns.
[Illustration: Feeding the gazelles with tobacco]
Charles was a very nice little boy, and had been taught good manners by
Queen Hortense. When he went into Nanon's dressing-room he did not pull
about the things that were lying on the dressing-table, but sat still
while he chattered to his uncle, or repeated some fable of La Fontaine's
which he had learned the day before. He was a generous little fellow,
and would readily give away his toys or sweets, and only laughed when
Napoleon pulled his ears, instead of getting angry like his cousins, the
little Murats. Every day he did his lessons, and was allowed sometimes,
as a great treat, to copy out the 'Wolf and the Lamb,' or the 'Lion and
the Mouse,' or the 'Goose with the Golden Eggs,' to show to Nanon. But
by-and-by he had to say good-bye to Nanon and go back to his father and
mother in Holland, where he fell ill and died, at the age of four and a
half, in May 1807.
After Charles's death Napoleon made a pet of the dead child's younger
brother, Napoleon Louis, though he never took the elder child's place in
his uncle's heart. Still, the Emperor liked to have Louis about him, and
swung him on to his knee at breakfast, and gave him bits of omelette or
cutlet on his fork. Louis, of course, wanted to do everything his uncle
did, and one day insisted on sipping his coffee, but he did not like it,
and made a face. 'Oh, Louis!' cried the Emperor, 'your education is
certainly not finished, as you have not learned how to hide your
feelings.' The boy stared and grew rather cross, for he felt he was
being laughed at, though he did not understand why. His temper was never
as good as his brother's, and he often flew into a rage when Napoleon
teased him, as he was very fond of doing. One morning, when Louis was
three years old, he was breakfasting with the Emperor, and was just
going to eat an egg, when Napoleon caught it up, and held it out of his
reach. 'Give me my egg, or I will kill you,' said Louis, picking up a
knife. 'Would you really kill your uncle?' asked Napoleon.
'Give me my egg, or I will _kill_ you,' repeated Louis, louder than
before; and Napoleon laughed and gave it back to him, and patted his
head, saying, 'Ah, some day you will be a fine fellow!'
But now that he had a son of his own, who would by-and-by inherit the
Empire he had created and tread in his footsteps, Napoleon could not
make enough of him. He, too, came to breakfast, and, much to Madame de
Montesquiou's disgust, the Emperor would dip his fingers in the red wine
he was drinking, and give it to the baby to suck. The King of Rome would
shrink away in terror from the bunch of nodding plumes on his mother's
bonnet, but he smiled and crowed when his father lifted him in the air.
Sometimes, however, the play got too rough, and the child would screw up
the corners of his mouth and begin to cry. Then the Emperor would stop
and look at him gravely, and say to him:
'What, Sire! are you crying? A king, and yet you cry! Oh, that is very
bad! Kings don't cry!' and he would begin to make faces, which the baby
loved, and it would break into smiles directly. The boy grew quickly,
and at eight months old he was already trying to walk, but, on the other
hand, he was very backward in talking. As he got older, he would often
manage to escape from the nursery, and, running along the passage, knock
with his fists on the door of the Emperor's study.
'Open! I want papa,' he would say to the sentry, who always answered:
'Sire, I must not let in your Majesty.'
'Why not? I am the little king.'
'But your Majesty is alone!' replied the sentry, who had been ordered
not to admit the boy unless Madame de Montesquiou was with him. The
child's eyes filled with tears, but hearing 'Maman Quiou's' voice behind
him, he took hold of her hand and looked at the man, saying:
'Now open it. The little king desires it.'
'His Majesty the King of Rome,' announced the usher, and the little
fellow ran straight up to his father, sure of his welcome. No matter how
occupied the Emperor might be, the child was never sent away. His father
would hold him on his knee while he signed State papers, or walk up and
down the room with the boy on his back as he dictated despatches to his
secretaries, or, greatest joy of all, he would allow his son to play
with the little wooden soldiers that he kept on the table when planning
his campaigns. In face the little king grew daily more like an Austrian,
though his father tried in vain to see some resemblance to himself. But
in many ways he showed his Corsican blood, and chiefly in the sudden
bursts of temper to which he was liable. These were always stopped at
once by his governess, who never spoilt him herself or suffered anyone
else to do so. One day, when something had displeased him, he stormed
and raged till Madame de Montesquiou feared he would fall into
convulsions, as his cousin, Achille Murat, had done only the week
before. Finding that the child would listen to nothing, she ordered an
attendant to close all the shutters. The boy, astonished at the sudden
darkness, ceased crying at once, and asked why the sun was shut out.
[Illustration: "Open I want Papa"
"Sire, I must not let in your Majesty"]
'So that nobody might hear you, Sire. The people would never want you
for their king if they knew how naughty you could be!'
'Did I scream very loud?' he inquired in rather a small voice.
'Very,' replied the governess.
'Do you think they heard?'
'I am afraid so.'
At this answer his tears began to fall again, but quite silently. He
made a violent effort to check them, and when he could speak, he
stretched up his arms to his governess, and whispered, 'I'll never do it
again, Maman Quiou. I am very sorry.'
By the time he was two years old the little king had a whole roomful of
toys of every sort: there was a drum, mounted in silver, that Napoleon
had given him on his first birthday, before the ill-fated army started
for Russia; there was a top in an ivory frame, and a Polish lancer who
could move his legs; there was a wonderful pearl and enamel box, with a
locket inside, and out of the locket a bird jumped and sang. The King of
Rome cherished them all; but best he loved a woolly sheep with a velvet
collar and golden bells. He would play with this sheep for hours
together, pretending it was the lamb that the wicked wolf was trying to
catch, as told in his favourite story. When he went out, he had two real
white sheep to draw him, in a beautiful little carriage given him on his
birthday by his aunt, Caroline Murat, and in this he drove along the
riverside terrace of the Tuileries, dressed in white muslin and lace,
with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour peeping out of the folds.
And the Parisians were always delighted to see him, and at the bidding
of his governess he smiled and waved his hand, for the Emperor was most
particular about his manners. He was also anxious that the child should
grow up as strong and hardy as he himself had done, so every day,
whatever the weather, the little prince drove out in his carriage, with
a merino pelisse over his muslin frock, and a pink or blue loose coat on
top. The Empress thought it a pity, and feared her son might catch cold,
but in this matter Napoleon had his way.
Long before this the château at Meudon had been prepared as a sort of
school for the Imperial children; if indeed the King of Rome should have
any brothers or sisters. It was a rest for Napoleon to turn from the
thoughts of war, and to plan every detail of the education that was to
be given to his son. He collected a library of 6,000 volumes, which it
would be years before the boy could read or understand. After the
fashion of the day he ordered a dinner-service to be made at the
manufactory at Sèvres, and each of the seventy plates contained a
lesson. Eleven of them were painted with scenes from Roman history,
thirty-two with famous victories of the French; while the rest were
covered with pictures of sun, moon, and stars, or birds, beasts, and
fishes. His rooms were hung with blue velvet, and the backs of the
chairs and sofas, as well as the walls, were covered with drawings of
the most celebrated Roman buildings. It was in the same spirit that
Madame de Genlis desired to teach Roman history to her two pupils, Louis
Philippe and his sister, only she wished to have the events woven into
tapestries, which would have taken even longer to make than the
dinner-set and have been still more costly.
So the little prince was sent, with his governesses and his nurses and
his own staff of servants, to Meudon, and Madame de Montesquiou wrote
constant reports of him to his parents at the Tuileries. At fourteen
months he had for dinner soup, beef, chicken, and pudding; at least
these things appeared on his table, though most likely he was not
allowed to eat them all. Directly the dinner was ready, the dishes were
placed in a large box, which was carefully locked by the head cook, who
gave it to a footman, and by him it was carried to the prince's
apartments, where the box was unlocked by Madame de Montesquiou with a
second key. These precautions dated back from many centuries, when
poison, or rather the fear of it, played so large a part in the life of
Courts. Certainly nobody wanted to poison the poor little King of Rome,
and if they had, they would hardly have liked to face the consequences!
Instead, he was adored by all his attendants, as a good-tempered,
healthy baby generally is. They loved to stand and peep through the
door, when 'Maman Quiou' was not looking, and watch him staggering and
tumbling about on the mattresses, three feet thick, that were spread in
his rooms, so that he might learn to walk without hurting himself; and
they would wait behind the curtains to see him start for his drive, with
his two white sheep beautifully combed and curled, the golden bells of
their collars tinkling as they went.
[Illustration: Napoleon shows the portrait to the Generals]
For some months the baby and his household remained at Meudon with his
governess, while the Emperor had begun the fatal war with Russia, and
the Empress was enjoying herself at Dresden with her father, Francis II.
Madame de Montesquiou writes her reports to the Emperor as usual, and no
matter how busy he is, he never fails to answer. Sometimes these letters
are accompanied by a bust or a miniature, and by-and-by Marie Louise
herself sends a full-length portrait of him by Gérard, which arrives on
September 6, 1812, the day of the battle of the Moskowa. For an instant
Russia ceases to exist for Napoleon: the world holds nothing but a
little boy in a white frock. 'Summon my generals,' he says, and they
come crowding into his tent, where the portrait of the King of Rome
stands upon a rough table. As they look the Emperor turns to them with a
wave of his hand. 'Gentlemen, if my son were fifteen years old instead
of eighteen months, it is not only in his portrait that he would be
present to-day.' Then, steadying his voice, which had trembled as he
spoke, he added, 'Take it away; it is too soon for him to look upon a
field of battle.'
It was on December 18 that the Emperor, ill and dejected, returned to
France, leaving the remnant of his army behind him, to struggle with the
horrors of the retreat. He knew too well that at the first sign of
weakness and defeat the hatreds that his despotism had sown all over
Europe would spring in scores from the earth, armed to the teeth, and
for the first time in his career the thought entered like iron into his
soul that the star in which he so firmly believed might be setting.
Could anything be done, he wondered, in case, in case—it was as well to
be prepared for everything. Yes, that was it! His son must be crowned
Emperor by Pope Pius the Seventh, who was still a prisoner at
Fontainebleau, and then, if abdication was forced upon himself, his
dynasty would still sit on the throne of France. But though the Pope did
not refuse when Napoleon arrived unexpectedly at Fontainebleau, and even
allowed the day for the ceremony to be fixed, he made various
difficulties, and in the end retracted altogether the consent which had
been unwillingly wrung from him.
While his father was thus mapping out his future career, the little
prince was living happily at St. Cloud with Madame de Montesquiou. In
April, just after he had passed his second birthday, a great event
happened—he put on his first pair of trousers, and though they were
only made of muslin, his nurses were as proud as if they had been a pair
of jack boots! Nobody, they said, and it was quite true, would have
taken him for less than three, or even four, but still it was strange
that so quick and lively a child should be so slow in talking.
'Maman Quiou' agreed with them. It was very strange, but perhaps he
needed a friend of his own age, to play and even quarrel with. So she
made inquiries among the prince's attendants and chose the son of a
Madame Froment, about a year older than the prince, a good-tempered and
well-behaved boy who knew nothing about rank, only that they were two
little boys together. What fun they had on their ponies, those two! and
though of course they never went out without grooms to lead them, they
both felt as great as ever Napoleon had done after Marengo or
Austerlitz! Did they not wear the uniforms of Mamelouks or Turkish
guards; and did not the people smile and bow as they passed, and the
children look after them with envy? In the company of little Froment the
King of Rome soon found his tongue, and when on Sundays ministers and
marshals flocked to pay their court, he was able to stammer a few polite
words taught him by his governess. On these occasions he was always
dressed in a smart uniform, which soon became his daily costume. He was
either a Lancer, or a Grenadier, or a National Guard, and every Sunday
he drove round the park and looked at the waterfalls which were always a
joy to him. Once, as a special favour, a girls' school was allowed to
stand in the hall of the palace and watch him go by! They gazed silent
and awe-stricken at the fortunate baby, but when they got out into the
air once more, they chattered like magpies about his golden hair and his
lovely clothes, and his pretty manners. 'Oh! how nice to be a king,'
they said.
Of course he was much too little to read any of the books his father
provided for him, but he soon learned to know his letters, and to point
out which was Cæsar and which Henri IV. Fairy tales were strictly
forbidden to him; they were 'useless,' his father said, and the boy who
had begun his life like a fairy prince ended it early in the grimmest of
realities.
At the moment that the King of Rome was born Napoleon's power was at its
height. One by one he had forced the nations of Europe to bow to his
yoke, or to accept his alliance, except England, which still defied him,
and Spain and Portugal that with her help were shaking themselves free
of the chains that bound them. But soon there were signs that the vast
Empire was about to crumble. Russia was the first to rebel, and the
campaign against her in 1812 was full of disasters. The people did not
hesitate to set fire to their beloved city of Moscow, rather than allow
it to fall into the hands of the invaders, and its stores were destroyed
and its fire engines broken. In November began the retreat amidst the
winter snows. Thousands of French soldiers died from cold and exposure,
while, to add to the horrors, the Russian army hung on the rear, and
harassed them at every step. At the news of each check to the French
arms the hearts of Napoleon's many enemies beat faster, and soon it grew
plain that he would have to fight not only Prussia and Russia, but his
present ally Austria, and England, Portugal, and Spain: and that on the
victory depended, not his supremacy in Europe, but his hold over France.
Still, he had faith in his star, and in his soldiers, and shut out all
doubts from his mind as he made his preparations.
