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Title: The story of the diamond necklace
Author: Henry Vizetelly
Release date: June 14, 2026 [eBook #78855]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Vizetelly & Co., 1881
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78855
Credits: Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE ***
[Illustration: _The Countess de la Motte._
_From the Portrait after Robinet prefixed to the Life of the Countess de
la Motte by herself._
E. Chavanne sc.]
THE STORY OF
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE
TOLD IN DETAIL FOR THE FIRST TIME
BY THE AID OF CONTEMPORARY MEMOIRS, ORIGINAL
LETTERS, AND OFFICIAL AND OTHER DOCUMENTS;
AND COMPRISING
A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE COUNTESS DE LA MOTTE, PRETENDED
CONFIDANT OF MARIE-ANTOINETTE, WITH PARTICULARS OF THE CAREERS
OF THE OTHER ACTORS IN THIS REMARKABLE DRAMA.
BY HENRY VIZETELLY,
AUTHOR OF “BERLIN UNDER THE NEW EMPIRE,” ETC.
Illustrated with an exact representation of the Diamond
Necklace, from a contemporary drawing, and a portrait of the
Countess de la Motte, engraved on steel.
Third Edition, Revised.
LONDON:
_VIZETELLY & CO., 10 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND_.
1881.
[_All rights reserved._]
_S. Cowan & Co., Strathmore Press, Perth._
TO A. E. V.
THE LIGHT OF MY HOME, THE HAPPINESS OF MY LIFE,
I DEDICATE,
WITH MUCH AFFECTION,
THIS RECORD OF AN ERRING WOMAN’S CAREER.
H. V.
PARIS, 1867.
ADVERTISEMENT.
“THE STORY OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE,” which met with marked success at
the time of its first appearance—two editions in an expensive form
having speedily become exhausted—has been out of print for some years.
The author was unwilling that it should be re-issued until it had been
subjected to a complete revision, and this more pressing occupations have
obliged him continually to postpone. Having at length found the necessary
leisure, he has thoroughly revised the work, availing himself of a new
study of the documents preserved in the French National Archives for
this purpose, and incorporating in the present volume such additional
facts relative to his subject as the investigations of recent years have
brought to light. If the work in its new form meets with anything like
the favour which was accorded to the early editions, the author will feel
himself amply rewarded for the extra labour he has expended in rendering
it more complete.
LONDON, _October, 1880_.
Several critics of the first edition of this work took the author to
task for regarding as genuine the autograph letters of Marie-Antoinette
and others, comprised in the collection of M. Feuillet de Conches, and
expressed their surprise at his ignorance of the controversy which had
taken place on the subject of their authenticity, and had resulted, they
said, in the almost universal condemnation of these documents by both
French and German critics. The author was not only fully acquainted with
all the details of the controversy in question, but he had carefully
examined the letters themselves—not their contents merely, but the
character of the handwriting, and had studied its variations at different
periods of Marie-Antoinette’s career; and he had come to the conclusion,
in common with the majority of French writers who are regarded as
authorities on matters pertaining to the history of France during the
latter half of the eighteenth century, that the impugned documents are,
with certain exceptions, perfectly genuine. The above remarks, it should
be noted, apply exclusively to the autograph letters in M. Feuillet de
Conches’ collection, and not to the exceedingly dubious letters published
by Comte d’Hunolstein.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
The great scandal of the Diamond Necklace, which to the clear vision of
Goethe presaged the coming Revolution, and in which the quick-witted
Talleyrand saw the overthrow of the French throne, possesses an interest
akin to that of the French Revolution itself. The story is one of which
the world does not seem to tire, for it has been told scores upon
scores of times, and more or less recently, by historians, biographers,
essayists, memoir-writers, anecdotists, novelists, and dramatists, and in
well-nigh every European language. In the form in which it appears in the
Memorials and Judicial Examinations of the parties accused of complicity
in the fraud, it has been pronounced “the greatest lie of the eighteenth
century,” and numerous active brains have essayed to unravel its tangled
web of truth and falsehood; nevertheless, there are many persons who
still think that a certain mystery envelops the transaction which all the
research hitherto bestowed upon it has failed to satisfactorily clear up.
The writer of the present work has diligently studied all the
contemporary evidence, bearing in the smallest degree on the subject,
which an active search enabled him to discover, and the bulk of which he
has availed himself of in the course of the subjoined narrative. This
includes, for example, unpublished autograph letters and documents,
written either by actual actors in the drama, or else by persons
intimately associated with it, and derived chiefly from the valuable
collection of M. Feuillet de Conches; the official records of the
judicial proceedings to which the affair give rise; the various memorials
put forth on behalf of the accused, and the memoirs subsequently
issued by them, including the exceedingly scarce Mémoire by Rétaux de
Villette, which the present writer is the first to quote from, and the
curious Autobiography written in his old age by Count de la Motte; the
discussions in the Paris Parliament; and the numerous memoirs penned
by persons living at the time, some of which, and these of the highest
importance—such as the interesting Memoirs of Count Beugnot—having been
only recently made public, were not at the command of previous writers.
In addition to the foregoing sources of information may be mentioned
the different biographies, and the various critical disquisitions of
historians and essayists in which the subject has been so exceedingly
fruitful, and of which considerable use will be found to have been made.
With such materials at his command, the writer has been able to tell
the story for the first time in all its fulness, and as he believes
more in accordance with the truth, in small matters as well as great,
than any previous narrative of the transaction. He conceives that he
has completely exonerated the French queen from the slightest suspicion
of complicity in the miserable fraud. He has made a point of supplying
missing dates to the more trivial as well as to all the more important
incidents, of vouching every statement of the smallest consequence, and
of giving the very language of the witnesses to the various facts which
they are called upon to prove. He has, moreover, visited most of the
scenes with which the chief incidents of the story are mixed up, and
has described them with more or less minuteness in the course of his
narrative.
It is proper to mention, with regard to some few of the authorities
referred to in the following pages, such as Madame Campan’s and
Weber’s “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” Madame de la Motte’s “Mémoires
Justificatifs,” and the “Mémoire pour le Comte de Cagliostro,” that the
French and English versions of these works have been indiscriminately
used, and that the references given, if they do not apply to the one,
will be found to belong to the other edition of the works in question.
AUTHORITIES REFERRED TO IN THIS WORK.
Mémoire des joailliers Böhmer et Bassenge, du 12 Août, 1785.
Paris, 1786.
* * * * *
Mémoire pour Louis-René-Édouard de Rohan, cardinal, contre
M. le Procureur-Général, en présence de la dame de la Motte.
Paris, 1786.
Pièces justificatives pour M. le Cardinal de Rohan,
déclarations authentiques selon la forme Anglaise. Paris, 1786.
Requête au Parlement, les chambres assemblées, par M. le
Cardinal de Rohan. Paris, 1786.
Réflexions rapides pour M. le Cardinal de Rohan, sur le
sommaire de la dame de la Motte. Paris, 1786.
* * * * *
Mémoire pour la dame Jeanne de Saint-Remy de Valois, épouse du
Comte de la Motte. Paris, 1786.
Réponse pour la Comtesse de Valois-Lamotte au Mémoire du Comte
Cagliostro. Paris, 1786.
Sommaire pour la Comtesse de Valois-Lamotte accusée, contre M.
le Procureur-Général, accusateur, en présence de M. le Cardinal
de Rohan et autres co-accusés. Paris, 1786.
Mémoires justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte, écrits par
elle-même. London, 1789.
Ditto, English translation.
* * * * *
Mémoire pour la demoiselle le Guay d’Oliva, fille mineure,
émancipée d’âge, accusée, contre M. le Procureur-Général.
Paris, 1786.
Seconde mémoire et pièces justificatives, pour Mademoiselle le
Guay d’Oliva. Paris, 1786.
* * * * *
Requête pour le sieur Marc-Antoine Rétaux de Villette, ancien
gendarme, accusé, contre M. le Procureur-Général. Paris, 1786.
* * * * *
Mémoire pour le Comte de Cagliostro, accusé, contre M. le
Procureur-Général, accusateur, en présence de M. le Cardinal de
Rohan, de la Comtesse de la Motte et autres, co-accusés, Paris,
1786.
Requête au Parlement, les chambres assemblées, pour le Comte de
Cagliostro, signifiée à M. le Procureur-Général, le 24 Février,
1786. Paris, 1786.
Mémoire pour le Comte de Cagliostro contre Maître Chesnon fils
et le Sieur de Launay. Paris, 1786.
Memorial for the Count de Cagliostro. London, 1786.
* * * * *
Mémoire pour Jean-Charles-Vincent de Bette d’Étienville,
bourgeois de Saint-Omer en Artois. Paris, 1786.
Deuxième Mémoire pour le sieur Jean-Charles-Vincent de Bette
d’Étienville. Paris, 1786.
Collection complète de tous les Mémoires qui ont paru dans la
fameuse affaire du Collier, avec toutes les pièces secrètes qui
y ont rapport et qui n’ont pas paru. Paris, 1786.
Compte-rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement relativement à
l’affaire de M. le Cardinal de Rohan. Paris, 1786.
Jugement rendu par le Parlement de Paris sur l’affaire du
Collier de diamants, avec le détail de ce qui s’est passé aux
séances du Parlement les 30 et 31 Mai, 1786, et les ordres du
Roi après le jugement. Paris, 1786.
Archives de la République. Series X², Nos. 2576, 18576. Series
Y, Nos. 11514, 12076, 13125. Procès du Collier.
Unpublished autograph letters and documents relative to the
Diamond Necklace affair, in the collection of M. Feuillet de
Conches.
* * * * *
The Life of Jeanne de Saint-Remy de Valois, heretofore Countess
de la Motte, written by herself. 2 vols. London, 1791.
Authentic adventures of the Countess de la Motte. London, 1787.
Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte-Valois, publiés d’après
le manuscrit autographe, par L. Lacour. Paris, 1858.
Mémoire historique des intrigues de la Cour et de ce qui s’est
passé entre la Reine, le Comte d’Artois, le Cardinal de Rohan,
Madame de Polignac, Madame de la Motte, Cagliostro, et MM. de
Breteuil et de Vergennes, par Rétaux de Villette. Venise, 1790.
Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire des événements de la fin du
XVIIIᵉ siècle, par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. Paris.
Marie-Antoinette et le procès du Collier d’après la procédure
instruite devant le Parlement de Paris, par E. Campardon,
archiviste des archives de l’Empire. Paris, 1863.
Mémoires sur la vie privée de Marie-Antoinette, par Madame
Campan. 2 vols. London, 1823.
Ditto, English translation.
Mémoires concernant Marie-Antoinette, Reine de France, par J.
Weber. 2 vols. London, 1805.
Ditto, English translation.
Histoire de Marie-Antoinette, par E. et J. de Goncourt. Paris,
1863.
La Vraie Marie-Antoinette, par M. de Lescure. Paris, 1863.
Maria-Theresia und Marie-Antoinette, von A. Ritter von Arneth.
Paris und Wien, 1865.
Lettres et documents inédits de Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,
et Madame Elisabeth, par M. Feuillet de Conches, 3 vols. Paris,
1864.
Correspondance inédite de Marie-Antoinette, par le Comte P.
Vogt d’Hunolstein. Paris, 1864.
Procès de Marie-Antoinette, ci-devant Reine des Français.
Paris, 1865.
Correspondance secrète inédite sur Louis XVI.,
Marie-Antoinette, la cour et la ville, de 1777 à 1792, publiée
d’après les manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Impériale de
Saint-Pétersbourg, par M. de Lescure, 2 vols. Paris, 1866.
Les derniers jours de Trianon, par M. Capefigue. Paris, 1866.
Mémoires du Comte Beugnot, ancien ministre, vol. i. Paris, 1866.
Mémoires de Mademoiselle Bertin. Paris.
Mémoires de M. le Baron de Besenval, écrits par lui-même, vol.
iii. Paris, 1805.
Mémoires de la Baronne d’Oberkirche, vol. i. Paris, 1853.
Mémoires posthumes du Feld-Maréchal Comte de Stedingk, par le
Comte de Bjornsjerna, vol. iii. Paris, 1844.
Souvenirs de la Marquise de Créqui, par le Comte de Courchamps.
Paris, 1834-5.
Mémoires relatifs à la Famille Royale de France, pendant la
Révolution accompagnés d’anecdotes inconnues et authentiques
sur les princes contemporains et autres personnages célèbres de
cette époque. Publiés pour la première fois d’après le journal,
les lettres, et les entretiens de la Princesse de Lamballe, par
une dame de qualité attaché au service confidentiel de cette
infortunée princesse, vol. i. Paris et Strasbourg, 1826.
La Princesse de Lamballe, Marie-Thérèse-Louise de
Savoie-Carignan: Sa Vie—Sa Mort; d’après des documents inédits
ou peu connus, par M. de Lescure. Paris, 1864.
Mémoires secrets pour servir à l’histoire de la dernière année
du règne de Louis XVI., par A. F. Bertrand de Molleville,
ministre d’état à cette époque, vol. ii. Londres et Paris, 1797.
Mémoires historiques et politiques du règne de Louis XVI., par
l’Abbé Soulavie, vol. vi. Paris, 1801.
Histoire de la décadence de la monarchie Française, par l’Abbé
Soulavie, vol. iii. Paris, 1803.
Anecdotes du règne de Louis XVI., contenant tout ce qui
concerne ce monarque, sa famille, et la Reine, etc., par M.
Nougaret, vol. i. Paris, 1791.
Correspondance secrète de la cour de Louis XVI. Paris.
L’Histoire de France pendant le XVIIIᵉ siècle, par C.
Lacretelle, vol. vi. Paris, 1819.
Louis XVI., par M. Alexandre Dumas, vol. iii. Paris, 1851.
Louis XVI., son administration et ses relations diplomatiques
avec l’Europe, par M. Capefigue, vol. iii. Paris, 1844.
Correspondance inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran et du Chevalier
de Boufflers, de 1778 à 1788. Paris, 1875.
The Journals and Correspondence of William, Lord Auckland, vol.
i. London, 1860-2.
Souvenirs de M. Berryer, doyen des avocats de Paris, de 1774 à
1833, vol. ii. Paris, 1839.
Cagliostro’s Stammbaum, von Wolfgang von Goethe.
Mémoires sur les prisons de Paris sous Robespierre, vol. ii.
Paris.
Les Crimes de Marat et des autres égorgeurs, ou Ma
Résurrection, par P. A. L. Maton de la Varenne. Paris, 1795.
Histoire de la Révolution Française, par M. Louis Blanc, vol.
ii. Bruxelles.
The French Revolution, a history; by Thomas Carlyle. 3 vols.
(Leipzig edition), 1851.
Histoire monarchique et constitutionnelle de la Révolution
Française, par Eugène Labaume, vol. ii. Paris, 1834.
Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, by Thomas Carlyle, vol. iv.
(Art.—Diamond Necklace). London, 1857.
Biographie Universelle (Articles—De Rohan and Cagliostro).
Le Moniteur, No. 220. Paris, 1792.
Morning Chronicle, Dec. 29, 1786.
Journal de Paris, Nov. 12, 1831.
Gentleman’s Magazine, vol. lxi. London, 1791.
Julie philosophe, ou le bon patriote, vol. ii. London.
Histoire de Bar-sur-Aube, par L. Chevalier. Bar-sur-Aube, 1851.
Essais historiques sur la ville de Bar-sur-Aube, publiés
d’après un manuscrit inédit portant la date de 1785, par J. F.
G. Troyes, 1838.
Letter from the Curé of Bar-sur-Aube, July 17, 1866.
Saverne et ses environs, par C. G. Klein. Strasbourg, 1849.
Histoire anecdotique des Rues de Versailles, par J. A. Le Roi.
Versailles, 1854.
Histoire du Bois de Boulogne, par J. Lobet. Paris, 1856.
Paris Herself Again, by G. A. Sala. London, 1879.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. A SCION OF ROYALTY IN TATTERS—“TAKE PITY ON THE ORPHAN
DESCENDANTS OF HENRY II. KING OF FRANCE” 1
II. THE SAINT-REMIS OF VALOIS—A TRAMP UP TO THE CAPITAL 3
III. MANTUA-MAKER’S APPRENTICE—PENSIONER UNDER THE CROWN—BOARDER
IN A CONVENT 7
IV. THE DIAMOND NECKLACE ORDERED, BUT NOT SOLD 13
V. AT BAR-SUR-AUBE—COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE 19
VI. COUNTESS DE LA MOTTE—IN BARRACKS AT LUNÉVILLE—ON A FIFTH
FLOOR IN PARIS—ENSNARES THE GRAND ALMONER 30
VII. OSCILLATES BETWEEN PARIS AND VERSAILLES—SENDS OUT
BEGGING LETTERS AND PETITIONS—FAINTS IN MADAME’S
SALLE D’ATTENTE—DESPAIR 40
VIII. THE DIAMOND NECKLACE AGAIN—STILL NOT SOLD 52
IX. SOI-DISANT CONFIDANT OF THE QUEEN—AT VERSAILLES AND
LITTLE TRIANON 56
X. HIS EMINENCE CARDINAL, COMMENDATOR, GRAND ALMONER,
PRINCE-BISHOP LOUIS-RENÉ-ÉDOUARD DE ROHAN 65
XI. PRETENDED MEDIATOR BETWEEN THE CARDINAL AND THE QUEEN—A
FORGER ON THE PREMISES—BILLETS-DOUX BORDERED WITH
“VIGNETTES BLEUES” 72
XII. THE COUNTERFEIT QUEEN 79
XIII. THE MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW—“YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS” 85
XIV. A GOLDEN HARVEST—HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF—BARONESS D’OLIVA
IS GIVEN THE COLD SHOULDER 89
XV. GRAND DOINGS AT BAR-SUR-AUBE 96
XVI. THE DIAMOND NECKLACE IS SOLD AT LAST 105
XVII. CHARLATAN COUNT CAGLIOSTRO 115
XVIII. THE DIAMOND NECKLACE IS DELIVERED 126
XIX. THE DIAMOND NECKLACE VANISHES! 131
XX. THE DIAMONDS ARE DISPERSED—COUNT DE LA MOTTE GOES TO
ENGLAND ON BUSINESS 138
XXI. THE GATHERING OF THE STORM 153
XXII. TWELVE DAYS’ STATE AT BAR-SUR-AUBE 162
XXIII. LETTRES-DE-CACHET IN THE ŒIL-DE-BŒUF—IN THE RUE
SAINT-CLAUDE—AND AT BAR-SUR-AUBE 170
XXIV. A DREARY DAY AND NIGHT’S DRIVE—THE BASTILLE—A “VALOIS”
SERVED OFF PEWTER 182
XXV. EFFECT PRODUCED ON THE PUBLIC MIND BY THESE ARRESTS—THE
ENEMIES OF THE QUEEN 189
XXVI. LITTLE TRIANON, AND THE QUEEN’S SOCIETY THERE 195
XXVII. CALUMNIES AGAINST THE QUEEN—HER ANIMOSITY AGAINST THE
CARDINAL DE ROHAN 208
XXVIII. PREPARATIONS FOR THE TRIAL—CAPTURE OF THE COUNTERFEIT
QUEEN 213
XXIX. THE TRIAL: EXAMINATION OF THE ACCUSED 220
XXX. THE TRIAL: THE CONFRONTATIONS OF THE ACCUSED WITH EACH
OTHER AND WITH THE WITNESSES 233
XXXI. ARREST OF THE FORGER VILLETTE—HIS EXAMINATIONS AND
CONFRONTATIONS 241
XXXII. THE CONCIERGERIE—BEFORE THE COURT OF PARLIAMENT, GRAND
CHAMBER, AND “TOURNELLE” 253
XXXIII. DEBATE IN THE COURT OF PARLIAMENT—THE SENTENCES 265
XXXIV. THE SENTENCES CARRIED OUT—“WHAT IS RESERVED FOR THE
BLOOD OF THE BOURBONS?” 274
XXXV. COUNT DE LA MOTTE’S FLIGHT—COLD STEEL AND POISON 284
XXXVI. THE SALPÊTRIÈRE—TRUCKLE BED AND PRISON FARE—THE COUNT
THREATENS THE FRENCH COURT 290
XXXVII. MYSTERIOUS HINTS GIVEN TO THE COUNTESS TO EFFECT HER
ESCAPE—SHE RESOLVES ON ATTEMPTING IT 298
XXXVIII. THE COUNTESS’S ESCAPE—A LAST VISIT TO THE NEIGHBOURHOOD
OF BAR-SUR-AUBE 305
XXXIX. IN LONDON—THE COUNTESS GIVES UP FORGERY AND TAKES TO
CALUMNY 314
XL. THE COUNT HAWKS THE LIBELS ABROAD—IS IMPRISONED IN LA
FORCE AND THE CONCIERGERIE—THE LAST OF THE DE LA
MOTTE LIBELS 324
XLI. RETRIBUTION—THE CRIMINAL AND HER ACCOMPLICES 336
XLII. DUPE AND VICTIM 348
XLIII. “NESTOR DE LA MOTTE”—ILL GOTTEN GAIN NEVER PROSPERS—GREEN
OLD AGE 356
XLIV. THE CROWN-JEWELLERS—THE END OF THE NECKLACE CASE—HISTORY
AGAIN REPEATS ITSELF 368
XLV. SUMMING UP OF THE EVIDENCE AGAINST MARIE-ANTOINETTE 372
APPENDIX. DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE 387
SELECTION FROM THE LETTERS PRETENDED TO HAVE PASSED
BETWEEN THE QUEEN AND THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN 390
EPITOME OF THE FIRST PROCÈS-VERBAL DESCRIPTIVE OF THE
DOCUMENTS TENDING TO ESTABLISH CRIMINALITY 395
SOME SATIRICAL VERSES TO WHICH THE NECKLACE AFFAIR
GAVE RISE 402
MEMORIAL CONCERNING THE HOUSE OF SAINT-REMI DE VALOIS 405
ABSTRACT OF THE DECLARATION MADE BY BETTE D’ÉTIENVILLE
IN THE NECKLACE AFFAIR 409
“Though the descendant of a king, I have been a beggar, a
servant, a mantua-maker’s apprentice, and the favourite of
royalty.... The names of a great queen and of a prince-cardinal
unhappily united with mine have spread a blaze around it to
attract general notice; and as if I was doomed to be the victim
of painful splendour, the ingenuity of my enemies have found
means to forge the chains of my dishonour out of a Diamond
Necklace.”—“Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol.
i. p. 267, and p. 6 of Preface.
“Faites attention à ce misérable Collier, je ne serais
nullement surpris qu’il renversât le trône.”—_Talleyrand to
Chamfort._ “Histoire Monarchique et Constitutionnelle de la
Révolution Française,” par E. Labaume, vol. ii. p. 139.
“I would caution them to despise those who, hacknied in
systematic scandal, feast upon the bleeding reputations of
their sisters mangled and torn by calumny; let them demand
of those who convey such vile insinuations some proof of
the circumstances which they relate; let them sift them
thoroughly to the bottom; _let them inquire the character
of the tale-bearer; let them ask how, where, and when, and
whether she knows the woman whom she has so eagerly attempted
to disgrace_.”—“Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,”
vol. ii. p. 410.
“Do not the critics teach us: ‘In whatsoever thing thou hast
thyself felt interest, in that or in nothing hope to inspire
others with interest.’ In partial obedience to all which and
to many other principles shall the following small Romance
of the Diamond Necklace begin to come together. A small
Romance let the reader again and again assure himself, which
is no brain-web of mine, or of any other foolish man’s, but
a fraction of the mystic ‘spirit-woven web’ from the ‘Loom
of Time.’ It is an actual Transaction that happened in this
Earth of ours. Wherewith our whole business is to paint it
truly.”—“Carlyle’s Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv.
p. 5.
THE STORY OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE.
I.
1764.
A SCION OF ROYALTY IN TATTERS.—“TAKE PITY ON THE ORPHAN DESCENDANTS OF
HENRY II., KING OF FRANCE.”
Rather more than a century ago, in the year 1764, just as death had
closed the career of the once all-powerful Madame de Pompadour, who
had long since exhausted all her arts in vain endeavours to revive the
jaded passions of her royal lover, and when the star of the notorious
Dubarry was gaining the ascendant, the Marquis and Marchioness de
Boulainvilliers, attended by servants and outriders in the gayest of
liveries, were driving one day in a carriage and four from their hôtel
at Paris to the château of Passy, of which pleasant river-side village
the marquis was _seigneur_. All at once their attention was attracted to
a little girl about eight years of age, clad in the beggar’s accustomed
livery—rags and tatters, who, carrying a younger sister on her back, ran
beside the carriage, at that moment proceeding up the hill at a slow
pace, and appealed for charity after the following strange fashion:—“Kind
lady and gentleman, pray take pity on two poor orphans descended from
Henry the Second of Valois, King of France.”
The marchioness, struck by the singularity of this appeal, stopped the
carriage and commenced questioning the child, much to the annoyance of
her parsimonious husband, who petulantly remarked she ought to know well
enough that it was a common trick of poverty to forge lies to excite
compassion. The marchioness, however, persisted in her inquiries, and
ascertained from the child whereabouts she lived, then, after promising
to see into the truth of her statement and telling a servant to give her
a few pieces of silver, the lady, greatly to the satisfaction of her
impatient husband, gave directions for the carriage to proceed.
The next day, in accordance with her promise, the marchioness despatched
a trusty servant to the place where the children lodged, at the adjacent
village of Chaillot, facing the river between Passy and the then
fashionable Cours la Reine, where the commonality—in other words, those
who wore “frieze, woollen stockings and cloth hoods”—were forbidden to
show themselves. At Chaillot the people of the house, and the neighbours
generally, confirmed, so far as they were able, the truth of the little
beggar girl’s story, which, as this partakes largely of the romantic, and
exercised moreover an important influence on our heroine’s subsequent
remarkable career, we propose recounting here in all the necessary detail.
II.
1717–1764.
THE SAINT-REMIS OF VALOIS.—A TRAMP UP TO THE CAPITAL.
For a couple of centuries there had resided at Bar-sur-Aube, in the
Champagne, certain Barons de Saint-Remi, the first of whom was Henri
de Saint-Remi, an illegitimate son of Henri II. of Valois, King of
France, lover of the beautiful Diana of Poitiers; the same who had
the ill luck to be accidentally killed at a tilting-match by a lance
thrust in his right eye from the captain of his Scottish guards, the
Count de Montgomerie, ancestor of our Earls of Eglinton. This son of
his, Henri de Saint-Remi, was, in heralds’ language, “High and Puissant
Lord and Knight, Baron and Seigneur of the Manors of the Chatellier,
Fontette, Noez and Beauvoir, Knight of the King’s Order, Gentleman
of the Bedchamber in ordinary, Colonel of a regiment of horse and a
regiment of foot, and Governor of Château-Villain.” In the course of a
few generations, however, the Saint-Remis appear to have fallen from
their high estate, and their broad manors to have become entirely
alienated from them, inasmuch as we find that Nicolas de Saint-Remi,
the great-grandson of the Henri before mentioned, instead of being
styled “High and Puissant Lord and Knight,” and Seigneur of various
extensive domains, and the holder of numerous offices about the person
of the sovereign, was merely one of the king’s body-guard in the Duke
de Charost’s company. He married the daughter of Nicolas-François de
Vienne, a great man in the royal bailiwick of Bar-sur-Aube, who seems at
this period to have been the possessor of two of the Saint-Remi manors,
namely, Noez and Fontette. The children that sprung from this marriage
were two sons, the elder of whom was slain in battle, while the younger,
Jacques de Saint-Remi, was father of the little beggar girl whom we found
running beside the Boulainvilliers’ carriage asking alms.
Jacques de Saint-Remi de Valois, in spite of his illustrious descent,
seems to have gradually sunk to the level of the peasant class, and
the indigence to which he found himself reduced was aggravated by his
imprudently marrying a young girl with a pretty face, but of vulgar
manners and somewhat loose morals, the daughter of his _concierge_ at
the time he had a house to shelter him. The offspring of this union
was a son and two daughters, born respectively in the years 1755, 6,
and 7, but small as his family was, Jacques de Saint-Remi seems to
have been unable to support it. One who knew him well describes the
last of the barons of Saint-Remi as a man of athletic build, who lived
partly by poaching and by depredations in the adjoining forest, partly
by plundering his neighbours’ fields, and partly on the charity of the
benevolent.[1] The vast estates which formerly belonged to the now
impoverished family had gradually dwindled away, some having been sold
to meet the demands arising from the extravagance of successive owners,
while others had passed into the hands of lawyers and money-lenders. At
this period there nevertheless remained three domains of considerable
extent, deeply encumbered, it is true, with debts, but still open to some
real or fancied claim, which, although the beggared heir of the house of
Valois had no means of enforcing it, was nevertheless the reverie and
abstraction of his life. A few sheets of musty parchment, the surviving
title-deeds of his house, the last wreck, so to speak, of the vast landed
property of the Saint-Remis of Valois, were kept by him carefully stowed
away under the straw thatch of his miserable hut. To pore at times over
these old parchments was the one act of worldly vanity in which Jacques
de Saint-Remi permitted himself to indulge, but the woman he had married
was not so easily satisfied. The continual display of these mysterious
documents kindled her ambition, until at length it was raised to such a
pitch, that she prevailed on her husband to set out for Paris, there to
endeavour to make interest among the great for the restoration of those
rights to which as heir of the house of Valois she conceived him to be
entitled.
After disposing of such few movables as they possessed, the wretched
family set forth and literally tramped up to the capital, a distance of
nearly a hundred and fifty miles. That they might not be burthened on the
way by their youngest child, then about three years old, the unnatural
parents left it behind them, exposed on a window-sill of the house of
one Durand, “a wealthy and avaricious farmer,” to quote the eldest
sister’s own words, “who, being in possession of a great part of my
father’s estate, and having stood sponsor to this unfortunate infant, was
therefore deemed the most proper person to be her future protector.”[2]
On their arrival in Paris, in a state of extreme destitution, the
Saint-Remi family shifted their place of residence from one suburb to
another until they eventually settled down at Boulogne, then merely a
small village on the banks of the Seine, opposite to St. Cloud. Here they
lived upon such charity as the gentry of the neighbourhood, attracted by
the singularity of their story, from time to time bestowed upon them. The
father at this period had fallen into a stage of dotage, and the mother’s
pet idea of an appeal in high quarters for the restoration of the family
estates had to be sacrificed to the powerful struggle which they were
forced to make for their daily bread. Months thus passed away, until
one day Jacques de Saint-Remi, for some cause or other—most likely an
unpaid baker’s bill—was arrested by an officer of the marshalsea (mounted
police) of Boulogne, and locked up in a loathsome cell, where he remained
for six weeks. Here the poor man contracted a serious illness, and on
his release, which was brought about by the intervention of the _curé_
of the parish, the only retreat which the efforts of his neighbours, for
friends he had none, were enabled to provide for him—a descendant of the
blood-royal of France—was a pallet in one of the wards of the Hôtel Dieu.
Here he died, a couple of days afterwards, on the 16th February, 1762.
Within a few days of the death of Jacques de Saint-Remi his wife gave
birth to another daughter, and as soon as she was recovered from her
confinement, the family removed to Versailles, where the mother made a
practice of sending the children into the streets to beg. Jeanne, the
eldest daughter, and the heroine of our story, appears to have been
treated with great harshness by her mother; for unless the child brought
home ten _sous_ on ordinary days, and double that amount on Sundays
and fête days, as the fruits of her mendicity, she was subjected, she
tells us, to the cruellest punishment. The mother had at this time
formed a disreputable connection with a disbanded common soldier—one
Jean-Baptiste Raymond, a native of Sardinia—with whom mendicancy was a
positive passion; for, in disregard of the authorities, he made it his
daily practice to beg in the most public places of Paris, having with
him the young Jacques de Saint-Remi, and the family documents, which he
boldly exhibited to the passers-by in support of a pretended claim which
he himself set up to the honours of the house of Valois. Jean-Baptiste
was arrested by the police time after time, for plying his nefarious
trade with such marked audacity, and sentenced to various terms of
imprisonment. He was, however, incorrigible, and the authorities at
last determined upon getting rid of him. After sending him to prison
for a further term of fifteen days, they ordered him to be exposed for
four-and-twenty hours in the Place de Louis Quinze—subsequently the Place
de la Révolution, where for two years the guillotine did its bloody work,
and now the handsome Place de la Concorde—with an inscription setting
forth the nature of his imposture, and copies of the titles he had
falsely assumed hung round his neck. This public exhibition at an end,
Jean-Baptiste Raymond was banished for five years from the capital.
When the day arrived for his departure, the unnatural mother of the
young Saint-Remis set out with her paramour, leaving behind her three
children, whom she promised to rejoin in eight days at the very outside,
to shift for themselves. Five weeks, however, elapsed without any tidings
of her, and it was at this particular moment that the poor children,
deserted by their only remaining protector, and reduced almost to a
state of starvation, had the good fortune to attract the notice of the
kind-hearted Marchioness de Boulainvilliers.
III.
1764–1779.
MANTUA-MAKER’S APPRENTICE.—PENSIONER UNDER THE CROWN.—BOARDER IN A
CONVENT.
The Boulainvilliers’ lacquey, satisfied with the inquiries he had made,
directed the children to take leave of those kind neighbours who had so
constantly befriended them, and afterwards to come on to Passy, where
they were to inquire for the château, which stood, by-the-way, on the
precise spot where the pleasant “Hameau de Boulainvilliers” now stands.
But few preparations being necessary for their departure, they were soon
on their road, and reached the château in the course of the afternoon.
Their arrival being announced, they were conducted “into a grand hall,
in the centre of which rose a magnificent staircase richly ornamented
with gold, where a large company of ladies and gentlemen were waiting to
view them.”[3] The marchioness descending to the middle of the staircase,
asked young Jeanne whether she remembered her again, an inquiry which it
is almost needless to say the child promptly answered in the affirmative.
The company having gratified their curiosity at a distance, for no one
dared venture into too close proximity with these wretched outcasts,
covered as they were with rags and dirt, the marchioness gave orders
for them to be cleansed, and for other clothes to be supplied them. A
good scrubbing having brought to light indications of various diseases,
the usual concomitants of poverty, steps were taken for their speedy
eradication; and in the course of a few weeks, thanks to the attention
the children received, and to the generous food provided them, all traces
of their former wretched condition were effaced.
The marchioness’s next care was the education of the young orphans,
and Jeanne and her sister were sent to a boarding-school in the
neighbourhood, where they made rapid progress. In less than two years,
however, the youngest girl died of the small-pox, at that time a disease
not only very prevalent, but commonly fatal. Jeanne remained at school
for several years longer; but during the latter period of her stay, her
governess, she tells us, unknown to the marchioness (whom the young
Saint-Remi saw but rarely), compelled her to perform the common offices
of a domestic servant. “This employment,” she observes, “against which it
was useless to remonstrate, was but ill adapted to those elevated notions
which reflections on my birth had inspired me with. Was it not,” she
asks, “painful to feel that, descended as I was from the first family in
France, I was yet reduced to be a servant to people of the very lowest
rank, nay, even to servants themselves?”[4]
At length, at her own request, Jeanne was removed from school, but
the marquis, who was half a Jew—his mother being a daughter of Samuel
Bernard, the rich Hebrew banker, whom even the “Grand Monarque” would
condescend to take by the arm when he was hard up and wanted to coax a
loan out of him, and whom the court ladies used to cheat at the queen’s
card-table—objected to her continuing a pensioner on the Boulainvilliers’
establishment. With the view therefore of placing her in a position to
provide for herself, Jeanne was articled to a Parisian mantua-maker for a
term of three years. Ill-health, however, compelled her to leave before
completing the engagement, and she filled one situation after another,
subject to constant attacks of illness, until at length a change in the
fortunes of the family made it no longer necessary for her to labour for
her daily bread.
The young Jacques de Saint-Remi had received his education under the
care of M. Leclerc, the husband of his sister Jeanne’s governess, and on
its completion had been sent to sea. About this time he returned home
from his first voyage, and the marchioness, having got together various
documents in support of the claim of the family to the honours of the
house of Valois, consulted with the Marquis de Chabert (the admiral under
whom the young Saint-Remi had recently served, and who had interested
himself a good deal in the young sailor’s history) as to the best course
to be adopted to get this claim recognised at court. The marquis at
once caused a genealogical tree of the family to be drawn up, which he
transmitted with the necessary confirmatory documents to his cousin, M.
d’Hozier de Sérigny, grand genealogist and judge-at-arms of the nobility
of France, that the same might receive the sanction of his authority.[5]
When this was returned to M. de Chabert, accompanied by a certificate
of M. d’Hozier’s attesting its accuracy, the marquis forwarded the
various documents to the proper quarter, and in due course obtained the
appointment of a day for the reception of young Saint-Remi by Louis XVI.,
who had only recently ascended the throne. The youth was introduced to
the king as the Baron de Valois by the Marquis de Boulainvilliers, the
Marquis de Chabert, the Count de Maurepas, and M. Necker. The king was
pleased to recognise the title which the friends of the young Jacques de
Saint-Remi had persuaded him to assume, but desirous, it was believed,
that this should become extinct in the person of its present possessor,
recommended the newly-acknowledged Baron de Valois to devote himself to
the service of the church.[6] Jacques respectfully ventured to suggest
that his predilections were in favour of the army or the navy. The king
thanked the young Saint-Remi for his inclination to serve him, but
recommended him again, still more strongly, to dedicate his days to the
service of his Maker. “Sire,” replied the young man, with a sprinkling of
blasphemy which only a Frenchman would have ventured on, “I am serving
God when I am serving my king.”[7]
The members of the Saint-Remi family had now their several titles awarded
them. Jacques, as we have already seen, was henceforth to be styled Baron
de Valois; his sister Jeanne was to be known as Mademoiselle de Valois;
and Marianne, the poor child who had been left exposed outside Farmer
Durand’s window-sill, and who was now sent for to Paris, was for the
future to be called Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi. But as “fine words butter
no parsneps,” so empty honours will not suffice to keep the pot boiling.
It was therefore imperative that the necessary steps should be taken to
procure some sort of provision for these destitute off-shoots of the
blood-royal of France. It is true the national finances were in a most
lamentable condition, still everybody agreed that something must be done,
which something finally resolved itself into a pension to each member
of the family of Valois of eight hundred livres (francs) equivalent to
thirty-two pounds sterling per annum, commencing from December, 1775. In
addition to this, through the intervention of M. Necker, the young Baron
de Valois had a commission in the navy given him, with a grant of four
thousand livres for his outfit, and shortly afterwards received orders to
join his ship at Brest.
We have already mentioned that Jeanne, or, as we must now style
her, Mademoiselle de Valois, during the period she was toiling as a
mantua-maker’s apprentice, was subject to frequent attacks of illness. On
these occasions it seems an apartment was set apart for her at the Hôtel
de Boulainvilliers[8] where every care was bestowed upon her until she
was completely restored to health. During the period of her convalescence
she was constantly persecuted by the marquis with attentions the object
of which it was impossible to mistake. These advances, moreover, were
subsequently renewed on every occasion that presented itself; in fact,
whenever mademoiselle found herself under the Boulainvilliers’ roof; and
if we can credit her own statement, more than one daring assault was made
by the old reprobate upon her virtue. To rid herself of the marquis’s
importunities she was forced, she tells us, to complain to his wife, who
decided upon taking the necessary steps to remove mademoiselle beyond
the sphere of her husband’s dangerous influence. She and her sister
Marianne were accordingly sent as boarders to the Abbey of Yères, in the
neighbourhood of Montgeron, some dozen miles or so from Paris, on the
road to Lyons. Here she asserts that for a time she contemplated taking
the veil, a resolution, however, which, if ever seriously entertained,
was very soon abandoned.
About this time the Marquis de Boulainvilliers was detected defrauding
the excise by means of an extensive secret distillery which he carried
on in some vaults beneath his Paris hôtel. The discovery of this fraud
caused, as might be supposed, considerable sensation among the _haute
noblesse_, and neither the marquis nor the marchioness dared show
themselves at court, and hardly even in the vicinity of the capital. They
decided, therefore, to retire for a time to their château at Montgeron,
no great distance from the Abbey of Yères, and, as a matter of course,
the sisters Valois were invited to spend the holidays with them. At the
château they would probably have continued to remain had not the marquis
renewed his system of persecution. It is, however, tolerably certain
that something very like encouragement was given to him by Mademoiselle
de Valois, for the pair were surprised one day in a somewhat equivocal
situation by the Marquis de Brancas and the Abbé Tacher, and although
the lady in her “Memoirs” has the effrontery to speak of “the blush of
conscious innocence which coloured her cheek” on this occasion, the
result was that she was packed off by the marchioness to the well-known
Abbey of Longchamp near Paris—of course, as she says, at her own earnest
entreaty. Of this once handsome pile of conventual buildings, all
that has survived the fury of the revolutionists of 1793, is a round
ivy-mantled tower and an adjacent windmill, both familiar objects at the
present time in this favourite locality. In the days of St. Vincent de
Paul, the disorders which reigned in the Abbey of Longchamp were such as
to call forth severe animadversions from this earnest and conscientious
priest,[9] and even when the sisters Valois entered it as boarders, the
discipline was inclined to be lax; nevertheless the marquis made so many
morning calls that the other boarders were scandalised at his constant
visits, and the abbess was constrained to give orders that no gentleman
should be allowed to visit Mademoiselle de Valois on any pretence
whatever. At this abbey the sisters remained for about a year, only
quitting it, say they, on the death of the abbess. Other accounts state
that they left the convent surreptitiously early one morning, carrying
with them a very light bundle, and with thirty-six francs jingling in
their pockets, their departure being due to the pertinacity of the abbess
in pressing them to embrace a religious life, a course to which the young
ladies, who were by this time sufficiently partial to worldly vanities,
were by no means inclined.[10] The abbess is supposed to have received
her instructions from high quarters, and it is further suggested that
the object of them was the gradual extinction of the race of the Valois,
together with all their troublesome claims.
IV.
1773–1778.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE: ORDERED, BUT NOT SOLD.
While our heroine was being initiated into the mysteries of mantua-making
by the most distinguished of Parisian _modistes_, the “chains of her
dishonour,”[11] as she styles them, were unknown to her being forged
in the form of a Diamond Necklace, such as the world never saw before,
and the like of which it can hardly hope to look upon again. Here is a
description, penned by a master-hand, of this regal jewel, this unique
gem, long an object of desire with queens and women, which caused a
nine months’ convulsion of the world of Paris, and the remarkable story
connected with which was for a time the talk of every city in Europe,
while the mystery enveloping it is thought by many to be hardly cleared
up even now. “A row of seventeen glorious diamonds, as large almost as
filberts, encircle, not too tightly, the neck a first time. Looser,
gracefully fastened thrice to these, a three-wreathed festoon and
pendants enough (simple pear-shaped, multiple star-shaped or clustering
amorphous) encircle it, enwreath it a second time. Loosest of all, softly
flowing round from behind in priceless catenary, rush down two broad
threefold rows; seem to knot themselves, round a very queen of diamonds,
on the bosom; then rush on, again separated, as if there were length in
plenty: the very tassels of them were a fortune for some men. And now,
lastly, two other inexpressible threefold rows, also with their tassels,
will, when the Necklace is on and clasped, unite themselves behind
into a doubly inexpressible sixfold row; and so stream down, together
or asunder, over the hind neck,—we may fancy like lambent zodiacal or
Aurora-Borealis fire.”[12]
This matchless jewel had its origin in a freak of Louis XV., the
“Well-Beloved,” as he was endearingly called at the early part of his
reign, whose infatuation in later years for the notorious Countess
Dubarry led him into all kinds of extravagance, and caused him to
dissipate with more than his accustomed recklessness the already
seriously impaired revenues of the State. We learn from the Abbé Soulavie
that, during the last sixteen months of the “Well-Beloved’s” reign, the
sum of two million four hundred and fifty thousand francs, or nearly one
hundred thousand pounds sterling—a far larger sum in those days, be it
remembered, than at the present time—was paid out of the royal exchequer
in hard cash to this one favourite alone. And to satisfy us that his
statement is accurate, the abbé furnishes us with his authority, and
gives the details of the eight several instalments of which the grand
total is composed.[13] This, it should be borne in mind, was entirely
independent of all manner of royal grants and gifts of places and houses
and lands, which had been flung, whenever asked for, into the lap of this
frail beauty. Startling as this example of royal prodigality in the days
of the decadence of the French monarchy may appear, it is nevertheless
indisputable that the infatuated libertine who then controlled the
destinies of France, by no means wanted the will to indulge in still
wilder schemes of extravagance. For instance, on one occasion, whilst
visiting with his architect the costly pavilion of Louveciennes, lately
erected for Madame Dubarry, he expressed his regret that he could not
present her with a palace constructed entirely of gold and precious
stones. Unable to realize this extravagant whim, he resolved to bestow
upon his mistress the most costly set of diamonds which could be
collected throughout Europe. The result was the world-renowned Diamond
Necklace.[14]
Louis XV. gave the commission to the crown jewellers, Böhmer and
Bassenge[15] who entered heart and soul into the undertaking. The
execution of so rare an order was of course an affair of time. Not only
had the jewellers to raise funds to enable them to secure the largest
and finest diamonds that were in the market, but they had to hunt out
and employ the most skilful lapidaries to fashion them to their several
shapes. Every important city in Europe, and others far more remote,
were ransacked to collect these matchless gems. Some of the finest were
met with in Germany, others in Spain, others again in Russia, a few in
Brazil, and a very fine one indeed was picked up in the city of Hamburg.
“But,” says Carlyle, “to tell the various histories of these various
diamonds, from the first making of them, or even omitting all the rest,
from the first digging of them in far Indian mines.... How they served as
eyes of heathen idols, and received worship; how they had then by fortune
of war, or theft, been knocked out, and exchanged among camp-sutlers
for a little spirituous liquor, and bought by Jews; and worn as signets
on the fingers of tawny or white majesties; and again been lost, with
the fingers too, and perhaps life (as by Charles the Rash among the mud
ditches of Nancy), in old forgotten glorious victories; and so through
innumerable varieties of fortune had come at last to the cutting-wheel
of Böhmer, to be united in strange fellowship with comrades also blown
together from all ends of the earth, each with a history of its own.
Could these aged stones—the youngest of them six thousand years of age
and upwards—but have spoken, there were an experience for philosophy to
teach by. But now, as was said, by little caps of gold and daintiest
rings of the same, they are all being, so to speak, enlisted under
Böhmer’s flag,—made to take rank and file in new order, no jewel asking
his neighbour whence he came; and parade there for a season. For a season
only, and then to disperse and enlist anew _ad infinitum_.”[16]
For many of their purchases credit was obtained by the crown jewellers
for a limited period; for others, when they had exhausted their own
capital, they were obliged to have recourse to their friends. But they
were full of confidence, for two millions of livres (francs)—eighty
thousand pounds sterling—was the sum fixed to be paid by the king for
this jewel beyond price. The work went bravely on at the Böhmer and
Bassenge establishment, “_Au Grand Balcon_,” Rue Vendôme. The jewellers,
their friends, their working lapidaries, their trustful creditors, were
all in the highest spirits, when suddenly evil tidings cast dismay into
the Böhmer and Bassenge camp. One day comes the intelligence that the
king is ill; three days afterwards the news arrives that he is in danger;
another week brings the report that he is dead, and the late favourite
for whom the rich ornament was destined banished for ever beyond the
precincts of the court.
Alas! what was to be done now with the magnificent bauble commissioned
by one who, at the time, spite of all his low grovelling debauchery,
was nevertheless a king, but is now only so much corruption? Böhmer
and Bassenge, crown jewellers, find themselves deeply involved; their
creditors become clamorous, for their bills as they fall due are returned
protested. They have nothing to fall back upon but the Diamond Necklace,
which is worth, or at any rate valued at, two million livres. But where
is a purchaser to be found for it? Böhmer and Bassenge, crown jewellers
though they be, must still pay their debts. Kings, according to a certain
fiction of state, never die—“_Le Roi est Mort! Vive le Roi!_” Böhmer and
Bassenge, however, learn by sad experience not only that kings do die,
but that creditors, alas, do not.
What is to be done? Only one course suggests itself. A young and lovely
queen has just ascended the throne. Will it not be possible to induce her
to become the purchaser of this unrivalled specimen of _bijouterie_? The
office of crown jeweller carries with it the privilege of _entrée_ to the
presence of royalty at all times and seasons; while “other jewellers, and
even innumerable gentlemen and small nobility, languish in the vestibule.
With the costliest ornaments in his pockets, or borne after him by
assiduous shop-boys, the happy Böhmer sees high drawing-rooms and sacred
_ruelles_ fly open as with talismanic _sesame_, and the brightest eyes of
the whole world grow brighter: to him alone of all men the Unapproachable
reveals herself in mysterious _négligée_, taking and giving counsel.”[17]
It was to Versailles that Böhmer betook himself, carrying with him the
Diamond Necklace in its case of richest velvet, and ere many hours
have elapsed he is displaying its matchless variegated brilliancy—its
“flashes of star-rainbow colours” to the admiring gaze of the beauteous
Marie-Antoinette, then just twenty years of age, of a gay and lively
disposition, verging, some say, on to giddiness, yet perfectly innocent;
fond of pleasure, and, like other fair young creatures in this world,
not indifferent to those personal ornaments which help to enhance the
charms which Nature has bestowed upon them with so liberal a hand. Still,
pleased as she was with the gem, she nevertheless felt that the times
were unpropitious; or else she scorned, may be, to wear an ornament,
however beautiful, the original destination of which was, to say the
least of it, unfortunate. But be this as it may, one thing is quite
certain, the purchase of the Necklace was declined.
Thus in a moment, as it were, all those fond hopes with which the crown
jewellers had buoyed themselves up for many months past were dissipated,
and they were again constrained to ask each other, “what is now to be
done?” Poor men, they were not to blame, for how could they have foreseen
that their royal customer, full of health in November, 1773, when he gave
the order, should be dead of small-pox on the 10th of May following?
After several days spent in deliberation the partners decided that a
drawing of the Necklace should be made and an engraving executed, and
that printed copies of this should be sent to all the courts of Europe,
to see whether a customer could not be obtained for a jewel which,
ransack the entire world through, would be found without its equal.
This scheme, however, clever as it was, proved abortive; for what kind
of idea could the cunningest graver and the most liquescent of printing
inks possibly give of brilliants of the very finest water? The jewellers
next resolved that one of the firm—Bassenge being the younger and more
active was eventually fixed upon—should devote himself to travelling over
Europe, and to visiting the various courts, where he might personally
solicit the different empresses, queens, princesses, landgravines,
margravines, electresses, infantas, and grand and arch-duchesses, to
purchase this costly jewel, which only a neck flushing with the blood
of royalty was worthy to wear. During this time Böhmer was to remain in
Paris, to avail himself of any opportunity that might offer for reopening
negotiations with Marie-Antoinette. One circumstance, however, rendered
the prospect of success doubtful. The queen had become indebted to the
crown jewellers in the sum of 348,000 livres (francs), for a pair of
diamond earrings, of which amount she had herself only been able to pay
some 48,000 livres,[18] leaving 300,000 livres still due.
In this way several years went by. Shortly after the birth of Madame
Royale, the Necklace was again offered to the queen, but although the
reduced price of one million eight hundred thousand livres was named
for it, there was a more serious obstacle than ever in the way of its
purchase. France was at this period engaged in a war with England on
behalf of the American Colonists, and her navy was in a most crippled
condition. No sooner did the crown jeweller name the subject of the
Necklace, than Marie-Antoinette interrupted him with this queen-like
remark, “Monsieur, we have more need of men-of-war now than of
diamonds.”[19] What reply could a crown jeweller make to so pertinent an
observation as this? All he could do was to feel affronted, and hastily
making his obeisances, he flung himself into the corner of his carriage,
and set off down the long Avenue de Paris on his return to the Rue
Vendôme in no very amiable mood.
V.
1779–1780.
AT BAR-SUR-AUBE.—COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.
While Monsieur Bassenge Calaphibus-like is wandering up and down Europe
trying to dispose of the ill-fated Diamond Necklace, let us see what
our heroine is doing now that she has freed herself from the restraints
of a conventual life in order to launch forth into the great world
with no one to direct, no one to control her. On leaving the abbey of
Longchamp the two sisters decided upon making their way to Bar-sur-Aube,
and embarked on board one of the Seine barges plying between Paris and
Nogent, from which latter place they proceeded up the river Aube to their
destination.[20] The youngest sister, it seems, was possessed with a
certain longing to return to the place of her birth. Whether this arose
from a feeling of vanity, a desire to show off before the simple rustics
of Fontette, or whether love was the actuating principle—for she had left
a sweetheart behind her when she was summoned to Paris—is more than we
can tell. Arrived at Bar-sur-Aube, our heroine informs us that she and
her sister at once entered a convent, where many visitors called upon
them, and invited them to a round of entertainments at which every one
present vied with his neighbour as to who should pay them the greatest
amount of attention. She even asserts that they received invitations from
the different noble families in the neighbourhood, and, in pursuance
of these, entered upon a series of visits varying from a few days to a
week in extent. When these visits were over, we are told that a Madame
de Suremont enticed them to board at her house, where they were “very
elegantly entertained” for four hundred livres (sixteen pounds) per
annum.[21]
Other accounts, which we believe to be more trustworthy, assert that
the sisters arrived at Bar-sur-Aube with merely a few livres in their
pockets, and a single change of linen beyond the clothes they had on, and
that, instead of entering a convent, they put up at a miserable little
inn called “_La Tête Rouge_,” where they made good their footing by
their high titles and the claims they set up to the manors of Essoyes,
Fontette, and Verpilière, in the neighbourhood. The great expectations
they announced soon became generally known in a small country town, and
the consequence was that the good people round about flocked to see them
out of curiosity, and it was then that Madame de Suremont, touched by
their distress, offered the fugitives the use of her house for a few days
until they could manage to provide some other lodging for themselves.
On retiring for the night their hostess, a very stout lady, kindly lent
them two of her own dresses to wear, observing, however, that she was
afraid they would be too large to fit them. What was Madame de Suremont’s
astonishment to see her young guests enter the sitting-room the following
morning with the dresses, which they had spent the night in cutting and
adapting to their own slim figures, fitting them to perfection! Instead,
too, of stopping merely a week at this hospitable house, according to the
terms of their invitation, the Demoiselles de Valois managed to remain
in it for twelve months, flirting with all the young fellows who visited
there, and exhibiting more levity and freedom than was becoming to their
sex.[22] The ladies, naturally enough, all shrank aghast from this bold
behaviour, but the gentlemen were more or less amused at it.
In due course several of these young fellows became smitten with our
heroine, and amongst those who contested for the honour of her smiles
were two who stood out in advance of the rest. One was M. Beugnot, the
writer of the Memoirs we have been quoting, and son of a well-to-do
citizen of Bar-sur-Aube. The latter, however, was so alarmed at the mere
idea of having Mademoiselle de Valois for a daughter-in-law that he
packed off his son to Paris to study law, politics, and human nature,
which he did to such good purpose as to escape the guillotine, and get
created a councillor of state and a count by Napoleon, by whom he was
appointed administrator of one of the Rhine provinces. At the Restoration
he was named _ad interim_ minister of the interior, then minister of
police, next minister of marine, afterwards postmaster-general, and
finally director-general of the administration of finances; and was
altogether so eager a place-hunter, that a pamphleteer of the time said
of him that he would have hired himself out to the plague if the plague
only gave pensions. The other was M. de la Motte, a nephew of Madame de
Suremont’s, and son of a chevalier of St.-Louis killed at the battle of
Minden. This young gentleman, an officer, or as Madame Campan and the
Abbé Georgel say, a private in the _gendarmerie_, and destitute of any
fortune whatever, had already managed to involve himself deeply in debt.
Previous to the Revolution the _gendarmerie_, very different from the
force now known by that name, was the first cavalry regiment in France,
and the usual refuge for young men of good family but poor estate.
Let us hear what the lady herself has to say respecting this young man
(who had only his sword with which to cut his way to fortune), and his
pretensions to be considered the accepted suitor of a descendant of the
royal house of Valois.
“Amongst many other species of amusement, we frequently performed
comedies, in one of which I engaged to take a part. M. de la Motte, an
officer in the gendarmes, and nephew of Madame de Suremont, being on a
visit to Bar-sur-Aube, acquired great reputation for his performance, and
became remarked for his assiduity and attention to please. The part of a
valet was assigned to him, and that of a waiting-maid to me. We divided
the applause of the company, for having, as they pleased to express,
sustained our characters with so much propriety.
“From the moment of our first interview M. de la Motte paid me very
pointed attention. He eagerly seized every opportunity of showing me how
solicitous he was to please. His compliments were not glaring, but of
that delicate nature which could only proceed from the genuine dictates
of an honest heart. Elegant in person and manners, and insinuating in
address, the honourable intention which he manifested could not prove
disagreeable to me. I listened, and, as I believe, is generally the
consequence where any of our sex listen to the persuasions of youth,
elegance, and accomplishments in the other, I was soon not far from
loving him.
“Madame de Suremont perceived the growing attachment of her nephew, and
afforded him every opportunity of urging his suit. She frequently left us
together when the company were gone, engaging M. de la Motte to remain
and write out my parts, and give me instructions in acting them.
“I will ingenuously confess that I loved M. de la Motte. He possessed a
sincerity of heart, seldom to be found excepting in the country, blended
with those polished manners which mark the _habitué_ of the metropolis.
He seized every opportunity of rendering himself agreeable, and I had
every reason to suppose he entertained favourable sentiments towards me,
at least I wished so, and the gradation is so natural that it will not
appear strange if I believed it.
“M. de la Motte, I had remarked for some days, appeared thoughtful and
melancholy; but as he had never communicated to me the cause, though I
was uneasy at the effect of it, I forebore to make inquiry. He advised
me to go to Paris to see my brother, and to make known his pretensions
to Madame de Boulainvilliers, my worthy mother, and endeavour to obtain
her consent to our union. Fearful that breaking this matter suddenly
to the marchioness, after having carried it on so far without her
knowledge, might give her offence, I hesitated some time ere I could form
a resolution to acquaint her; but, trusting to her goodness, I at length
yielded to M. de la Motte’s arguments in favour of a determination which
was also consonant to the dictates of my own heart.
“When I had resolved on a journey to Paris, which highly gratified M.
de la Motte, I at once wrote a letter to Madame de Boulainvilliers,
informing her that having heard of my brother’s arrival, and being
anxious to see him, I should be at Paris the Saturday following by
eight o’clock. The interval was occupied by M. de la Motte in giving
me directions for my behaviour, and earnestly pressing me to return as
soon as possible, and complete his happiness by the celebration of our
nuptials. Not a single person in the house, not even my sister, was
acquainted with what was in agitation. The attentions of M. de la Motte
had long been observed, but our marriage was whispered of only as a
conjecture.
“On the Wednesday following, about three in the morning, I set off in
the diligence, and after a very tedious and disagreeable journey, over
roads which at once prove the neglect of the government and the patience
of the people, I arrived near Paris, and found Julia, the marchioness’s
first woman, waiting with a coach at the Porte Saint-Antoine. I was not a
little pleased at being so near the end of my journey, and felt no regret
at quitting my disagreeable vehicle for the one which conveyed me to the
Hôtel de Boulainvilliers.
“I was impatient to see my brother, but I was disappointed; he had
received orders to join his squadron at Brest. Madame de Boulainvilliers
received me with that cordiality and affection with which the tenderest
of mothers would receive her daughter after a long absence. She told me
that my brother would not have written to inform me of his arrival if
it could have been foreseen how soon he was to depart. This information
gave me much uneasiness, which Madame de Boulainvilliers used the utmost
assiduity to dissipate.
“The evening was occupied by many questions which the marchioness asked
me relative to Bar-sur-Aube, concerning our reception and the diversions
and entertainments of the place. I took advantage of this opportunity
to mention the comedy. I perceived, from a sign she made to Madame de
Tonneres, her daughter, that she had some private correspondent in that
place, who had informed her of more than I knew, and that the information
I had to give was by no means novel. This surprised me not a little.
“A day or two after they resumed the topic, and Madame de Tonneres asked
me what character I played. I told her that of a waiting-maid. She seemed
surprised that I should choose a part like that, when there were many
others for which I was much better adapted. ‘But who,’ said Madame de
Boulainvilliers, ‘was the young man who played the part of Jasmin? Is he
a young man? Pray how old is he?’ I could not well comprehend the drift
of these questions, which, nevertheless, I found myself constrained to
answer. ‘He is a young gentleman,’ I replied, ‘who has a commission in
the gendarmes,’ and I then proceeded to give them information respecting
his family. ‘And what do you think of him?’ ‘That he has a pleasing
address, is much of a gentleman, and has received a very good education;
understands music, and dances to perfection: everybody gives him the
credit of being a very accomplished young man, and all admit that he
played his character like an experienced actor.’ Perceiving me growing
warm in my encomiums, the marchioness smiled. Her daughter observed it,
and they exchanged some very significant glances with each other, and
then, to avoid giving me any suspicions, changed the subject of the
conversation.
“On another occasion Madame de Tonneres, with whom I was frequently left
alone, examined me yet more closely respecting M. de la Motte. ‘What!’
inquired she, in a tone of raillery, ‘did this presumptuous wretch
ever aspire to be your husband?’ ‘Oh, yes! he proposed demanding me in
marriage through his mother, at the same time informing me of his fortune
and expectations.’ ‘And what answer did you make, my dear?’ ‘That I would
beg Madame de Boulainvilliers to give her consent,’ replied I. ‘But did
you give no promise of your own accord, and are you really partial to
him?’ I answered these questions in the affirmative. ‘Well, then, my
dear,’ replied she, ‘from your approbation, I will believe him worthy
of your love.’ ‘Then do me the favour,’ replied I, ‘to represent my
affections to my dear mother, at some convenient opportunity when I am
not present; and you may, if you please, inform her, at the same time,
that M. de la Luzerne, bishop of Langres, can give her every information
concerning the family with which he is well acquainted: indeed, he has
been requested by the mother of M. de la Motte to demand me in marriage.’