It was on January 23, 1813, that, wearing the uniform of the National
Guard, the King of Rome was carried by Madame de Montesquiou into the
Salle des Maréchaux in the Tuileries, which was filled with the officers
of the regiment. The Emperor signed to the governess to put the child on
the ground, and, placing him by his side, advanced with the Empress into
the middle of the room. 'I am on the eve of starting to lead my army to
fresh victories,' he said, 'and I leave my wife and son to your care.
Will you defend them? Say! will you defend them? Can I trust you; will
you defend them?' A great shout answered him; then, snatching up the
boy, he carried him down to the Place du Carrousel where the privates
were assembled, crying, 'Long live the Emperor! Long live the King of
Rome!' The boy waved his hand and smiled, and Napoleon smiled also. 'He
knows you are my friends,' he said, and the shouts grew louder than
before.
All that year, while Napoleon was desperately fighting the allied army
in order to retain the Empire that was slipping from him, his son was
living quietly with 'Maman Quiou,' who did her best to train him for the
position she was beginning to doubt that he would ever occupy. In spite
of the care which she had exercised to treat him as an ordinary child,
and the blows that had been given and taken by little Froment, it had
naturally proved impossible to prevent foolish people from flattering
and indulging him. 'As papa is away I am master,' he once said, not
knowing that the 'master' was no longer himself or his father, but the
Allies, for Napoleon's star had set at last. He was beaten.
Marie Louise and her son were sent to Blois, where they remained for a
short time, the Empress, who was wholly Austrian at heart, nourishing
hopes of a kingdom to be created for her by her father, Francis II. In
vain did Méneval, the Secretary, and Madame de Montesquiou urge her to
join her husband at Fontainebleau, and stand by him when he signed, on
April 13, the act of abdication. To take her share in any trouble was
never the way of Marie Louise; but she seems to have been satisfied when
she learned that she was still to be called 'Empress,' and to have the
duchies of Parma, Piacenza, and Guastalla as her dowry. As for
accompanying Napoleon to the island of Elba, which had been chosen for
his prison, it never so much as occurred to her. The 'General,' as she
henceforth called him, had passed out of her life. Scraps of
conversation and anxious looks caused the little boy, 'King of Rome' no
more, but 'Prince of Parma,' to feel that something terrible was in the
air, something that had to do with himself and his father and mother,
and he soon found out what it was. 'Blücher is my enemy,' he said one
day to his governess, and on his way to Vienna he remarked to one of his
attendants, 'Louis XVIII. has taken papa's place, and has kept all my
toys, but he must be made to give them up,' while another time he added
sadly, 'I see that I am not a king any more, as I have no pages.'
It was at the château of Rambouillet, not far from Pau, that Marie
Louise met her father, whom she welcomed with pure delight, as if the
visit had been only one of pleasure. The arrangements for the journey to
Vienna were soon made, and her son's attendants chosen. They were to be
Madame de Montesquiou, who left her family behind so that the little
prince might not feel himself forsaken; Madame Soufflot, and her
daughter Fanny, a girl of fifteen, who, the boy thought, made a better
playfellow than his friend Froment, from whom he was now parted; Madame
Marchand, his nurse; and Gobereau, the valet, with his wife and little
son. Most of his possessions were, as he said, left behind for Louis
XVIII., but he was allowed to take with him to the country palace of
Schönbrunn the wonderful cradle given him by the City of Paris, and some
of his favourite toys, selected by himself. How hard it was to know what
to choose out of those multitudes of beautiful things. 'Oh! I can't
leave _that_! I must take _that_!' he would cry, as his nurses and
governesses pulled out one toy after another, and it was very difficult
to make him understand that he could not take them all. At length, after
many tears, a few were put aside: two wooden horses, a stable, a
grenadier, a hussar, a cow and a milkmaid, a Turk playing on a
mandoline, a grocer's shop—these and a few others were what he took
with him, but dearer than all were his little carriage drawn by the
sheep, and a hundred and fifty pebbles which he had collected himself.
He travelled in a carriage with Madame de Montesquiou, as his mother
soon grew tired of him, and much preferred the company of her
lady-in-waiting, Madame de Montebello. It was a long journey, and they
did not travel fast, so that it was the end of May before they reached
Schönbrunn. There the child began to feel as if he was a king again, so
warm was the welcome of the people, who were charmed with his fair hair
and merry smile. Indeed, though he did not forget his father, and often
asked about him, he was quite happy for a few months, surrounded by his
French friends who so dearly loved him. By this time he could read, and
every morning after he got up and had had some coffee and rolls, he
learned a little history and geography, with Gobereau, the valet's son,
as a companion in his studies. When these were finished, an Italian
master came and taught him the Italian names of the things in the room
and short sentences, and _he_ was followed by a German, whom the child
did not like as well. After the German took leave of him, his playtime
began, and he had great games at soldiers with himself and Fanny
Soufflot on one side, and his little uncle the Archduke Francis and
Gobereau on the other. From his earliest years war had been a passion
with him; guns never frightened him, and military music made him dance
with excitement. Little though he knew of his father—for his Austrian
tutors did not encourage conversation about Napoleon—he was at any rate
aware that he had been a great general, and the older the prince grew,
the more ardently he longed to tread in his footsteps. But the
Revolution, which had given Napoleon his chance, was past and gone,
though perhaps if the Eaglet (as the prince was called) had inherited
his father's genius, he would have made an opportunity for himself. But
he had not genius, only ambition; and the circumstances of his life were
against him.
One March morning the news flashed through Europe that Napoleon had
landed in France from Elba, and that with every fresh day many thousands
joined his standard. Not for one moment did Marie Louise think of
joining him, or of watching with any feeling but that of dismay the
struggle which was yet to come. Her child was hurriedly removed from
Schönbrunn into Vienna itself, so that he should run no risk of being
carried off by his father's friends. To make all safer, his grandfather,
Francis II., ordered Madame de Montesquiou to deliver the boy to him,
and to return at once to her own country, though as a matter of fact she
was kept in a sort of confinement till the battle of Waterloo had
decided the fate of Napoleon and his son.
Madame de Montesquiou heard the command with a feeling of despair. For
four years her life had been absorbed in that of the prince as it had
never been absorbed in that of her own children. From seven in the
morning, when he got up, to the time that he went to bed, he was
scarcely out of her presence for half an hour. During these four years
he had been of more importance to her than anything in the world, not
only from duty, but from love, and he knew it, and came to her for
everything. It would have been hard enough to have parted from him had
they still been in France—had Napoleon been there to watch over and
protect him—but it was a thousand times more bitter to leave him alone,
for he _was_ alone, though his mother and his grandfather were both in
Vienna.
Sorely though the boy wept at parting with 'Maman Quiou' there still
remained the Soufflots and Marchand, the nurse, to console him, and they
did their best. New games were invented for him and wonderful stories
were told him, and when he grew tired of them he would go to Méneval,
who knew all about soldiers, and could show him how they advanced to
cross a river or besiege a fort. But by-and-by there came about him a
strange lady whom he did not like, and who did not seem to like him
either. She gave orders to Madame Soufflot and to Fanny, who curtsied
and turned red, and said as little as possible; but though after she had
gone they went back to their games, they did not enjoy them as heartily
as before.
At last, one dreadful day, Méneval entered the room when the lady was
present, and, with a low bow, he informed 'his Imperial Highness the
Prince of Parma' that he was about to quit Vienna for France, and wished
to know whether he had any messages for his father. The prince, grown
dull and silent during the last few days, did not answer, but walked
slowly down to the furthest window and looked out. Méneval followed him
to take leave, when the child whispered quickly, 'Tell him that I always
love him, Monsieur Méva.'
He not only loved him, but thought about him, and listened eagerly to
what his elders might let fall, though, as long as he had his French
attendants with him, he rarely put any questions to his German tutors.
But soon he noticed that both Madame Soufflot and Fanny had red circles
round their eyes, and could hardly look at him without crying. The
prince did not need to be told the reason; by this time he understood
many things. As usual he said nothing, but went straight to his room and
brought out all his treasures, the treasures that had come with him from
France a year and a half before. There was his little gun, his Order of
the Legion of Honour, his soldiers, the veil that he had worn at his
christening, the medals that had been struck at his birth. 'Take them,'
he said to Fanny Soufflot; 'take them back to France.'
Now there was only Marchand left, in whose presence he had slept every
night since he was born. She was only a peasant woman, and surely could
not be suspected of plotting against the Austrian Court! No, but she
might talk to him of his father, and keep alive memories which were
better let die. She put him to bed one night as usual, in the spring of
1816, but in the morning there stood at his bedside, not Marchand, but
an Austrian officer. Once more the boy understood. He turned a shade
paler, but asked no questions, merely saying, 'Monsieur Foresti, I
should like to get up.'
It had not been without a struggle that the friends of Napoleon had
allowed his son to be set aside. An effort was made to proclaim him
Napoleon II. when his father, for the second time, abdicated the French
throne. But the attempt met with no response, and was, indeed, quite
ignored by the Chamber of Deputies. The only result to the prince was to
surround him more strictly than before with German tutors and
attendants, and to discourage him to speak in French. Henceforth he was
to be an Austrian, and an Austrian only, and as he was not yet five
years old the task did not seem difficult. They were soon undeceived;
the child did not talk much about his former life to these strangers,
but every now and then he would put inconvenient questions.
'Why was I called "King of Rome?"' he asked his tutor one day.
'Because at the time you were born your father ruled over many
countries,' was the reply.
'Did Rome belong to my father?'
'No; Rome belongs to the Pope.'
'Is not my father in India now?'
'Oh dear no, certainly not.'
'Then he is in America?'
'Why should he be in America?'
'Where _is_ he, then?'
'That I cannot tell you.'
'I heard someone say that he was in great misery.'
'Well, you must have known that that was not likely to be true.'
'No, I thought it couldn't be,' answered the boy, with a smile of
relief.
All his teachers found that he was quick at his lessons, when he chose
to take the trouble to learn them, which was not always, and, like many
other little boys, he would listen for hours to what was read to him,
though at first he was not fond of reading to himself. However, when he
was about six he suddenly changed in this respect, and was often found
poring over the Old Testament, delighting in the descriptions of the
wars with the Amalekites or the exploits of Samson. As for his
amusements, sometimes he acted in theatricals at the Court, and in spite
of his age was present at the State balls, where everyone was struck
with his grace, for, unlike his father, he always loved to dance. His
tutors were quite kind to him, and did their best to bring him up in a
way that was suitable to the grandson of the Emperor of Austria, but by
trying to make him forget the country of his birth they went the wrong
way to work. His recollections and feelings refused to be stifled; he
was alone, and knew he had no place in the world; he had not a title,
for the Congress of Vienna had deprived him of the succession to his
mother's three duchies, and now even his name was taken from him. He was
no longer 'Napoleon,' but 'Prince Francis Charles.' As his custom was,
he kept silence about it, but this hurt him more than all the rest.
After a time, however, Francis II., who was really fond of him, saw that
it was not for his own dignity to leave his grandson in this position,
and created him Duke of Reichstadt, with coat-of-arms, and lands, and a
palace at Vienna.
Early in the year 1821, when he was ten years old, the Duke of
Reichstadt began his studies in a public school, which were to end in a
commission in the Austrian army. In spite of all his teaching he does
not seem to have had a much greater talent for languages than his
father, whose dislike of Latin he shared cordially. Great pains had been
taken at first to force him to forget French, and to make him speak only
the tongues used in the Austrian Empire, which were German and Italian,
but as he grew older his lessons in French were begun again. After
eleven years of study he was unable to write an Italian letter without
mistakes, while his French compositions show that he thought in German,
and then translated his ideas, so that it did not seem like real French
at all. Like Napoleon, again, he was fond of mathematics and loved
history, but best of all his drill. However idle he might be in other
things, he worked hard at this, and how proud he was when he earned his
promotion as a sergeant, and was allowed to mount guard before the room
of his grandfather.
The prince was at Schönbrunn with his tutors, when on a hot summer
morning a messenger arrived from Vienna, and desired to speak with
Monsieur Foresti. Their talk was long, and when they parted Foresti's
face was unusually grave, but he said nothing till the evening, when he
told the boy in a few words that the father of whom he thought so much
had died at St. Helena on May 5. Notwithstanding his occasional bursts
of temper, the duke's silence and reserve about his feelings had won him
the reputation of coldness of heart, and Foresti was amazed at the
torrent of tears which broke from him. Now indeed he was alone, with
only his shadowy recollections for company, and the stories of the
Emperor's greatness which he had heard from his French governesses five
years before. And during these five years his thoughts had never ceased
to hover round his father, all the more persistently, perhaps, from the
ignorance in which he had been kept concerning him. But well he
remembered how the portraits and miniatures of himself had from time to
time been sent to his father to Elba, to Fontainebleau, and some to St.
Helena—though exactly where St. Helena was he did not know. _That_ he
was to learn later, when his tutor bade him look it out on the map, and
gave him a lesson on its size and produce. Meanwhile he was put into
mourning, which Foresti and Collin wore also; but they had strict orders
not to go near any public places, where their black clothes might be
seen and noticed, as neither the Emperor nor his Court had made the
slightest change in their dress. The young duke's heart must have burned
within him at the double affront to himself and his father, but what
must his feelings have been if he ever heard of the conduct of his
mother! The letter which she wrote to her son must have sounded cold and
trifling even to a child; but perhaps the news may have been kept from
him that she declined to allow Napoleon's name to be inserted in the
prayers for the dead, and had refused his dying wish to have his heart
buried in Parma. 'It would be a fresh shock to me,' she wrote to Francis
II.