The result was that Madame de Tonneres kindly undertook my cause with the
marchioness, who, having my happiness at heart, wished me, in a matter
which could but once be resolved on, to take time for deliberation.
“Though Madame de Boulainvilliers seemed rather to dissuade me from my
purpose than consent to its accomplishment, she nevertheless consented
to write to the Bishop of Langres, who the very next evening paid her a
visit. As soon as he arrived I made my obedience and retired, leaving
him and the marchioness to their private conference.
“I was in no small state of anxiety to learn the result of a negotiation
to me of such importance, yet was at a loss of whom to inquire. The next
morning I was relieved from suspense, for I received a letter from the
reverend prelate, informing me of their conversation the evening before.
He gave me some hopes of obtaining the consent of the marchioness, and
this was all; as for the marquis, I learnt that he positively refused his
consent to the match.
“In a few days I departed for Bar-sur-Aube: my regret at parting with the
marchioness was increased by my having to return home without obtaining
her consent to our marriage, which, though this had been the express
object of my journey, I could not consistently with delicacy or duty
press any further, lest I should appear too precipitately to reject the
prudent advice which she had given me.
“My return to Bar-sur-Aube was much more agreeable than my journey to
Paris. I had written to my sister and M. de la Motte to apprise them
of it, and was met by them about two leagues from Bar-sur-Aube, at a
beautiful seat, the residence of M. de la Motte’s mother.
“The news of my departure, and the object of my journey, had transpired
and spread through the village; every one spoke of my marriage with M. de
la Motte. It was whispered that Mademoiselle de Valois had returned with
the consent of her brother and Madame de Boulainvilliers to solemnize
this marriage; all welcomed me with as much pleasure as if, instead of a
week, I had been absent a year.
“M. de la Motte received me with heartfelt satisfaction, but his
countenance seemed to speak a degree of anxiety; he feared that it was
the intention of Madame de Boulainvilliers to have married me to some
other husband, and trembled for the success of my embassy: he read in my
looks that all was not as it should be, while the words which dropped
from Madame de Boulainvilliers made me doubtful whether I should be able
to obtain her consent. The uneasiness which on this account overspread
my countenance was intelligible only to M. de la Motte, by whose advice
I was prevailed upon to take the only steps prudence dictated in so
delicate and embarrassing a position.
“My pen was the instrument by which I disclosed a secret my timidity
could never suffer my tongue to discover; I immediately wrote to
Madame de Boulainvilliers three successive letters, entreating her to
compassionate my distress, and to let her consent grace our union. I also
wrote to the Bishop of Langres, asking that worthy prelate, who before
had done me signal service, to intercede with the marchioness in my
behalf. The intercession of the bishop I was confident would have its due
weight, and indeed it at length produced that consent so essential to my
future happiness.
“The approbation of Madame de Boulainvilliers having now given a sanction
to our proceedings, an early day was appointed, by the advice of the
friends of M. de la Motte, for the celebration of our nuptials, which
took place, according to the custom of the province, at midnight on the
6th of June, 1780.
“The day after our marriage a grand dinner was given by Madame de
Suremont. The entertainment was profusely elegant. There were two tables,
one in the antechamber, and the other in the dining-room. Every apartment
was open and very soon crowded; the health of the bride was an apology
for drinking wine as though it had been water. When the company quitted
the table, all were desirous to salute and wish me joy. The remainder of
the day was spent in dancing.
“The banns of marriage had been published at Fontette, which made the
peasants of that place curious to know the day. They came in great
numbers to Bar-sur-Aube, with the intention of witnessing the ceremony,
and remained there some days. Amongst them was a young peasant, a comely
young fellow, who came to Madame de Suremont and inquired bluntly for
Mademoiselle Filliette, a name by which my sister had formerly been known
in the country. ‘I know no such person,’ replied she: ‘whom do you mean
by Mademoiselle Filliette?’ ‘Why, madame,’ replied the clown, ‘the sister
of mademoiselle who is just married. Please tell her I am Colas, of
Fontette; she will recollect me.’
“Madame de Suremont communicated this to my sister, who, out of
compassion for the unfortunate rustic, refused to see him lest such an
interview should make him more unhappy. Durand, indeed, to detain my
sister in the country, had promised her in marriage to this peasant,
whose appearance was greatly in his favour, but the recognition of
her birth by the people in the neighbourhood had kindled in the bosom
of Marianne hopes of an alliance more consonant to her ideas, more
consistent with her present station. Far from despising this poor
creature, she wished to avoid giving him pain. She begged me, therefore,
to speak to him: I did so. ‘Good day, my dear friend,’ said I, ‘what are
your commands for my sister?’ ‘I wish, madame,’ replied he, ‘to have the
honour of paying my respects to her. She is of the same age, we have
stood sponsors together, and M. Durand, her godfather, promised me that
I should marry her. But her fortune is changed; she is now Mademoiselle
de Valois; and I am not quite such a fool as to think that she will have
me for her husband, as she is descended from the blood-royal; but I wish
to have the pleasure of seeing her in her fine clothes, for I am sure,’
continued he, bursting into tears, ‘she is very handsome!’[23] I could
not help shedding a tear of pity for this honest rustic. His grief,
however, was not to be alleviated; the presence of my sister would but
have increased his misery; at least she thought so, and could not be
prevailed upon to see him. Finding himself without hope, he went home
again, murmuring at what he termed the false-heartedness of his mistress.
“Some few days after I accompanied my sister to Fontette, where, it being
Sunday, we went to mass. All the peasants rose from their seats at our
entrance, and desired the curate should do us honour, as the children
of the Baron de Saint-Remi their late lord. We received the holy water
and the consecrated bread in the seat of honour; the bells were rung,
and every one testified their joy on our arrival. They crowded about the
house where we were staying; we ordered them six livres a-piece, for
which they testified their gratitude by drinking our healths, and the
health of the Baron de Saint-Remi de Valois, and his safe return. They
then conducted me to the mansion of my ancestors, and round the grounds
of the patrimonial estate. This mansion, this noble estate, thought I
to myself, might have been possessed by the descendants of those who
acquired it by valour,[24] and enjoyed it with hospitality. I lamented
the ravages of luxury: I thought of the credulity and easy temper of my
father, who sacrificed everything to the extravagance of his wife. Had it
not been for these he might have sustained the dignity of his ancestors,
and his miserable offspring have maintained that position to which they
were by birth entitled.”[25]
To provide herself with a suitable _trousseau_, Mademoiselle de Valois
had been obliged to raise one thousand livres on a mortgage of her
pension for two years; while, to defray the expenses incident to the
wedding, M. de la Motte, on his part, sold for six hundred livres a horse
and cabriolet which he had only bought a short time previously on credit
at Lunéville, where his corps was doing garrison duty.[26]
We will close this chapter with a pair of portraits of Monsieur and
Madame de la Motte, which their friend Beugnot has sketched for our
benefit. “M. de la Motte,” observes his rival, “was an ugly man, but well
made and skilled in all bodily exercises, whilst, despite his ugliness,
the expression of his face was amiable and mild. He did not exactly lack
talent, still what he possessed was frittered away on trifles. Destitute
of all fortune, he was clever enough to get head over ears in debt, and
only lived by his wits and on the trifling allowance of three hundred
francs a year which his uncle, M. de Suremont, was obliged to make him to
enable him to retain his position in the gendarmerie.”
With regard to Madame de la Motte, Beugnot says: “She was not exactly
handsome, was short in stature, slender, and well formed. Her blue
eyes were full of expression and over-arched with black eyebrows; her
face rather long; her mouth wide, but adorned with fine teeth, and,
what is the greatest attraction in such a face as hers, her smile was
enchanting. She had a pretty hand, a very small foot, and a complexion of
dazzling whiteness. When she spoke her mind exhibited no sign of acquired
knowledge, but she had much natural intelligence, and a quick and
penetrating understanding. Engaged in a perpetual conflict with society
from the time of her birth, she had learned to disdain its laws, and had
but little respect for those of morality.”
M. Beugnot adds the following anecdote:
“When I returned home that evening my father mentioned to me that fifteen
or twenty years previously, whenever he went to collect his rents in the
parish of Essoyes, the curé of Fontette never failed to tax his purse for
the poor children of Jacques de Saint-Remi, who were huddled together
in a dilapidated hovel with a trap-hole in front, through which soup,
vegetables, broken victuals, and other charitable doles were passed by
the neighbours.”[27]
VI.
1780–1782.
COUNTESS DE LA MOTTE.—IN BARRACKS AT LUNÉVILLE.—ON A FIFTH FLOOR IN
PARIS.—ENSNARES THE GRAND ALMONER.
From the day of her marriage, in the summer of 1780, our heroine assumed
the title of Countess de Valois de la Motte, though on ordinary occasions
she dropped the former portion of it, retaining only the name of De
la Motte, by which she afterwards became so notorious. The wedding
did not take place a day too soon, for in the course of the same or
following month the countess gave birth to male twins, that died a few
days afterwards. Thereupon Madame de Suremont, glad of an excuse for
getting rid of her new relation—the old lady used to say to Beugnot that
“the most unhappy year of her life was the one she spent in the society
of this demon,”—turned the newly-married couple out of her house.[28]
They took refuge for a time with Madame de la Tour, a married sister
of the count’s—the young gendarme following the example of his wife,
had likewise assumed a title—but were finally obliged to rely on their
own resources, which, as may be supposed, were of the narrowest. De la
Motte himself had nothing but his sword, and the countess had not even
her scanty pension to depend upon. Now commenced with them that life of
shifts and expedients, which is certain in the long run to disappoint
those who are unhappily reduced to enter upon it, which subverts the
principles, destroys the best habits of even the firmest characters, and
too frequently culminates in crime. By borrowing money from friends and
neighbours so long as they were disposed to lend it, by occasional loans
from money-lenders at exorbitant rates of interest, by running into debt
with the tradespeople, and by certain small bounties received from Paris,
to assist the descendants of Henri II., in answer to supplicatory letters
written by the countess, the newly-married couple dragged on as best they
could.
The count’s leave of absence having at length expired, he was summoned
back to garrison duty at Lunéville, a dull, decaying, fortified town,
composed of straight streets and regular buildings, where in subsequent
years the treaty of peace was signed between France and Austria which
gave to the former the coveted frontier of the Rhine. The palace built
by Philip, duke of Lorraine, grandfather of Marie-Antoinette, was then,
as now, a _caserne de cavalerie_, and it was to this barrack that Count
de la Motte took his wife to share with him his incommodious quarters.
Here madame’s “lively complexion” and “excess of vivacity,” as she styles
them, were not long in exercising their sway over the more susceptible of
her husband’s comrades. In September of the following year the count and
his wife had determined upon proceeding to Paris to urge the Marchioness
de Boulainvilliers to interest herself in their behalf, a project which
was knocked on the head by the count’s commanding officer, the Marquis
d’Autichamp,—whose too familiar intimacy with Madame de la Motte was the
talk not merely of the corps, but of the town,[29] and who had himself
contemplated escorting madame on her journey to the capital,—peremptorily
refusing the count any further leave of absence. Just at this time
intelligence reaches the De la Mottes that the Marquis and Marchioness
de Boulainvilliers are at Strasbourg, only some threescore miles or so
away. Commanding-officer d’Autichamp, we suppose, relents; for the count
gets a few days’ leave, and to Strasbourg the pair hasten as fast as a
French diligence of the eighteenth century will carry them, which is,
however, not fast enough, for on their arrival they learn from the great
charlatan of the age, Count Cagliostro, who just then happens to be
showing off in the capital of Alsace, that the Marquis and Marchioness
de Boulainvilliers have departed for Cardinal Prince Louis de Rohan’s
Palace at Saverne. There was nothing else but to give chase, so off the
De la Mottes start, and on their arrival in the vicinity of the episcopal
château, put up at some little inn, whence the countess writes to Madame
de Boulainvilliers, apprising her that she is in the neighbourhood, and
asking when she may be permitted to call upon her. The next day she is
honoured by a visit from the marquis, who escorts her over to his wife.
Some few days afterwards, while the marchioness and madame are taking a
carriage drive together, they meet the Cardinal de Rohan, Grand Almoner
of France, to whom Madame de Boulainvilliers introduces her _protégée_,
and strongly recommends her to this powerful prelate’s kindly notice.[30]
On her return home to barrack quarters, if home indeed they could be
called, the countess harped, day after day, upon her fancied claims to
the three estates that formerly belonged to her family, and no wonder if
she at length came to the conclusion that Paris and Versailles, rather
than a dull garrison town like Lunéville, were the proper spheres for her
enterprise and ambition. To Paris, therefore, she resolved to go; but,
alas! how was she to obtain the means of defraying the expenses of her
journey and of her sojourn in the capital? Commanding-officer d’Autichamp
would willingly escort her there, and pay all travelling expenses, but
just then her husband is jealous and cannot be brought to consent.
Fortunately for the countess, one of her Bar-sur-Aube friends—the father
of the M. Beugnot, of whom we have already spoken—came to the rescue with
a loan of one thousand livres, and to her honour it may be recorded,
that whenever afterwards she spoke of this service she was always much
moved, and, what is perhaps more to her credit, during the period of
her dishonest prosperity she paid the money, as she paid all the debts
she had contracted at Bar-sur-Aube, her adopted home. However corrupt
her general character may have been, she was certainly not wanting in
gratitude.
This thousand livres she and her husband divided equally between them,
and they then set forth in different directions it is true, but still
with the same object at heart, namely, to procure the restitution of
the Saint-Remi estates. The countess went to Paris to press her claims
on the attention of those in power. The count resigned his post in
the gendarmerie, never to do, from that hour forward, another day of
honest work during the remainder of his long life, and betook himself
to Fontette to search for evidence on the spot, and to ascertain the
exact nature of the steps requisite to be taken to recover possession of
this and the adjacent Saint-Remi domains. Arrived at his destination, he
caused a _Te Deum_ to be chanted in the church, and, as the congregation
were leaving, scattered handfuls of silver among the gaping crowd, who,
on experiencing this mark of favour, did not hesitate to hail him as
their lord; and lord of Fontette he was by courtesy, so long as his money
lasted, which, unfortunately for the rustics of the place, was not long.
His last livre dissipated, the count was only too glad to get back again
to Bar-sur-Aube to such a home as his sister was able to offer him.[31]
The countess, on her part, so soon as she arrived in Paris, proceeded to
set to work. She wrote at once to young Beugnot, who was then prosecuting
his legal studies in the capital, informing him that she had a letter
for him from his father, and asking him to call upon her. Beugnot lost
no time in complying with her request, and found the purport of the
letter was to urge him thoroughly to examine the countess’s claims to
the Fontette, Essoyes, and other estates, and see if there was any real
foundation for them. “I took the affair,” says Beugnot, “seriously in
hand as my father desired me, and readily enough found the letters patent
of Henri II. which conferred the domains in question on his natural son,
but I could not trace the various deeds diverting the possession of them
from the Saint-Remis into the hands of the different proprietors who
were in nowise connected with the family. One of the latest of these, a
M. Orceau de Fontette, superintendent of Caen, had exchanged the lands
held by him with the king. This was a favourable circumstance for us in
the prosecution of our claim, as the king had only to forego his hold
upon the property to restore to the Saint-Remis one of the possessions of
their forefathers.”[32]
The young lawyer now proceeded to compose a “Mémoire,” wherein, in
true French style, he spoke of his client’s case as “one more insult
of fortune to the Valois, the hard lot of a branch detached from that
ancient tree which had so long covered with its royal shade France and
other European states. I interspersed my composition,” says Beugnot,
“with those philosophical reflections then so much in fashion, and asked
the Bourbons to pay the natural debt of those from whom they had received
so magnificent a heritage. I submitted my composition to M. Elie de
Beaumont, a celebrated advocate, and also a man of taste. ‘It is a pity,’
remarked he, ‘that we cannot bring this business before the Parliament;
it would make your reputation.’ Alas! I did not even receive for my
labour the honours of print. People said it was entirely a matter for the
royal favour, and that to print the ‘Mémoire’ would be contrary to the
respect due to the king.”[33] Beugnot thereupon composed a new “Mémoire,”
or rather petition to the crown, which was in due course presented,
though without producing the result which the sanguine expectations of
the countess and her advocate anticipated from it.
Early in November, 1781, either by previous invitation from the
marchioness or of her own accord, Madame de la Motte presented herself
at the Hôtel de Boulainvilliers, bent upon jogging the marchioness’s
memory with reference to a commission in the dragoons which she had made
a half promise to obtain for the count, her husband, and intending to say
a few words respecting her own claim to the Saint-Remi estates, when,
to her surprise and grief, she found her benefactress lying dangerously
ill. She remained and tended her until her death, which took place in
about three weeks; yet, strange to say, she was unable to forego her
passion for intrigue even at a time like this, for she admits, while the
marchioness was lying past hope of recovery, having had a _tête-à-tête_
interview with the marquis, on the length of which she was rallied by
the gentlemen staying at the hôtel. During this interview the marquis,
she tells us, made her “a downright proposal” to the effect that on his
wife’s death she should reside with him as his mistress, he engaging to
procure for her husband a post in some regiment which should “prevent him
from troubling them too often.” All this she calmly listened to, and when
the marchioness was dead still continued to reside under the same roof
with the man who had made this disgraceful proposition to her, exposed,
as she herself admits, to his daily persecutions. The old reprobate, too,
was always upbraiding her, she says, with “loving other men better than
him,” and openly accused her of carrying on an intrigue beneath his roof
with the old Bishop of Langres, who visited her much more frequently than
the marquis thought necessary or prudent.
After a while the count, who had been rusticating ever since his Fontette
expedition at Bar-sur-Aube, turned up at the Boulainvilliers hôtel to
look after his wife, when the marquis, in revenge, as madame says, for
the contempt with which she invariably treated him, endeavoured to arouse
the jealousy of her husband by accusing her—falsely, of course—with being
too intimate with his son-in-law, and of sundry unbecoming familiarities
with the count’s cousin, who had pawned his watch to defray the expense
of a three-days’ frolic with the countess at Versailles. However, Count
de la Motte, according to his wife, “had too much good sense to give
any credit to these insinuations; he listened attentively, but did not
believe a single iota of them.”[34]
While the countess was residing under the Boulainvilliers roof she was
constantly on the look-out to push her own or her husband’s fortunes, and
eventually succeeded in talking over the Baron de Crussol, son-in-law
of the Marquis de Boulainvilliers, to procure M. de la Motte a post in
the Count d’Artois’s body-guard. This necessitated the count’s removal
to Versailles; so, turning their backs on the Hôtel de Boulainvilliers,
where the marquis had for some time past adopted an unpleasant system of
retrenchment in order to bring madame to “his way of thinking”—in other
words, had placed the descendant of the house of Valois and her tall and
hungry spouse on exceedingly short commons—the pair went forth in search
of whatever Fortune might please to send them.
From certain hints dropped by the countess it is evident that she had
grown disgusted with the avarice and meanness rather than with what
she styles the “detested attentions” of the marquis, who, had he only
loosened his purse-strings, and dispensed his bounty with a liberal
hand, had been looked upon favourably enough, and possibly had been the
means of saving Cardinal Prince de Rohan from getting entangled in the
countess’s toils.
It is not to be supposed that at this epoch of her career Madame de la
Motte had forgotten her introduction to this prelate, or that she omitted
to remind him of it, and of Madame de Boulainvilliers’ recommendation
of her to his notice and sympathy. Was he not, in fact, Grand Almoner
of France, and, by virtue of his office, dispenser of the king’s and a
nation’s bounties? and humiliating though she might pretend it to be for
one who had the blood of the Valois in her veins to have to appeal to the
servant of the sovereign instead of to the throne itself, the pill, if a
trifle bitter, must nevertheless be swallowed.
Cardinal Prince Louis de Rohan, at this time in his eight-and-fortieth
year, is described as a tall, portly, handsome-looking man, with a
slightly ruddy complexion, bald forehead, and almost white hair. There
was a noble and easy bearing about him,[35] and his manners are said to
have been singularly agreeable so long as he kept his temper, of late
grown exceedingly choleric, under restraint. He was weak and vain, and
credulous to a degree; anything but devout, and mad after women.[36]
Unrestricted by his priestly office, he led a notoriously dissolute life,
which scandalized even the loose moralists of that loose epoch; still, he
was commonly looked upon as a good-enough sort of man so far as little
acts of kindness and generosity were concerned, more especially, too,
when the suppliant happened to be of the fair sex, and youthful, and a
beauty withal. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that he responded
favourably to the countess’s first and second appeals. This gave her
hope; and, the better to profit by the grand almoner’s liberality, and
to secure his influence in support of her claims, she took an apartment
in Paris during the summer of 1782 within a short distance of his hôtel.
It was a poor sort of a lodging, consisting merely of two ill-furnished
rooms on the topmost _étage_ at the Hôtel de Reims, in the Rue de la
Verrerie, a narrow, ill-paved, irregularly-built street—devoted at the
present day, not to glass factories or warehouses, as its name would
imply, but to grocery, soap, candle and dried fruit stores, and to
locksmiths’ shops, every one of which hangs out its monster red or golden
key by way of sign—running from the Rue des Lombards into the Rue de
Bercy, which intersects the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, where the Hôtel de
Strasbourg, or Palais-Cardinal, as it was sometimes called, in which for
the moment all the countess’s hopes are centred, was situated.
This hôtel built in the year 1712 by Cardinal Constantine de Rohan,
uncle of the grand almoner, on a portion of the gardens of the Hôtel de
Soubise, is now the National Printing Office, and internally retains no
traces of what it was when Prince Louis de Rohan lived here in state
befitting the dignity of a prince of the German empire and a cardinal of
the Holy Roman Church. The entrance gateway and the buildings forming
the external boundaries of the court in front of the hôtel are, with
the exception of some evident alterations, much the same as they were
in the days when the Countess de la Motte was a frequent visitor at
the Palais-Cardinal. The court itself is divided by parallel ranges of
buildings at right angles with the principal front, and a gateway on the
right-hand side leads to what was evidently the stable-court, where a
noble bas-relief by Couston, representing the watering of the horses of
the sun, with the animals full life-size, may be seen over one of the
arched entrances to the stables—those stables where the horse of one of
the cardinal’s heyducs dropped down dead on a memorable occasion of which
we shall by-and-by have to speak.
The principal façade of the De Rohan hôtel has undergone only some slight
alteration since the grand almoner’s time, but it is far different
with the interior; the grand staircase has been removed, and the
magnificent _salons de réception_ have been converted into _bureaux_ for
the officials attached to the national printing establishment. In the
principal waiting-room are four paintings by Boucher, said to have formed
part of the original decorations of the Palais-Cardinal: one represents
Mars attiring for the wars, with Venus holding his shield and Cupid
handing him his helmet; another shows Mars reposing, with Venus, who
looks wonderfully like a French marchioness of the eighteenth century,
with even a scantier allowance of drapery than usual, reclining beside
him on a cloud; a third portrays Juno with her peacock, the immortal Jove
facing her, and Boreas and Æolus at his feet, blowing as though they
would burst; while in the fourth subject we have Neptune ruling the waves
with his trident, and a trio of lusty sea-gods spurting water out of long
conch-shaped shells.
The garden front of the Palais-Cardinal is far more elegant than the one
which looks upon the court; being decorated with lofty columns surmounted
with enriched capitals, and having sundry emblems as well as the armorial
bearings of the house of Rohan sculptured on the projections of the
façade. Only a small portion of the palace garden now remains to it, the
chief part being covered over with long ranges of offices in which the
workpeople attached to the national printing establishment ply their
several callings.
The Countess de la Motte was woman of the world enough to know that much
may be accomplished by personal solicitation when written applications
are of little or no avail. The Cardinal de Rohan too had a reputation for
gallantry; and as for the countess herself, she tells us in her “Memoirs”
that “her face, if not exactly handsome, had a certain piquancy about it
which, combined with her vivacity (Beugnot admits her smile was perfectly
enchanting), supplied in her the want of beauty so far as to lay her open
to the importunities of designing men.” She therefore sought an audience
of the grand almoner, and, finding that this would be accorded her,
called upon young Beugnot the day before to beg three things of him—his
carriage, his servant to follow her, and himself to accompany her. “All
these,” said she, “are indispensable, since there are only two good ways
of asking alms—at the church door, and in a carriage.” “I did not,”
observes Beugnot, “raise any difficulties as to the first two points,
but I peremptorily refused my arm, as I could only have presented myself
with her before the Cardinal de Rohan in the character of her advocate,
after his eminence had been notified of my coming, and had given his
permission.”[37] Madame was, therefore, constrained to present herself at
the cardinal’s hôtel without any other escort beyond the footman lent to
her by her friend.
At the first interview Madame de la Motte had with the cardinal, the
latter, as might have been expected from his well-known character
for gallantry, proved incapable of resisting the countess’s artful
allurements, and she, bent on completing the conquest which she felt she
had made, was careful on the occasion of subsequent visits to the Hôtel
de Strasbourg, to pay the utmost attention to her toilet—decking herself
out in her finest feathers, putting on her most coquettish airs, and
making the magnificent saloons of the Rue Vielle-du-Temple redolent with
the odour of her perfumes.[38]
VII.
1783.
OSCILLATES BETWEEN PARIS AND VERSAILLES.—SENDS OUT BEGGING LETTERS AND
PETITIONS.—FAINTS IN MADAME’S SALLE D’ATTENTE.—DESPAIR.
At the time the countess was engaged in setting her snares for the
Cardinal de Rohan, she dined one day with our young Bar-sur-Aube
advocate, who saw that she was in most excellent spirits, which every
now and then exhaled in malicious remarks respecting their common
acquaintances. “I tried in vain,” says Beugnot, “to lead her to more
serious talk. Irritated at last, I threatened to abandon her entirely
to her folly. She answered me gaily that she no longer had need of me.
My brow contracted; she saw that she was likely to lose me, and took
the trouble to explain to me that I had been exceedingly useful to her
in unravelling the particulars of her claim, in composing ‘mémoires’
and petitions for her—in a word, in all the duties of an advocate—but
that she had now arrived at a point where she required counsel of a
different kind. She wanted some one who could point out to her the way
of getting at the queen and the _contrôleur-général_, and who knew
equally well what was necessary to be done as to be left undone—in a
word, one who was alike capable of concocting a good intrigue, and of
carrying it successfully through. It was necessary that I should now
hear from her lips, without making an ugly grimace with my own, that in
an affair of this kind she looked upon me as the most foolish of men;
she had, indeed, already taken several steps without asking my advice.
Her husband’s condition, she went on to say, was one of ridicule to all
the world, and consequently an obstacle to her advancement. She had made
him enter as supernumerary into the Count d’Artois’ body-guard, which
would give him a sort of standing, which the gendarmerie did not. She had
found means, moreover, to get him to Versailles to perform his duties
there, and where, at least, he would not be so sorry a sight as he was
in the country. She observed that she was about to reside at Versailles
herself, in order to secure an opportunity of getting at the queen, and
of interesting her majesty in her favour. This was the first time,”
remarks Beugnot, “that she pronounced the name of her sovereign in my
presence.”[39]
At Versailles, which at this period was crowded with intriguers and
adventurers, living for the most part by their wits, the countess
resided, first of all with the widow Bourgeois, in the Place Dauphine,
whence she speedily removed to the Hôtel de Jouy, in the Rue des
Récollets, a long narrow street leading on to the immense Place
d’Armes, in front of the château. Some of its houses—built in strict
accordance with the edict promulgated by the _grand monarque_ at the
time a new Versailles was springing up in the neighbourhood of his vast
palace, namely, only a single storey high, with attics, and roofed with
slate—evidently date back to the days of Louis XIV. The Hôtel de Jouy,
where the countess had her quarters, is now an ordinary dwelling-house,
lofty and narrow, with a certain air of respectability about it, situated
at the far end of the street (No. 23),[40] in an opposite direction to
the château.
Having next to nothing to live upon, it is not to be wondered at that the
De la Mottes were soon deeply in debt The countess, it is true, converted
her apartment into a kind of office, whence she periodically sent forth
letters of supplication to the nobility for relief, and petitions to the
crown praying for the restoration of the Saint-Remi domains; but although
she urged her suit with audacious pertinacity, the result seems to have
fallen far short of her expectations. Fortunately for her there was
always the Cardinal de Rohan to fall back upon, and the snares which she
laid for him appear to have been set to some purpose, for ere six months
had gone by, Madame de la Motte had so far improved her acquaintance
with the grand almoner, who even assisted her in the composition of her
petitions and memorials,[41] as to become convinced—in accordance with
the rule she had laid down, that alms could be only effectively asked
for at the church-door or from a carriage—that a more respectable lodging
was indispensable to enable her to profit by the opportunities which this
intercourse seemed to open out to her. There were, moreover, other and
most pressing reasons for quitting the Hôtel de Reims. The De la Mottes
were fifteen hundred and eighty francs in debt to their landlord, who
had latterly not only lodged, but boarded them; in addition to which
the countess had quarrelled with the landlady, and had attempted, it
was said, to throw her downstairs.[42] The result was a police case,
and their ejectment from the premises. A “spacious _appartement_” the
rent of which was twelve hundred francs, was therefore hired by them
in Paris, in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles (No. 13), at that time a quiet
and very respectable street leading out of the Rue Saint-Louis, now the
Rue Turenne, and consisting entirely of private houses, within sight,
too, of the Place Royale, where three centuries ago stood the ancient
Palais des Tournelles, at the tournament in front of which Madame de la
Motte’s royal ancestor, Henri de Valois, lost his life, and almost in a
direct line (in an opposite direction to the Rue de la Verrerie) with
the cardinal’s hôtel, from which it was distant only a couple of short
streets, or some five or six minutes’ walk. Owing to their straitened
means the De la Mottes were unable to furnish their new _appartement_
until the month of May, 1783, and in the meantime madame, when not at
Versailles, was obliged to live _au cinquième_ with the mother of her
_femme de chambre_,[43] and yet she pretends that at this time she kept
five servants, male and female, and a couple of carriages.[44]
This was mere vain boasting. She was not yet in a position to ask alms
from a carriage, but was still obliged to send her begging letters
through the post, or be herself the bearer of them. One of these
missives, written at this particular epoch, and evidently addressed
to some person in an official position—possibly to M. d’Ormesson, the
then controller-general, or to M. de Breteuil, minister of the king’s
household—has been preserved, and furnishes a fair specimen of her style
of appeal to persons in power—a little flattery, more or less hypocrisy,
allusions to her high descent, and a covert threat or two. We extract its
main passages, which we have translated as closely as the bad handwriting
and worse spelling of the original document admitted of our doing.
“You have done me the honour, sir, of informing me that you
have caused to be remitted to M. Lenoir several notes which I
have sent you; but I believed that you, sir, would have had the
goodness to oblige me, who am more sensible than any one of
the confidence which the king has in you. You are too just to
see any harm in there being granted me so small a sum as has,
to my knowledge, just been accorded to a person who is not so
much to be pitied as I, nor with so much right. I cannot think
who it is that has usurped the place due to my misfortunes....
I know that M. de Forge [intendant of the royal fisheries and
forests, of which one or more of the Valois estates was part]
is very much opposed to my having the estate which I ask by
right; still I cannot conceive that it matters to him whether
I or another am tenant of the king.... I have the honour of
assuring you that I had yesterday only a single livre (franc),
consequently I may well hope to improve my fortunes.... It
is you, sir, and your good faith that console me. I am very
sensible that you are not unmindful of my misfortunes. I
believe that you told me you would speak to M. de Vergennes.
I have inquired if this matter is under his control, and am
assured it is on you alone that it depends. I recommend myself,
therefore, to your kindness.... It is not my intention to offer
a menace to any one in declaring that I shall end by throwing
myself at the feet of the king, and acquainting him with all
my misfortunes. If you, sir, cannot lend me your assistance,
I beg you to have the goodness to cause to be returned to
me the documents which I have had the honour to send you. I
shall see, on the day of the audience, whether it will not be
possible for me to change my lot, and for my efforts to get
me accorded the trifling sum I have asked. M. Lenoir sent me
yesterday a safe conduct, which M. Amelon requested of him on
my behalf, for a large sum which I have owed these two years
past, but which has not yet reduced me to sell my furniture,
and thereby cause scandals which would assuredly have been
aimed at me. Nevertheless, there is no help for it; I shall
be forced to make away with it so that I may live. God has not
yet determined my fate, and, if Providence does not show pity
on me, people will have to reproach themselves at seeing me
come to a most miserable end. I am not ashamed to tell you,
sir, that I am going out into the world to beg. I have borrowed
from the Baron de Clugny, of the Ministry of Marine, three
hundred livres to enable me to live, which, counting on your
goodness, I have promised to return him in a week’s time. No
one, sir, has so much reason to complain as I have—my husband
without a post, my sister for a long time on my hands, has, of
course, contributed to my debts. People may do as they please
with me; still, I say it is frightful to abandon a relation of
a king, whom he has himself recognised, and who is in the most
frightful position. You will, doubtless, sir, consider me very
unreasonable, but I cannot keep myself from complaining, since
not even the smallest grace is accorded me. I am no longer
surprised that so many people are driven into crime, and I can
say, moreover, that it is religion alone that keeps me from
doing wrong....
“I have the honour to be, with all the attachment of which you
are deserving, Sir,
“Your very humble, very obedient Servant,
“COUNTESS DE VALOIS DE LA MOTTE.
“Paris, May 16th, 1783.”[45]
Unless she desired to have a couple of strings to her bow, we can hardly
imagine the “safe conduct” referred to in the foregoing letter being
required by Madame de la Motte, since in her Memoirs she tells us that
the Countess de Provence interested herself to procure for her an _arrêt
de surséance_, or writ under the king’s sign manual, which not only
protected the person named in it from arrest, but saved him or her from
being harassed by suits at law as well. Madame de la Motte at the same
time obtained a “safe conduct” for her husband, the count. Convenient
documents, both of these, for individuals of their stamp. The count’s
“safe conduct” was not procured before there was pressing need of it,
for at this time the ex-gendarme was hiding from his creditors in a
little _auberge_ at Brie-Comte-Robert,[46] famous now-a-days for its
beautiful roses, a score or so of miles from Paris on the Lyons road,
and close to the Abbey of Jarcy, where his sister-in-law, Mademoiselle
de Saint-Remi, afterwards went to reside. The chances are that he had
already lost his post in the Count d’Artois’ body-guard, although Madame
de la Motte pretended that the countess was her protectress, and that the
count used to notice her “in a particular manner” whenever she went to
church at Versailles—a notice which, by the way, it has been insinuated,
subsequently ripened into a too familiar intimacy.[47]
The furniture which, on the guarantee of a Jew, the De la Mottes
eventually succeeded in obtaining for their new _appartement_ in the
Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles, was far from splendid, and it was, moreover,
every now and then being sent to some neighbour, notably to Burlandeux,
the count’s barber, to save it from being taken in execution,[48] and
not unfrequently to the pawnbrokers to provide the family with meat
and bread.[49] The countess of course kept up her intimacy with the
cardinal, on whose liberality, or call it charity if you will, she could
to a certain extent depend. If we believe the cardinal’s statement, the
donations he bestowed upon her at this period were far from being of that
prodigal character which the countess afterwards asserted them to have
been, and were more consistent with his character of priest and grand
almoner than that of lover and man of gallantry, which latter Madame
de la Motte openly insinuated was the nature of the cardinal’s then
relations towards her. The cardinal asserted that four or five louis at a
time, and at irregular and somewhat distant intervals, was the extent of
the benefactions she received from him; but he was forced to admit that
he had given her twenty-five louis on one occasion, and it eventually
oozed out that he had also made himself personally liable to a Jew
money-lender of Nancy for five thousand five hundred livres (francs),
a debt contracted by the count when he was stationed at Lunéville, and
which amount the cardinal of course eventually had to pay.[50] These
facts would seem to prove that at this period the countess had succeeded
in ensnaring her victim, preparatory to making him, as she afterwards
did, her dupe and then her instrument.
Madame de la Motte was very much in the habit of exaggerating the amount
of the charitable gifts bestowed upon her by members of the royal
family and some few of the French nobility, and even claimed to have
received certain apocryphal sums from persons of distinction who never
once assisted her. The reason for this will be apparent enough in the
course of our narrative. In the memorials and reports published in 1786
are various disclaimers on the part of people of rank, among others the
Duke de Chartres (afterwards Orléans Égalité), the Duke de Penthièvre,
the Duke de Choiseul, the _contrôleur-général_, &c., showing that these
exceedingly liberal benefactors, as the countess had made them out to
be, had either given nothing at all, or else that a huge disparity
existed between the sum really given and the amount pretended to have
been received. Her friend, Beugnot, moreover, speaks at this period
of sundry treats of an evening on the Boulevards, consisting of cakes
and beer, a beverage for which she had a particular liking, while, as
regards cakes, she would devour two or three dozen of these at a sitting,
making it evident that she had dined but lightly on these occasions, if,
indeed, she had dined at all.[51] She, however, most astonished Beugnot
by the voracity of her appetite when she dined with him, as she every
now and then did, at the “_Cadran bleu_” a noted tavern in the Champs
Élysées, whence on a memorable occasion, some eight years later, five
hundred and odd Marseillais, who had marched up to Paris in defence of
their fellow “patriots,” and whose march inspired the composition of
the world-renowned Marseillaise hymn, rushed forth on the grenadiers
of the Filles Saint-Thomas section, and drove them pell-mell over the
drawbridge of the Tuileries. Other friends of the countess’s tell, too,
of frequent loans of ten, fifteen, or twenty livres at a time, all of
which is tolerable evidence of semi-starvation and penury rather than of
an abundance or even a sufficiency of means.
Spite, nevertheless, of the limited nature of their resources, there is
no doubt but that when the De la Mottes had regularly settled down in the
Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles, they made pretensions to something like display.
They borrowed, for instance, a service of silver plate of a friend—a
M. de Vieilleville; and according to the countess’s own statement, M.
de Calonne, at one of the interviews she succeeded in obtaining with
him just after his appointment to the office of _contrôleur-général_,
plainly told her that she was only “shamming poverty,” and commenced
twitting her respecting her hôtel at Paris, her cabriolet, her coach,
her travelling-carriage, and her servants in livery. To convince Calonne
that whatever might be her style of living, she was nevertheless in great
pecuniary difficulties, she took him one day the tickets for numerous
articles of furniture pledged by her at the Mont de Piété, and by this
ruse succeeded in securing some small amount of official sympathy, which
developed itself in a gift of six hundred livres from the royal treasury,
on the express condition, however, that she was to make no further
appeals.
Soon after the countess had become regularly resident in the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Gilles, she was a frequent attendant at mass at a convent
of Minimes, on the opposite side of the way, which has long since been
demolished, and barracks for gendarmerie erected on its site, but the
remembrance of which is still preserved in the nomenclature of several
of the adjacent streets. A certain Father Loth having his eye upon
so interesting an addition to the common fold, made her an offer of
a key by means of which she might let herself into the chapel to the
ten o’clock mass, attended, as he explained to her, only by persons
of her own condition. The countess accepted the offer, and a kind of
acquaintanceship sprang up between Father Loth and her, which resulted
in the former becoming a constant visitor at the De la Mottes, and
insinuating himself into the confidence of the family; and subsequently,
when brighter days dawned upon them, officiating as a sort of steward of
their household.
Although the countess went constantly to Versailles, in the hope of
obtaining by some lucky chance access to the queen, she seems to have
been baffled in all her efforts. She had scraped acquaintance with
Desclos, one of the queen’s pages, at a man-midwife’s at Versailles,[52]
and was on gossiping terms with the gatekeeper of the Little Trianon,
but could make no further advance at court, until by a lucky chance
she one day succeeded in penetrating into the apartments of one of the
princesses. Here, whilst waiting among other visitors for her turn to be
introduced, she suddenly fell down like a person fainting from weakness,
and otherwise exhibited symptoms of great suffering. Her poverty being
known, there was instantly a rumour afoot that sheer hunger was the
cause of this debility. The incident produced considerable excitement
in the court circle, and news reaching the ears of the Countess de
Provence that a lady of rank had fainted in the _salle d’attente_, from
lack of sustenance, she flew to her assistance, and after treating her
with all the tenderness that humanity dictated, gave her some twelve or
fifteen louis to relieve her necessities. The countess, much affected
by the occurrence, is said to have mentioned it on the following day to
Marie-Antoinette, who was about to yield to the impression it made upon
her sensibility; but Louis XVI., who had received so many of Madame de la
Motte’s petitions, and had been sufficiently bored thereby, had conceived
a strong prejudice against both her and her pretensions, and pronounced
her swoon to be a mere ruse to extort money. The result was that the
queen closed her purse-strings, and Madame de la Motte took little or
nothing by her move. Most persons in her situation, after this signal
failure, would have considered their struggle for court favour as fairly
concluded, but it was far from being so with her. She was one of those
indomitable spirits gifted with a pertinacity which no mere rebuff could
check, no disappointment discourage.
For some time past the countess had made a point of laying siege to one
controller-general after another—first to M. Joly de Fleury, then to M.
d’Ormesson, and finally to M. de Calonne, in whose antechamber she was
a constant attendant, and whom she so pestered with her petitions and
memorials and personal appeals for relief, spite of the understanding
come to when the six hundred livres were given to her, that she became
at length a kind of terror to the minister, who showered gold around
him with easy facility from a bankrupt exchequer, while, as a courtier
said, “All the world held out its hand, but I held out my hat.” To rid
himself of the countess’s importunities, and urged by Madame Elisabeth
and the Countess de Provence (who since the fainting scene had taken
some kind of interest in her) to do something towards her relief, M. de
Calonne obtained an augmentation of seven hundred livres (twenty-eight
pounds) to the De la Motte pension. Instead, however, of feeling in
any degree grateful for this act of favour, the countess tells us that
when the minister communicated the intelligence to her she indignantly
refused this “pitiful addition,” as she called it, “to her income.”
Visions of the restoration of the Essoyes, Fontette and Verpilière
estates had been floating before her eyes, and in the heat of her passion
she exclaimed, “I will oblige you, sir, to speak of my demands to the
king. Tell him, sir, that I will fix myself in this house”—the palace of
Versailles—“until he thinks proper to provide me with another home.” And
the irate countess in accordance with her threat did actually remain for
several hours, but at last took her departure, because, as she naïvely
remarks, her further stay there “would have answered no purpose.”[53]
It must have been about this period that the countess, harassed by
pecuniary difficulties, and determined to exhaust every chance of relief
that suggested itself, ventured upon an appeal to Madame Dubarry, the
late king’s banished mistress, who clung as close upon the skirts of the
Court as she dared do, residing in her charming pavilion at Louveciennes,
within eye-shot of Versailles. Thither Madame de la Motte drove over one
day ostensibly to offer herself as _dame de compagnie_ to the dowager
queen, as she used ironically to style the once all-powerful favourite
of Louis the Well-Beloved; but Madame Dubarry, judging from the absurd
pretensions she put forward with regard to her name and birth, thought
her little fitted for the post she sought to fill, and told her that she
was not at that moment in want of a companion, adding sarcastically that
if she were, she was not great lady enough to engage one of so high a
quality as a descendant of the house of Valois. Nothing disconcerted, the
countess called a second time a few days afterwards, and made a pitiable
appeal to the Dubarry to support her claims at court, shedding floods of
tears as she spoke. But as soon as her back was turned, “La Faiblesse,”
as Marie-Antoinette was accustomed to style the Dubarry, whose heart was
none of the most susceptible, bored by the countess’s melting display,
and caring not a straw for the house of Valois or any of its bastard
descendants, flung both petition and memoir, which the countess had
presented to her, into the fire.[54]
The countess now addressed herself to the well-known favourite of
Marie-Antoinette, the Duchess de Polignac, whose influence over her
royal mistress, whenever she chose to exercise it, was believed to be
supreme. The duchess, however, got rid of her once for all with this
freezing reply: “Madame the duchess is too much engaged for other
persons to oblige Madame de la Motte in any claim which she may have to
make of the king or the queen, who are already fatigued with numberless
applications.” The descendant of the house of Valois was cut to the
quick at the treatment she received at the hands of “this imperious
woman, whose haughty demeanour sufficiently characterises her grovelling
extraction. Was this the woman,” she exclaims, “whom in my humble station
of mantua-maker’s apprentice I had so frequently waited upon from Madame
Boussel’s to obtain payment, and who then instead of money could only
pay me with courtesy and fair promises? Is this she who before the smile
of royal favour no tradesman chose to trust, and even her mantua-maker
refused to work for any longer, and who had not even a dress in which she
could be presented at Court?”[55]
Sick at heart, weary almost unto death, the wretched woman saw no escape
from the pecuniary embarrassments that threatened to overwhelm her,
except in suicide. Providing herself, she tells us, with a couple of
loaded pistols she bent her steps towards a wood about a league distant
from Versailles, and passing through the park, came to a large and deep
pit, which had formerly been a stone quarry. Here she prepared to carry
her resolution into effect, and had placed one of the pistols to her
right ear when thoughts of her husband stayed her hand. Flinging herself
on the ground she wept long and bitterly, and then offered up a fervent
prayer. On becoming more calm she returned home, still however mourning
her unhappy fate.[56]
VIII.
1781–1783.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE AGAIN.—STILL NOT SOLD.
While the events narrated in the last chapter have been transpiring,
let us see how it has fared with our friends the crown jewellers and
their Diamond Necklace. M. Bassenge, after scouring Europe through, and
ascending and descending principal and back staircases innumerable,
and dancing wearying attendance in court saloons and antechambers, has
returned home without effecting a sale. “Not a crowned head of them can
spare the eighty thousand pounds. The age of Chivalry is gone, and that
of Bankruptcy is come. A dull deep-presaging movement rocks all thrones:
Bankruptcy is beating down the gate, and no chancellor can barricade her
out. She will enter, and the shoreless fire-lava of Democracy is at her
back. Well may kings a second time ‘sit still with awful eye,’ and think
of far other things than necklaces.”[57]
Bassenge’s mission having been without result, let us turn to M.
Böhmer, and see what kind of luck has attended his efforts. On the
22nd of October, 1781, the Queen of France gave birth to a dauphin.
Böhmer, who felt this to be a favourable opportunity for him to renew
his application, flew to the palace with his casket under his arm, and
saw the king, at that moment the happiest man in the land. Louis XVI.
received the jeweller with much condescension, and taking the casket from
him, carried it to the queen, telling her, with animated looks, that he
had got a present for her. But Marie-Antoinette had no sooner recognised
the gorgeous gem which she had formerly rejected than she refused
to receive it, even at the king’s hands; nor could the most earnest
solicitations on his part abate in the smallest degree the feeling of
antipathy with which, guided by her prophetic instincts, she seems to
have regarded the fatal jewel.
“Is it,” asked she, “that Böhmer may take girls covered with diamonds to
the opera, that you would pay him for his folly in manufacturing this
Necklace?”
While uttering these words the queen was greatly excited. Her nurse
felt her pulse, and finding it very high begged the king not to insist
further. Louis XVI. withdrew completely disconcerted.[58]
Now Böhmer, the crown jeweller, was a Saxon, and we all know that the
Saxons are a persevering race who do not readily desist from a pursuit.
Besides, he had gained a step; the king had as good as sanctioned the
purchase; he was won over, and in due time the queen might be brought
to relent and consent to become the possessor of the most splendid set
of brilliants in the world. Moreover she was known at one time to have
entertained a woman’s partiality for costly jewels. What could be the
reason of her present antipathy? Was it natural in one so young and
handsome? Was it consistent? Was it, indeed, sincere?
This persecution of Marie-Antoinette, which had begun in 1774, was
continued for ten years; and every time the palace guns announced a
new _accouchement_ the indefatigable Böhmer, his casket under his arm,
was the first to carry his loyal congratulations to the feet of his
sovereign. In due time the crown jeweller became noted for this kind of
loyalty, so that whenever he was met with in the streets of Versailles,
certain wags used to point him out and ask each other, “_Serait-ce la
Reine qui accouche?_”
Madame Campan, in her well-known work, assures us that this persistent
Saxon was for a long time the plague of the queen’s life. She relates,
among other instances of Böhmer’s persecution, that he one day presented
himself before her majesty, who had the young princess her daughter with
her at the time, in a state of unusual excitement. Throwing himself at
the queen’s feet, he burst into tears, and exclaimed that he could put
off his creditors no longer, that he was a ruined man unless she took
compassion on him and became the purchaser of his Necklace, and that if
she rejected his appeal he would throw himself into the Seine, and so
put an end to his misery. The queen reproved him mildly for his rash
threat, but at the same time told him that if he were madman enough to
put an end to his existence, it would not be she who was responsible for
the misfortune. She reminded him that she had not given the order for
the jewel, and advised him to extricate himself from his difficulties by
taking the Necklace to pieces and disposing of the diamonds piecemeal.[59]
Mademoiselle Bertin, the queen’s milliner, asserts that at the time she
was engaged in preparing the wedding trousseau of the bride of the Infant
of Portugal, M. de Souza, the Portuguese ambassador, confided to her that
he was commissioned by his sovereign to buy for the future Infanta the
most magnificent present which could be met with in all Paris, and that
he had decided upon purchasing the crown jewellers’ Diamond Necklace.
Mademoiselle Bertin mentioned the circumstance to Marie-Antoinette the
following day, while engaged with her at her toilette.
“I am very glad of it,” observed the queen. “I shall send for Böhmer, and
will certainly thank M. de Souza for having relieved me of this hateful
Necklace.”
When Böhmer entered, the queen took up a book and read for some minutes
before speaking, as her habit was when she wished to evince her
displeasure, which, on this occasion, must have been the result either of
inexplicable caprice or feminine jealousy at a foreign princess becoming
the possessor of that jewel to which the negotiations and travels of
Böhmer and Bassenge had given a kind of European celebrity, and which had
caused such a sensation among queens and women. At length, laying down
her book and casting on Böhmer a severe glance, she observed:
“I am very glad to hear, sir, that you have sold your Necklace.”
“My Necklace, madame!” replied the astonished Böhmer.
“Yes, your Necklace, that M. de Souza is about to send to Lisbon.”
Böhmer having given an emphatic denial to the story, the queen, we are
told, cast on Mdlle. Bertin a withering look as if to reproach her for
having needlessly alarmed her.
There was a reception that day, and when M. de Souza appeared, the
queen, contrary to all the rules of court etiquette, went straight up to
him and said, briskly:
“I have to inform you, M. de Souza, that you will not have the Necklace;
it is sold.”
M. de Souza appearing astonished,
“You will not have it, sir,” continued she, in a tone of triumph. “I am
sorry for it.” Saying which she returned to her ladies.[60]
Thus matters stood at the close of 1783, ten years after the order for
this ill-fated jewel had been given by the infatuated lover of Madame
Dubarry. Although all France was at this time wildly rejoicing over the
recently concluded peace between France and England, there was gloom and
depression at the Grand Balcony in the Rue Vendôme, for creditors were
still urgent and even threatening, and the question again arose: “What is
now to be done?”
IX.
1784.
SOI-DISANT CONFIDANT OF THE QUEEN.—AT VERSAILLES AND LITTLE TRIANON.
In the preceding chapters we have measured the period between the year
1756, when Jeanne de Saint-Remi, now Countess de la Motte of her own
creation, was born, and the close of the year 1783, when she had reached
the age of twenty-seven years. We have witnessed the destitution of her
early days, the dependence of her youth on the kind bounty of a noble
benefactress, and the career of adventure and precarious means suddenly
plunged into to avoid a life of religious seclusion. We have seen her
making her escape from flagrant shame by an improvident marriage; have
seen the opening of her conjugal life darkened by a new term of penury
and privation, mitigated only by a system of constant appeals for
charity. We have also seen that a long and patient probation in the
same course had proved barren and abortive in the end, her condition
being then precisely the same as it was in the beginning. We can readily
conceive that her name and her pretensions had at length come to be
regarded as little else than a by-word and a nuisance, and that the
time was at hand when the former would have no other influence beyond
provoking indignation and contempt.
The family resources proved so far insufficient, that early in the year
1784 household goods and wearing apparel were alike in pawn at the Mont
de Piété, which is hardly to be wondered at, as the winter was one of
unprecedented severity. Heavy and constant falls of snow rendered any
kind of traffic through the streets of Paris impracticable. The Seine,
too, was frozen over, so that the transport of provisions and firewood
to the capital was entirely stopped.[61] The times were of the hardest:
the winter extended far into the year, and in the month of April the
countess solicited and obtained permission to alienate her own and her
brother’s pension—the sister, we presume, was obstinate, and would not
dispose of hers, hence her being sent adrift to shift for herself, and
becoming an inmate of the Abbey of Jarcy—to a goldsmith and money-lender,
named Grenier, for the sum of nine thousand livres.[62] This amount,
however, was insufficient to liquidate the whole of their debts, and at
midsummer the countess was forced to borrow three hundred livres from
Father Loth to pay her quarter’s rent.[63] The two pensions utterly gone,
beggary and open vagrancy loom in the distance, for the cardinal’s gifts,
however handsome they may have been at this period, go but a small way
now that ever-increasing debt is supplemented by habitual extravagance.
In a few months more the wretched adventurers will be forced to quit
their “spacious _appartement_” in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles, and go
forth into the streets and highways, and in the name of Valois again
implore charity of the passing stranger. What remedy—what desperate
remedy could be devised to prevent this?
The countess’s interview with the Countess de Provence, after the
fainting scene, had made some little noise, and reports were spread to
the effect that Madame Elisabeth, the king’s sister, had since received
her on several occasions, and had promised to support her claim for the
recovery of the Valois estates, and to recommend her case again to the
queen. We have no means of judging whether these reports were true, but
as Madame Campan admits Madame Elisabeth to have been the countess’s
“protectress,” there was in all probability some real foundation for
them. Shortly afterwards, however, other reports, which were undoubted
fabrications, got into circulation. The purport of these was, that Madame
de la Motte had been honoured by the notice of Marie-Antoinette, that she
was received privately at the Petit Trianon, and was rising rapidly in
the royal favour. To give an air of probability to this assertion, the
countess, who had contrived to scrape acquaintance with the gatekeeper of
the Trianon, managed to be seen occasionally stealing out from thence, as
though returning from one of these pretended interviews with royalty.
No sooner did it get bruited abroad that the Countess de la Motte had
credit at court than she was applied to by that busy and motley group
of suitors—some of them in search of places and appointments, others
in quest of patronage for new inventions, or on the look-out for
opportunities to submit new schemes of taxation and finance, and others
again seeking redress of real or fancied grievances—who gather together
in the vicinage of royalty. The daring woman saw her chance, and entering
boldly on a career of imposture, began to traffic on a credit that had no
foundation, and to sell an influence which she could not exercise. This
new vocation bid fair to prove a much readier source of emolument than
her state petitions for relief. People came to her of their own accord,
waited in _her_ antechamber for an interview, conjured and supplicated
_her_ to lend them her protection, and in the meantime to permit them to
show their gratitude by anticipation, and in a substantial form.
In this new line of business she was assisted by an old acquaintance
and former comrade of her husband’s in the _gendarmerie_, one Rétaux
de Villette, son of a late director-general of excise at Lyons, and at
this time about thirty years of age. Villette left Lyons when a lad, and
accompanied his mother to Troyes, where he completed his education. His
sister having married a captain of artillery, and being himself inclined
to a military career, he followed his brother-in-law to the schools of
Douai and Bapaume, and when this latter establishment was suppressed,
entered the _gendarmerie_, where he formed a sort of intimacy with M.
de la Motte—an intimacy which was afterwards renewed at Bar-sur-Aube,
whither his mother had removed from the neighbouring town of Troyes.
Villette having exhausted the paternal patrimony, had come to Paris to
push his fortunes. His ambition was to obtain a sub-lieutenancy in the
marshalsea, still he was not averse to turning his hand to anything
that offered itself. He was not deficient in talent, and had a certain
facility of expression; for he wrote smartish articles in the _Gazette_,
could compose pleasing enough verses, and was a very fair musician.[64]
Nevertheless he was one of those indolent, careless men, without the
slightest forethought, who cannot follow any regular calling, because
they are only stirred into activity by sudden caprices, and who too
often serve no other purpose beyond replenishing the world’s stock of
rascaldom, and doing their best to save it from dying out. Finding
that he was a suppliant for court favour, Madame de la Motte first of
all persuaded him that she could advance his interests, then that she
would procure for him some better post than a sub-lieutenancy in the
marshalsea, and finally engaged him as her secretary, and by dint of “her
piquant face, her bright and piercing eyes, her white and transparent
skin, her fine teeth, her enchanting smile, her pretty hand and little
foot, her graceful manner, and natural wit,” soon enrolled him as one of
her lovers.[65]
We will here let the countess give her own account of her pretended
intimacy with Marie-Antoinette, an intimacy which it is impossible to
believe in for a single moment, since those who lived in the queen’s
service and society were unanimous in maintaining that the countess was
never once admitted to the queen’s presence, nor seen in the company of
any lady of her court.
“One day,” she observes, “as I was paying my court to Madame (the
Countess de Provence), I was attacked with a sudden indisposition (the
fainting fit of which we have already spoken), which made some noise
at the palace; the queen, having become acquainted with the incident,
deigned to evince some interest in me; her majesty even sent for Madame
Patri, the principal _femme de chambre_ of Madame, to ascertain the
particulars.
“Nothing can escape the eyes of courtiers. They remarked from that hour,
that her majesty always distinguished me by a gracious look, whenever I
appeared in her presence. The cardinal (de Rohan) surpassed everybody in
giving full rein to his conjectures.
“As I had received his benefits, the most natural gratitude linked me
to his fate ... for him I had no secrets; he had none for me ... his
ambition was to be prime minister, mine to be a lady of influence at
Fontette....
“Nothing could equal the astonishment into which I was thrown one day,
when having placed myself in the line of the queen’s passage, her majesty
condescended to honour me with one of those smiles which are so hard to
be resisted. I remember that the next moment, having chanced to raise
my eyes towards him (the cardinal), I saw his own sparkle with delight.
‘Do you know, countess,’ said he, ‘that my fortune is made? it is in
your hands along with your own.’... He told me I ought not to hesitate
to throw myself at the queen’s feet on the 2nd of February, during
the procession of the blue ribbons (the order of the Holy Ghost)....
Accustomed to be guided entirely by him, I promised to do what he
enjoined me.
“The important day arrived.... I went to the palace in full dress, and
waited in one of the saloons for the return of the procession. When
the queen was passing, I flung myself at her feet, and delivering my
petition, said to her, in a few words, that I was descended from the
house of Valois; that as such I had been acknowledged by the king; that
the fortune of my ancestors not having been transmitted to me along
with their title, I had no other resource than the king’s munificence;
that having found every one of the avenues leading to her majesty
unrelentingly closed against me, despair had driven me at last to take
the present step.
“The queen raised me up with kindness, took my petition, and, perceiving
that I trembled, deigned to bid me be of good cheer. She then passed on,
telling me to be at ease, and assured me that due attention should be
paid to the object of my request.”
In the first private interview she pretends to have had with the queen,
the countess relates that Marie-Antoinette said to her:
“‘I have read your memorial, the object of which is to urge the minister
to act and bestir himself with respect to the property which belonged to
your house. Having some private reasons not to second your views ... I
cannot reconcile the desire I may have to serve you publicly, with the
inclination I feel to see you in private ... but I shall still be able to
render you indirectly the services you wish to obtain from me.’... Her
majesty concluded by presenting me with a purse.”[66]
A few days afterwards, she tells us, she was summoned to repair to
the Little Trianon, between eleven and twelve o’clock at night! when
she received fresh proofs of the queen’s generosity. “She presented
me at parting,” says the countess, “with a pocket-book containing ten
thousand livres (francs) on the _caisse d’escompte_, and concluded by
saying: ‘We shall meet again.’”[67] Madame de la Motte then goes on to
state that it is needless to tire the reader with a repetition of the
frequent interviews she had with the queen, of whose munificence on these
occasions she received numerous proofs. “The Cardinal de Rohan,” she
says, “marked her growing favour, and insisting that his fortune was in
her hands, conjured her to let no opportunity slip of mentioning his name
to his sovereign.”
Let us turn now to the other side of the picture, and see what is said
by persons likely to be well informed, as well as by Marie-Antoinette
herself, respecting this pretended intimacy.
Lacretelle, whose truth and honesty are beyond question, says “the
Countess de Valois never had the least access to this princess,” and
that “one cannot read this libel (the countess’s Memoirs) without being
convinced that the queen never had any kind of communication with these
creatures, whose presence would have defiled the throne.”[68]
The Baron de Besenval speaks of the countess in his Memoirs as “one of
those creatures who live by intrigue and the sale of their charms.”[69]
Was such a person likely to have been received privately at the Trianon?
The Baron de Besenval was a regular visitor there himself, and would have
heard of this strange and familiar intercourse if it had ever existed.
What does Madame Campan, first _femme de chambre_ to the queen, who
enjoyed the confidence of her royal mistress, and was, moreover,
constantly in her company, and who, biased though she may seem to be in
her favour, invariably speaks what she believes to be the truth—what does
she say respecting this tissue of invention?