So the years passed on, and outwardly 'Napoleon, King of Rome,'
disappeared more and more completely, and in his place stood 'Francis,
Duke of Reichstadt.' At twelve he became a cadet; at seventeen he was
nominated captain in the regiment of Chasseurs. 'The spur of honour, and
the wish to merit such a distinction, have completely changed me,' he
writes to Foresti on this event, which he calls 'the happiest in his
life,' and adds, 'I wish to shake off everything that is childish in me,
and become a man in the best sense of the word.' But he was not allowed
to join his regiment, though the Austrian army was full of young
officers of fewer years than his, and for the present he was forced to
remain idle, and employ himself in riding fiery horses, an exercise for
which he had a passion. Yet his loyalty was no whit behind that of his
friends, and for the time being his military ardour made him more
Austrian than the precepts of his tutors could ever have done.
For the first time since he had crossed the French frontier the Duke of
Reichstadt had become a person of importance. In France Louis XVIII. had
been succeeded by his brother, Charles X., and a large party of
discontented people were sowing afresh the seeds of revolution. The eyes
of the Bourbons turned uneasily to Vienna, where the young Napoleon
stood by his grandfather's side. If the Emperor chose to send him with
an army across the Rhine, who could tell what fires might not be lighted
in Paris? In Vienna rumours began to be heard of plots to kidnap or
assassinate the young duke, and measures were taken to guard him
carefully. There was some talk of making him king of the newly formed
kingdom of Greece, but neither Francis II. nor his minister Metternich
would listen for a moment to the proposal that a Catholic prince should
forsake his religion and become a member of the Greek Church. Then came
the news that the Bourbon dynasty had been expelled from France. Who was
to be king? Was it to be Louis Philippe, Duke of Orléans, or Napoleon
II.?
As if by magic fifteen years were blotted out by the Parisians, and the
remembrance of the great Emperor sprang into life. Pictures of Napoleon
leading his army to victory, portraits of his son at every age,
beginning with his childhood, when he was a fair-haired, white-skinned
boy with eyes whose keen, far-seeing glances were never a heritage from
his Austrian mother, were sold in the streets, while the backs of gloves
were adorned by his image. In the young man himself all his early
instincts and his worship of his father's memory stirred strongly. But
the moment passed, and for eighteen years Louis Philippe sat on the
throne of France.
As early as the year 1828 the Duke of Reichstadt began to show signs of
delicacy. Always tall for his age, of late his growth had been very
rapid, and he was now over six feet—seven inches taller than his father
had been—but he became always thinner and thinner. The doctors
carefully examined him and found great weakness in his chest and lungs,
and reported the fact to Neipperg, Marie Louise's second husband, and to
Dietrichstein, the prince's governor, a strict and stern though just
man, who was not likely to encourage fancies. But with the coming winter
the state of the prince's health gave rise to great anxiety. 'I am
forbidden to dance this carnival,' he writes to a friend in January; yet
though dancing was prohibited he was ordered a course of swimming and
cold baths. One can only suppose that this was intended to strengthen
him, but the intense cold of an Austrian winter seems an odd moment to
begin such treatment. It is hardly surprising that it failed, and that
his weakness increased as the spring advanced, and a summer spent in
camp did not improve matters. At last, in 1830, a fresh doctor was
tried, one who had attended several of the Bonapartes, and he was
horrified at the condition in which he found his patient. The duke
scarcely ate anything at all, and coughed continually, and when at
length his dearest wish was about to be fulfilled, and he was to
accompany his regiment into camp, his hopes were dashed to the ground by
the statement of the doctor that only the greatest care could save his
life.
The disappointment was bitter. As long as he could remember he had
dreamed dreams, and they were all of military glory. He was to prove
himself his father's son, was to carry on worthily the name and
traditions that had been left him, and now— But once again he practised
the concealment of his feelings which he had so early learnt, and bore
his pain in silence. It was during this time that the Revolution in
France took place which caused the downfall of Charles X., and caused
the dying prince to become of such sudden importance. By the Emperor's
orders an establishment was formed for him, and in the spring, when he
reached his twentieth birthday, his tutors were dismissed. His health
was no better, perhaps even worse, but it did not suit Metternich, the
Emperor's chief Minister, to notice this; in spite of the remonstrances
of the doctor, the prince was again allowed to join his regiment and
take part in the manœuvres.
Ill though the duke felt, at last he was happy. His military duties were
well done, and, like his father, he had the genius to make himself loved
by his soldiers. For a time his strong will carried him along, but one
day in giving orders to his troops his voice failed him. He made light
of it, and said he had strained it unnecessarily, and that he would soon
learn to manage it better; but a bad attack of fever which followed
shortly after obliged him unwillingly to quit the camp, and to go for a
change to Schönbrunn. Here, in the country, his health improved, but in
a short time the fever returned, and left him too weak to care about
anything. So passed the summer and autumn; but in the early spring his
health began to mend, and with renewed strength came a sudden longing
for the old pleasures. The doctor, thinking it would do the prince more
harm to thwart him than to let him have his way, gave him permission to
take a quiet ride; but the moment he once more felt a horse under him,
he threw prudence to the winds and galloped madly round the park, till
both horse and rider were quite exhausted. And as if this was not
enough, he insisted, wet though it was, in going for a drive in the
evening. Unfortunately the carriage broke down, and no other was at
hand. He had only one attendant with him, and the officer did not dare
to leave him alone in the cold, shelterless place. There was therefore
nothing for it but to walk back to Vienna, but it was quite plain that
the prince scarcely had power to drag himself there. It was really a
very short distance, but to the invalid the way seemed endless, and he
had hardly reached the first houses when he staggered and fell.
From this period his state was practically hopeless, though he would
sometimes surprise his doctors by sudden if short-lived improvements.
When the warm weather came he was taken to Schönbrunn and fed at first
on asses' milk. But his cough prevented his sleeping; he ate almost
nothing, and it was evident to all who saw him that the end could not be
far off. Then, and only then, did his mother consent to come to him, and
the Viennese, who had always loved the ill-fated boy, said bitter things
about her indifference. But the young Napoleon said no bitter things; he
only smiled and welcomed her. Even at this time, though every symptom
showed that death was close at hand, his mother could not bring herself
to remain with him. Short visits in the day and one before she went to
bed were all she thought needful. Another woman would have known that
for her own sake it would have been well to have pretended, if she did
not feel, a little more motherly love, but from first to last Marie
Louise had been too stupid to guess how people would judge her.
In the night of July 22, 1832, he awoke from a feverish sleep crying
out, 'I am dying,' and directly after he added, 'Call my mother.' He was
past speaking when she came, followed by her brother, but he looked at
her and feebly moved his head. Then the prayers for the dying were said,
and at five o'clock his sufferings were over.
In the chapel of the Capuchins at Vienna his body lies amongst the tombs
of the Hapsburgs, parted from his father in death as he had been in
life. Yet, faithless and cold-hearted as she was, his mother did not
dare refuse him at the last the name she had so hated and disgraced, and
he stands forth to the world, not as the 'son of Marie Louise' alone, as
he had been called hitherto, but as the 'Son of Napoleon.'
_THE PRINCESS JEANNE_
IT was a cold day in January 1528 when Jeanne de Navarre was born in the
royal castle of Fontainebleau. Most of her relations were remarkable
people, famous even then for their cleverness and strong wills, and her
mother, Marguérite d'Angoulême, sister of Francis I., was distinguished
above them all for her learning. But Marguérite was better than learned,
she was wise, and she thought that her little daughter would be much
happier away from Court, with other children to play with, than in
travelling about the rough roads and small mountain towns that formed a
large part of the kingdom of Navarre, or in crossing the wide rivers
that lay between the Pyrenees and the city of Paris. For Paris was the
home of Francis I., whom Marguérite loved better than her husband, her
mother, or her little girl. So in a few days the baby was quietly
christened in the private chapel of the château, and when she was a
month old was very warmly wrapped up, and taken in a big heavy carriage
drawn by eight horses to a place near Alençon where lived her mother's
great friend, Madame de Silly, wife of the Bailiff of Caen. Here, in
company with Madame de Silly's own children, Jeanne left her babyhood
behind her. She was very strong, and very lively and mischievous
besides; it was she who led the others into mischief, who would tuck up
the long silk frock worn by little girls in those days, and climb trees
after rosy apples, or persuade one of the boys to get up very early and
go with her for hours into the woods on the hills, till Madame de Silly
and everybody else were frightened out of their wits. Nothing ever
frightened Jeanne, and she only laughed at the punishments dealt out to
her.
'Oh, yes, I promise not to do it again—not till next time,' she would
say; and her eyes looked up so merrily into the eyes of Madame de Silly
that the scolding suddenly stopped.
The only thing that ever made Jeanne really sorry for her naughty tricks
was when Madame de Silly talked to her about her mother, whom the child
loved deeply, though she saw her so seldom. To grow up like her was
Jeanne's great wish, even when she was quite a baby; and as her mother
loved the king, her uncle, so much, why, of course, she must love him
too. Every now and then Francis I. sent for her to the palace of St.
Germain, to play with her cousins, Princess Madeleine, who was
afterwards to be queen of Scotland, and Marguérite, the future duchess
of Savoy. The two little princesses were both delicate, and could not
ride and jump and run like Jeanne, who was besides the prettiest of the
three, so she was petted and spoilt and flattered by all, and when she
went back to Lonray, she gave herself all sorts of airs, till you would
have thought she was not made of flesh and blood at all, or just a child
like the rest.
By-and-by Jeanne's father, King Henry of Navarre, grew tired of dangling
about the French Court, where nobody took much notice of him, and
proposed going for a time to live in his own kingdom in the south of
France. Marguérite was herself weary of tournaments and pageants and
constant banquets, and pined for leisure to read books, and to write
poetry. So she gladly gave her consent, and wished to take Jeanne with
her, that they might get to know one another. But to this Francis would
not agree. He knew—or guessed—that the Emperor Charles V., King of
Spain, desired to bring about a marriage between his son Philip, prince
of the Asturias, and the heiress of Navarre, and such a marriage would
mean that the King of Spain would also be lord of a great part of
France. If Jeanne even approached the frontier who could say what might
happen? Therefore, to the grief of her mother and the great wrath of her
father, she was to remain in France as the ward of the king. However, to
make things as pleasant as he could, Francis announced his desire to
betrothe the princess to his second son, Henry, Duke of Orleans, a boy
of twelve, even then showing signs of the silent and melancholy
character which distinguished him in later years.
[Illustration: THE OUBLIETTES]
The prospect of this alliance delighted both the king and queen of
Navarre, but in spite of it Marguérite refused to allow Jeanne to live
at the Court and be brought up with her cousins. After much talk, it was
arranged that the gloomy castle of Plessis-les-Tours should be her
residence, and here she was to dwell in state under the care of Madame
de Silly, with a bishop, two chaplains, and a poet, to look after her
education, and some other children, probably the daughters of great
nobles, for her to play with.
Considering how many large and beautiful castles were owned by Francis,
it seems strange that he should have chosen such a dismal place as
Plessis for a child to be brought up in. The thick forests by which it
was surrounded kept out the sun, and even Jeanne's high spirits were
awed by the dark memories of Louis XI. which filled every corner—by the
deep holes, or _oubliettes_, through which a man might be thrust—and
forgotten; by Cardinal La Balue's iron cage. She was still, in spite of
her strength and cleverness, a very little girl, and she often lay awake
at night half afraid and half fascinated, wondering what _she_ would
have thought about all day long in that iron cage, and making plans how
to get out of it.
As has been said, Jeanne desired in all things to resemble her mother,
and worked hard at her lessons; she learned several languages, besides
the history of France, and Navarre, and Spain, and a little about that
strange country England, whose king, Henry VIII., had stirred up the
Church and disobeyed his Holy Father the Pope, in his refusal to allow
Henry to put away his wife Katharine of Aragon, and marry somebody else.
In after years Jeanne disobeyed the Pope in other ways, and taught her
son to do so also; but at Plessis her sharp little ears picked up all
that was said about Henry VIII. and his three wives, and her sharp
little mind was horrified at the bare idea of revolting against the Holy
Father. She came to know many of the poems of Monsieur Pierre Ronsard
and Joachim du Bellay by heart; but best of all she liked the songs of
Louis, Duke of Orleans. She even struggled to write poems herself; but
she had sense enough to see that they were not good enough to waste her
time on. On wet or cold days, when the wind whistled through the forest
and the old towers, she and her friends would dance in the hall, or sing
songs together in the firelight.
Sometimes the castle was turned upside down by the news that the king
was coming to pay his niece a visit. Poor Madame de Silly rather dreaded
these grand occasions, for Jeanne was apt to have her head turned by her
uncle, who encouraged her to say what she liked, and only laughed when
she answered him pertly. He was amused, too, by the way in which she
stuck to any plan she had formed, and, if he refused his consent one
day, would begin all over again the next. Very often she got her own way
through sheer obstinacy, and Madame de Silly would sigh as she looked
on, for she knew that it would take some time after the king's departure
to get Jeanne into order again.