“Neither the queen herself, nor any lady about her, ever had the
slightest connection with the swindler, and during her prosecution she
could only point out one of the queen’s servants (a man named Declos or
Leclos), a page of the queen’s chamber, to whom she pretended she had
delivered Böhmer’s Necklace ... Declos,[70] on being confronted with the
woman La Motte, proved that she had never seen him but once, which was
at the house of the wife of a surgeon-accoucher at Versailles, and that
she had not given him the Necklace.” Madame Campan further states that
the countess “had never even been able to make her way into the room
appropriated to the queen’s women.” The same lady also furnishes this
additional piece of testimony:
“The queen,” she says, “in vain endeavoured to call to mind the features
of this person, whom she had so often heard spoken of as an intriguing
woman, who came frequently on Sundays to the gallery at Versailles; and
at the time when all France was taken up with the prosecution against
the cardinal, and the portrait of the Countess de la Motte-Valois was
publicly sold, her majesty desired me one day when I was going to Paris
to buy her the engraving, which was said to be a tolerable likeness, that
she might ascertain whether she could recollect in it any person whom she
had seen in the gallery.”[71]
Marie-Antoinette herself, when questioned by Louis XVI. on the subject of
this intimate acquaintance, assured the king that she had never seen the
woman. In a few simple words she repeats her denial when confronted with
the Cardinal de Rohan, immediately preceding his arrest. And in a private
letter to her sister, written at a time when the affair of the Diamond
Necklace was making a great noise throughout Europe, Marie-Antoinette
thus denies all previous knowledge of her pretended confidant:
“I have never seen this woman La Motte; it seems she is an adventuress of
the lowest class, with a good address and a bold air; she has been seen
two or three times on the back staircase of the Cour des Princes; this
is a scheme agreed on to deceive her dupes and to spread the belief that
she is received in my closet. The Duke de Nivernois on this occasion told
me that an adventuress from Paris had made her fortune in the days of
Madame de Maintenon by seating herself twice a week on the stairs; one
day she found the drawing-room of that lady open; she went in, and seeing
no one near she walked up to the balcony over the Place d’Armes, thus
proclaiming to every one that she was in favour with Madame de Maintenon.
We are surrounded in this place by persons of that class.”[72]
Again, at the very last, only a few hours before her head was severed
from her body by the guillotine, she still firmly repudiated all
knowledge of any such individual. Let us refer to the report in the
_Moniteur_ of the “_Procès de Marie-Antoinette_,” and see what transpired
in reference to the matter.
“_The president to the accused_: Was it not at the Little Trianon that
you first met with the woman La Motte?
“_The accused_: I never once saw her.
“_The president_: Was she not your victim in the business of the famous
Necklace?
“_The accused_: She could not have been, since she was unknown to me.
“_The president_: So then you persist in denying that you were acquainted
with her?
“_The accused_: Mine is not a system of denial; what I have said is the
truth, and that I will persist in.”
Of course it was the truth; had it not been, Fouquier Tinville had
abundant means of proving the contrary; all France in these days was
overrun with spies and informers. The public accuser had really no facts
to allege against the prisoner in regard to Madame de la Motte, and
confessed he had not when ordered to bring the queen to trial. Had there
been the least particle of evidence to prove Marie-Antoinette’s intimacy
with so abandoned a woman, the attorney-general of the Revolutionary
Tribunal would have been only too glad to have brought it forward. He
had not far to go, for among the witnesses actually produced were the
Count d’Estaing, formerly in command at Versailles, who knew both the
queen and the countess, and was a frequent dinner-guest of the latter in
the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles; and Renée Sévin, for six years under-_femme
de chambre_ to Marie-Antoinette, yet to neither of these did he put a
single question upon the subject. Again, there was Reine Millot, another
old servant at Versailles, “_bonne citoyenne, excellente patriote_,”
who did her best to sacrifice her unhappy mistress, deposing that the
Count de Coigny had told her that the queen had sent two hundred million
francs to her brother, the Emperor Joseph, to enable him to make war
upon the Turks, and that she would end by ruining France; and further,
that she knew from different people that the queen had conceived the
design of assassinating the Duke d’Orléans, which when the king heard
of, he ordered her to be immediately searched, and two pistols being
found upon her, he commanded her to remain in her own apartment for the
space of fifteen days.[73] A witness such as this would have been only
too eager to repeat all the scandal current at Versailles respecting the
Countess de la Motte and the queen. Moreover, Count de la Motte himself
was known to be living at Bar-sur-Aube at the time of the queen’s trial,
and could have been readily enough produced, only Fouquier Tinville was
perfectly well aware that he could depose to nothing in the slightest
degree incriminatory of her whose death, though already determined on,
the revolutionary party would have been glad enough to have justified on
such a poor pretence even as complicity in the Necklace fraud.
X.
1772–1774.
HIS EMINENCE CARDINAL, COMMENDATOR, GRAND ALMONER, PRINCE-BISHOP
LOUIS-RENÉ-ÉDOUARD DE ROHAN.
Among the tribe of solicitors who put faith in the report of Madame de la
Motte’s intimacy with Marie-Antoinette, and sought to turn it to their
own advantage, certainly by far the most sanguine of them all, was her
“friend” and benefactor, Louis-René-Édouard de Rohan, Cardinal of the
Holy Roman Church, Bishop and Prince of Strasbourg, Prince of Hildesheim,
Landgrave of Alsace, Grand Almoner of France, Commander of the Order of
the Holy Ghost, Commendator of St. Waast d’Arras, Superior-general of
the Royal Hospital of the Quinze-Vingts, Abbé of the Chaise-Dieu, Master
of the Sorbonne, Member of the French Academy, &c., &c. The very man who
had been wont to bestow alms upon a descendant of the house of Valois
was now almost ready to cringe to the former recipient of his bounty
for favour and support. This dissolute and intriguing prelate, who was
destined to attain such unenviable notoriety through his connection with
the Countess de la Motte, was born on the 27th of September, 1734, and
at this period was consequently verging on his fiftieth year. He was,
as we have already mentioned, a tall, stout, handsome-looking man, with
a fresh-coloured complexion, bald forehead, and whitish grey hair. His
manners were amiable; he was fluent in conversation, and though his
talents, as the upshot proves, were of a very inferior order, still
he was not deficient in that dexterity which goes a long way towards
fitting a man for the conduct of public business—he having, with the
help of his shrewd secretary, the Abbé Georgel, rather cleverly filled
the post of Ambassador at the court of Vienna for between two and three
years. He had been sent to that court in January, 1772, to supersede the
Baron de Breteuil, thereby making a mortal enemy of that minister, now
in high favour with the sovereign. But this was not all. He had also
incurred the dislike, and even hatred, of the Queen of France, partly
in consequence of having repeated to the Empress Maria Theresa certain
scandals current at the French court respecting the unbecoming levity
of her daughter, then dauphiness—who, by-the-way, by virtue of his
office of coadjutor at Strasbourg, he had had to receive on the occasion
of her first entry into France—and partly in consequence of a letter
written by him in an unguarded moment, wherein he reflected strongly
on the duplicity of the empress with respect to Poland. In this letter
he remarked that “Maria Theresa stands, indeed, with a handkerchief
in one hand, weeping for the woes of Poland, but with a sword in the
other, ready to cut Poland into sections, and take her share,”[74] an
observation in which there was not only point, but far too much truth
for it to pass unregarded. This letter was read and laughed over by
Louis XV., and by him repeated to the Countess Dubarry at one of her
_petits soupers_, and the countess, in her turn, gossiped about it, until
at length the affair became a court joke and reached the ears of the
dauphiness, who, whilst repressing her indignation at the time, did not
fail to treasure up the circumstance in her memory.
In spite of the queen’s aversion, which, by-the-way, was fully shared by
Louis XVI., the cardinal, whose ambition led him to covet the office of
prime minister, fondly hoped, sooner or later, to recover his ground.
When therefore he heard, as very good care was taken he very quickly
should hear, that a lady who stood in certain tender relations towards
himself, and was under certain pecuniary obligations to him, was in
favour with the queen, the credulous dotard suspected neither deception
nor exaggeration in the report; which perhaps was hardly surprising, for
Nature, we are told, had given the _soi-disant_ new favourite a frank and
honest face in spite of her proficiency in the arts of deceit. “Without
possessing the full splendour of beauty,” observes the Abbé Georgel,
“the Countess de la Motte was gifted with all the graces of youth, her
countenance was intelligent and attractive, and she expressed herself
with fluency; moreover, the _air of truth that pervaded her recitals
invariably carried conviction along with it_.” The cardinal, only too
ready to be blinded and deluded, counselled his _protégée_ how to proceed
in order to retain and improve the position which he imagined she had
already acquired, intending, without doubt, to avail himself of her
interest to recover the good opinion of the queen, whose deep-rooted
prejudice against him was the bane of his life.
Madame Campan speaks of the cardinal as a spendthrift, and a man of the
most immoral character, whose mission to Vienna opened under the most
unfavourable auspices, in consequence of the nature of the reputation
which preceded his arrival at that court. “In want of money, and the
house of Rohan being unable to make him any considerable advances, he
obtained a patent which authorised him to borrow the sum of six hundred
thousand livres (twenty-four thousand pounds) upon his benefices;
nevertheless he ran into debt for upwards of another million, and thought
to dazzle the city and court of Vienna by the most indecent, and, at
the same time, the most ill-judged extravagance. He formed a suite of
eight or ten gentlemen of names sufficiently high sounding, twelve pages
equally well-born, a crowd of officers and servants, together with a
company of chamber musicians, and various other retainers. But this idle
pomp did not last; embarrassment and distress soon showed themselves; his
people, no longer receiving pay, abused the ambassadorial privileges, and
smuggled with so much effrontery that Maria Theresa, to put a stop to
it without offending the court of France, was compelled to suppress the
privileges in this respect of the entire diplomatic corps.”[75]
In those days an ambassador was not only required to be an adept in
duplicity, but he was expected, by means of bribery, or other modes of
corruption more or less dishonourable, to make himself master of all the
secrets of the court to which he was accredited. The cardinal proved
himself in this respect equal to the mission with which he was intrusted.
At the commencement of the year 1774 he discovered that the Austrian
minister, Prince von Kaunitz, had succeeded in purchasing keys of the
ciphers in which the despatches that passed between the French king and
himself and the ambassadors at Constantinople, Stockholm, Dantzic,
and St. Petersburg were written. He also discovered that the court of
Vienna had obtained copies of and had deciphered all the despatches sent
by the Duke d’Aiguillon to the various representatives of the court of
Versailles throughout Northern Europe. He learnt, too, that the main work
of interception was done at Liege, Brussels, Frankfort, and Ratisbon. At
these places copies of despatches were taken and forwarded to what was
styled the “Cabinet of Decipherers,” a department of which Baron Peckler
was the head.[76]
How it was that the cardinal came to make this important discovery and to
profit largely by it, as he eventually managed to do, is quite a piece of
romance. The Abbé Georgel, at that time secretary to the French embassy
at Vienna, shall tell the story in his own words.
“Returning one evening to the hôtel, the porter gave me a note carefully
sealed up, and addressed to me. I read in it as follows:—‘Be to-night,
between eleven and twelve, at a particular place upon the ramparts, and
you will be informed of matters of the very highest importance.’ An
anonymous note of this tenor, sent so mysteriously, and the unseasonable
hour appointed, might have appeared to some persons altogether dangerous
and suspicious. But I was not aware that I had any enemies, and, desirous
not to have to reproach myself with having missed an opportunity that
might never occur again of promoting the king’s service, I determined to
attend at the appointed place. But I took some prudential precautions,
by placing within a certain distance, where they could not be seen, two
persons on whom I could rely, to come to my assistance upon a signal
agreed on. I found at the place of meeting a man wrapped in a cloak,
and masked. He put some papers into my hands, and said in a feigned
undertone: ‘You have my confidence; I will therefore contribute to the
success of M. the Prince de Rohan’s embassy. These papers will inform
you of the very essential services which it is in my power to render
you. If you approve of them, come again to-morrow to’ another place
which he mentioned, ‘and bring me a thousand ducats.’ On my return to
the Hôtel de France, I hastened to examine the papers confided to me.
Their contents gave me the most agreeable surprise. I saw that we had it
in our power to procure twice a week copies of all the discoveries made
by the secret cabinet of Vienna, which was the best served cabinet in
Europe. This secret cabinet possessed in the highest degree the art of
deciphering quickly the despatches of ambassadors and of the governments
with whom they corresponded. I was convinced by the deciphering of our
own despatches and the despatches of our court to us—even those written
in the most complicated and the newest ciphers—that this cabinet had
found means to intercept and obtain copies of the despatches of several
European courts, through the treachery and audacity of the frontier
directors and postmasters, bribed for that purpose.
“Furnished with these documents and armed with unquestionable proofs of
their authenticity, I instantly went post haste to communicate them to
the ambassador. I laid before him the samples of the political magazine,
from which we might supply ourselves. The Prince de Rohan felt the value
of it, especially to himself personally, inasmuch as this important
discovery must necessarily efface the unpleasant impressions which
the Duke d’Aiguillon had not failed to make upon the king’s mind, by
representing to him that Prince Louis, too frivolous, and too much taken
up with the pursuits of pleasure, was not so watchful at Vienna as the
service of the state required.
“I met the masked man the following night, and gave him the thousand
ducats: when he handed to me other papers of increasing interest, and
during my whole stay at Vienna he faithfully performed his promise.
Our meetings took place twice a week, and always about midnight. The
ambassador wisely decided that the occupation arising from this discovery
should be confined to him and to myself, with an old secretary whose
discretion we knew would stand any trial. The secretary was employed
in copying for our court the papers of the masked man, to whom we were
obliged to return them.
“A courier extraordinary was at once despatched to Versailles with the
first-fruits of our newly-discovered treasure. He was ordered not to
go to bed on his way, and to carry about his person the special packet
of secret despatches to the very end of his journey. A separate letter
communicated the manner in which this disclosure had been made to us.
Our courier returned promptly, the bearer of a despatch from the Duke
d’Aiguillon, which contained this acknowledgment of the cardinal’s
services: ‘I sincerely and feelingly share,’ said the minister, ‘both in
the satisfaction with which the king acknowledges your services, and the
credit which this discovery throws upon your mission.’ From the time of
this discovery an extraordinary courier was sent off to Versailles every
fortnight with new communications, and always with the same precautions
as before.”[77]
Soulavie tells us it was through the Austrian ambassador at Versailles,
who, like the rest of his fraternity, had a whole host of traitorous
officials in his pay, that the court of Vienna got scent of what was
going on. The Prince von Kaunitz, suspecting that the treachery was
perpetrated in his office, had the locks of his cabinet changed, and
made a point of intrusting all the most important despatches to no one
except his private secretary. He even went the length of having one of
his clerks, of whom he entertained some suspicion, drowned in the Danube;
but all was of no avail; the masked man, according to the Abbé Georgel,
redoubled his zeal at each succeeding interview.
Two months after the death of Louis XV. the cardinal was superseded
in his post. He had hurried off to pay his court to the new king at
Compiègne, where he was not long in becoming acquainted with the fact
that the queen was his avowed enemy. He obtained an audience of Louis
XVI., but it was brief, and by no means satisfactory. The king listened
for a few minutes to the cardinal’s explanations, and then abruptly
said, “I will let you know my pleasure.” As for Marie-Antoinette, she
positively declined to receive him, although he had a letter from her
mother the empress to deliver. The only notice she took of him was to
desire that this letter might be sent to her. As a last resource he
addressed a written communication to the king, which Louis XVI. did not
condescend to answer. The cardinal had now no longer any doubt that his
disgrace was determined upon.
Although his downfall was really to be ascribed to the joint animosity of
Maria Theresa and her daughter, the grounds publicly put forward for it
were these. “First, the public gallantries (at Vienna) of Prince Louis
with women of the court and others of less distinction; secondly, his
surliness and haughtiness towards other foreign ministers, which it was
stated would have been attended with more serious consequences if the
empress herself had not interfered; thirdly, his contempt for religion
in a country where it was particularly necessary to show respect for it
(he had been seen frequently to dress himself in clothes of different
colours, assuming the hunting uniforms of various noblemen whom he
visited, with so much publicity that one day in particular, during the
_Fête Dieu_, he and all his legation, in green uniforms laced with gold,
broke through a religious procession which impeded them, in order to make
their way to a hunting party at the Prince von Paar’s); and fourthly, the
immense debts contracted by him and his people, which were tardily and
only in part discharged.”[78]
After the cardinal’s return to Paris from his Viennese mission, although
his manners may have mended somewhat, his morals remained as loose as
ever. He is reported to have kept up in different quarters of the city
various small establishments to which, it is said, he was in the habit
of retiring to emulate in secret the vices of the Roman emperors. His
conduct in public appears to have been hardly more reputable, for one day
the king when hunting with the Count d’Artois in the neighbourhood of
Fontainebleau, came upon Cardinal Prince Louis de Rohan with a handsome
young abbé, his hair elegantly dressed and powdered, seated beside him
in his carriage. The king remarked to his brother that the abbé only
required a little rouge to pass for a woman, but the more quick-sighted
Count d’Artois had already discovered that the pretended abbé was a
woman in disguise—none other, in fact, than one of the cardinal’s
mistresses—the notorious Marquise de Marigny.[79]
XI.
1784.
PRETENDED MEDIATOR BETWEEN THE CARDINAL AND THE QUEEN.—A FORGER ON THE
PREMISES.—BILLETS-DOUX BORDERED WITH “VIGNETTES BLEUES.”
Before the close of spring in the year 1784, the Countess de la Motte
has effectually built up her grand fabrication. Although she neglects no
opportunity of giving out that the queen desires this pretended intimacy
to be kept a profound secret, yet, like most other profound secrets,
it becomes pretty generally known; the imposture is established as a
reality, and the Grand Almoner of France has been caught in the net. This
singularly credulous individual, weighed down with places and honours,
but ambitious of more, is led to believe, quite as much by his own folly
as the countess’s craft, that a channel has at length been opened for
his reinstatement in the queen’s favour, and his elevation to the office
of prime minister. All the machinery set in motion by the impostor and
her confederates to make money by the abuse of the queen’s name is now
directed with both energy and skill upon the Prince de Rohan, whose
paternal hand is employed to diffuse the charities of a kingdom upon
those suppliants who best understand how to represent their wants, and
whose own annual revenue exceeds a million of livres (£40,000).
Gradually, step by step, the vigilant schemer advances, her dupe’s
fancy and conceit outstepping the measured tread of the inventor, whose
falsehoods are not poured forth fast enough to fill the wide throat of
this insatiable gull. First she assures him that she has spoken and
interceded for him with the queen, who listened to her with attention
but evident suspicion; but that after having heard of several instances
of his benevolence to herself and other persons, the royal prejudice
had given way. The cardinal of course takes heart at this assurance,
and waits resignedly for the happy progress of a negotiation which
had opened so promisingly. The countess thus describes this pretended
interview with Marie-Antoinette in her Memoirs:
“In one of my interviews with her majesty, the queen inquired how I had
supported myself before I was introduced to her. This was the moment
for naming my benefactor, but it required some caution, lest the queen
should discover that I was deeper in his confidence and counsels than it
was proper for me to appear. I attempted, if possible, to avoid giving
the least cause for suspicion, and expatiated largely, in general terms,
on the cardinal’s beneficence, charity, and benevolence; enumerated the
services he had rendered to almost every one that applied; that from
his generosity he had acquired the esteem he merited; and spoke with a
grateful warmth of the favours he had heaped upon me.
“Her majesty regarded me with a curious and penetrating eye: she paused
for some minutes, and appeared buried in thought. This was the first
moment of my mentioning the cardinal’s name, and I had an opportunity of
reading in her majesty’s face such a degree of aversion that gave me a
very unfavourable omen of success: the strength of her antipathy I was
then first acquainted with. At length, awakening from her reverie, she
expressed her surprise at the information I had given her. She did not
think the cardinal capable of such actions.”[80]
In due time the grand almoner is informed that majesty has at last
relented, having been of course won over by the countess’s continuous
praises of him, and by her assurances that he was far less culpable than
he was represented to be by his enemies; that he was full of penitence
and remorse for any errors he might have committed; that her majesty’s
aversion to him was his constant affliction; and that his health was
yielding to this sorrow.
“I am authorised by the queen,” the countess one day calmly said to him,
“to request you to furnish her with a written explanation of the faults
imputed to you.”
In compliance with this demand, the cardinal delivered to Madame de la
Motte a lengthy exculpatory statement, the main purport of which was
to accuse his niece, the Princess de Guéménée, of having intrigued to
add to his disgrace at court while pretending to act as intercessor on
his behalf. From time to time the princess appears to have allured him
with specious promises of his ultimate restoration to royal favour, and
the kind of return she exacted for her pretended good offices may be
judged of from the following passage, which, as will presently appear,
Madame de la Motte did not fail to note and profit by: “The princess was
sensible of the excessive joy she gave me,[81] and availed herself of it
_to request of me the loan of a pretty considerable sum_. I would have
parted with my whole fortune, thinking myself too happy in being useful
to a woman to whom I was so greatly beholden. The easy compliance she had
met with enticed her to make further demands, which I could not refuse,
she always knowing how to accompany them with hopes, with soothing
promises, and at the same time with difficulties she would find ways to
overcome.”[82] It is inconceivable how, after feeling convinced that he
had been the dupe of one designing woman, the cardinal could have been
such a dotard as to have been again deluded by an _intrigante_ who used
precisely the same arts, and who exacted from him precisely the same kind
of return. Such, however, was the case.
About three weeks after the delivery of his written justification into
the hands of Madame de la Motte, the grand almoner received a note,
bordered with “_vignettes bleues_” and purporting to be written by
Marie-Antoinette. This stated that she had read with indignation of the
manner in which he had been deceived by his niece, assured him that she
had forgotten all that had passed, and desired him never again to make
the slightest allusion to a matter so unpleasant—a convenient way of
tabooing a subject, the discussion of which might have proved extremely
embarrassing to the countess, and have sooner or later exposed the fraud
then being practised upon the cardinal. The note wound up with the
following passage, the motive of which the reader will be at no loss to
divine: “The account which the countess has given me of your behaviour
towards her has made a stronger impression on me than all that you have
written to me. I hope that you will never forget that it is to her you
are indebted for your pardon.”[83]
The plot thickens: all at once we find ourselves in deeper water. Before
we had false rumours and reports; now we have forged letters. The
cardinal having received the first one as genuine, what is to prevent
the success of others? Nothing, it would seem, so long as the countess
exercises her customary discretion. Letters and replies thereupon follow
each other in quick succession, amounting in course of time to something
like a couple of hundred in number. Of these the countess pretended
she preserved copies of thirty-one, which she subsequently printed
by way of appendix to her autobiography. Judging from these samples,
the communications which, according to her assertions, passed between
the queen and the cardinal, were not merely tender and familiar, but
occasionally touched upon subjects that were positively indelicate.[84]
It is needless to inform the reader that, so far as the letters
attributed to Marie-Antoinette are concerned, they were one and all of
them vile fabrications. They were penned, in fact, by the prospective
sub-lieutenant of the marshalsea, of whom we have already spoken, Rétaux
de Villette, who was attached to the countess in the double capacity of
“_cavalier servente_” and secretary, and whose chief occupation seems to
have consisted in forging letters on gilt-edged paper, or paper bordered
with blue flowers (_vignettes bleues_). His _cabinet de travail_ was
madame’s bedchamber, and he worked at a little table by the bedside, on
which was a writing-case with a stock of note-paper, such as the queen
was known to be in the habit of using.[85] Monsieur de Villette resided
regularly under the De la Motte roof, for Jeanne de Saint-Remi, Countess
de Valois de la Motte, having considerable traffic in forgery, found it
necessary to keep a forger on the premises, just as other people find it
requisite to keep a secretary or a clerk.
If we glance behind the scenes, we cannot help being impressed by this
daring woman’s strength of mind, which enables her to work so calmly
and leisurely while all the time the wolf is at the door. Not only has
she her idle husband and herself to support, but there is at times her
brother, whose pension she has sold, and her “secretary,” and she not
possessed of a single sou of regular income! To add to all this, she is
in debt to the landlord, the tax-gatherer, and the tradespeople; duns
are calling upon her every hour—duns are even waiting in the ante-room
while she is dictating forged letters to Villette. Her own pension and
that of her brother being utterly gone, the family have literally no
bread to eat but that of charity, and the bread of charity is so scanty
and bitter that the descendant of the house of Valois has become a liar
and a forger, and is preparing to become a thief, in order to add to
and sweeten it. And all this while, with her thread of life drawn, so
to speak, to a single hair, she is the emblem of composure, advancing
“stealthily, steadfastly, with Argus eye and ever-ready brain—with nerve
of iron, on shoes of felt!” whilst Cardinal Prince de Rohan, her father
in years, who lives in palaces surrounded by every luxury, holds one
of the highest offices in the state, is superior of numerous important
religious establishments and seigneur of countless manors, and has a
revenue of upwards of a million livres, is feverish with impatience.
According to his usual practice, the Cardinal, with Versailles and the
Little Trianon closed against him, is spending the sultry summer-time
in retirement at his stately palace of Saverne, a huge building of red
sandstone in the Italian style of architecture, for the most part newly
erected by himself in place of a former edifice consumed by fire a few
years previously. At Saverne the Cardinal Prince Louis de Rohan exercises
all the authority of a petty sovereign, and keeps up a well-nigh regal
state. Gentlemen of high birth do not disdain his service; and such is
the prodigality that rules in his establishment, that he has no less
than fourteen _maîtres d’hôtel_ and twenty-five _valets de chambre_![86]
Situated at the foot of the eastern slope of the Vosges, and almost
within sight of the valley of the Rhine, Saverne has its upper and
lower towns, in the former of which are situated the cathedral, the
_chancellerie_, the _hôtel de la régence_, the ancient château, and,
adjoining this last, the palatial residence of the once all-powerful De
Rohans. The principal front of this vast building looked over charming
gardens, laid out in the French style, with handsome terraces and
arcades, geometrically-shaped beds of brilliant flowers, trees trimmed
to pattern, green shady alleys, trellises covered with vines, arbours,
statues, fountains, rivulets, broad sheets of water, islands, grottos,
and kiosques, while beyond all this extended a beautiful park, at the
outskirts of which was a pheasantry, bounded by a dense forest, whose
glades in the pleasant autumn months were alive with _piqueurs_ and packs
of dogs and sportsmen in the great gold uniform of the cardinal, while
the huntsman’s horn might be heard incessantly resounding.
The palace, on the garden side, presented one long façade ornamented with
fluted Corinthian pilasters and richly-carved cornices and mouldings, and
having countless windows of a uniform character. Its somewhat unpleasing
regularity was broken by a projecting centre part with a row of open
columns and balustrades, which formed a kind of gallery, handsomely
decorated in its different stages with ornamental friezes, statues and
bas-reliefs, and having the elaborately-sculptured armorial bearings of
the family of De Rohan and its many alliances prominently displayed at
either end.[87]
The principal entrance to the episcopal palace conducted to a handsome
vestibule, from whence the grand staircase led to the magnificent suite
of reception rooms where the Prince de Rohan, banished from Versailles,
assembled around him a little court of his own, composed of some few
members of the old nobility related to his house, discontented courtiers
who disliked the young queen, certain too complaisant beauties, and
_petits-maîtres_ from the Paris _salons_, philosophers, prelates, and
provincial magnates, military officers from the neighbouring garrison
at Strasbourg, and the usual complement of fools and flatterers that
invariably dance attendance on the powerful and the wealthy.
The once stately palace of Saverne is now-a-days divested of all its
former splendour. It serves alike for the _mairie_, the court of the
justice of the peace, and the corn-market; and as barracks, guard-house,
forage-stores, farriery, and stables for the troops composing the
garrison of the town.[88]
In the summer of the year 1784 couriers bound for Paris would every now
and then sally forth from the palace gates with bags of letters, among
which there was invariably one elaborately-sealed packet addressed
to the Countess de la Motte. Enclosed in this would be a letter for
the queen, begging, entreating, praying for an interview at which the
writer might plead his cause and regain complete possession of his royal
mistress’s favour. Days and weeks go by while he is waiting and watching
for a response. Judge however, of the cardinal’s agitation when one day
the countess herself arrives unexpectedly at Saverne—having travelled
post all the way from Paris—and announces to him that the long and
eagerly-sought interview is at length accorded to him; that the queen has
consented to a midnight meeting with him in the Park of Versailles. The
countess thought, and thought rightly, that a journey of nearly three
hundred miles, undertaken on purpose to be the bearer of this welcome
intelligence, would give it all the greater weight, and would effectually
dispel any unpleasant doubts that might perchance by this time have taken
possession of the cardinal’s mind.[89]
XII.
1784. JUNE–JULY.
THE COUNTERFEIT QUEEN.
Counterfeit _billets-doux_ having been palmed off on the infatuated
cardinal as genuine with such complete success, the countess now ventures
on a singularly bold step, nothing less than the personation of majesty
itself, and actually succeeds in foisting upon the purblind prelate
_une belle courtisane_ of the Palais Royal as the beautiful, high-born
Marie-Antoinette.
This incident of the nocturnal interview—the most daring of the many
daring schemes of which the long intrigue was composed—is so fully
and clearly, and, moreover, so artlessly, described by the “_fille du
monde_,” who was bribed to perform the character of Marie-Antoinette
on the occasion, in her memorial published at the time of the Necklace
trial, as to completely exonerate the queen from having been in any way a
party to it. Prior, however, to laying this statement before the reader,
we have something to say respecting the new character whom we are about
to introduce upon the scene.
This young person, commonly known as Mademoiselle d’Oliva, but whose real
name was Leguay Designy, was born in Paris in 1761, and was consequently
younger than the queen by seven years. Although her reputation was
anything but spotless, she was by no means the common creature she is
ordinarily represented to have been. M. Leguay Designy, her father, had
been a respectable citizen, who at his death was found to have saved
money, and when her mother died, a few years before the event which
rendered the daughter an object of so much notoriety, Mademoiselle Leguay
Designy was left with a competent provision deposited for her in the
hands of trustees. These guardians however abused their trust, and after
dissipating the bulk of the young woman’s property, compromised the
matter by the payment of four thousand livres, which money she received
in the early part of 1784, only a few months before the day rendered
memorable by the midnight meeting in the park of Versailles.
Mademoiselle Leguay Designy, in her memorial, drawn up by her advocate,
M. Blondel—who, perceiving that the very simplicity of his client was
her best defence, had the sagacity to let her tell her story in her own
way—thus describes how it was that she first became acquainted with the
De la Mottes, husband and wife.
“In the month of June, 1784, I lodged,” she says, “in a small apartment
in the Rue du Jour, in the Quartier St. Eustache.[90] I was not very far
from the Palais Royal, where I used frequently to go of an afternoon for
two or three hours with a neighbour’s child, about four years old, of
whom I was very fond.
“One afternoon, in the month of July, when I was sitting in the Palais
Royal, this child being along with me, I observed a stranger pass by
several times; he was a tall young man, and quite alone. He looked at me
fixedly, and I noticed as he came near to me that he slackened his pace
as if to survey me more attentively. There was a vacant chair two or
three feet from mine, in which he seated himself.
“I could not avoid bestowing my attention upon him, for his eyes kept
repeatedly wandering over my person. The expression of his countenance
becomes grave and earnest, and he appears agitated by a painful and
anxious curiosity as he scans my entire figure very narrowly, whilst not
a feature of my face escapes him.
“We met in this way in the gardens of the Palais Royal for several
successive days, until at last he addressed me, and I committed the error
of replying to him.
“One evening on leaving him I returned home, when I found that he had
followed me without my perceiving it. Suddenly he stood before me in
my apartment. He introduced himself with every sign of respectful
politeness, and requested me to allow him occasionally to visit me. I
could not take upon myself to deny his request, and after obtaining
my consent, he was most assiduous in his calls. But I had no reason to
complain of these visits, for the young man never passed the limits of
propriety. He questioned me, however, with the kindest concern respecting
my income and future prospects, taking a lively interest in my fate. He
also spoke of powerful protectors of his own, to whom he could recommend
me, and who might be able to serve me.
“Doubtless you are eager to know who this stranger was. It is time
to name him; it was M. de la Motte, who represented himself to be an
officer of distinguished rank, with great expectations, and supported by
illustrious patrons.[91]
“It was, I think, on the occasion of his ninth visit, one morning at the
beginning of August, 1784,[92] that I observed his countenance overspread
with joy and satisfaction, such as he had never exhibited before. He had,
he said, the most agreeable, the most interesting things to tell me.
“‘I have just left,’ continued he, ‘a person of very great distinction,
who spoke a great deal about you. I shall bring the lady to see you this
evening.’
“I awaited that evening with eagerness, counting every hour and every
moment, for I longed to see this lady of very great distinction.
“M. de la Motte returned at night, telling me that in a few moments I
should see the person about whom he had spoken in the morning. Whereupon,
and without any further explanation, he withdrew.
“Scarcely had he left me, before I saw a lady enter my chamber; she
was all alone—no servant was attending her. She approached me with
politeness, and with looks full of affability.
“‘Madame,’ said she, smiling, ‘you must be rather surprised at my visit,
unknown to you as I am.’
“I replied that the surprise could not be otherwise than agreeable to me.
“This person was the wife of my pretended patron; she was Madame de la
Motte, but she took good care not to say so then. I offered the lady a
chair, she drew it herself close to my own, and sat down. Then leaning
over towards me, with a look at once cautious and confiding, whilst her
eye appeared to gleam with an expression of benevolent regard, she said
to me, in a low voice, what I am about to relate.
“‘Confide, my dear pet, in what I am going to say, I am a gentlewoman
belonging to the court.’
“At the same time she drew out a pocket-book, and having opened it,
showed me several letters, which she declared to me were written to her
by the queen.
“‘But, madame,’ answered I, ‘all this is a mystery to me; I cannot
understand it.’
“‘You will soon understand it, my pet. I possess the queen’s full
confidence; we are like hand and glove together. She has just given me
another proof of this trust, by commissioning me to find her a person
to do something which will be explained at the proper time. I have made
choice of you, and, if you like to undertake it, I will make you a
present of 15,000 livres (francs); but the present that you will receive
from the queen will be much more considerable. I cannot tell you my name
just yet, but you shall soon be informed who I am. If, however, you do
not think my word sufficient, and desire to have security for the 15,000
livres, we will go directly to a notary’s.’”
[In the following paragraph the pen of the advocate has evidently been at
work.]
“Ye simple and trustful hearts, pause for a moment after reading this
artful speech from the boldest and most audacious intriguer that ever
lived. Fancy yourselves in my place, deign to consider what my feelings
must have been, what I must have thought and imagined, I, a poor girl of
twenty-three, unacquainted with either intrigue or business. What would
you have said? What would you have done under similar circumstances?
“From that moment I was no longer myself. I answered Madame de la Motte
that I should be proud to be able to do anything that would be agreeable
to the queen, without any motive of personal interest to prompt me.
“She replied immediately, ‘The Count de la Motte will call for you
to-morrow evening in a carriage, and will carry you to Versailles.’”[93]
The reader will not fail to observe the precision with which the countess
enters on her course of action; the quickness with which she manages
to come to the point. Her husband takes a fortnight to bring about the
introduction of his wife, while she settles everything at a single
interview.
The next day the count, who is accompanied by Rétaux de Villette, takes
Mademoiselle Leguay to Versailles at the appointed time, and leaves her
with his wife in their apartments at the Hôtel de la Belle Image, kept
by the Sieur Gobert, and situated in the Place Dauphine, at that time
one of the most aristocratic quarters of the royal town. This place is
octagonal in shape, and the houses, which range from four to five storeys
high, all have some sort of pretension about them; they have either open
balustrades running along the parapets, or carved cornices with enriched
mouldings surmounting the windows, or ornamental iron balconies. Most of
them too have large _portes cochères_. The Place, which in Madame de la
Motte’s days was a large open space, where the public sedan-chairs—the
_chaises bleues_ and the _brouettes_—used to ply for hire, is to-day laid
out as a flower garden, and has in the centre a bronze statue of General
Hoche, after whom the Place is now named. The house where the countess
lodged was formerly known as “La Belle Image,” but it no longer preserves
its sign. It is, however, easily recognisable, being the first house (No.
8)[94] in the angle on the right hand, on entering the Place from the Rue
Hoche. All the apartments, with the exception of the attics, must have
been of a superior class. Now-a-days the ground floor is appropriated
to a “Magasin Anglais,” where English cutlery, and needles and pins,
and reels and balls of cotton, and patent medicines and pickles, and
old brown Windsor soap, and biscuits are exposed for sale. To return,
however, to Mademoiselle Leguay, whose memorial thus proceeds:
“It was only then I learnt the name and condition of Madame de la Motte,
that she was the wife of Count de la Motte, that she went by the title of
Countess de Valois at Versailles, and that the queen used to write to her
in that name.”
The _belle courtisane_ of the Palais Royal, whose resemblance to
Marie-Antoinette is said to have been singularly striking,—she
was remarkable for the elegance of her figure, had blue eyes and
chestnut-coloured hair[95]—is now dressed and tricked out in coquettish
_négligé_—a white robe _en chemise_, bordered and lined with rose colour,
and a white lace hood—for the famous interview which the Cardinal de
Rohan had so earnestly solicited of the queen, with whom the miserable
dupe flattered himself he had been all this while corresponding. The
memorial continues:
“Madame de la Motte delivered to me a small note, folded in the usual
way, but without telling me either what it contained or to whom it was
addressed, or even by whom it was written. Neither she nor her husband
spoke to me on the subject. Madame de la Motte merely said, ‘I will take
you this evening into the park, and you will deliver this letter to a
great nobleman whom you will meet there.’”[96]
XIII.
1784. JULY.
THE MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW.—“YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS.”
The memorial of the Demoiselle Leguay Designy thus proceeds:—
“Between eleven and twelve o’clock I went out with Monsieur and Madame
de la Motte. I had on a white mantle and a white lace hood. I do not
remember whether I carried a fan in my hand or not; I cannot say for
certain. The small note was in my pocket.
“They took me into the park; there a rose was put into my hand by Madame
de la Motte, who said to me: ‘You will give this rose, along with the
letter, to the person who shall present himself to you, and say to him
these words:—You know what this means? The queen will be there to see how
your meeting passes off; she will speak to you. She is there yonder, and
will be close behind you. You shall presently speak to her yourself.’
“These last words made such an impression on me, that I trembled from
head to foot. I could not help telling them so: I observed to them that I
did not know I was to speak to the queen. I asked them, in a stammering
voice, what was the proper mode of form of speech.... M. de la Motte
answered me: ‘You must always say, Your majesty.’
“I need hardly, I think, break off here to declare that, far from having
had the honour of speaking to the queen, or her having done me the honour
to speak to me, I did not even see her at all....
“We were still walking along when M. de la Motte met a man, to whom he
said: ‘Ah! is that you?’... Afterwards, when I dined with the La Mottes,
I recognised in Villette, their friend, the same person who was thus
addressed by M. de la Motte....
“Madame de la Motte then accompanied me to a hedge of yoke elms, leaving
me there whilst she went to fetch the great nobleman to whom I was to
speak.
“I remained waiting.... The noble unknown came up, bowing as he
approached me, whilst Madame de la Motte stood aside a few paces off, and
appeared to watch the scene. I knew not who the great nobleman was, and
although the Cardinal de Rohan now acknowledges that he was the person, I
am still ignorant upon the point.
“It was a dull night, not a speck of moonlight; nor could I distinguish
anything but those persons and objects which were familiar to me. It
would be quite impossible for me to describe the state I was in. I was so
agitated, so excited, so disconcerted, and so tremulous, that I cannot
conceive how I was able to accomplish even half of what I had been
instructed to do.
“I offered the rose to the great nobleman, and said to him, ‘You know
what this means,’ or something very similar. I cannot affirm whether he
took it or let it fall. As for the letter it remained in my pocket; I had
entirely forgotten it.
“As soon as I had spoken, Madame de la Motte came running up to us,
saying in a low hurried voice: ‘Quick, quick, come away!’
“I left the stranger, and after proceeding a few steps found myself with
M. de la Motte, whilst his wife and the unknown went off together and
were lost to our view. Count de la Motte conducted me back to the hotel,
where we sat talking together until the return of his lady.
“She came home about two in the morning, when I explained to her that I
had forgotten to give the note. I was afraid she would have scolded me
for this negligence, but instead of doing so she evinced the greatest
satisfaction, assuring me she had just left the queen, and that her
majesty was in the highest degree delighted with my performance.”[97]
Such appears to have been the famous scene in the park of Versailles at
midnight, when the Prince de Rohan, deluded by an artful woman, was fain
to believe that he had been honoured with an interview with the Queen
of France, and might soon expect to be openly received at court. The
countess knew perfectly well that the cheat would run the risk of being
detected if the dialogue were suffered to proceed too far, she therefore
frightened away her dupes almost as soon as she had brought them together.
The Countess de la Motte’s own account of this interview in the park of
Versailles, though at variance with that given by Mademoiselle d’Oliva,
nevertheless agrees sufficiently with it to prove that the statement
of the latter was perfectly sincere. The countess alleges that the
idea of practising this deception upon the cardinal originated with
Marie-Antoinette herself—that the choice of the actress who was to
personate her, the place appointed for the interview, the young girl’s
embarrassment before the meeting, were all known at the time to the
queen, who was present in an adjoining arbour.
Nay, more. According to the same account, the Cardinal de Rohan was
also privy to the trick played upon himself, and connived at the deceit
in order to humour her majesty. Madame de la Motte’s narrative of the
transaction is too long to be transcribed throughout, but it concludes in
this manner:—
“The poor girl was dressed and adorned like a shrine.... Judging from
the questions she had put to me since her arrival at Versailles, it was
easy to see that she expected some great adventure, and had made her
preparations accordingly.... Nothing could be more diverting than the
embarrassment of this creature, whose real anxiety was about the issue,
since she knew she was going to play her part before the queen.
“The scene was the arbour at the lower end of the grass-plot. This arbour
is encompassed on its left-hand path by a hedge of hornbeam, supported
by a strong lattice-work fence. At a distance of three feet from the
inner part of the arbour is a second hedge, and the space between the two
quicksets forms a walk which leads round the enclosure without conducting
to the arbour itself.
“At the hour appointed I gave the signal by putting into Mademoiselle
d’Oliva’s hand the rose which Marie-Antoinette had told me to deliver
to the cardinal through her means. Having placed her at her post, I
withdrew. The queen was not ten paces from me. I was distressed by
d’Oliva’s timidity, and the queen doubtless experienced the same feeling,
for in spite of all her reserve and watchfulness she could not contain
herself, but cried out: ‘Take courage. Don’t be afraid!’ D’Oliva admitted
this in her examination. The cardinal having come up, the conversation
began.
“The cardinal, whose mind was at ease, since he was in the secret,
exerted himself to compose the poor girl, by putting none but simple
questions to her, and saying courteous things. What chiefly disconcerted
her was, that he spoke of former errors forgiven, of his gratitude, and
made fine promises for the future. Of all this she understood nothing,
answering Yes or No at random. But the cardinal took advantage of these
monosyllables to dwell upon his happiness with exaggeration, saying the
prettiest things in the world ... raising her foot at the close of this
speech, and respectfully kissing it. It was then Mademoiselle d’Oliva
gave him the rose, which he placed against his heart, protesting that
he would preserve this token all his life, and calling it the rose of
happiness.
“Everything having been said that was to be said, I came forward
hurriedly, and announced that Madame and the Countess d’Artois were
approaching the spot. Every one vanished with lightning-like rapidity.
D’Oliva returned to the seat where my husband was expecting her, the
cardinal having rejoined the Baron de Planta, whom he had left at some
distance on the watch, came, accompanied by him, to me, and induced me to
follow him beyond the avenue, behind which he stopped to see the queen
pass. Having caught sight of her as she was stealing out from the corner
of the grass-plot and taking the walk leading to the terrace, he urged me
to follow her majesty, and try to ascertain whether she was satisfied.
Accordingly I did follow her, with light measured steps, and having
overtaken her at the entrance to the château, she made me go in along
with her, told me in substance that she had been much diverted, paid me
a few compliments on my own account, and enjoined me not to tell the
cardinal that I had seen her that evening.”[98]
In this account there is much that is false, and but little that is
true. A counterfeit queen, and no other, was present at the interview.
The cardinal was imposed upon by the trick to which of course he was
not privy; and having left the park with the full conviction that he
had spoken to his sovereign, was committed to the tender mercies of the
countess and her confederates, who quickly proceeded to plunder him of
his money.
XIV.
1784. JULY–NOV.
A GOLDEN HARVEST.—HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF.—BARONESS D’OLIVA IS GIVEN THE
COLD SHOULDER.
The evening following that on which the cardinal was so cleverly duped,
young Beugnot happening to find himself in the neighbourhood of the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Gilles, looked in at the countess’s hôtel on the chance
of finding her at home. At this period it was no longer a spacious
_appartement_ that she rented, but the entire house; and yet, with the
view of deceiving the cardinal, on whose bounty she was now in a large
measure dependent, whenever he called upon her she used invariably to
receive him in some mean apartment on one of the upper floors.[99] “I
was told,” says Beugnot, “that the master and mistress were absent,
and that only Mademoiselle Colson was within. This made me the more
inclined to stay. Mademoiselle Colson was a relation of Madame de la
Motte’s, whom madame had qualified for and raised to the rank of _dame de
compagnie_. She was wanting neither in wit nor malice, and whenever I met
her we always made a point of laughing together at the foolishness and
extravagance of the heads of the house. They used to tell her nothing;
nevertheless she managed to find out everything. ‘I think,’ she remarked
to me on this occasion, ‘that their royal highnesses are occupied with
some grand project. They pass their time in secret counsels, to which the
first secretary (Villette) is alone admitted. His reverence the second
secretary (Father Loth) is consequently reduced to listening at the
door: he makes three journeys a day to the Rue Vieille-du-Temple (to the
Palais-Cardinal), without guessing a single word of the messages they
confide to him. The monk is inconsolable at this, since he is as curious
as an old devotee.’
“We passed two hours in thus slandering our neighbours and in making
guesses and prophesying. When I wished to leave, Mademoiselle Colson
pointed to the clock: it was midnight, and there was no chance of
finding a _voiture_ on the stand. Since I had remained so long, the
only thing to do now, she said, was to await the return of Madame de
la Motte, who would send me home in her carriage. I consented. Between
twelve and one o’clock we heard the sound of a vehicle entering the
court, and saw alight from it Monsieur and Madame de la Motte, Villette,
and a woman from twenty-five to thirty years of age—a blonde, very
pretty, and of a remarkably fine figure. The two women were dressed with
elegance, but simplicity; the men wore _dress-coats_, and had the air
of having just returned from a country party. They began by joking me
on my _tête-à-tête_ with Mademoiselle Colson, and spoke of the regret
we must both have felt at having been so soon disturbed. They talked
any amount of nonsense together, laughed, hummed, and seemed as if they
could not keep their legs still. The stranger shared the common mirth,
but she restrained herself within due bounds, and displayed a certain
timidity. They seated themselves at table, the merriment continued, it
increased, and finally became noisy. Mademoiselle Colson and I wore dull
and astonished looks, such as one is forced to put on in the presence
of very gay people when one is ignorant of what they are laughing
at. Meanwhile the party indulging in this excess of hilarity seemed
inconvenienced by our presence, as it prevented them from speaking openly
of the subject of their mirth. M. de la Motte consulted Villette as to
whether there would be any risk in speaking. Villette replied that ‘he
did not admit the truth of the adage that one is betrayed only by one’s
own people; in fact, anybody and everybody were ready to betray you, and
discretion——’ Here Madame de la Motte, by whose side the first secretary
was sitting at table, suddenly put her hand on his mouth, and said in an
imperative tone: ‘Hold your tongue; M. Beugnot is too upright a man for
your confidence.’ I give her own words without changing a syllable. The
compliment would have been a flattering one if the countess had not been
ordinarily in the habit of using the words ‘upright man’ and ‘fool’ as
though they were synonymous.
“Madame de la Motte, following her usual practice whenever I was
present, turned the conversation upon Bar-sur-Aube and on my family, and
inquired when I contemplated returning thither. Every one was wishing
the supper to come to an end. I asked Madame de la Motte to lend me her
horses to take me home. She raised only a slight difficulty: it was
necessary that she should send home the stranger, and eventually decided
that the one living farthest off should set down the other on the way.
I objected to this arrangement, and asked permission of the lady to
escort her to whatever quarter she lived in, expressing my regret at
the same time that however distant this might be, it would still be too
near. This woman’s countenance had at the first glance caused me that
kind of uneasiness which one feels when one is conscious of having seen
a person before, but cannot remember when or where. I addressed several
questions to her on our way, but was unable to draw anything out of her;
either Madame de la Motte, who had spoken to her in private before her
departure, had recommended her to be discreet with me, or, what seemed
more probable, she had naturally more inclination for holding her tongue
than for talking. I set down my silent companion in the Rue de Cléry.
The uneasiness which I felt in her presence was, I afterwards called to
mind, due to her striking resemblance to the queen. The lady proved to
be no other than Mademoiselle d’Oliva, and the mirth of my companions
was occasioned by the complete success of the knavish trick which they
had played off only the night before in the park of Versailles upon the
Cardinal de Rohan.”[100]
This meeting, at which the cardinal was so cleverly fooled, took place,
be it remembered, either at the end of July—the countess fixes it on the
28th—or at the commencement of August. His eminence the cardinal was so
much elated with his good fortune, in having thus recovered, as he hoped,
the favour of the queen, and felt so well assured that he was now in a
fair way of becoming prime minister, the great object of his ambition,
that the Countess de la Motte resolved at once to reap the first-fruits
of his fond hallucination. So great was her decision of character,
so thorough her assurance, so precise and prompt her mode of action,
that before many days had elapsed she had applied for, by means of a
billet bordered with _vignettes bleues_, penned of course by the forger
Villette—and obtained the moderate sum of 50,000 livres, in the queen’s
name, assuring her dupe that the queen required the loan for certain
charitable purposes.[101] Ere another three months had gone by, by the
aid of another forged billet purporting to have been penned by the queen,
madame succeeded in obtaining 100,000 livres more. Both these amounts she
received at the hands of the cardinal’s equerry, the Baron de Planta.
Thus the Prince de Rohan, who in the month of July had been duped by an
interview with a counterfeit queen, had been swindled, ere the year had
gone by, out of no less a sum than 150,000 livres, or £6,000 sterling.
This is all the more extraordinary, and only proves the intensity of
the infatuation under which the old dotard must have been labouring,
for no very long time previously there had been much talk within the
purlieus of the court of a daring act of swindling, perpetrated by means
of a scandalous misuse of the queen’s name, which ought to have put him
on his guard. It seems that one Béranger, a _fermier-général_ had been
induced to advance a sum of 200,000 livres, to a certain Madame Cahouet
de Villers, a lady said to be in attendance on the queen, for the use as
he believed of her royal mistress. When first the lady applied to him, M.
Béranger observed that he should be proud to furnish the sum required,
provided her majesty would condescend to say one word to him—only one
little word. But the lady only laughed at his unreasonable demand. If
the queen, she said, chose to apply in so open a manner, of course the
contents of every strong box in the kingdom would be at her disposal.
Then where would be the merit of lending so small a sum on such security?
Poor Béranger was ashamed of himself for having been so unreasonable, and
consented to lend the money if the queen would only show him by a look,
or even by a nod, that she desired it. This compact was agreed upon.
A few days afterwards, therefore, when the queen with her train of
ladies had to pass along the famous Galérie des Glaces at Versailles on
some occasion of pleasure, the cautious _fermier-général_ posted himself
in a quiet corner where he could be seen, and by-and-by Marie-Antoinette
swept by full of “nods and becks and wreathed smiles,”—cunningly provoked
by some smart observations made by Madame Cahouet de Villers, and
which the delighted financier applied entirely to himself. A few hours
afterwards the two hundred thousand francs were handed to the lady in
question. The duped _fermier-général_, who, when the affair came to be
commonly known, was toasted as a gallant financier at all parties and in
all societies for a month or two afterwards, ultimately put the affair
into the hands of the police, and my lady was arrested and sent to
Sainte-Pélagie, whilst her husband was brought to ruin through having to
reimburse the _fermier-général_ the amount of which he had been defrauded.
The above transpired in 1777. Five years later another imposture of
a somewhat similar character was brought to light, but owing to its
having been comparatively harmless in its results, it did not make
any particular noise. A female boasted that she was honoured with the
confidence of the queen, and exhibited letters—sealed with a seal
belonging to Marie-Antoinette which had been stolen off a table in
the apartment of the Duchess de Polignac—inviting her to Trianon.
She gave out that she could influence the favour of the Princess de
Lamballe, and pretended that she had been the means of disarming the
resentment of the Princess de Guéménée (the Cardinal de Rohan’s niece)
and Madame de Chimay against Madame de Roquefeuille. Here we have the
same falsehoods, the same sort of dupes, the same farce, and, what is
strangest of all, the same name; for the impostor of 1782 was also
named De la Motte!—Marie-Josephe-Françoise Waldburg-Frohberg, wife of
Stanislas-Henri-Pierre de la Motte, formerly administrator and inspector
of the royal college of La Flèche.[102] Thus does history, even in its
most insignificant byways, repeat itself.
For some time after the incident of the midnight interview, Mademoiselle
Leguay Designy was a constant visitor at the De la Mottes’ both at Paris
and Versailles, and subsequently at their country house at Charonne;
for immediately the countess had gathered the first-fruits of her
successful fraud a _petite maison de campagne_ was added to their other
establishments. The demoiselle of the Palais Royal was presented to
the somewhat mixed company she met on these occasions under the title
of the Baroness d’Oliva, which the countess had herself conferred upon
her, deriving, it is supposed, “Oliva” from “Olisva,” an anagram of
“Valois.” We learn from her that at the De la Motte table, which was
served, by-the-way, by footmen in elegant liveries, there were to be seen
officers of rank, such as the Baron de Villeroy, chevaliers of St.-Louis
and of Malta, retired notaries and their wives, a relative of madame’s,
one Valois, a bootmaker, Rétaux de Villette, the countess’s secretary,
and Father Loth, her _homme d’affaires_,—altogether a tolerably
free-and-easy sort of society, we have no manner of doubt.
On one occasion the Baroness d’Oliva accompanied the Countess de la
Motte, the Baron de Villeroy, and Rétaux de Villette to the Théâtre
Français to see Beaumarchais’ comedy, “The Marriage of Figaro,” then
running its hundred nights; but as time wore on, the countess became less
pressing in her invitations, and the intercourse between the two ladies
grew gradually less intimate, until some time in the ensuing November,
when the Countess de la Motte and the Baroness d’Oliva were no longer on
visiting terms. With regard to the 15,000 livres which the counterfeit
queen was to have received for her single night’s performance, and on the
strength of which brilliant engagement she had contracted debts which
were a source of great future embarrassment to her, this is what she says
to the countess in her “Mémoire:”—
“Some days after your return from Versailles, you and your husband came
at midnight in a _voiture de place_ to the Rue de Jour, and gave me four
hundred livres on account.
“On another day you came to me in the evening in your carriage, having
only your footman with you, and gave me seven golden louis.
“Another day you drove up to my door in your carriage and sent your
footman to inquire for me. I came down and saw Father Loth and the Baron
de Villeroy with you in the carriage. I asked you for four hundred
livres, which I wanted to pay to Gentil, my upholsterer. Some days
afterwards, Father Loth called for me, and we went together to Gentil and
paid him the money.
“On another occasion your friend Villette brought me three hundred livres
from you.
“Another day I sent my servant to you, according to previous arrangement,
when you paid her three thousand francs in notes of one thousand francs
each.”[103]
Thus it will be seen that she was only paid 4,268 of the 15,000 livres
promised to her, and that by bit-by-bit instalments. Schemers and
sharpers, if they had gold mines at their disposal, would never pay in
any other way.
XV.
1784. NOV.
GRAND DOINGS AT BAR-SUR-AUBE.
The sudden possession of a large sum of money produced in the countess
an invincible desire to return for a time to Bar-sur-Aube, where a few
years previously she had suffered so much poverty, but where she could
now display a little pomp. Late in the autumn of 1784, young Beugnot
received a very amiable letter from Madame de la Motte, in which she
announced to him that having several days to spare, she was about to
spend them at Bar-sur-Aube with her friends. “She informed me, in an
easy off-hand manner,” observes the count, “that she had sent in advance
her carriage and saddle-horses, which would be five days on the road,
as she had been recommended not to fatigue them, and that she herself
would arrive two days afterwards. She apprised her sister-in-law, Madame
de la Tour, of her coming in much the same terms, and gave her certain
particular directions as to the lodging of herself and suite. Madame de
la Tour came to me quite bewildered, and asked me what it all meant,
to which I replied that I was as much in the dark as she was. Having
compared letters, we agreed that there was a mystification of the worst
kind about the affair, but resolved that we would not be duped, and that
no preparations should be made for lodging the princess and her suite,
and moreover that we would both preserve strict silence with reference to
the letters we had received.
“How great was our joint astonishment when on the appointed day we beheld
a large heavily-laden waggon, drawn by a fine team, and followed by two
led horses of great value, drive into the town. A steward who arrived
with the waggon instantly gave orders for more provisions than would
have sufficed to victual the best house in the town for a period of six
months. People stared at each other when they met in the streets, and
wondered what this new chapter in the ‘Arabian Nights’ could possibly
mean, and were still wondering when the Count and Countess de la Motte,
preceded by two outriders in handsome liveries, drove leisurely through
the main street of Bar-sur-Aube in a very elegant _berline_.”[104] Two
years before they had left the place with borrowed money and no other
clothes but those they had on; now they returned in their own carriage,
with their couriers and saddle-horses, and actually required a waggon to
convey their wardrobe!
The town of Bar-sur-Aube, on the banks of the river, the name of which
it bears, is built partly on the slope of a mountain and partly in a
valley, and has on its mountain side the remains of some extensive Roman
fortifications said to have been constructed by Cæsar during his invasion
of Gaul. In by-gone times the town was encompassed by a massive stone
wall, and had its moats, ramparts, and four ancient gateways, with a
garrison of arquebusiers and militiamen. Its fortifications, however,
have been long since demolished, and pleasant gardens now occupy their
site. At the present day Bar-sur-Aube boasts several ancient churches and
chapels containing handsome carved altar-pieces, and many curious antique
monuments, and has also its convents, hospitals, college, and theatre.
The one object of historical interest that commonly attracts the
attention of strangers is the little Gothic chapel in the centre of the
old stone bridge of seven arches which spans the river Aube, built to
mark the spot where, upwards of four centuries since, Charles VII. caused
the Bastard de Bourbon, chief of the gang of _écorcheurs_ (flayers)—so
called because they stripped the unfortunate wretches that chanced to
fall into their hands of every particle of clothing, and who had for a
long time ravaged the Champagne—to be sewn up in a sack and drowned in
the river beneath. In the old parts of the town the houses are chiefly
of wood, and some of the more picturesque among them have large figures
of saints forming their supports. Most of those erected during the
last eighty or ninety years, however, are built entirely of stone. The
outskirts of Bar-sur-Aube are planted with trees, and laid out in public
walks, gardens, and orchards; beyond which a chain of low hills, covered
with vines or dense plantations of foliage, gives a picturesque aspect to
the surrounding country. Owing to the favourable situation of the town
and the productive nature of the adjacent districts, Bar-sur-Aube does an
extensive trade in various kinds of grain, horses, cattle, wine, brandy,
fruit, wool, leather, linen, iron, glass, pottery, and stone and timber
for building purposes.
Bar-sur-Aube has something of a history of its own, for it has been the
scene of several stirring historical events. It was occupied by the
Romans during their invasion of Gaul, was ravaged by Attila, and was
pillaged by our own Edward III. in 1360. About four centuries later
the inhabitants of Bar-sur-Aube welcomed with great display Louis the
Well-Beloved when he passed through the town on his return from the
siege of Fribourg. In January, 1814, the Allies, then marching upon
Paris, appeared before Bar-sur-Aube, and after a series of hard-fought
engagements forced Marshal Mortier, who held the town, to beat a rapid
retreat under cover of the night. While in the occupation of the Allies,
a conference of the ministers of the different powers was held at
Bar-sur-Aube, when Lord Castlereagh resolutely refused all subsidies to
the vacillating Bernadotte unless he agreed to support Marshal Blucher
with two _corps d’armée_, and so enable the Allies to continue their
march upon Paris. At this period there were three crowned heads, the
Emperors of Russia and Austria, and the King of Prussia, installed in
comparatively humble lodgings in this second-rate provincial town. After
the battle of Montmirail, on the 11th of February, the Allies, who were
retreating, turned and made a stand, and compelled the French army to
retire across the river Aube. On this occasion the town was twice taken
and retaken after several severe engagements. In the year following,
about three weeks after the battle of Waterloo, the Allies, to the number
of 200,000 strong, again appeared before Bar-sur-Aube. This time there
was no enemy to face them, so they quietly took possession of the place,
and levied heavy contributions on the inhabitants, leaving a garrison of
a couple of thousand men behind them, when they pursued their unopposed
march upon Paris.[105]
The De la Mottes spend several weeks at Bar-sur-Aube, give grand dinner
and supper parties to those who consent to visit them, discharge all
their debts with the cardinal’s money, and assume all the airs of genuine
nobility. Most of the inhabitants eat their meat and drink their wine
without instituting any curious inquiries as to the source of their
strange prosperity; but there was one whose piercing intelligence
penetrated every outward vanity, whose keen eye discerned the truth
then more distinctly than others have done since, after the exposure of
a long trial by the Court of Parliament, and the still more searching
investigations of fifty historians. This sagacious man was M. de la
Tour, who had married the count’s sister. When he dined at the De la
Motte table, the countess herself, to whom all others submitted, quailed
beneath his cutting sarcasms.