And when Jeanne was tiresome she could be very tiresome indeed. She not
only had a quick tongue, but a quick temper, and would despise and even
ill-treat anyone who was not so determined as herself. When she was ten
years old her aunt, the Vicomtesse de Rohan, came to live at Plessis
with some of her children, for her husband had lost so much money that
they had almost nothing to live on. The eldest girl, Françoise, had
already gone to live at Pau with Queen Marguérite, which made Jeanne
bitterly jealous, so that when she heard from Madame de Silly that her
cousin was to be left at Plessis while the Queen of Navarre went to
Court, she was thoroughly prepared to dislike her and everything she
did. If only Mademoiselle de Rohan had behaved to Jeanne as Jeanne
behaved to _her_ they would soon have made friends; but, unluckily, she
was easily frightened, and would give up anything sooner than quarrel
about it. She was lazy, too, and preferred sitting over her embroidery
to joining in the rough games in which Jeanne delighted. Of course she
was not allowed to have her way, and was forced, little as she liked it,
to go with the rest; but Jeanne, who played as earnestly as she did
everything else, was speedily provoked by the listless Françoise, and
even went so far as to give her a hard slap as a punishment for her
indolence. Mademoiselle de Rohan did not slap her back, but she had
weapons of her own which stung as well. When Marguérite returned to
fetch her on her road to Pau, a poem of 'Farewell to Plessis' was left
behind, each lady in the queen's suite writing one verse. The stanza
composed by Françoise, whose poetical gifts were greater than her
cousin's, ran as follows:
Farewell, dear hand, farewell, I say,
That used to slap me every day;
And yet I love the slapper so,
It breaks my heart that I must go!
No doubt Queen Marguérite heard all the story from Madame de Silly, and
scolded her daughter, and no doubt also that when Jeanne recovered her
temper she felt very much ashamed of her rudeness. All her life she was
absolutely truthful, whatever it might cost her, and when she had done
wrong, and knew it, she never made excuses for herself, but accepted
manfully the punishment that was given her. But though Jeanne was
pleased enough to say good-bye to Françoise, she was extremely sorry to
part from Mademoiselle de Grammont, who was three years older than
herself, and a very clever and decided young lady, who at thirteen
thought herself a woman, and wrote some pretty lines to Jeanne on her
departure from Plessis, assuring the princess that she would never cease
to love her all her life, and that when they were both married, which
would probably be soon, they would crave their husbands' permission to
meet often.
After all the excitement was over, and everyday habits were resumed,
Jeanne began to feel very dull indeed. Her lessons ceased to interest
her, and she no longer cared for games, but would listen eagerly to the
dark tales of cruel deeds done by Louis XI. more than fifty years
before, which you may read about in 'Quentin Durward,' by Sir Walter
Scott. Her mind seemed to brood over them, and Madame de Silly would
gladly have welcomed some of the mischievous pranks, which had formerly
been Jeanne's delight, rather than watch her growing pale and thin,
gazing out of the narrow windows into the dripping forest, yet seeing
nothing that was before her. When this had gone on for many weeks Madame
de Silly became really frightened, and told Jeanne that if she was
unhappy where she was she had better write to the king and her mother
and tell them so, and perhaps they would allow her to leave. Jeanne
brightened a little at the thought of getting away, and Madame de Silly,
who noticed this, added letters of her own both to Francis and to
Marguérite, pointing out that if the princess was kept there much longer
her health would probably break down altogether.
Jeanne was, as usual, standing at the window when the two men-at-arms
rode out through the great gate of the castle. Many days would pass, she
knew, before they could come back again; but still—surely her mother
would listen to her prayers, and not leave her in that horrible place,
where she would soon die, and _then_, perhaps, they would be sorry they
had treated her so unkindly! And Jeanne burst into tears at the sad
picture she had made for herself. About three days later the messenger
who had ridden to Francis at Amboise returned to Plessis, and handed
Jeanne a letter. Her heart beat with excitement as she cut the strings
wrapped round it, and so eager was she to know her fate that the words
seemed to dance under her eyes. Then she looked up with the face of the
old Jeanne once more. 'I'm going! I'm going!' she cried, tossing the
king's letter in the air. 'I'm going to Pau at last. To _live_ there—do
you understand, Madame? But first the king is coming to see me, for he
has not been here for a long time, and he fears I may have forgotten
him. I wonder if I have any dresses fit to welcome him, for I have grown
so tall—nearly as tall as _you_, Madame la baillive de Caen.'
[Illustration: JEANNE AND THE KING]
Madame de Silly smiled at her pleasure; yet she was a little uneasy
also, for she too had heard from the king, and he had told her
something which he had hidden from Jeanne. He spoke of a marriage he
wished to arrange between his niece and the young Duke of Clèves, a
Lutheran prince, part of whose duchy had been seized by the emperor.
If, said the king, Jeanne were once wedded to the Duke of Clèves there
would be an end to the project of her marriage with the Prince of the
Asturias—and there would be an end, he might likewise have added, of
the long-talked of match with his own son, the Duke of Orléans! But
this had conveniently slipped from his mind, and he only remembered
that by this alliance he would get the better of his life-long enemy,
the King of Spain. If Francis had forgotten the early betrothal of
Jeanne and her cousin, the King of Navarre most certainly had not, and
great was his rage on receiving his brother-in-law's letter, which
had arrived some time before Jeanne's. He was naturally angry at the
hardly veiled contempt with which the King of France always treated
him, and felt very sore with his wife for suffering it, and for always
taking her brother's part against himself. Then, for reasons of state,
he thought the marriage a very undesirable one, and when he laid the
matter before his council they entirely agreed with him. Unluckily,
however, Jeanne was in the power of the King of France, who made hardly
any secret of his intention to invade Navarre should her father,
Henri d'Albret, refuse his consent. In case of war, the country would
inevitably fall to the lot of either France or Spain, and with a sullen
face and heavy heart Henri desired his wife to inform her brother that
he might do as he willed in the matter. Of course, when once he got his
way, Francis was all smiles and gracious words again, and he instantly
replied that as soon as the betrothal ceremony had been performed
Jeanne should join her mother and remain with her till she was fifteen.
For, said he, he considered that she was at present of too tender
years to take on herself the cares of the married state. And with that
prospect, Henri who passionately loved his daughter, had to be content.
It was on a brilliant spring morning that Francis set out from the
castle of Amboise to hunt in the forests on the banks of the river. For
a while he seemed, as usual, eager for the chase, then suddenly he let
it sweep past him, and, signing to two or three of his most constant
attendants, galloped down the road to Plessis-les-Tours, and was pealing
at the great bell before Jeanne had any time to think of her clothes.
'Oh, Sire, what happiness to see you!' she cried, throwing her arms
round his neck. 'And look, am I not tall? and a woman grown, though my
twelfth birthday is not long past!'
'A woman indeed, and beautiful withal! A woman ready for a husband! Is
it not so, Jeanne?' And as he spoke Francis gazed at her steadily, and
Jeanne dropped her eyes and blushed, though _why_ she did not know. The
story was soon told; the Duke of Clèves, rich, young, handsome,
accomplished, brother of the lately wedded Queen of England, was to be
the bridegroom of the heiress of Navarre, just half his age. There was
no time to be lost, and she must make ready to join her mother at
Alençon, where the contract was to be signed. The king expected some
astonishment, perhaps a little hesitation; but he certainly did not
expect the burst of tears which greeted his news, still less her 'humble
petition' to the king's grace that she might not be forced into the
marriage.
'Why, what do you mean? he is a cavalier in a thousand,' Francis
exclaimed angrily, and Jeanne could give no answer. The duke _sounded_
all that a maiden could dream of, but—she did not want him for a
husband. So her tears flowed afresh, and the king, finding her still
silent, bade her remember that he should expect to see her in Paris on
her way to Alençon in a week, and returned to Amboise in a very bad
temper.
Left to herself, Jeanne continued to cry for some time; then she dried
her eyes, and wondered why she so hated the thought of marrying the
duke. It was not any love she had for her cousin, though like her father
she felt a rush of indignation when she thought of the way she had been
used and thrown aside—no, it was something quite different. What could
it be? In a moment the answer came to her: Oh, no! no! she could never
leave France; 'France,' which was more to her than anything in the world
except her mother! And after all, she reflected, holding up her head,
they could not marry her against her will—her, the heiress of Navarre,
and a person of great importance. With that smiles came back to her
face, and she went quite cheerfully to give orders to her maids, not
knowing, poor little girl, that it was exactly _because_ she was 'a
person of great importance' that it was so difficult for her to be
happy.
Quite firm in her resolve, Jeanne rode out from Plessis two days after,
accompanied by Madame de Silly, and followed by the chief officers of
the household and a guard of soldiers. Her spirits rose as they left the
gloomy woods and gloomier towers behind them, and passed into the spring
sunshine, and the lovely gardens of the valley of the Loire. Much too
soon for Jeanne's wishes they reached Paris, and went straight to the
palace of the Louvre. After she had changed her riding dress for a
beautiful garment of blue velvet, with a chemisette and high collar of
fine lace, she was summoned to the king's apartments, where he stood
with the Duke of Clèves. If Jeanne had not been so determined to hate
him, she would have been forced to admit that he was very handsome and
manly, and that he moved and spoke with the ease and grace so highly
prized in the Court of France. As it was, she stared at him rudely, and
would scarcely answer any of his pretty speeches, and altogether (if she
could only have known it) behaved more like the naughty little girl she
_was_ than like the grown-up woman she thought herself to be. As was
natural, nothing came of this conduct, except that the king became
extremely angry with her, and Madame de Silly was obliged to give her a
scolding, and show her that she would not advance her cause with her
uncle, whose mind was set on the marriage, and only make her future
husband to despise and dislike her.
'I certainly fail to see what I am to gain by leaving France and my own
kingdom in order to marry a duke of Clèves,' Jeanne answered
contemptuously; and her governess, knowing that in this mood nothing was
to be done with her, left her to herself. Later in the day, Madame de
Silly was sent for by Francis, whom she found much enraged by Jeanne's
obstinacy.
'You will both set out for Alençon to-morrow morning,' he said sternly,
'and you will inform the Queen of Navarre of what has happened. I will
see the princess no more till she has learned to obey me.' The news of
her daughter's behaviour and her brother's displeasure sorely grieved
Queen Marguérite. Giving Jeanne no time to rest after her long ride, she
went at once to her chamber, and begged the girl to tell her all that
had happened from the very beginning. The queen listened with anger and
surprise to her daughter's account of her first interview with the king,
whose lightest word had always been law to _her_; but Jeanne no more
feared her mother than she did her uncle, and could not be induced
either to express any regret for what she had done or to promise
obedience for the future. So, with a troubled countenance, the queen
left the room, and sat down to write to Francis.
To our eyes her letter seems rather slavish, and as if she possessed no
rights in her own child. She assures the king that Jeanne's parents 'had
no will but his,' and that her father was 'more indignant at his
daughter's conduct than he had ever been about anything.' This was
hardly the truth, as Marguérite could scarcely have forgotten her
husband's wrath when the marriage was first proposed, and even if he now
thought it wiser to change his tone so as not to irritate his
brother-in-law further, she was too clever a woman to be deceived in
this, and must have guessed that, strong-willed though Jeanne was, she
would not have dared to withstand them all if she had not been sure of
the approval of her father. The visit to Alençon must have been rather
unpleasant for everyone, for when the queen was not employed in trying
to persuade her daughter to comply with her uncle's desire, she was
engaged in teaching her some of the principles of the Reformed religion,
professed, as has been said, by the Duke of Clèves. As Jeanne was at
this time a devout Catholic, these lessons only served to exasperate her
further, and it was probably a relief to all three when the Bishop of
Séez, to whom the queen had entrusted the letter, returned with the
answer.
It was very short, merely stating that the Queen of Navarre was to
arrange without delay the ceremony of betrothal between her daughter and
the Duke of Clèves, and this being over they were to go at once to
Châtelherault, where the actual marriage would publicly take place. As
to Marguérite's assurances of grief and abasement, scant notice was
vouchsafed to _them_. Though Jeanne was her own daughter, and only
twelve years old, the queen felt very uncomfortable as she walked up the
narrow winding turret staircase which led to the girl's rooms. Jeanne
turned first red and then white as she glanced at the letter in her
mother's hand, but she listened without interruption while it was being
read out to her. The queen was a little surprised at this, and felt she
was getting on better than she expected; but when she had ended, and
raised her eyes to Jeanne's face, what she saw there froze her into
silence. In a moment more the storm broke, and such a torrent of
reproaches flowed from the princess—reproaches as to the sacrifice that
was to be made of her, of the misery to which they wished to condemn
her, and of her firm resolve never to utter the vows which would make
her the duke's wife—that for a while the queen felt quite stunned. It
was seldom indeed that a mother of those days listened to such words
from her daughter. At length she recovered her presence of mind.
'Cease, Jeanne,' she said, laying her hand on the child's shoulder, 'is
it thus you have learned your duty to me? Be quiet instantly, or I shall
have to whip you as if you were a little girl again.'
The outburst of fury had somewhat exhausted Jeanne, and she felt rather
ashamed of her anger. Not because, as she told herself eagerly, she
retracted anything—it was all quite true; but perhaps she had behaved
in an undignified way, and in a manner unbecoming a princess. So she
made no reply, but began to think out another plan, and the result was a
paper protesting at being forced against her will into this marriage. If
she really composed it—it is certainly written in her own hand—it is
surprisingly clever for a child of twelve; but it is possible that she
may have been helped by one of the three officials who were witnesses of
her signature. In any case, however, it was of no use, for the betrothal
took place as arranged, and the public marriage at Châtelherault
followed it. Outwardly, Jeanne had resolved to accept the fate which she
could not escape, but before leaving Alençon she wrote a second protest,
declaring that as her vows were only made under force and not freely,
they were null and void, and the marriage no marriage.
Francis I. was much relieved when he saw his niece ride up to the gate
of the castle. Powerful though he was, Jeanne's opposition had caused
him to feel uneasy as well as irritated; he could not have told _what_
he feared, but he was aware that a burden rolled off him as she
dismounted from her horse and walked towards the great door. He left the
windows at once, in order to welcome her, so he did not notice the
bridegroom hold out his hand to lead her up the steps, nor the air with
which the bride repulsed him. Poor bridegroom! he was having a very
unpleasant time, and it was well for him that he had a charming
mother-in-law to talk to, who more than made up for the loss of her
sulky daughter.
By the king's orders the marriage festivities were to be on the grandest
possible scale, and Marguérite had given special care to Jeanne's dress.
The jewels on her long robe of cloth of gold dazzled the eyes of the
spectators, and her velvet mantle was broidered with ermine. No wonder
that on a hot July day the weight of these clothes felt enormous, and
Jeanne had some show of reason on her side when she told her uncle, who
came forward to lead her to the altar, that she really could not move
from her chair. Francis was naturally very much provoked, but not
deigning to notice such childish behaviour, he turned to the constable,
M. de Montmorency, and bade him carry the bride into the chapel. The
constable fulfilled his orders, and set down Jeanne in her place by the
side of the duke, the royal family feeling truly thankful that she had
not kicked or struggled, as they fully expected her to do.
[Illustration: Jeanne's rudeness to the Duke of Clèves]
After the quiet life she had led at Plessis the splendid ceremonies of
her marriage, and particularly the banquet and ball that followed it,
interested Jeanne very much, though she would have died rather than
show it. She even contrived to keep all her eagerness out of her eyes,
and sat there, like a little wooden image, till the Queen of Navarre
would gladly have given her the whipping she deserved. When the ball
was over, and she was alone with her mother (in whose care she was
to spend the next two or three years) she was scolded severely for
her childishness, but all in vain. Not one smile could be detected on
her face as she occupied the place of honour at the tournaments that
were held during eight days and nights in the great meadow adjoining
the castle, or walked among the tents of twisted branches where dwelt
hermits clad in velvet, green as the trees, who undertook the charge
of any strange knights till they could fight in the tourney. All this
she enjoyed secretly, and better still did she like the fairies and
water sprites who peopled the woods and hovered on the banks of the
stream, though she resolutely kept silence, instead of speaking to
them graciously, as she knew quite well it was her duty to do. In fact
Jeanne was as tiresome and perverse as a little girl could be, but in
her own heart she thought herself very grand and dignified, and the
more she saw everyone put out by her conduct the better she was pleased.
At length it was all over; the bridegroom took his leave and returned to
fight against the emperor, and the king and queen of Navarre took theirs
also, and started for Béarn. For the first time in her life Marguérite
was thankful to part from her beloved brother. She had passed a
miserable fortnight, never feeling sure what her daughter might do next,
and generally being much ashamed of what she _did_. But when they had
left the Loire behind them, and were entering the country which 'Madame
la Duchesse de Clèves' had never visited since she was a tiny child,
Jeanne threw off her injured airs and became the eager, observant girl
she naturally was. Oh, how happy she felt to see Nérac again, and to
spend the autumn in the free wild country where the sun shone, and the
wind blew fresh from the mountains! She forgot at times (in spite of her
title) that such a being as the Duke of Clèves existed, and she behaved
so well, both at Nérac and at Pau, during the following winter, that
Marguérite used to wonder if those terrible festivities had _really_
only taken place a few months ago. During part of the day Jeanne was
taught many things by her mother, and learned all the quicker for having
the queen's maids of honour to share her lessons. In the evening she
talked with some of the members of the Reformed religion, to whom the
Court of Navarre was always open. Gradually she began to feel drawn to
their doctrines, and probably would have adopted them altogether but for
the fact that the Duke of Clèves had long ceased to be a Catholic.
So two years slipped happily by. Jeanne, without becoming less truthful,
had grown more gentle, and more humble also. She no longer dwelt with
pride on the thought of her behaviour on her wedding-day, but if she was
alone her cheeks even flushed red at the recollection of it. She was
kind and pleasant to everyone she met with, and would chatter to the
people in the curious _patois_ which they spoke. She felt as if she had
lived in Béarn for ever, and that Plessis and Alençon were a dream.
Then, one morning, the Cardinal du Bellay rode into Pau, and craved an
audience of Madame la Duchesse de Clèves. When admitted to her presence
he delivered a letter from the King of France bidding Jeanne set out at
once under the Cardinal's escort, and join him at Luxembourg, from which
he would take her to Aix, where the Duke of Clèves then was. A frantic
burst of tears was the only answer the cardinal received; but at last
Jeanne found words, and declared that she would die if she was dragged
away from her beloved Pau. Her mother, whom she hastily summoned, as
usual took the side of the king; but her father wept with her, and
assured her that if she was forced to go on this journey he would go
with her. Henri was powerless to deliver her, as Jeanne well knew; still
his presence was a comfort, and in two days the sad little procession
took the northern road.
Meanwhile events across the Rhine had marched rapidly, and, unknown to
Francis, the Duke of Clèves had done homage to the emperor, who had
invaded his duchy. It was not until the treaty was actually signed by
the duke that notice was sent to Francis of the matter, and with it went
a letter requesting that the princess Jeanne might be sent immediately
to Aix to take up her position as Duchesse of Clèves. The terms of the
letter were of course dictated by the emperor, and were not intended to
soothe Francis. The king's first act was to despatch a messenger to
Soissons, to meet Jeanne, who was to rest there for a day or two, after
her long journey. At midnight she was awakened from a sound sleep by a
clatter in the courtyard beneath her windows, and a few minutes later
one of her maids brought a message that the cardinal would feel greatly
honoured if the princess would see him for a few minutes. Wearily Jeanne
suffered her ladies to dress her, and dropping into a chair, waited to
hear what the cardinal had to say. Nothing pleasant it _could_ be, for
did not every hour bring closer her farewell to France, and her life
among people that she hated. Bowing low, the cardinal entered, bearing
the despatch, which he presented to Jeanne.
'Read it,' she said, in a tired voice, waving her hand; and the cardinal
read it. As he went on her fatigue suddenly disappeared; she leaned
eagerly forward, her eyes bright and her cheeks glowing. 'What is it you
say? That the king will see that my marriage—my _hateful_
marriage—shall be set aside, and that I am to go at once to Queen
Eleanor at Fontainebleau? Oh, what joy! what a deliverance!' Jeanne's
rapture was shared by her father, and next day they travelled, with very
different feelings, over the road they had just come.
[Illustration: The Cardinal reads the King's letter to Jeanne]
To judge by her letters, Queen Marguérite seems to have been more angry
at the way in which her daughter—and her brother—had been treated than
relieved at the princess's escape from a husband whom she detested.
Steps were at once taken, not only by the King of France, but by the
Duke of Clèves, to implore from the Pope a dispensation setting aside
the marriage contracted on July 15, 1540. And as the reason given for
the appeal was the fact that the marriage had been forced on the bride
against her will, the 'protests' were produced as evidence, and Jeanne
felt with pride they had not been drawn up for nothing. Indeed, she was
bidden by Francis to write a third one, which was sent straight to Pope
Paul III. But royal marriages are neither made nor marred in a day, and
a year and a half dragged by before Jeanne was a free woman again. After
some months spent with her mother at Alençon, she returned to Plessis,
with Madame de Silly, to await alone the decision of the Pope. Here in
the chapel, on Easter Day, Jeanne addressed the bishops and nobles
assembled to hear High Mass, and read to them a short statement of the
events relating to her marriage five years before, begging that the
Cardinal de Tournon might be sent to Rome without delay. This time Pope
Paul III. paid more attention to the matter than he had done before, and
by Whitsuntide the contract was annulled, and Jeanne and her bridegroom
henceforth were strangers.
Strange to say, even after she was set free, Jeanne appears to have
spent a considerable time at Plessis—which, as we know, she hated
nearly as much as she did the Duke of Clèves—for she was still there
when she heard of the death of Francis I. in the spring of 1547. She at
once joined her father, but does not seem to have tried to console her
mother, who was broken-hearted, and henceforth gave up the life and
studies, in which she had so much delighted, for the service of the
poor. Many years previously Francis had married his son Henri to the
young Catherine de Medici, who now sat on the throne of France, where
the King of Navarre had thought to have placed his daughter. Henri was a
very different man from Francis: he was shy and gloomy, and he had not
the gay and pleasant manners of his father, and his affections were
given to a wholly different set of friends. But on hearing of the fresh
advances made by the Emperor Charles to the King of Navarre for a union
between Jeanne and the young widower, Philip of Spain, Henri bethought
him of the danger from Spain which was so prominently before the eyes of
his father, and summoned Jeanne, then nearly twenty, to Fontainebleau.
So seldom had the princess been at Court that she was almost a stranger,
but her high spirits and quick tongue made her a favourite with most
people. Queen Catherine, however, did not like her; she could not
understand Jeanne, or the bold way in which she set forth her views.
Speech, according to Catherine, was given you to hide your thoughts, and
not to display them; while Jeanne thought the queen's elaborate
compliments and constant reserve very tiresome, and avoided her as much
as possible. 'How cold Catherine was, and how stingy,' said Jeanne to
herself. 'She did not seem to care for anybody, even her own children,
while as for gratitude'—and, with her head held high, Jeanne sat down
to write a letter respecting the care of her old nurse.
Of course, no sooner did the handsome young heiress appear at Court than
suitors for her hand appeared also. The king favoured the claims of
François, duke of Guise, afterwards the captor of Calais; but Jeanne
declared that her husband must be of royal blood, and asked Henri how
she could suffer the Duchesse d'Aumale, who now thought it an honour to
bear her train, to walk beside her as her sister-in-law? Perhaps, being
a man, the case might not have seemed as impossible to Henri as it did
to Jeanne; but one thing was quite clear to him, and that was that he
could never obtain the consent of the lady, so he wisely let the matter
drop. The other suitor was Antoine de Bourbon, eldest son of the Duc de
Vendôme, and nephew, by her first husband, of Marguérite. Antoine was
now about thirty, a tall, handsome man, and a leader of fashion; but,
had she known it, Jeanne would have been much happier as the wife of
Francois de Guise. For the Duc de Vendôme, though brave and fascinating,
was absolutely untrustworthy. His word was lightly given, and lightly
broken; his friends were always changing, and only his love of pleasure
and love of ease remained the same. As to the king and queen of Navarre,
_their_ opinions were, as usual, divided. Henri d'Albret did not like
his proposed son-in-law—he was too thoughtless, and too extravagant;
while Marguérite, on the contrary, was prepared to overlook everything,
seeing he was the first prince of the blood, and, like his brother
Condé, an advocate of the Reformed religion. She did not pause to ask
herself how far his life gave evidence of any religion at all! However,
also as usual, the wishes of the King of Navarre were once more
thwarted, and Jeanne, her mother, and Henri II. proved too much for him.
The marriage took place at the town of Moulins, at the end of October
1548, when the bride was nearly twenty-one, the King and Queen of France
being present at the ceremony. The King of Navarre did all he could to
prevent his daughter's dowry from being wasted by declaring that it
should only be paid in instalments, while the queen stipulated in the
contract that Jeanne should have absolute control over the bringing up
of her children till they were eighteen years of age.
The future life of Jeanne, married to a man like the Duc de Vendôme, was
certain to be unhappy, and the state of France, with its perpetual
religious wars, could only increase that unhappiness. As far as possible
she stayed in her own kingdom, and kept her son, afterwards Henri IV.,
living a free, hardy life among the mountains. But there were times when
policy forced her to visit the Court of Catherine, whom she hated and
mistrusted, and, what was infinitely worse, to leave her son there. His
tutors were men of the Reformed religion, but Henri had too much of his
father in him for any faith to take root, and when he had to decide
between Calvinism and a crown, it was easy to tell what his choice would
be. But Jeanne was spared the knowledge of that, and of much else that
would have grieved her sorely, for she died in Paris, whither she had
gone to attend the marriage of Henri and the Princess Margot, a few days
before the Massacre of St. Bartholomew.
_HACON THE KING_
WHEN little Hacon, son of the dead king Hacon, and grandson of Sverrir,
was born at Smaalen, in Norway, in the summer of 1204, the country was
divided into two great parties. In the south were gathered the
Croziermen, or churchmen, supported by the King of Denmark, while
further north lay the followers of old Sverrir, who had been nicknamed
'Birchlegs' from the gaiters of birch-bark which they always wore. In
those days men needed a king to keep order, and after the death of
Hacon, son of Sverrir, the great council, called the Thing, met to
consult about the matter. The first king they chose died in a few
months, and then Ingi, his kinsman, was put in his place. But when the
child of Hacon and Inga proved to be a boy the Birchlegs declared that
he and none other should rule over them. Now the Croziermen were spread
all over the south and east of Norway, and, as Smaalen was right in the
middle of them, a few Birchlegs went secretly to Inga, the child's
mother, and told her that for a time the baby must be hidden away so
that no man should know where he was; for they feared King Ingi.
So Thrond the priest took the boy and gave him the name of his father,
and his wife cared for him as her own, and no one knew he was a king's
son, save only herself and her two boys. And Inga his mother abode close
by.