“I chanced to be alone with M. de la Tour,” says Beugnot, “on the day
of Madame de la Motte’s arrival. ‘Am I not a thousand times right,’
said he to me, ‘when I assert that Paris contains the worst persons in
the world? In what other place, I ask you, would this little vixen and
her big lanky husband have been able to obtain by swindling the things
which they are displaying before our astonished eyes? Your good father
excepted’—Beugnot’s father, it will be remembered, had lent the De la
Mottes a thousand livres a few years previously—‘whom would they have
found here willing to lend them a crown? and yet in half an hour they
have unpacked more silver plate than there is in the whole town besides,
not even excepting the chalices and ornaments of the altar.’... ‘Do you
not know,’ remarked I, ‘that Madame de la Motte is protected by the
queen?’ ‘I’ll say nothing as to the queen’s protection,’ replied La
Tour. ‘Between you and me, the wife of our lord the king is not the most
prudent person in the world; still she is not such a fool as to have
anything to do with people of their stamp, I warrant.’”
The evening after the De la Mottes’ arrival they gave a supper to a few
intimate friends, which, according to Beugnot, would have been considered
magnificent for any kind of guests even in Paris. “Although the town of
Bar-sur-Aube,” observes he, “is one of the most ancient cities of the
Gauls, never perhaps had such luxury been seen in it before, not even
when Cæsar did it the honour of stopping there to hang—as they say—the
mayor and councillors of that epoch. Faithful to an understanding we had
previously come to, La Tour and I ate with good appetites, and without
taking particular notice of anything, as though, in fact, we were both
accustomed to such festivities. We kept the conversation in our own
hands, taking care to confine it to subjects which rendered it difficult
for the most expert talker to interpose a remark in praise of any of the
things spread before us. M. de la Motte did not like this; he wished
to make us admire the dinner-service, which was of a new pattern, and
of very fine workmanship. La Tour contended that services of this kind
had been known for a very long time, but had gone out on account of
their clumsiness. The _nil admirari_ was persevered in with respect to
everything, and to the very end.
“At last Madame de la Motte thought she had found grace in our eyes in
praising a fowl, one of the finest which had just been removed from the
table, informing us at the same time that she had ordered the courier
to bring her a supply of this kind of poultry so long as she remained
at Bar-sur-Aube, because to her taste ordinary country fowls were not
eatable. ‘I ask your pardon, madam,’ interposed La Tour, in a serious
tone, ‘but I am by no means of your opinion. I consider a country capon
such as you have been speaking of, when properly fattened, to be vastly
superior to all your Normandy and Mans cocks and pullets, the flesh of
which is soft, insipid, and dripping with fat. But after the capon has
been fed on a good plan, it must be roasted in a proper manner, and for
this purpose I care little about the jack. I very much prefer to have the
spit turned by a boy of the family, or even by a dog.’
“Madame de la Motte lost patience at the sort of honour paid to her by
her husband’s relation before four tall footmen who had been brought
from Paris clothed in liveries covered with gold lace. ‘Sir,’ said she
to La Tour, in a spiteful manner, ‘I feel edified at your preference; it
is the result of a country taste which we know you carry to its fullest
extent.’ ‘I agree with you there, madam,’ replied La Tour; ‘country taste
or family taste are much the same, and you know, madam, I value one just
as much as I do the other.’
“This conversation shortened supper. ‘How do you think I have paid my
score?’ inquired La Tour of me in a low tone of voice. ‘You have been
almost too liberal,’ replied I. ‘Not at all; only I was resolved to put
down both husband and wife should they have the impertinence to ask me
to admire anything. The masquerade which has commenced this evening is
a sort of triumph for these people, and I reserve for myself the part
of the soldier who on the way tells wholesome truths to the hero of the
festival!’”[106]
Madame de la Motte called Beugnot into her room, and began complaining
to him of the insolence of her husband’s brother-in-law. “She told
me,” says Beugnot, “that her fortune had changed, that she was now in
a good position, both as regarded herself and those belonging to her,
and that we were all interested in adopting a different manner towards
her. She hinted something of the very high connection she was keeping
up at Versailles, and ended by remarking that she did not think she
could remain with us the fortnight she had promised herself. I proffered
her a first example of the new style of behaviour which she desired
by not asking her a single question. I merely undertook to beg her
brother-in-law to be more prudent for the future, without, however,
anticipating much success from my intervention.”
The third day of the countess’s sojourn at Bar-sur-Aube was occupied by
her in paying visits to people in the neighbourhood. She dressed herself
out with all the taste which can result from an excess of magnificence,
her robes being of the finest Lyons embroidery, and she herself sparkling
with diamonds. She had, moreover, a complete set of topazes, which she
also took care to display. “She made herself,” says Beugnot, “almost
ridiculously engaging and familiar with the neighbouring nobility and
gentry. Great and small were alike enchanted with her. They returned her
visits, but when she wished to go further, and give some little fêtes,
the respectable women of the place excused themselves under various
pretexts, and Madame de la Motte found herself reduced to the young men
and the women of her husband’s family, so thorough was the respect for
manners at this time in a little provincial town. ‘Madame de la Motte,’
said these good ladies to me, ‘is a charming woman, and we like her very
much; but why do you wish us to give our girls ideas of which they have
no need, and which will perhaps awaken in them desires they can never
gratify?’
“I was wanting,” resumes Beugnot, “neither in respect nor discretion
towards Madame de la Motte. She seemed to have completely forgotten our
old relations, and on this point I was in unison with her. I had become
to her simply a well-bred man with whom she could speak on any subject.
She told me of the secret vexations she endured through the deplorable
position of her husband’s family. I consoled her as well as I could,
always observing to her that a residence in a little town was in her case
quite a mistake—that she ought to have an hôtel at Paris and a château
in the country. She replied that she did not wish to buy land, because
she was about to obtain the estates belonging to her family, on which
she proposed to build. The hôtel in Paris she allowed to pass without
notice, but she admitted that she wished to possess one at Bar-sur-Aube,
where she could spend the summer months until her projected château
was built. I took the liberty of opposing this idea of purchasing a
house at Bar-sur-Aube, and maintained that it would be in far better
taste to inhabit a cottage while the château was being built by its
side; but Madame de la Motte, who had already received many valuable
lessons on this subject, did not the less persist in her desire to
display her magnificence in those places which had been witnesses of her
former misery. She purchased, in spite of my remonstrances, a house at
Bar-sur-Aube, for which she paid twice as much as it was worth, and then
gave it up to architects, who considered it their duty to commit all the
stupidities which the property admitted of, and a few more.”[107]
“As the period of the countess’s sojourn at Bar-sur-Aube drew to a close,
people grew angry with those who had held aloof from visiting her. M.
de la Tour alone underwent no change. I had begged of him to consider
the notable alteration which opulence, though sudden, had wrought in the
manners and behaviour of both the count and countess. ‘I half agree with
you,’ replied he. ‘The wife is a hussy who has gained in penetration;
but the husband has lost in every way—he left us a fool and comes back to
us a coxcomb. I persist in thinking badly of them, and even in speaking
badly of them, so long as they do not reveal to me by what honest means
they have acquired in the short space of six months what we now know
them to be possessed of. Whom will they or you persuade that the king,
the queen, the Count d’Artois, the _contrôleur-général_—in a word, I
know not what powerful persons—have thrown heaps of gold to people who
simply asked for bread? The age I know is fertile in extravagance, but
not exactly of this kind. Husband and wife have spread a little report
around that madame is in favour with the queen. I have noticed them at
this for the last fortnight, and if they had mentioned a single word of
it in my presence, I had a little story ready for them about the Countess
de Gazon[108] and the Queen of Congo with which I should have made all
the lookers-on laugh at their expense.
“‘My dear friend,’ continued La Tour, ‘they are altogether far too
impertinent, and it is really shameful that people should be duped so
cheaply. Believe every word they say if you please, but for my part I
adhere to what I know. Now I know, through you, that madame has relations
with the Cardinal de Rohan, since she has been conveyed five or six times
to his eminence’s hôtel at your expense. Possibly she has since been
transported there on her own light foot. Of all the acquaintances of this
fine lady, the Cardinal de Rohan is the only one to whom prodigality on a
grand scale is not impossible. There are then two conclusions—either he
has supplied the money for all that we see, or else it has been stolen
from him. I ask your pardon for the second horn of my dilemma, but only
on condition that you grant me the first; and yet I confess I can only
with great difficulty understand how a little village hussy like her can
have succeeded in seducing a prince, a prelate, and a scape-grace of such
importance.’”[109]
A few days before her departure from Bar-sur-Aube the countess placed
in the hands of young Beugnot a rouleau of fifty louis in discharge of
certain small loans which he had at various times accommodated her with.
“I explained to her,” remarks Beugnot, “that I could not say exactly
what she owed me, but that I was quite certain the amount was below
1200 livres.[110] ‘Nevertheless take it,’ replied she; ‘and if there is
anything over, give it to your mother for her poor pensioners.’” Beugnot,
on making up the account, found he had been paid twenty louis too many,
which in accordance with the countess’s instructions he handed over to
his mother. So favourable and lasting an impression did this act of
generosity make on Madame Beugnot, that she could never afterwards be
brought to believe in the truth of any of the crimes charged against this
unhappy woman.
[Illustration: _The Diamond Necklace_
(_The Stones one-third their natural size_)
_From a facsimile of the Original Drawing made for Böhmer and Bassenge,
jewellers to the French Crown._]
XVI.
DEC. 1784–JAN. 1785.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE IS SOLD AT LAST.
The countess and her husband, the steward and the four tall footmen,
the led horses and the baggage waggon, the outriders and the elegant
_berline_, returned to Paris at the close of November, 1784, when the De
la Mottes proceeded, after all their desperate struggles towards this
end, to enter at last into the coveted gaieties of the rank and fashion
of the most brilliant capital in Europe. At the outset they did not share
their good fortune with their sister, who was still passing a dull time
of it at the Abbey of Jarcy. All they seem to have done was to resign to
her the right of petitioning in the name of Valois, for on the 30th of
November in this same year we find her making one of those stereotyped
appeals for assistance, for which the family had now become notorious,
to the Abbé Bourbon, natural son of Louis XV.[111] Irritated no doubt at
her having refused to part with her pension, husband and wife determined
to leave her to herself to enjoy in retirement its extremely slender
benefits.
Suddenly grown rich in the queen’s name, after having successfully
established a very general belief in her pretended intimacy with royalty,
the countess’s instinctive tact led her to perceive that a new style of
living was indispensable on her part to maintain the delusion, and keep
alive that credit which she intended employing as the basis of still
larger operations. The very extravagance to which she was naturally
inclined became consequently one of the chief elements in her system
of deceit. It was no longer “alms” that she contemplated asking from a
carriage, since she had made the discovery that credulity was a mine
which, properly worked, would furnish a far richer yield than charity was
ever likely to do.
Beugnot tells us that on his return to Paris he was confirmed in his
opinion that the opulence of Madame de la Motte was due to her intimate
connection with the Cardinal de Rohan, and that he regulated his conduct
towards her accordingly. “I presented myself,” remarks he, “at her
door with discretion: I went to dine at her house only when she did me
the honour of inviting me; and I took care to put her at her ease by
affecting respect towards her. On her part she made me acquainted with
her various projects, setting them out before me with that negligence
which presupposes the certainty of success. She intended, for instance,
to withdraw her brother from the navy—an ungrateful and stupid service
in times of peace; a regiment had been promised her for him. As for
her husband, she had purchased him a step which would at once give him
captain’s rank, and she would by-and-by see if she could not get him
named second colonel. With regard to her sister, she would not hear of
her doing as she herself had done—in other words, contracting some stupid
marriage. If agreeable to her, she should be canoness at Douxières or
Poulangy, as all the places at Remiremont were bespoken for ten years
to come. ‘If,’ remarked she, ‘I had espoused a man of name, and one who
frequented the court, that would have been of some use to me. I should
then have got on much quicker; as it is, my husband is to me rather an
obstacle than a means. It is necessary that I should do something to make
my name rank before his, which is, you know, contrary to all decorum.’
“When I visited Madame de la Motte, she never failed to introduce me
to the company as a young magistrate, and always placed me immediately
after the titled people. The tone of the house was, at least in those
days, that of good company. I met there the Marquis de Saisseval, then
a great gambler, rich, and currying favour with the court; the Abbé
de Cabres, councillor in the Paris Parliament; Rouillé d’Orfeuil,
intendant of the Champagne; the Count d’Estaing, one of the heroes of
the American war, and subsequently in command of the National Guards
of Versailles, when the château was stormed by the mob; the Baron de
Villeroy, an officer of the king’s body-guard; the receiver-general
Dorcy; and Lecoulteux de la Noraye, who, while aspiring to the post of
director of the countess’s affairs and finances, dreamed of being one
day appointed _contrôleur-général_ of the finances of the nation, and
who considered himself altogether ‘a most important personage, though he
had only just wit enough to be nothing worse than a fool.’” La Noraye
was no favourite with Beugnot, who in after years knocked him down on
a particular occasion for playing him some shabby trick when they were
fellow-prisoners in La Force during the days of the Terror.[112]
All the while that madame and her husband were showing off at
Bar-sur-Aube, the cardinal was moping at Saverne, fretfully pacing up
and down a favourite walk in the episcopal pleasure-grounds, which he
had named the “Promenade de la Rose,” in honour of the gracious gift of
counterfeit royalty at the midnight interview in the park of Versailles.
This walk, which led from the palace to the neighbouring woods, had gone
by the name of the “Route de Bonheur” (road of happiness), until the
cardinal, to whom happiness still seemed hovering in the future, gave
it its new designation.[113] He had been banished to Saverne in remote
Alsace by one of those billets bordered with _vignettes bleues_, penned
by the forger Villette, so that he might be out of the way while the De
la Mottes were enjoying themselves in their country retreat.
On the countess’s return to Paris, the correspondence between the
cardinal and the phantom queen is speedily resumed. The letters that
are now interchanged are more familiar and are even tender. The amatory
prelate, we may be certain, complained that the last meeting was too
brief, implored permission to return to the capital, and begged for
another interview. Replies were doubtless sent, exhorting him to be
discreet, and promising to comply with his request at some future period.
One thing, however, is quite certain: it was at this time that madame
applied for and obtained in the queen’s name from the cardinal the
100,000 livres, of which we have already spoken, for of the 50,000 livres
received in August last every sou of course was spent.
All this while plans are being perfected for the successful carrying
out of that grand scheme of fraud, which not only caused the greatest
commotion throughout France, but may be said to have startled the entire
civilized world by its audacity. The first incidents of the new intrigue
appear to have been congenial. Some hanger-on of the countess’s would
seem to have sought out an emissary of the crown jewellers, employed to
find a purchaser for the famed Diamond Necklace with the prospect of a
commission for himself, and whispered in his ear that the Countess de la
Motte was privately received by the queen, with whom she had both credit
and influence, but that unusual reasons existed for not speaking publicly
of this intimacy. He thought, however, that the countess, if she could
only be induced to undertake the negotiation, was a very likely person
to prevail upon the queen to buy the Necklace. This suggestion was duly
reported to Böhmer and Bassenge, after which it appears the former waited
on Madame de la Motte at her own house and exhibited the matchless jewel.
Everything else followed in due course.
Though evidently interwoven with those strange fabrications in which the
countess delighted to indulge, her own relation of this first stage in
the great fraud has a certain air of probability about it, and furnishes
us with the ends of some of the threads in this entangled web. After
citing the name of a speculator and schemer named Laporte, who was always
hatching new projects for making money, and whom she had been the means
of introducing to the cardinal with the view of drawing him into some
of Laporte’s grand undertakings, she observes: “This Laporte was a very
active person, and constantly at my house; I had stood godmother to one
of his children. Achette, his father-in-law, was an intimate friend of
Böhmer’s. One day, when the two latter were at Versailles, Achette said
to Böhmer, ‘Are you still saddled with your Necklace?’ ‘Unfortunately I
am,’ answered Böhmer; ‘it is a heavy burden to me—I would gladly give
a thousand louis to any one who could find me a purchaser for it.’ It
is most probable that from the date of this conversation my name was
mentioned, Achette explaining to Böhmer how his son-in-law, Laporte, had
access to me, and through me to the cardinal.
“One day Laporte having dined at my house, mentioned to me, for the first
time, the fatal Necklace, observing that he rested all his hopes on
me; that if I would only say a word to the queen, he was convinced her
majesty would make the purchase, and that the jewellers were ready to
enter into any arrangements that might be agreeable to her.”
On this occasion, as well as on a subsequent one, the countess informs us
that she declined to interfere, and though urgently pressed, would not
listen to the suggestion. A third attempt to induce her to undertake the
negotiation was afterwards made, she tells us, when Böhmer came to her
house with Achette, bringing the Necklace along with him.
“‘Is it not a pity,’ said Achette to me, ‘that so magnificent a jewel
should leave the kingdom whilst we have a queen whom it would so well
become, and whom, I am sure, must at heart long to possess it?’
“‘I don’t know that,’ answered I; ‘nor can I understand why you have
applied to me to transmit your proposals to her majesty. I protest to you
I have no opportunity of submitting them to her, not having the honour of
approaching her.’
“‘Madame,’ replied Achette, with a look full of meaning, ‘we are not
come hither to pry into your secrets, still less to evince any doubt
respecting what you do us the honour to tell us; but believe me I am well
acquainted with Versailles; I know what is going on there; and when I
took the liberty of introducing my friend to you, it was because I felt
convinced that if you would honour him with your support, nobody at court
is better able to render him the service we make bold to solicit.’
“Böhmer’s mouth was open: I saw he was going to speak to me of his
gratitude; so, to get rid of them both, I told them I would see if, by
means of my connections, I could contrive indirectly to render them some
service.”[114]
These visits took place at the end of December. In January, 1785, the
countess contrives to insinuate to the crown jewellers, through some of
her high-class connections, that the queen really does desire to have the
Necklace. She openly states as much to the cardinal, whom, in the very
depth of a bitterly-cold winter, she has summoned to Paris by the aid of
a courier armed with one of those well-known and highly-prized billets,
gilt-edged, or bordered with _vignettes bleues_, in which the queen is
made to say: “The wished-for moment has not yet arrived, but I desire to
hasten your return on account of a secret negotiation which interests me
personally, and which I am unwilling to confide to any one but yourself.
The Countess de la Motte will explain the meaning of this enigma.”
After reading this letter the cardinal longed for wings; still he was
obliged to content himself with such fleet coursers as the _maîtres de
poste_ along the line of road to the capital could provide him with.
So, well wrapped up in furs, and snugly ensconced in the corner of a
comfortable close travelling carriage, he is soon rolling rapidly over
the two hundred and eighty miles of frost-bound road that intervene
between the episcopal palace of Saverne and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles;
and, no sooner has he learned the solution of the enigma, and procured
from the countess the address of the crown jewellers—at the sign of the
“Grand Balcony,” Rue Vendôme—than, puffed up with the importance of the
commission intrusted to him, he hies to Böhmer and Bassenge to open
negotiations with them for the purchase of the costly gem. The cardinal
had not far to go, for the Rue Vendôme (now the Rue Béranger) was only
some ten minutes’ walk from his hôtel, being situated but a single
street from the junction of the Rue Vieille-du-Temple with the Rue St.
Louis (now the Rue Turenne). At the present day many of the houses have
been rebuilt, and of those which were in existence at the time of our
narrative[115] only a couple in any way answer to the sign “_Au Grand
Balcon_,” adopted by the crown jewellers. These are Nos. 11 and 22;
the former—for the time being the Mairie of the 3rd Arrondissement—is
a handsome building with an ornamental ironwork balcony in front, and
having before it an open court, which one has no difficulty in picturing
filled with the grand equipages and liveried lacqueys of the customers of
our friends Böhmer and Bassenge.
In the excitement of conversation the grand almoner indiscreetly blurted
out what he believed to be the fact, although he had been strictly
enjoined to keep it secret, namely, that the queen was the actual
purchaser of the jewel, but her name was on no account to transpire
in the business. The price eventually agreed upon for the Necklace was
1,600,000 livres (£64,000), to be paid in four instalments of equal
amount at intervals of six months: the first instalment of 400,000 livres
to fall due in August. But the crown jewellers, who had been advised to
be cautious in dealing with the cardinal, required that the contract
should be authorized by the royal signature. To account for this demand,
they explained to the cardinal that they had heavy debts and liabilities
which prevented them from parting with an asset of so much value without
replacing it with adequate vouchers to satisfy their creditors—notably M.
Baudard de Saint-James, treasurer-general of the navy, to whom they were
indebted in no less a sum than 800,000 livres,[116] and who had waited so
long and so patiently.
Strange to say, the person who had cautioned the jewellers to act so
guardedly was the great _intrigante_ herself. Accompanied by her husband
she had called upon Böhmer and Bassenge at seven o’clock on a raw January
morning, a couple of hours or so before the cardinal, to announce his
coming, when, after having reminded them that she had been no party to
the transaction, she proceeded to recommend them not to come to terms
without binding down the cardinal in such a manner as to make themselves
secure.[117] That she took this step, so likely to frustrate her own
object, was afterwards proved at the trial. Most persons would have
thought that the probability of such a proceeding being fatal to her
plans would have prevented her, if she meditated a fraud, acting in the
way she did; but does not the reader perceive that this most subtle of
impostors had thereby secured, by anticipation, a strong plea in her
favour to disprove her guilt?
The obtaining the queen’s signature to the contract necessarily gave
rise to some delay. The cardinal sent the deed as he believed to
Marie-Antoinette through Madame de la Motte, with the intimation that
it was only a form, and would be merely shown to the jewellers, and
not delivered up to them. The countess, however, returns with the deed
unsigned. Royalty is in dudgeon at its sacred name having been made use
of. The grand almoner was greatly distressed at this new obstacle, which
he thought her majesty was inclined to aggravate; but what was to be done?
Madame de la Motte returns a second time from Versailles, and pretends to
have had a second audience with Marie-Antoinette. The queen, she says,
was very angry with the cardinal for having introduced her name into the
transaction, but had insinuated:
“If inspiring confidence is all that is requisite, could not the cardinal
have devised some other mode? The cardinal is perhaps not aware of it,
but I may tell you that I have bound myself by a formal engagement with
the king not to sign any deed without his knowledge. So the thing you see
is impossible. Contrive between you what you can do, or else renounce
the purchase altogether.... It seems to me that, as this document is
only a formality, and as these people do not know my handwriting.... But
you will reflect upon it; still, once for all, I cannot sign it. At all
events, tell the cardinal that the first time I shall see him I will
communicate to him the arrangements I intend to make with him.”[118]
The countess then explains that, returning home after this interview, and
not reflecting on the serious consequences of using the queen’s name in
the manner suggested, she resolves to counterfeit the royal signature,
and for that purpose applies to Rétaux de Villette, the forger of the
letters which to the last the countess always maintained to be genuine.
“I explained to M. de Villette,” she says, “the new aspect which
this affair had assumed, the cardinal’s perplexity, the queen’s
dissatisfaction, the interview I had had with her majesty, and the
meaning I attached to her expression that the jewellers were unacquainted
with her handwriting.
“Villette said, if I was certain that the queen had made use of the
express words I had just repeated, it would appear to him, as it had
appeared to me, that she wished me to understand it did not much signify
whose hand inscribed the attestation, since the jewellers did not know
her handwriting. ‘But,’ added he, ‘neither the queen nor yourself
suspect the risk a person runs by counterfeiting writings. That is an
act which the law has included in the list of crimes under the name of
forgery. We can however do this. Taking for granted the statement of the
queen, that these people do not know her handwriting, it may be fairly
supposed that they are equally ignorant of her form of signature. To sign
_Marie-Antoinette_ alone, according to your idea, would be a positive
forgery; but the metamorphosis of an Austrian princess into a French
one—to say, for instance, _Marie-Antoinette de France_—would really be
unmeaning. If our object was to obtain this Necklace by a swindle, when
the imposture came to be exposed such a signature would serve as a proof
of it; but as we have no reasonable doubt but that the jewellers will be
paid, since they will have the cardinal’s guarantee privately supported
by that of the queen, I think we may, without much fear of committing
ourselves, submit to the necessity; I will therefore do what I now
explain to you.
“‘First, I shall not disguise my own writing; and, secondly, I will
give the queen the incorrect title of _Marie-Antoinette de France_. The
contract being exhibited by the cardinal to Böhmer and Bassenge, they
will not examine it too minutely, I’ll be bound; and you must promise
me to burn it in my presence when the jewellers have been paid and the
matter is at end.’
“I gave him my word of honour that I would do this, and he signed the
deed according to our covenant. I left him directly afterwards and drove
at once to the cardinal. At first I intended to give him the contract
approved and signed, without telling him how I had settled matters; but I
reflected that Villette and I were not the safest judges; that the affair
might be more serious than we imagined, and that if such were the case
the cardinal might be placed in an embarrassing position. So I resolved
to tell him all.”
Thereupon, according to Madame de la Motte’s version, the cardinal was
informed of the forgery, and of the _incorrectness_ of the signature,
after he had seen the contract without detecting either. He acquiesced,
we are told by the countess, in the fraud, merely observing that “since
he had been deceived by it, it would be the same with the jewellers.”[119]
Such is the specious explanation given by Madame de la Motte of the
forgery of the queen’s signature to the contract. But amidst this farrago
of falsehood—for there can be no doubt the queen’s signature was appended
in the absurd form described, owing to the ignorance of this pair of
sharpers[120] the simple truth remains that the deluded cardinal, hoping
thereby to please the queen, had bought the Necklace of the jewellers on
his own guarantee for one million six hundred thousand francs, backed
with this fraudulent signature of Marie-Antoinette’s. The contract had
been drawn up with great care by the cardinal himself, and was written
with his own hand, since the matter was of course of too secret a nature
to be intrusted to a professional engrosser; and, after having been
exhibited to Böhmer and Bassenge for their private satisfaction, it was
left in the cardinal’s keeping. The unfortunate dupe of course believed
he still held possession of the royal guarantee, the grotesque inventions
to the contrary of Madame de la Motte, which we have just laid before
the reader, being of no further moment than to expose her own duplicity.
The confidence and mental satisfaction of the jewellers when they read
the contract, ratified by majesty itself, was equal to that felt by the
cardinal. “They read it,” says the Rohan memorial, “and appeared full
of joy; they then returned it, but the cardinal requested them to take
a copy of it, which they had not thought of doing. This copy they made
themselves without the slightest doubt being raised in their minds by the
strangeness of the signature.”
We may instance as another proof of the countess’s prompt mode of action,
that by the end of January, 1785, the whole affair was settled—in fact
within six weeks after she had promised “to see if she could not contrive
indirectly to render the jewellers some service;” the famous Diamond
Necklace which had been to them a source of grave anxiety for years was
off their hands.
XVII.
1781–1785.
CHARLATAN COUNT CAGLIOSTRO.
When, in the autumn of the year 1781, the De la Mottes were chasing the
Marchioness de Boulainvilliers, who they had heard was at Strasbourg,
the notorious Cagliostro was astonishing the good people of that famous
town as much by his singular conduct as by the extraordinary cures he
was represented to have performed. “Curious to behold so remarkable
a personage, the cardinal,” who was then at his episcopal palace of
Saverne, “went over to Strasbourg, but found it necessary to use interest
to get admitted into the presence of the illustrious charlatan. ‘If
monseigneur the cardinal is sick,’ said he, ‘let him come to me and I
will cure him. If he is well, he has no business with me nor I with him.’
This reply, far from offending the cardinal’s vanity, only increased the
desire he had to become acquainted with this new Esculapius. Having at
length gained admission to his sanctuary, the cardinal fancied he saw
impressed on the countenance of this mysterious and taciturn individual,
a dignity so imposing that he felt himself penetrated with an almost
religious awe, and the very first words he uttered were inspired by
reverence. The interview, which was but brief, excited more strongly
than ever in the mind of the cardinal the desire of a more intimate
acquaintance. This gradually came about, the crafty empiric timing his
conduct and his advances so skilfully, that without seeming to desire
it he gained the grand almoner’s entire confidence, and obtained the
greatest ascendency over him.”[121]
During the next two years or so, Cagliostro seems to have made the
episcopal palace at Saverne his home whenever he felt so inclined. When
the cardinal happened to be there, the count amused him by performing
experiments in the laboratory which had been fitted up in a private part
of the palace for his especial use—making, so the cardinal maintained,
not only gold, but diamonds, under his very eyes.[122] But when the
cardinal was away the crucibles were no longer in request, and the count
would indulge in carousals, prolonged far into the night, with the Baron
de Planta, the cardinal’s equerry and confidant, and a black sheep of the
choicest breed, carousals at which his eminence’s matchless Tokay flowed
like water.[123]
In the memorial published in his behalf at the time of the Necklace
trial, Cagliostro gives a most romantic account of himself. He is
ignorant, he says, of the place of his birth, but was brought up while a
child in the city of Medina, where he went by the name of Acharat, and
lived attended by servants in a style of great splendour in apartments
in the palace of the Mufti Salahayn, the chief of the Mussulmans. From
Medina, he pretends, he was taken when quite a youth to Mecca, where
he remained for three years petted by the scherif. He is next taken
to Egypt, visits the chief cities of Africa and Asia, and eventually
sails from Rhodes for Malta, where apartments are provided for him in
the palace of the grand master. Here, he says, he assumed the name of
Cagliostro and the title of count. From Malta he proceeds to Sicily
and Naples, thence to Rome, where he makes the acquaintance of several
cardinals, and is admitted to frequent audiences of the Pope. He
professes to have next visited Spain, Portugal, Holland, Russia, and
Poland, and gives a list of the nobles of these countries with whom
he had become acquainted. At length, in September, 1780, he goes to
Strasbourg, where his fame as a physician had already preceded him.
Here, he asserts, with perfect truth, he cured the poor generally,
and particularly sick soldiers and prisoners, without fee or reward.
Strasbourg was soon crowded with strangers, who came either to see him or
to consult him. It is now that he makes the acquaintance of the Cardinal
de Rohan, whom he accompanies to Paris to prescribe for the Prince de
Soubise, suffering at the time from an accident to his leg. After a short
sojourn in the capital he returns to Strasbourg, when being persecuted by
a party in the town, it is quite certain that letters are written to the
authorities in his behalf by the Count de Vergennes, minister for foreign
affairs, the Marquis de Miroménil, keeper of the seals, and the Marquis
de Ségur, minister of war, who desire that every protection shall be
afforded him.
Cagliostro’s story about his residence in Medina and Mecca, and Egypt,
Rhodes and Malta, was a tissue of impudent lies. The truth is, his real
name was Joseph Balsamo, and he was the son of a small tradesman of
Palermo, in which city he was born in 1743. The family were of Jewish
origin, and he derived the name of Cagliostro from a great uncle. In his
early youth he belonged to the religious order of Charitable Brethren,
and as he grew older became remarkable for his intelligence, cleverness,
and cunning. Later on, he appears to have studied medicine with advantage.