In this manner a year passed over, and when Christmas was coming for the
second time whispers reached the ear of Thrond the priest, and he made a
plan with Erlend, kinsman of Sverrir, that Hacon should leave the
country of the Croziermen and go north. Then they two took the child and
Inga his mother and journeyed by night through strange places till on
Christmas Eve they reached a place called Hammar, where they met some
Birchlegs, who told them that news of their flight had spread abroad,
and that Croziermen were spread over the mountains. Worse than all, Ivar
the bishop was at Hammar, and he, as everyone knew, was a sworn enemy to
the race of Sverrir. Thrond and Erlend looked at each other as the
Birchlegs spoke. It was what they had dreaded, and little surprised they
felt when next day arrived a messenger from Ivar the bishop claiming
kinship with the boy—which was true—and inviting Inga and her son to
spend the feast of Yule, for so Christmas was called, with him. But, by
counsel of the Birchlegs, an answer was sent saying that the child and
his mother needed rest after journeying, and would stay where they were
till Yule was past, and after that they would come to the bishop's
house. When Ivar's messenger had ridden out of sight, the Birchlegs rose
up swiftly and hid Hacon and his mother in a farm among the hills, while
they bade all the Birchlegs that were scattered for many miles round to
hold themselves ready. On Christmas night Inga wrapped the baby warmly
up in furs, and, giving him to Erlend to carry, they set out from the
farm, and took a path that led eastwards through mountains and forests,
and on each side of Hacon walked Thorstein the fighter and Skerwald the
Shrimp, swiftest of all men on snow shoes, so that, should the
Croziermen try to capture him, he might be borne away out of their
reach.
[Illustration: INGA TRUSTS THE BABY TO ERLEND]
For many nights and days they tramped forwards, lying in caves or
scooping themselves huts in the snow. Not a house was to be seen
anywhere; and, though Inga had a brave heart, she sometimes wondered if
the guides knew the way any better than she did. At length they came to
a barn, and here they kindled some wood by means of a fire-stick, but
that only melted the snow on the broken roof till it was more
uncomfortable inside than out. Their food had all been eaten that
morning, and they had nothing to give little Hacon except the water of
the snow. But he did not seem to mind, and only laughed when the drops
fell on his nose. He was ever the merriest baby. A day after leaving the
barn they struggled through snow so hard that it had to be broken with
the spears of the Birchlegs, and before them lay a farm, where they
received a hearty welcome, and were given good food to eat and soft beds
to lie on. Then the farmer set them on horses and gave them guides, and
they turned northwards towards Drontheim. On the journey many Birchlegs
joined them, and some of them brought news that the Croziermen had
started in pursuit, but the snowdrifts through which Inga and Hacon had
won their way proved too deep for _them_, and they went back to Erling
Stone-wall, whom they had chosen king.
---------------------
Now Ingi, kinsman of little Hacon, lay at Drontheim with a large army,
when one day a man entered his hall and told him that his brother, who
had been hunting bears in the mountains, had seen from afar a body of
men marching towards the city, and the people of the hill country
whispered that a king's son was with them. 'What king's son?' the young
man had asked, but that no one could tell him. There were also tales of
another force from further east; but all was uncertain, so Ingi the king
waited for the return of his messengers, and spread tents for himself
and his bodyguard, till the men came back.
'Well, what tidings?' said Ingi, as they entered his tent.
'Here are two guides who have travelled far,' answered the messengers
pointing to the Birchlegs, 'they will tell you their story'; and so they
did from the beginning, and that the child in their company was Hacon,
grandson of Sverrir the king. Then Ingi gave thanks that the boy had
come safe through such perils of winter and wild beasts, and bade the
men sit down to eat and drink, and said that he himself would tarry
where he was till Hacon his kinsman was brought to him. And when the boy
hove in sight Ingi strode out to meet him, and took him in his arms and
kissed him, bidding him and his mother welcome, and he was good to them
both all the days of his life. Perhaps, when he grew older, Hacon may
have heard the tale of another little boy across the seas named Arthur,
like himself the heir to a kingdom, who, only a year before the birth of
Hacon, had been done to death by John, his uncle, who coveted his crown.
But no such thought ever entered the mind of Ingi.
It was strange for Hacon to wake up to find himself lying on soft
cushions, and broad beams over his head instead of the stars, or the
brilliant, rushing, Northern Lights. Sometimes he would raise himself on
his elbow and listen with bent head, dreaming that he heard the soft pad
of a wolf's foot, or that if he looked he would see a pair of bright
eyes staring at him from behind a bush, as he had often done in the
mountain forests. Then he remembered that wolves did not come into
palaces, and, curling himself up comfortably, went to sleep again. All
that winter and the next he stayed in Drontheim, and every day the
Birchlegs visited him and told him stories of his father and
grandfather, which the boy liked to hear, but sometimes found beyond his
understanding. But in the second spring after his coming, earl Hacon,
brother of Ingi, took him to his castle at Bergen, and he loved him
greatly, and would say to his men that little Hacon was in truth king of
Norway. That summer, while earl Hacon was away, the Croziermen under
their new king Philip besieged Bergen, and the boy fell into their
hands, and some thought of making him king instead of Philip. Most
likely Philip knew of this, and it would have been quite easy for him to
kill Hacon, as King John across the seas would have done. Yet the
Norsemen, though fierce in battle, were not apt to slay children, so he
treated Hacon kindly, and in three days yielded him up to Thorir the
archbishop. With him Hacon lived till his kinsman the earl came back
from fighting; then he went again to his house, and remained with him
always either on land or sea.
Of the two, Hacon loved best being on the sea, and when he was four the
earl built a splendid ship, larger than any which had sailed in those
waters. Its prow was high out of the water and carved with a raven's
head, and inside there were thirty-one benches for the rowers to sit on,
who wielded the great long oars. Of course it was very important to find
a good name for such a splendid vessel, and Hacon and the earl consulted
daily about it, but at length they agreed that none was so fitting as
Olaf's Clinker. So 'Olaf's Clinker' it was called, and in the autumn the
two Hacons sailed in it to the Seljar Isles, and lay there all through
the great frost. Food they had in plenty, but it was very hard to use
it; their drink was a solid lump of ice, and their butter was frozen so
tight that many a knife broke its blade in two before it could cut off a
morsel for little Hacon to eat, for the men gave him of the best always.
One day the earl bade the cook bake the child a soft, thick cake of
flour, and it was brought to him where he stood listening to the tales
of the king's guard. They also were eating their food, and he watched
them biting morsels of the hard bread and after of the frozen butter.
'Give me some butter,' he said with a laugh, and the soldier chopped off
a piece and handed it to him. 'Now let us fettle the butter, Birchlegs,'
laughed he, and took the butter and folded it up in the hot cake so that
the butter melted.
'So little and so wise,' they murmured to each other, and Hacon's saying
was told throughout the army, and became a proverb in the land. All men
loved him, for he always had merry words on his tongue and took nothing
amiss. But for his years he was small, and often the Birchlegs would
take him by his head and heels and pull him out, 'to make him grow
taller,' they said, but he never grew above middle stature.
[Illustration: "To make him grow taller"]
When Hacon was seven years old the earl told him it was time he learned
something out of books, as his father had done. Hacon was willing, and
spent some time every day with the priest who was to teach him. For many
months the boy worked at his lessons, or at least so the earl thought,
as he no longer trotted at his heels like the big blue boarhound. One
evening, when the earl had come in weary from a day's hunting, and had
stretched himself in front of the huge hall fire, waiting for the skald
or poet to come and sing to him the mighty deeds of his fathers the
Vikings, Hacon ran in.
'Come hither, boy,' said the earl, 'and tell me what you are learning.'
'Chanting, lord earl,' answered Hacon.
'That was not the sort of learning I wished you to know,' replied the
earl, 'and you shall not learn it any more, but how to read and write,
for it is not a priest, nor even a bishop, that I mean you to be.'
It seems strange that though both Ingi the king and Hacon the earl loved
the boy truly, and that, as has been told, the earl often said in the
hearing of all men that if everyone had his rights the grandson of
Sverrir, and not Ingi, would rule over them, yet in this very year Hacon
the earl and Ingi the king agreed together that whichever of them lived
longest should reign over the whole of Norway, and that Hacon the child
should be set aside. A Thing was called, where the archbishops, and
bishops, and other men were present, and they declared that compact to
be good. For, said they, did not Solomon speak truly when he wrote, 'Woe
to the land whose king is a child,' and how should Hacon, Sverrir's
grandson deliver us from the hands of the Croziermen and the Danes and
keep order in the land?'
Now it happened that on the very day on which this matter was determined
by the Thing, little Hacon had been sent by request of his mother to
visit Astrida, his kinswoman, and an old Birchleg went with him. Though
it was evening when he returned, the sun was quite high in the heavens,
it being summer, and Hacon sought at once his old friend Helgi the keen,
saying that there was yet time to play one of the games they both loved.
But at the sight of him Helgi's face grew dark, and he roughly bade him
begone.
'What have I done to anger thee, my Helgi?' asked Hacon wonderingly; but
Helgi would have none of him. 'I know of nought that can have vexed
thee,' repeated Hacon; and Helgi answered:
'Why do I bid thee begone? Because to-day thy kingdom was taken from
thee and given to another man.'
'Who did this deed, and where?' said Hacon.
'It was done at the Thing,' returned Helgi, 'and those who did it were
thy kinsmen, Ingi and Hacon.'
'Ingi and Hacon,' repeated the boy and was silent for a moment. Then his
face brightened and he added, 'Well, be not wroth with _me_, Helgi. None
can tell if the deed will stand, for no spokesmen were there to plead my
cause.'
'And who are your spokesmen?' inquired Helgi.
'God and Saint Olaf,' answered Hacon, 'and to them I leave it.'
'Good luck be with thee, king's son,' said Helgi, taking him up and
kissing him.
So Hacon the child lived on in the house of the earl his kinsman, who
loved him greatly, and spurned in anger the evil counsel of one Hidi,
who offered secretly to do him to death.
'God forbid,' cried the earl, 'that I should in this manner buy the
kingdom for my son,' and he bade Hidi begone from his presence and keep
his treachery to himself. And the better to preserve the boy from harm
he had him always in his company, even when he fell sick of the illness
that was to end in his death. Hacon, who by now was ten years old,
mourned him sorely; but in the spring Ingi the king came south to
Bergen, and carried the boy northwards to Drontheim, where he sent him
to school with his son Guttorm, two years younger than himself. The boys
were good friends, and treated alike in all things. Guttorm, being most
easily moved to wrath, and often finding himself in trouble, came to
Hacon to make him a way-out, which Hacon did, many times with a jest or
a laugh, for he was gentle and slow to anger, and all men loved him.
In this year Ingi the king fell sick also, and Skuli, his brother, urged
upon him to place the crown on the head of his son Guttorm. Some men
agreed with Skuli, and the Birchlegs feared for Hacon, and desired to
bear him away with them and gather an army and fight and see who should
be king; but Hacon would not listen to the old Birchlegs, and said it
was 'unwise to set those at one another who ought to fight under the
same shield, and that he would wait, and for the present let things be.'
After all Ingi the king got well, and for two more winters he ruled as
before. But when Hacon was thirteen and Guttorm eleven a sore weakness
fell upon Ingi, and he knew that he would go out no more to battle.
Grievous was it for a man who had spent his life in faring to and fro to
be tied down to his bed; but he uttered no words of wailing, and lay
listening to the merry jests of Hacon and his steward Nicholas till he
laughed himself, and his illness felt lighter. Skuli, the king's
brother, likewise watched by him, and his friends were gathered there
also, and they pressed Ingi sore to give the kingdom into Skuli the
earl's hands. And Ingi had no strength to say them nay, and he let them
have their will, and soon he died, leaving the rule to Skuli. But the
men of Norway did not all agree as to this matter. Some wished that
Guttorm, Ingi's son, should be king, others declared that Hacon had the
best right; while the rest said that the throne of Norway was no place
for a boy, and they would have a man such as Skuli to reign over them.
For Skuli, though filled with ambition and a man whose word and promises
were swiftly broken, was tall and handsome, generous with his gold, and
pleasant of speech. Therefore he had a large following and a powerful
one; but to Hacon he was ever a bad friend, seeking his throne, and met
his death hereafter in strife against him.
It happened that Guttorm the archbishop was away in the far north, and
Skuli would fain have waited till his return, for many canons and
learned clerks desired him for their lord, and the earl hoped that the
archbishop might gain over others also. So he went to work secretly,
seeking by sundry devices to put off the choice of a king, and so
cunning he was that he seemed to have succeeded. But one day when he was
asking counsel of a friend the blast of trumpets was heard.
'What means that?' cried the earl, starting up from his seat, and,
striding out of his chamber, he went quickly down the narrow stairs and
entered the great hall, which was crowded with men.
'Lord earl,' said one of the bodyguard, an old man with scars about his
face, 'Lord earl, we have waited long enough for the archbishop, and we
are minded to wait no longer. A meeting shall be held this morning in
this very place, and Hacon, Sverrir's grandson, shall sit by your side
on the high seat, and king shall he be called till the great Thing be
got together. If you say nay to this, then will the rowers make ready
the ships, and Hacon shall sail with us southwards to the land of
Bergen, and there another Thing shall be summoned, and we and the
bodyguard that dwells there will declare him king. Now choose.'
Then Skuli saw that there were many against him, and he let a high seat
be built close to the church of St. Nicholas, and Onund, standard-bearer
of the Birchlegs, stood up and said that the Croziermen were gathered in
the bay which lies south of Christiania and were ruled by a king. But
when tidings reached them that the men of Norway were but a headless
host the Croziermen would agree with the bishops and strife would be in
the land. A great shout arose when Onund had finished speaking, and
twelve men of the king's guard were sent to fetch Hacon, who was at the
school over against Christ Church. The boy was sitting on a bench, his
eyes bent on a priest who was reading out from a Latin roll the tale of
the burning of Dido, and when he had done it was his custom to make each
boy in turn tell him what he had heard. Suddenly, with a clatter, the
door flew open and the twelve messengers entered.
'God greet you, king's son,' spake the oldest of them. 'The Birchlegs
and the yeomen who meet in the courtyard of the palace have sent us to
fetch you.'
Hacon looked first at the priest and then at the Birchleg, and held out
his hand, and went with them down to the church of St. Nicholas. Then
Skuli the earl said that many were present who did not hold that the boy
was Sverrir's grandson, and that until he had proved his right to sit on
the high seat he must be content with a low one.
'Ingi and Hacon the earl knew well he was the king's son,' cried a voice
from out the crowd; but Skuli pretended not to hear, and declared that
by the counsel of his friends, Inga, Hacon's mother, must be tried by
the ordeal of hot iron.
In those days it was a common thing that anyone accused of a great crime
should prove his innocence in three ways, and he might choose which of
them pleased him best. Either he might walk over red-hot ploughshares,
or hold in his hand a piece of red-hot iron, and if his hands or feet
were marked with no scar he was held to be accused falsely. Or he could,
if so he willed, be tried by the ordeal of water and, having his hands
and feet bound, be cast into a river. If, after being in the water a
certain time or floating a certain distance, he remained alive and
unhurt, he also was let go free. In Norway the ordeal of iron alone was
used, and gladly did the king's mother offer to submit to it. Straight
from the meeting she went to the church of St. Peter, and fasted three
days and three nights and spoke to no one. On the third day she came
forth, her face shining, but the iron bar, which should have been lying
in a chest in the church, was nowhere to be found. For in truth the
canons and priests, who were Skuli's men, had misdoubted their cause,
and had hidden it away, lest the ordeal should prove their own undoing.
But the captain of the Birchlegs understood well what had befallen, and
sent messengers over the land to summon a Thing, to be held in a month's
time. And daily they set Hacon in the high seat beside the earl, and
Skuli dared not gainsay them.
---------------------
So the Thing was held in the meadow, and trumpets were blown, but the
canons forbade the holy shrine to be brought out from the church of St.
Olaf, as was the custom at the choosing of a king. In this they acted
unwisely, for the hearts of many of their own men grew hot at this base
device, and turned against them, and Hacon was proclaimed king, and
oaths were sworn to him. After that Hacon the king and Skuli the earl
sailed together to Bergen, in a ship of twenty benches. At the mouth of
the fiord a messenger brought him word that the canons and priests of
Bergen, moved by their fellows at Drontheim, did not mean to pay him
kingly honours. To this Hacon made answer that, as their king, he
expected the homage they had paid his fathers, or they would have to
bear the penalty, and his words bore fruit, for he rowed up the fiord
with all the church bells ringing and the people shouting. Then a Thing
was held, and he was chosen king by the people of Bergen also. But,
better than ruling over assemblies, Hacon loved to watch the strange
games of boys and men. King though he was, many troubled years were in
store for Hacon. Skuli was not minded to sit down quietly as Hacon's
liegeman, and at once began to lay plots with the Croziermen and with
John Earl of Orkney. He had taken for himself all the money which
Sverrir, Hacon his son, and Ingi had stored up, and all the gold that
Hacon possessed was a brooch and a ring. Thus it became plain even to
the Birchlegs that Hacon could not fight both the earl and the
Croziermen, and so it was agreed that Skuli should be lord over a third
part of Norway and that peace should be made.
Hardly was this done when there arose in the east a band of poor men,
under the lead of Benedict the priest, whom folk called Benny. From
their torn garments they were known as the Ragged Regiment, and at first
they did nothing but steal from farmyards and rob houses. But
afterwards, when rich and strong men who would not obey the laws joined
them, they grew bolder and attacked Tunsberg, the chief city near the
Bay, and though they were driven back and many were killed, yet for long
they harried the lands of Hacon, and with another band of rebels, called
the Ribbalds, laid waste the country. Till they were conquered, which
took Hacon ten years, little rest had he, and always Skuli was there to
trouble him.
It was when Hacon was fourteen years old that the archbishop and earl
Skuli sent messengers to Bergen to ask that Inga, his mother, might once
more go through the ordeal of iron to satisfy all men of his right to
the throne. In answer Hacon summoned the bishops and archbishops and
Skuli, together with some of his liegemen, to assemble in the vestry of
the church, and spoke to them in this wise:
'It would seem hard to many a king to undergo the ordeal when his rule
was established. Before, when my mother offered herself to suffer it, I
had not been chosen king, and you all know how it happened that when she
came forth the iron was hidden. You know, too, that when we first
entered Norway she declared herself ready to undergo the ordeal, but
Ingi the king and Hacon the earl answered that none misdoubted, neither
was there any need for it. Yet now I will do as you will for three
causes. First, that no man may say I have claimed what is not mine by
right; second, that I would that my subjects should learn that in all
things I strive to content them; and third, that the Judge into whose
hands I put myself will fail none whose cause is true. And therefore I
go gladly to this judgment.
[Illustration: INGA ENDURES THE ORDEAL OF THE HOT IRON]
Then Inga went into the church to fast for three days and three nights,
and some men fasted with her, and, twelve watched on the outside as
before. But on the Wednesday before the trial was to take place Sigar,
one of Skuli's men, skilled in learning, came secretly to good man
Dagfinn, Hacon's liegeman, and said thus: 'I know your heart is vexed
and sore because of this ordeal, but I can promise to make all things
right so that the king's mother shall not suffer.'
'How mean you?' asked Dagfinn who was not minded to talk with the man,
not liking his face.
'It is in this wise,' answered Sigar with a cunning look; 'I have only
to rub this herb over the hand of Inga and the iron will not harm her,
however hot it be.'
'I thank you,' said Dagfinn; 'but tell me what name has this herb, and
where I may find it.'
'It grows on every house in Bergen,' replied Sigar, who knew well full
that there was no virtue in the herb at all, but thought that Dagfinn
was with him in the matter, and that together they might proclaim that
Inga had sought the aid of leechcraft, and so discredit her in the eyes
of all men. But Dagfinn made as though he would spring on him, and bade
him begone while he kept his hands off him. After that Dagfinn told the
tale to Inga, and warned her lest she should fall into any snares.
Next morning Hacon the king, and Skuli, and the archbishop, and John
Earl of Orkney, and many other notable men, went into the church where
the priest said the office. Then the piece of holy iron was taken from
the great chest and heated in a brazier under the eyes of all, and when
it glowed white, so that none could look on it, the priest drew it forth
with long pincers and placed it in Inga's hand. As she took it, Hacon
shivered, as if the pain had been his. He alone turned his head away;
but the rest never lifted their gaze from the face of Inga, which was
calm and peaceful as ever.
'It is enough,' said the priest at last, and Hacon sprang forward as if
to go to his mother, when the priest stopped him. 'All is not yet
finished; back to your place,' and, standing in front of Inga so that no
man could behold her hand, he wound a white cloth many times round it.
'Now you may come,' said the priest, and Hacon went with his mother to
her house.
For many days they waited, and then the priest sent word to Hacon the
king, and Skuli the earl, and the archbishop and the bishops and the
nobles, that the following evening they should meet in Christ Church,
and he would unbind the hand of Inga. Not one of them was missing, and
in the presence and sight of all the priest unwound the linen and
stretched out the hand of Inga, and behold! the skin of that hand was
whiter and fairer to see than the skin of the other. And the archbishop
proclaimed a Thing to be held the next Sunday in the space in front of
the church, and there he gave out how that the king's mother had won
through the ordeal, and that any who from that day misdoubted Hacon's
right to the crown should be laid under the ban of the Church. Also, he
said that Hacon the king and Skuli the earl had made a new compact of
friendship.
But compacts did not count for much with Skuli, not even when, a year
later, Hacon, then fifteen, was betrothed to his daughter Margaret. In
this matter the king followed the counsel of his friends, though he
himself knew Skuli too well to expect that the earl would suffer a
marriage or anything else to bind him. 'It will all come to the same
thing, I fear,' he said to his mother, as he set out at Michaelmas for
the ceremony at Drontheim. For some reason we do not know the marriage
was delayed for six years, and it was not until 1225, when Hacon was
twenty-one, that it actually took place. Then, after Easter, Hacon took
ship at Tunsberg on the Bay, and sailed for five days till he reached
Bergen. As soon as he arrived the preparations for the wedding began,
and on Trinity Sunday, when the sun remains in the sky all night long in
the far north, Hacon and Margaret were married in Christ Church.
Afterwards great feasts were held for nearly a week in the palace. Hacon
sat at the high table at the head of the men in the Yule Hall, and
Margaret gathered round her the women in the Summer Hall, and the monks
and abbots held a banquet in another place.
All the days that Hacon lived Margaret was a good wife to him, and wept
sore for the trouble that Skuli, her father, brought on the land. For
Hacon the king had been right in his prophecy, and for fifteen years
Skuli never ceased from scheming against him, and murdering those that
stood in his way, till even his own men grew ashamed and tired of him.
Nothing was there which he held sacred, and this brought him more
dishonour than all his other crimes. Once Hacon sent Ivar and Gunnar to
him with letters. Warm was their welcome from Skuli, and splendid were
the presents which he gave them when they left. But secretly he bade men
ride after them and slay them where they could find them. Fast rode
Skuli's men, but Ivar and Gunnar rode faster, for Hacon had need of
them. At length they rested for the night in a farm belonging to the
king, and Skuli's men, with Gaut Wolfskin and Sigurd Saltseed at their
head, came unawares to the house also. As they entered they beheld
Gunnar leaning against the lattice of the window, and they threw open
the door and slew him where he stood, but not before many of their band
lay dead upon the ground. When Ivar saw that his help could be of no
avail he sprung into the loft close by, and, squeezing himself through a
narrow opening, leaped to the ground and sought to take refuge in the
church, but it was locked. Then he seized a ladder which was standing by
and ran up it to the roof, throwing the ladder down when he reached the
top. In the dark no man troubled him; but it was November, and the wind
was keen, and no clothes had he upon him save a shirt and his breeches.
When the sun rose he found that Skuli's men were gathered below,
watching that he should not escape; but, indeed, his hands were so
frozen with cold that he could have taken hold of nothing. He prayed
them to grant him his life; but they laughed him to scorn, and Sigurd
Saltseed seized the ladder and set it up against the church, and climbed
upon it, and thrust Ivar through with a spear so that he fell dead to
the ground.
---------------------
Now these things displeased the people of Norway, and one by one his
liegemen departed from Skuli and took service with Hacon, till at length
so few followers had the earl that he was forced to fly. The Birchlegs
sought him everywhere, and one day news was brought to them that he was
lying hidden in a monastery, and some of his men also. So the Birchlegs
came up to the monastery to attack it, but the archbishop went forth to
meet them and begged that Skuli might be let pass in peace to see the
king. Some listened to the archbishop, but others, whose hearts were
harder, crept away and set fire to the monastery, and the fire spread.
Then Skuli saw that the time for fighting was past, and, lifting up his
shield, he stood in the doorway crying, 'Strike me not in the face, for
not so is it done to princes'; therefore they thrust him through in the
body, and he died.
But all this happened fifteen years after the marriage of Hacon, and it
is no longer the concern of this tale, which treats only of his youth.
At sixty years old he died, having worn the crown of Norway forty-seven
years. In spite of his enemies at home, he did many things for his
people, and ruled them well. The poor were mercifully dealt with, and
his soldiers were forbidden to steal from either friends or foes.
Churches and hospitals and great halls he built in plenty, rivers he
widened and numbers of ships he had, swift sailing and water-tight, for
he was overlord of lands far away over the sea. Iceland and Greenland
paid their dues to him. The Isle of Man, which owned a king, did him
homage, and so did the south isles of Scotland—the 'Sudar' Isles as
they were called, Jura, and Islay, and Bute, and the rest—and their
bishop was known as the Bishop of Sodor and Man, as he is to this day.
Besides this, the friendship of Hacon was sought by many foreign
princes: by the Emperor Frederick the Second, 'the Wonder of the World';
by the Grand Prince of Russia; by the Pope Innocent IV., who sent a
legate to crown him king. Hacon also sent his daughter to Spain with a
great dowry, to marry whichever of the king's four sons pleased her
best. Still, in spite of his fame, his voyages were few, and it seems
strange that he should have been seized with mortal illness at the
bishop's house in Kirk wall. At first they read him Latin books, but his
head grew tired, and he bade them take the scrolls away and tell him
instead the tales of the Norse kings his forefathers. And so he died,
and when the ice was melted and the sea set free, his body was carried
to Bergen and buried in Christ Church, where he had been married and
where he had been crowned.
---------------------
This is the tale of Hacon the King.
_MI REINA! MI REINA!_
WHEN Marie Louise d'Orléans, daughter of Madame, and niece of Louis
XIV., was born, on March 27, 1662, both her grandmothers as well as her
mother were terribly disappointed that she was not a boy. 'Throw her
into the river,' exclaimed Madame, in fun, of course; but the
queen-mother of England, the widow of Charles I., whose sorrows had
crushed all jokes out of her, answered gravely that after all, perhaps,
things were not quite so bad as they seemed, for by-and-by she might
marry her cousin the dauphin who was only a few months older.
Quite unconscious of her cold welcome, the baby grew and thrived, and
was so pretty and had such charming little ways, that they soon forgave
her for being only a girl, especially as when she was two years old she
had a little brother. The Duc de Valois, as he was called, was a
beautiful child, strong and healthy, whereas the dauphin was always ill,
and Louis XIV. had no other sons to inherit his crown. So great
rejoicings were held at the Duc de Valois' birth in the château of
Fontainebleau; bonfires were lighted and banquets were given, and, more
than that, an allowance of money was settled on him by the king. His
other uncle, Charles II., was his godfather, and the baby was given his
name, with that of his father Philippe. The children lived mostly at St.
Cloud, where there were splendid gardens to run about in and merry
little streams to play with. When their mother drove to Paris or St.
Germain to attend great balls or fêtes at Court, Madame de St. Chaumont
took care of them, and saw that they did not fall into any mischief. For
some time they never had an ache or a pain, but when the Duc de Valois
was about two years old he was very ill, from the difficulty of cutting
his teeth. Madame de St. Chaumont stayed with him and nursed him night
and day till his mother could reach him; however, he soon improved, and
Madame was able to go back to St. Germain, knowing that his governess
would take as much care of him as she could herself. After he grew
better, the great coach and six horses were got ready, and he was driven
to the Palais Royal in Paris, and placed in the charge of the
fashionable doctor of the day, Maître Gui Patin. But unhappily, in spite
of all their precautions, the boy managed to catch cold; convulsions
followed, and Monsieur insisted on preparations being made for the
christening, instead of only having, as was usual, a hasty ceremony,
while the public rite was commonly put off till the royal child had
passed its twelfth birthday. It was on December 7, 1667, that little
Philippe Charles was baptized, and the following day he had a fresh
attack, and died of exhaustion, to the despair of his mother, who adored
him. All the honours customary to be paid to one so near the throne were
bestowed on the dead child. For three days he lay in state, and the
princes of the blood, headed by the king himself, passed before him and
sprinkled water on his bier. Then the people were let in, and many a
woman's eyes grew wet at the sight of that beautiful baby. Three days
later he was put to rest in the royal burying-place at St. Denis, near
Paris.
The next few years passed peacefully away. Marie Louise was a clever
little girl, and not only was fond of books, like her mother, but had
sharp eyes, and noticed everything that went on round her. On wet days
she danced in the rooms of St. Cloud or the Palais Royal, as Madame had
danced twenty years ago at the Louvre; and when she was seven there was
a small sister, Anne Marie, for her to play with and to nurse. 'She can
move her fingers and toes, and squeaks without being squeezed. She is
more amusing than any doll,' said Marie Louise.
But the quiet of the child's life was soon to be disturbed, and
Mademoiselle was to learn her first sorrow. One morning, at the end of
1669, a messenger in the royal livery arrived from the king, bearing a
letter for Madame, who burst into sobs while reading it. Dismissing the
messenger with a wave of her hand—for she was unable to speak—she sank
back on the sofa, and for some minutes wept bitterly. Then, gathering up
her strength, she passed into the adjoining room, where Madame de St.
Chaumont was sitting over her embroidery.
'Read this, my friend,' said Madame, and walked to the window. The
letter, which Madame de St. Chaumont read silently to the end, was from
the king. It was very short, and merely informed Madame that his Majesty
had reason to think that her children's governess had been concerned in
an intrigue whereby the bishop of Valence had incurred his displeasure,
and he begged, therefore, that she might be at once dismissed from her
post. Grieved though she was at parting from a woman who for nearly
eight years had shared both her cares and her troubles, Madame had no
choice but to obey, and Madame de St. Chaumont knew it. So they parted,
and during the winter and spring that followed Madame missed her friend
daily more and more. Then, with the bright June weather, came Madame's
sudden seizure and death, and Monsieur, poor foolish, womanish man, was
left with two little girls to look after.
[Illustration: Marie Louise receives the visits of condolence]
How could he do it? Well, he began very characteristically by dressing
up Mademoiselle, now eight years old, in a violet velvet mantle which
trailed on the ground, and announcing that she would receive visits of
condolence. Of course members of the Court and the great officials
flocked in crowds, and when they had paid their respects to
Mademoiselle, they were, much to their surprise, shown into the nursery
where little Anne Marie, Mademoiselle de Valois, at this time hardly
past her first birthday, was awaiting them. The baby was too young to be
hurt by her father's follies, and as long as she had good nurses to look
after her could safely be left to their care; but with Marie Louise it
was different, and, luckily for her, the kind queen, Marie Thérèse, had
pity on her, and took her to Court to be brought up with the dauphin.
Together they danced and played, and no doubt quarrelled, but in all
their games, the lively, sharp-witted little girl took the lead of the
slow and rather dull boy. In a year's time Monsieur married again, and
his choice fell on his dead wife's cousin, Charlotte Elizabeth, daughter
of the Elector Palatine, only ten years older than Marie Louise herself.
The new Madame, ugly, awkward, ill-dressed, plain-spoken, but
kind-hearted and full of sense, was a great contrast to her predecessor,
Henriette, but she was very good to the two little girls, and never made
any difference between them and her own children. We may be sure that
Marie Louise, who was gentle and sweet-tempered, as well as pretty and
clever, was quick to notice all her good qualities and to be grateful
for her stepmother's care and affection, though at first it was a trial
to leave the court and her friend the dauphin and go and live in the
Palais Royal. But then, how amusing Madame was, and what stories she
could tell of 'when I was a little girl,' which was not so long ago,
either!
'I longed to be a boy, and was always playing boys' games; but as I grew
bigger I was not allowed so much liberty, and had to make up my mind to
be a girl, and do stupid things at home, and dress up, which I hated. I
was also obliged to drink tea or chocolate, which I thought very nasty.
My only pleasure was hunting, and I was never so happy—I never _am_ so
happy now—as when I got up at dawn and rode away to hunt with my dogs
yapping round me. How all your French ladies are so lazy I can't
imagine; I can't bear to stay in bed when I am awake.' No doubt Madame
made a very strange figure in the splendid Court of Louis XIV.; and she
on her part looked down with scorn from the superiority of a stout
riding habit and a man's wig on the beautiful, ladies with their elegant
dresses and plumed hats! But the king himself was not more particular
about forms and ceremonies than she was, and though her manners and free
remarks often made him shudder, yet he had a real respect for her good
sense, and was grateful to her for making the best of his silly brother.
[Illustration: MARIE LOUISE MAKES HER PETITION TO THE KING]
So the years slipped by, and one day Marie Louise was seventeen,
graceful and charming like her mother, with 'feet that danced of
themselves,' as Madame de Sévigné said to her daughter. The dauphin was
seventeen too, and in those days young men, especially princes, married
early. Would the prophecy uttered over her cradle by her grandmother,
Henrietta Maria, come true, and the beautiful, quick-witted girl be
queen of France? The Parisians would have liked nothing better, and even
the princes of the blood would have been content; she had been like a
daughter to the queen, and was sure of a welcome from her; but the
king—why did the king stand aloof and say nothing? Marie Louise guessed
what was being whispered, and waited and wondered too, till she grew
pale and thin, and Madame watched her and said angrily to Monsieur: 'Did
I not warn you not to let her go to Court so much, if you did not want
to make her miserable? Now she will never be happy anywhere else.'
At length the king's silence was explained. Marie Louise would never be
queen of France—a German princess must be the wife of the dauphin; but
she should be queen of Spain, and her husband was to be Charles II., the
brother of Marie Thérèse. True, the King of Spain was ill-educated and
ugly, and so stupid that some doubted if he had all his wits. He was
very delicate too, and at four years old could scarcely walk or talk,
and never stood without leaning on somebody. But he was lord over vast
possessions, though, perhaps, he had not much real power out of Spain,
and there the country was in such poverty that there was but little
money passing from hand to hand. His mother, Marie Anne of Austria, had
held the reins of government, but at length, aided by his half-brother,
Don John, Charles suddenly banished her to Toledo, and announced that he
meant to be king in fact as well as in name. His first step was to break
off negotiations with the emperor, whose daughter the queen-mother had
chosen for his wife. This was done under the influence of Don John, and
it was he who first suggested that King Charles might look for a bride
in France. The king was slow to take in new ideas, and as backward in
parting with them. Don John let him alone, and did not hurry him, but he
threw in his way a portrait of the princess, and contrived that he
should overhear the conversation of some Spanish gentlemen who had
lately returned from Paris, and were loud in praises of the lovely and
fascinating Mademoiselle. Charles looked at the miniature oftener and
oftener; soon he refused to part with it at all, and by-and-by began
even to talk to it. Then he told Don John he would never marry any woman
but this.
Soon an envoy was sent to the King of France to ask the hand of his
niece, which, after the usual official delays, lasting fully nine
months, was joyfully granted to him. Tales of Charles II., who was,
after all, Marie Thérèse's brother, had not failed to cross the
Pyrenees, and Mademoiselle's heart sank as she thought of what awaited
her. Once she summoned up all her courage and threw herself at the
king's feet, imploring him to let her stay in France, even though she
were to remain unmarried.
'I am making you queen of Spain,' he answered; 'what more could I have
done for my daughter?'
'Ah, Sire! you could have done more for your niece,' she said, turning
away, for she saw it was hopeless.
---------------------
Although the formal consent of Louis XIV. was not given till July 1679,
King Charles had nominated the persons who were to form the household of
the young queen ever since January. He had Don John continually with
him, asking his advice about this and that, though he never even took
the trouble to tell his mother of his marriage, and left her to learn it
from common rumour. At length all was ready; the king was informed of
the day that the princess would reach the frontier, and Don John was
about to start for the Pyrenees, when he was seized by a severe attack
of fever, and in ten days was dead. According to etiquette he lay in
state for the people to visit, in the splendid dress which had been made
for him to wear when he met the new queen.
It was on a little island in the middle of the river Bidassoa that Marie
Louise said good-bye to France. She had thought she could not feel more
pain when she had bidden farewell to the friends of her childhood—to
the king and queen, to her father and stepmother, to her young sister,
now ten years old, whose daughter would one day be queen of Spain too;
worse than all, to the dauphin himself. Yet as long as she remained on
French soil she was not wholly parted from them, and now and then a wild
hope rushed through her heart that something, she did not know what,
would happen, and that she might see one or other of them again. But as
she entered the pavilion on the island where her Spanish attendants
awaited her she knew that the links that bound her to the old life were
broken, and she must make the best of that which lay before. It was a
very strange Spain over which she was to reign, and she may often have
dreamed that she was living in a fairy tale, and that some day her ugly
king would throw off his enchanted mask and become the handsomest and
most charming of princes. Spain itself really began in the old French
town of Bayonne, where ladies paid visits with fat little sucking pigs
under their arms, instead of being followed by long-eared spaniels, as
in France. The pigs had ribbons round their necks to match their
mistresses' dresses, and at balls were placed, after their entrance, in
a room by themselves, while their owners danced with a grace no other
nation could equal the _branle_, the _canaris_, or the _sarabande_. At
certain times the gentlemen threw their canes into the air, and caught
them cleverly as they came down, and they leapt high, and cut capers,
all to the sound of a fife and a tambourine—a wooden instrument like a
ship's trumpet, which was struck by a stick. As to the clothes in which
the young queen was dressed by her _Camarera Mayor_, or chief lady of
the bedchamber, on her arrival at Vittoria, Marie Louise did not know
whether to laugh or to cry when she caught sight of herself in a mirror.
Her hair was parted on one side, and hung down in five plaits, each tied
with a bow of ribbon and a string of jewels. In winter, twelve
petticoats were always worn, and though the upper one was of lace or
fine embroidered muslin, one at any rate of the other eleven was of
thick velvet or satin, worked in gold, while, to support the weight,
which was tremendous, a huge stiff hoop was fastened on underneath them
all. The dress itself was made very long, so as to conceal the feet,
shod in flat, black morocco slippers. The bodice, high in front and low
behind, which gave a very odd effect, was made of rich cloth of gold,
and glittered with diamonds. 'But I can never move in these clothes,'
said the queen, turning to the Duchess of Terranova, who knew no French
and waited till the Princess d'Harcourt interpreted for her.
'In summer her Majesty the Queen of Spain will wear only seven
petticoats,' replied the duchess, dropping a low curtesy; and Marie
Louise gave a little laugh.
Odd as her own dress seemed, that of the old Camarera Mayor and the
mistress of the maids of honour was odder still. They were both widows,
and wore loose, shapeless black garments, with every scrap of hair
hidden away. When they went out of doors large hats concealed their
faces, and in this guise they rode on mules after their mistress, who
was mounted on a beautiful Andalusian mare; As she travelled to Burgos,
near which the king was to meet her, Marie Louise noticed with surprise
that all the carriages were drawn by six mules, but they were so big and
strong that they could gallop as fast as any horse. The reins were
usually of silk or rope, and each pair was harnessed at a great distance
from the next, the coachman riding on one of the first two. When she
inquired why he did not sit on the box, as in France, and have
postillions in front, she was told that since a coachman had overheard
some state secrets discussed between Olivares and his master, Philip
IV., no one had ever been allowed to come within earshot of his Majesty.
On November 20, at a small village called Quintanapalla, near Burgos,
she was met by the king. Her journey had not
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