Growing tired of the obscurity of his lot, he forged the title-deed to
some considerable estate, and on the fraud being discovered precipitately
embarked for Catalonia where he married a young and pretty girl. With her
he proceeded to Rome, and having conferred on himself the title of Prince
Pellegrini, with that audacity which never deserted him, he returned
to Palermo under this assumed appellation. There a genuine prince
became infatuated with Donna Lorenza and took her husband under his
powerful protection. The false Pellegrini, however, was soon recognised
as the escaped forger and arrested. But on the day appointed for his
examination, his friend the prince forced the doors of the tribunal,
assaulted the counsel for the prosecution, and overwhelmed the president
with reproaches. The consequence was that the terrified court set the
prisoner at liberty, and Cagliostro, leaving his wife in the care of
the prince, again started on his travels,[124] in the course of which
he visited many of the chief cities of the Continent. He was picked
up, it is commonly asserted, while still a young man—being little over
thirty years of age—by the sect of Illuminati, who thought, and correctly
thought, that they had discovered in him a willing and able instrument
for the dissemination of their doctrines. His initiation into the
mysteries of Illuminism took place in a cave some little distance from
Frankfort-on-the-Main, when he learnt for the first time that the object
of the society of which he was now a member, was to overturn the thrones
of Europe, and that the first blow was to be struck in France; that after
the fall of the French monarchy it was proposed to attack Rome; that the
society had extensive resources, and was in the possession of enormous
funds, dispersed among the banks of Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Basle, Lyons,
London, Venice, and Genoa, the proceeds of the annual subscriptions of
its members. A considerable sum of money, which he afterwards pretended
he had acquired by the practice of alchemy, was at once placed at his
disposal, to enable him to propagate the doctrines of the sect in France.
This was the origin of his first visit to Strasbourg in the autumn of the
year 1780, when he adopted for his device the letters L. P. D. signifying
_Lilia pedibus destrue_—Trample the lilies under foot.[125]
Cagliostro was one of those individuals who, for reasons of their own,
envelop themselves in a maze of mystery, and are rarely seen through
during their lives, because they address themselves to men’s imaginations
alone. By exciting wonder they disarm reason. He laid claim to many gifts
and acquirements; had studied medicine, was an adept at alchemy, and knew
something of natural magic. The acts which he performed were so contrived
by his arts and wiles, that all his visitors (and they comprised
persons of the highest rank and the utmost intellectual attainments)
considered them to be marvellous, whilst the gaping multitude magnified
every feat until it went far beyond this ideal. He set no price on his
public exhibitions, and darted looks of wounded honour at those who,
he pretended, degraded him by offering him gold; whilst his hand was
constantly open to the indigent, whom he waited on in their humble homes
with advice, medicine, and money. His widespread acts of benevolence,
and the luxurious style in which he lived, proved him to be rich, and
yet none were able to discover the sources of his wealth. The houses of
the most opulent citizens were thrown open to him, and without seeking
the great, but seeming rather to avoid them, he constantly found himself
in their company. Among this class he had many proselytes, but none who
believed in him so implicitly as the Cardinal Prince de Rohan, who,
spite of the count’s “perfect quack face,” seems to have worshipped him
as a being something more than human. Indeed in one of the _salons_ of
the Palais-Cardinal there was a marble bust of Cagliostro, with a Latin
inscription on the pedestal signifying “God of the Earth.”[126]
A friend of the grand almoner’s, the Baroness d’Oberkirche, who met
Cagliostro at Saverne at this epoch, sketches his portrait for us in
her “Memoirs,” and furnishes us with convincing proofs of the singular
influence which the count had succeeded in acquiring over his credulous
patron. “Cagliostro was anything but handsome,” she observes, “still
I have never seen a more remarkable physiognomy; above all, he had
a penetrating look which seemed almost supernatural. I know not how
to describe the expression of his eyes: it was at once fire and ice;
attracted and repelled you at the same time; made you afraid and inspired
you with an irrepressible curiosity. One might draw two different
portraits of him, both resembling him, and yet totally dissimilar. He
wore on his shirt-front, on his watch-chain, and on his fingers, diamonds
of large size, and apparently of the purest water. If they were not
paste, they were worth a king’s ransom. He pretended that he had made
them himself. All this frippery showed the charlatan miles off.
“When Cagliostro perceived me he saluted me very respectfully. I returned
his salutation without affecting either hauteur or condescension. There
were fifteen of us at dinner; nevertheless, the cardinal occupied himself
almost exclusively with me, using a sort of refined coquetry to bring
me over to his way of thinking with regard to Cagliostro, with whom he
was perfectly infatuated. I was placed on the cardinal’s right hand, and
during dinner he tried by every means to enforce his convictions upon me.
I resisted, politely but firmly; he grew impatient, and on leaving table
volunteered me his confidence. Had I not heard him with my own ears I
could never have believed that a prince of the Roman church, a Rohan, an
intelligent and honourable man in so many respects, could have allowed
himself to be brought to the point of abjuring both his dignity and free
will at the bidding of a _chevalier d’industrie_.
“‘In truth, baroness, you are very hard to convince,’ remarked the
cardinal; ‘what! has not all that he has told you, all that I have just
related, satisfied you? I must then avow everything. Understand, at
least, that I am about to confide to you a secret of importance.’ I was
greatly embarrassed. I did not wish to be the depositary of any of the
cardinal’s secrets, and was about to excuse myself when, divining my
intention, the prince exclaimed: ‘Do not say no! but listen to me. You
see this?’
“The cardinal showed me a large solitaire which he had on his little
finger, engraved with the arms of the house of Rohan; it was a ring worth
20,000 francs at least. ‘It is a fine stone, my lord,’ observed I; ‘I
have been already admiring it.’ ‘Well, it was he who made it; created it
out of nothing. I saw him myself. I was present, with eyes fixed upon the
crucible, and assisted at the operation. Is this science? What do you
think of it, baroness? They tell me that he is only luring me on, that he
cheats me; the jeweller and engraver have valued this brilliant at 25,000
francs. You will at least admit that he is a strange sort of sharper to
make such presents as this.’
“I acknowledge I was stupefied. The Prince de Rohan perceived it, and
continued, certain of his victory: ‘But this is not all: he makes gold;
he has made in my presence, in the crucibles of the palace, five or six
thousand francs’ worth. I shall have more of it—I shall, in fact, have
any quantity—he will make me the richest prince in Europe. These are
not dreams, madam, these are certainties. Think, too, of his prophecies
fulfilled; of the miraculous cures he has performed. I tell you that
he is not only a most extraordinary, but a sublime man, and one whose
goodness has never been equalled; the charities he bestows, the benefits
he confers, pass all imagination.’
“‘Am I to understand your eminence,’ inquired I, ‘that you have given
him nothing for all this—have not made him the smallest advance, have
made him no promise, given him no written document which compromises you?
Pardon my curiosity, but since you wish to make me a confidant of these
mysteries, I——’ ‘You are right, madam,’ replied the prince, ‘but I can
assure you that he has asked nothing, has received nothing from me.’ ‘Ah!
my lord,’ I exclaimed, ‘it must be that this man reckons on obtaining
from you many dangerous sacrifices since he buys your unbounded
confidence so dearly. Were I in your place I should be extremely
cautious; one of these days he will lead you too far.’ The cardinal only
answered by an incredulous smile; but I am certain that later, at the
time of the Necklace affair, when Cagliostro and the Countess de la Motte
had cast him to the bottom of the abyss, he recalled my words.”[127]
Singularly enough, Cagliostro arrived in Paris just at the time the
cardinal was making the final arrangements with the crown jewellers for
the purchase of the Necklace. Whether or no he was summoned thither by
the cardinal himself we are unable to say, but if the Abbé Georgel’s
statement is to be relied on, it is quite certain that the grand almoner
consulted Cagliostro respecting the business of the Necklace prior to
concluding the negotiations. The abbé says: “This Python mounted his
tripod; the Egyptian invocations were made at night in the cardinal’s
own saloon, which was illuminated by an immense number of wax tapers.
The oracle, under the inspiration of its familiar demon, pronounced that
the negotiation was worthy of the prince, that it would be crowned with
success, that it would raise the goodness of the queen to its height, and
bring to light that happy day which would unfold the rare talents of the
cardinal for the benefit of France and of the human race.”[128]
The Countess de la Motte, who it will be remembered had formerly met
Cagliostro at Strasbourg, renewed her acquaintance with him in the
_salons_ of the Palais-Cardinal, where she was now a constant visitor.
For a time it was an affair of diamond cut diamond between them. She
flattered the arch impostor with the finest art, appeared to be his dupe,
and broke out into loud exclamations of surprise when he performed his
tricks and practised his delusions in her presence. The crafty cheat was
himself cheated. By degrees he became persuaded that she was really a
confidant of the French queen, that she had credit at court, and would
soon have power. Fully convinced of her influence, and perceiving,
as he thought, that his patron the cardinal would by her assistance
retrieve his political fortune, he encouraged that sanguine prelate,
and worked, as we have seen, upon his imagination, with a view to dispel
any lingering doubt he might chance to entertain. So infatuated did
Cagliostro become under the influence of his own delusions on the one
side, and the spell of this enchantress on the other, that the countess
would appear to have controlled the crafty necromancer even in the
performance of his own spells.[129]
Cagliostro, after he was regularly settled in Paris, became a frequent
visitor at the countess’s house—he and madame, we are told, were like
two fingers on one hand—where he was received with an amount of respect
verging on to reverence. The De la Mottes and he were close neighbours,
for he lived at the Hôtel de Chavigny, in the Rue Saint-Claude, only
a couple of streets off. “The house which he occupied, and which was
afterwards the residence of Barras, was one of the most elegant of the
quarter.[130] In the _salon_, decorated with oriental luxury, and bathed
in a kind of semi-daylight when it was not resplendent with the blaze of
a hundred lights, the pursuits of the philosopher and conspirator might
be divined by the side of the projects of the quack. There one saw the
bust of Hippocrates, and, in a black frame, inscribed in letters of gold,
a literal translation of Pope’s Universal Prayer.”[131] Here Cagliostro
lived in state, giving balls, assemblies, and audiences at which he
insolently offered his hand to his fair disciples to kiss, while he
treated his male visitors, and at times even the cardinal himself, with
marked disdain.[132]
Young Beugnot, who met Cagliostro at one of Madame de la Motte’s _petits
soupers_, tells us that the countess previously warned him that she
would be obliged to disarm the inquietude of Cagliostro, who, for no
reason whatever, invariably refused to sup if he thought that any one
had been invited to meet him. Moreover, she begged Beugnot to ask him
no questions, not to interrupt him when he was speaking, and to answer
with readiness any inquiries he had addressed to him. “I subscribed,”
says Beugnot, “to these conditions, and would have accepted even harder
ones to gratify my curiosity. At half-past ten the folding doors were
thrown open, and the Count de Cagliostro was announced. Madame de la
Motte precipitately quitted her arm-chair, rushed up to him and drew him
into a corner of the _salon_, where I presume she begged him to pardon my
presence. Cagliostro advanced towards me and bowed, without appearing at
all embarrassed at perceiving a stranger. He was of medium height, rather
stout, had a very short neck, and a round face ornamented with two large
eyes sunken in his head, and a broad turn-up nose; his complexion was of
an olive tinge; his _coiffure_ was new in France, his hair being divided
into several little tresses, which, uniting at the back of the head, were
tied up in the form known as the ‘club.’ He wore a French cut coat of
iron grey embroidered with gold lace, and carried his sword stuck in the
skirts, a scarlet vest trimmed with _point d’Espagne_, red breeches, and
a hat edged with a white feather. This last article of dress was still
necessary to mountebanks, dentists, and other medical _artistes_ who made
speeches and sold their drugs out of doors. Cagliostro’s costume was
relieved by lace ruffles, several costly rings, and shoe-buckles of an
old pattern but brilliant enough to pass for very fine diamonds.
“There were at supper only the members of the family, among whom I
include Father Loth, _minime_ of the Place Royale, who reconciled, I
know not how, his sacred functions with the place of second secretary
to Madame de la Motte. He used to say mass for her on Sundays, and
charged himself during the rest of the week with commissions at the
Palais-Cardinal which the first secretary thought beneath his dignity.
Neither must I count as a stranger the Chevalier de Montbreul, a veteran
of the green rooms, and still a good conversationalist, who was prepared
to affirm almost any mortal thing, and was found, as if by chance,
wherever Cagliostro appeared, ready to bear witness to the marvels he
had performed, and to offer himself as a positive example miraculously
cured of I know not how many diseases, of which the names alone were
sufficiently startling.
“There were then nine or ten of us at table; Madame de la Motte had
on one side of her Cagliostro and Montbreul, and I was on her other
side, facing the former, whom I made a point of examining by stealth,
and still did not know what to think of him; the face, the style of
dressing the hair, the whole of the man, impressed me in spite of myself.
I waited for him to open his mouth. He spoke I know not what jargon,
half Italian, half French, plentifully interlarded with quotations in
an unknown tongue, which passed with the unlearned for Arabic. He had
all the talking to himself, and found time to go over at least twenty
different subjects in the course of the evening, simply because he gave
to them merely that extent of development which seemed good to him. Every
moment he was inquiring if he was understood, whereupon everybody bowed
in turn to assure him that he was. When starting a subject he seemed like
one transported, raised his voice to the highest pitch and indulged in
the most extravagant gesticulations. The subjects of his discourse were
the heavens, the stars, the grand _arcanum_, Memphis, transcendental
chemistry, giants, and the extinct monsters of the animal kingdom. He
spoke, moreover, of a city in the interior of Africa ten times as large
as Paris, and where he pretended he had correspondents.” Beugnot further
mentions, that in between his rhapsodies he would chatter the most
frivolous nonsense to the Countess de la Motte, whom he designated his
dove, his gazelle, and his white swan. After supper he addressed numerous
questions to Beugnot, one following another with extraordinary rapidity.
To all the count’s catechising the young advocate invariably replied by
a respectful avowal of his ignorance, and subsequently was surprised
to learn from Madame de la Motte that Cagliostro had conceived a most
favourable opinion, not merely of his deportment, but likewise of his
knowledge.[133]
XVIII.
1785. FEB.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE IS DELIVERED.
The Cardinal de Rohan obtained possession of the Necklace early on the
morning of the 1st of February, 1785, and had not long to wait ere he was
honoured with the queen’s commands to deliver it into her royal custody.
We shall give two accounts of how this delivery was effected—namely, the
story told by the countess, and the statement made by the cardinal in his
memorial.
The cardinal of course expected, from having rendered the queen a service
for which she could not feel otherwise than grateful, that he would
have been permitted to deliver the rich jewel to Marie-Antoinette in
person, and when he received from Madame de la Motte the following note,
purporting to be written by the queen, he imagined his expectations were
on the point of being realized:—
“This evening (Feb. 1), at nine o’clock, you must be at the countess’s
house (at Versailles) with the casket and in the usual costume. Do not
leave until you hear from me.”
The countess lodged, as the reader will remember, at “La Belle Image,”
in the Place Dauphine, and thither, on this sharp winter’s night—it
was a hard frost, and the ground was almost like glass—the cardinal
proceeded, wrapped up in a long great-coat, and wearing a slouched hat
that concealed his features. One can imagine the countess’s nervous
state on this eventful evening—can see her posted at the window on the
watch, peering through the frost on the panes into the dark and almost
silent Place, eager for a glimpse of the grand almoner with the coveted
treasure. At last two figures are seen crossing the broad square from the
Rue de la Pompe, at the end of which is the Hôtel de Rohan—one is the
cardinal, the other a man-servant he has brought with him, who carries
the casket, and whom he dismisses a few doors off “La Belle Image.”
“At half-past eight o’clock,” says Madame de la Motte, “the cardinal
called upon me in his disguise, carrying under his arm the casket
containing the Necklace, which he set down on a chest of drawers. At
half-past nine Lesclos,[134] that faithful messenger of her majesty, whom
she so often employed in delicate missions—Lesclos, a man perfectly well
known to the cardinal, and the necessary confidant of all the little
irregularities mentioned in the correspondence between him and the
queen—called upon me with a letter from her majesty which ran thus:—
“‘The minister (the king) is at present with me, and I cannot tell how
long he will stay. You know the person I send. Deliver the casket to him,
and stay where you are. I do not despair of seeing _thee_ to-day.’”
“The cardinal,” continues the countess, “having read this note, delivered
to the faithful Lesclos, with his own hands, the casket containing the
Necklace which he had himself deposited on the chest of drawers. Lesclos
went out.”[135]
Such is Madame de la Motte’s statement. Let us compare it with the
cardinal’s, which we extract from one of the memorials produced in his
defence at the trial:—
“On his (the cardinal’s) arrival at Versailles he called upon Madame
de la Motte, who was living in the Place Dauphine; he took with him
Schreibert, his _valet de chambre_, who had charge of the casket. The
cardinal, when they had reached the house, took it from him and went
up-stairs by himself. He found Madame de la Motte alone, and presented to
her the rich burden he was carrying.
“Some time after a man, who announced himself as a messenger from the
queen, entered the apartment. The cardinal withdrew cautiously into an
alcove which was half open. The man delivered a note. Madame de la Motte
sent him for a moment outside the room, then came towards the cardinal
and read to him the letter containing the order for delivering up the
casket to the bearer. The man was then called in again, the casket was
given into his hands, and he took his departure.... Who was that man?
To the cardinal he seemed to be the same that he had descried in the
park of Versailles on the night of the 11th of August, 1784, close to
Mademoiselle d’Oliva.”[136]
We will undertake to answer the cardinal’s interrogatory. The messenger
was an accomplice of the countess’s: none other than the forger Rétaux
de Villette, made up for the occasion “with large black eyebrows, and
pale face,” and the letter of which he was the bearer was one of his
own numerous forgeries. At any rate the countess’s _femme de chambre_,
Rosalie Briffaut, deposed to having opened the door to him at the precise
hour on that particular night, when he immediately entered the countess’s
apartment.
Success is attained at last! The great fraud is consummated! The woman
who when a child we have seen running along the streets with naked feet,
the tatters of poverty her only covering, and begging of lords and ladies
to “bestow a few sous on a descendant of Henry II. of Valois, King of
France,” has at length obtained possession of the famed Diamond Necklace,
valued at 1,600,000, livres, or £64,000, sterling! The jewellers,
delighted at having got the troublesome piece of _bijouterie_ off their
hands, invite the countess to a grand dinner, and madame being pleased
to accept the invitation, the affair came off on the 12th of February,
when doubtless both the countess and her absent friend the cardinal were
toasted in bumpers of the choicest Burgundy, and more than one fine
speech was made which, had it been accurately reported, would have read
rather curiously a few months afterwards.
It had been arranged, it seems, between the jewellers and Laporte,
Achette, some baron—name unknown, but said to be a relative of the
cardinal’s—and a money-lending goldsmith named Grenier,[137] the same
who had purchased the De la Motte pension, and who, we expect, had got
mixed up in the Necklace affair through his connection with the countess,
that a commission of 200,000 livres was to be paid to the negotiators,
of which amount madame says it was proposed she should receive one-half
in articles of jewellery, such as diamond rings and earrings, a couple
of solitaires, a locket set with diamonds, and a watch and chain for
herself, with a couple of diamond rings and a watch and chain set with
diamonds for her husband. When Laporte sent her a written memorandum of
these conditions, and begged her acceptance of them, she declined, and
desired him to say no more on the subject, as she had done so little
towards effecting the sale of the Necklace, and as, moreover, it was not
her habit to receive presents for services rendered![138]
When the count, who had not yet been let into the secret of his wife’s
intention with regard to the Necklace, came to hear of this refusal, he
blamed her very much, and it was arranged with Grenier that he should
inform the other negotiators of the countess’s willingness to accept
the proposed presents. It does not appear, however, that she ever
received them. The commission was probably dependent on the payment of
the purchase-money for the Necklace, and as this was never paid, the
arrangement with regard to the commission most likely fell to the ground.
Baudard de Saint-James, treasurer-general of the navy, and principal
creditor of the crown jewellers, is equally delighted with the latter
at the Necklace being at last sold. He has now before him the pleasant
prospect of receiving twenty-four livres in the louis on his large debt,
and from a feeling of gratitude presses, through Böhmer and Bassenge, the
offer of his services upon the cardinal, to whom, he said, he should be
proud to be of use. The cardinal, who, with all his large resources, is
continually in want of money, knew, we suppose, what this meant, for he
forthwith borrowed 50,000 livres from the treasurer-general of the navy
on his simple note of hand.[139]
This celebrated financier’s real name was Baudard; but when he had grown
rich he made an addition to it, and called himself Saint-James, after
the village from whence he came. This name he in his turn bestowed on
a celebrated château and park still existing at the end of the Avenue
de Neuilly, the same in which the Duke of Wellington and his staff took
up their quarters when the Allies entered Paris after the battle of
Waterloo. It had formerly been the residence of the famous Cardinal de
Retz, afterwards of Le Normand (uncle of Madame de Maintenon, and the
richest _fermier-général_ of his time), by whom the château was rebuilt,
and subsequently of our treasurer-general of the navy, who dissipated his
immense fortune upon it in fancies of the wildest kind. He first enlarged
the château, then redecorated and furnished it in the most magnificent
style; next extended and relaid out the park, planted miniature woods,
constructed artificial grottos and waterfalls, erected Chinese temples
and Turkish kiosques, and formed a superb winter-garden, in which he
accumulated all the rare flora of Asia and America. The feature of the
park, however, was its grand rock, the quarrying and transit of which is
said to have cost Saint-James the incredible sum of 1,600,000 livres,
or £64,000[140]—exactly the price of the Diamond Necklace—and which is
known even at the present day by the name of “Saint-James’s Folly.” What
with his reckless expenditure upon this château and park, his expensive
mistresses, his jobbing in the funds, his allowing himself to be drawn
into all manner of wild undertakings, the promoters of which, knowing
alike his stupidity and his greed, invariably had recourse to him, and
his subsequent losses by Böhmer and Bassenge and others, it is not to be
wondered at that Baudard de Saint-James came to grief at last—failed, in
fact, for a million sterling, got sent to the Bastille, and only left it
to die of poverty and grief a short time afterwards.
XIX.
1785. FEB.–AUG.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE VANISHES!
The gigantic swindle it must be confessed had been effected in a masterly
manner. Weeks, and even months, passed by, and no one seemed to entertain
the slightest suspicion that any fraud had been perpetrated. But this
was only the calm that precedes the storm. The crown jewellers, Böhmer
and Bassenge, made it no secret that they had succeeded in disposing of
their Necklace. They, however, gave out that it had been purchased by
the Sultan of Turkey for a favourite sultana. Böhmer afterwards stated
that they did this at the request of the cardinal, who had received the
queen’s commands to that effect. Of course Madame de la Motte was the
real person who caused this report to be spread to allay impertinent
curiosity. The cardinal, flattering himself that he had placed his
sovereign under an obligation, was expecting both favour and power, and
was confiding these hopes rather incautiously to his friends. The De la
Mottes were openly living in almost Oriental luxury. Nobody would have
supposed that any great wrong had been done.
On the 3rd of February, two days after the Necklace had been delivered to
the cardinal, he met Böhmer and Bassenge at Versailles. “Well,” said he
to them, “have you made your very humble acknowledgments to her majesty
for having purchased your Necklace?” The jewellers, careless upon this
point now the Necklace was fairly off their hands, had not done so;
the cardinal upbraided them with their neglect, a fact admitted at the
trial.[141]
Months glide by without the slightest suspicion arising, although the
grand almoner is somewhat puzzled at the queen never wearing the Necklace
in public. Every time he meets the jewellers he repeats his inquiry
whether they have humbly thanked the queen, and renews his very earnest
recommendation for them to do so. At length, in the last week of June,
after the countess has more than once hinted to him that the queen
thinks the Necklace dear, the cardinal receives a letter written in her
majesty’s name by the forger Villette, complaining of the excessive
price of the jewel, and demanding a reduction of 200,000 livres, in
which case 700,000 instead of 400,000 livres would be paid on the 1st
of August, “otherwise,” the letter went on to say, “the article will be
returned.”[142] The crown jewellers murmur, as well they might, at this
unexpected demand, but rather than be again burthened with the Necklace,
after consulting with Saint-James, they give an unwilling consent to
the new arrangement. When all is finally settled, by the advice of the
cardinal they address to the queen the following letter, the very words
of which are dictated by the grand almoner himself:
“Madame,
“We are extremely happy to think that the last arrangements
which have been proposed to us, and to which we have submitted
with respectful zeal, will be received as a new instance of
our submission and devotedness to your majesty’s commands, and
we feel truly rejoiced to think that the most beautiful set of
diamonds in the world will be worn by the best and greatest of
queens.
“BÖHMER AND BASSENGE.
“July 12, 1785.”[143]
When the above letter was written, some slight feelings of uneasiness
respecting the Necklace had taken possession of the minds of the two
partners; for Marie-Antoinette had appeared in public on several
occasions when such an ornament might very properly have been worn, but
without displaying it. Böhmer had sought interviews with the queen,
who had carefully avoided him, fearing to be again pestered with his
importunities, and, since his threat of committing suicide, regarding him
as partially deranged.
The cardinal, as we have already remarked, was perplexed by the
circumstance that the queen did not wear the Necklace, and still more so
by the freezing aversion she continued to manifest whenever they met in
public. The fictitious letters too had become more rare, as well as much
briefer than heretofore, and very cold. The apprehension mutually shared
by the cardinal and the crown jewellers may be traced in the letter just
quoted, in which “the most beautiful set of diamonds in the world” is
pointedly alluded to, and something like a hint given that they ought to
be “worn by the best and greatest of queens.”
This letter was delivered by Böhmer to Marie-Antoinette with a diamond
epaulette and buckles which the king had ordered of the crown jewellers
as presents to the Duke d’Angoulême on the day of his christening. The
queen, who had just returned from mass, went at once into her library,
where Madame Campan was present. “She held the note in her hand; she read
it to me,” says Madame Campan, “observing that as I had in the morning
guessed the enigmas in the _Mercure_, I could no doubt discover the
meaning of this, which that madman Böhmer had just handed to her. These
were her very words. The note contained a request not to forget him,[144]
and expressions of his happiness at seeing her in possession of the most
beautiful diamonds that could be found in Europe. As she finished reading
the note she twisted it up and burnt it at a taper which was standing
lighted in her library for sealing letters, and merely recommended me,
when I should see Böhmer, to request an explanation of it. ‘Has he
assorted some new ornaments?’[145] added the queen. ‘I should be very
vexed if he has done so, for I don’t intend to make use of his services
any longer.’”[146]
In the middle of the month of July, but a very short time before the
first instalment fell due, the countess, feeling the necessity for
gaining time, called upon the Cardinal de Rohan, and told him that the
queen would be constrained to devote the 700,000 livres, which she had
put aside for the payment of the moiety of the purchase-money due on the
1st of August, to other purposes. She begged that the cardinal would see
the jewellers and obtain a postponement, which the queen thought could
not be at all difficult,[147] until the 1st of October. The cardinal
received this message with evident consternation, whereupon Madame de
la Motte, to reassure him, told him that she had seen in the queen’s
hands notes to the amount of 700,000 livres, which her majesty had
designed for the payment of the instalment in question, and a day or
two afterwards she would appear to have brought him a letter from the
queen on the subject.[148] There is no help for it—for needs must when
such a charioteer as the countess drives—so the cardinal does as he is
bid, somewhat out of temper, it is true, by this time with her majesty’s
unbusiness-like ways, which bid fair, he tells the jewellers, “to turn
his head.” Böhmer and Bassenge show such evident signs of dissatisfaction
at this new variation of the contract, that to quiet them the prince
feels constrained to tell them a fib, namely, that he had _himself_ seen
in the queen’s hands the 700,000 livres in question. This statement he
repeats to Baudard de Saint-James, whose interest in the matter we know,
and who makes it his business to be kept informed of any hitches that
arise in this troublesome Necklace affair. Prompted, no doubt, by Madame
de la Motte, the cardinal seems to have hinted to the financier that
it would be a good opportunity for him to secure the queen’s favour,
and with it the _cordon rouge_, of which Saint-James was particularly
ambitious, by lending her majesty this 700,000 livres, for the payment of
the first instalment. Saint-James was not unwilling; still he was over
cautious, and said that on hearing one word from the queen the amount
should be forthcoming.[149] Georgel says that the reason the affair fell
through was because the forger Villette was, as will afterwards appear,
away at that particular juncture at Bar-sur-Aube, and the written word
consequently was not forthcoming until it was too late,[150] owing to
which lucky accident Saint-James saved his 700,000 livres, which the
countess would certainly have spirited away in her usual fashion if the
chance had only been afforded her.
After consulting with their most pressing creditors, Böhmer and Bassenge
gave a reluctant consent to the postponement asked for; but while the
affair is still under consideration, the countess, getting alarmed,
brings the cardinal 30,000 livres, which she tells him the queen has sent
as interest on the retarded payment. Thirty thousand francs as interest
on seven hundred thousand francs for two months, or at the rate of nearly
twenty-six per cent., and the client, too, a queen! Madame de la Motte
had evidently foreseen the famous axiom of Field Marshal the Duke of
Wellington, though in an inverted form. With her, bad security implied
high interest.
This 30,000 livres, we are told by the Abbé Georgel, only confirmed the
most credulous of mortals in the conviction he entertained of the entire
truth of all that Madame de la Motte had asserted. He at once hastened to
the jewellers, who accepted the amount, not as interest, but on account
of the principal. A few days afterwards, namely, on the 3rd of August,
Böhmer, who occasionally visited the father-in-law of Madame Campan, went
down to his country-house at Crespy—whether or not by invitation from
Madame Campan does not appear—when Madame Campan repeated to him all that
the queen had desired her to say. Böhmer, she tells us, seemed petrified,
and asked how it was that the queen had been unable to understand the
meaning of the letter he had presented to her.
“I read it myself,” replied Madame Campan, “and I could make nothing of
it.”
Böhmer observed that he was not surprised at that, as there was a certain
mystery in the affair respecting which she was ignorant, but of which he
would inform her fully if she would accord him a private interview.
“When I had got rid of the persons who required my presence in the
drawing-room,” says Madame Campan, “I went with Böhmer down one of the
garden-walks.” Here the promised explanation was given, on hearing which
Madame Campan was “so struck with horror,” “so absorbed in grief,” that
a storm of thunder and rain came on while they were talking together
without exciting her attention. During this conversation Böhmer stated
that the queen, having changed her mind respecting his “grand Necklace,”
and having determined to purchase it, had employed the Cardinal de Rohan
as her agent in the transaction.
Madame Campan at once told the crown jeweller that he was deceived, for
the queen had never spoken to the cardinal since his return from Vienna,
and there was not an individual at court less favourably looked upon than
the grand almoner.
“You are deceived yourself, madame,” replied Böhmer; “the queen must see
him in private, for it was to his eminence that she gave 30,000 livres
which were paid me on account; she took them in his presence[151] out of
the little _secrétaire_ of Sèvres porcelain next the fireplace in her
boudoir. This the cardinal told me himself.”
Böhmer further stated that he had in his possession all the notes signed
by the queen, and that he had even been obliged to show these to various
bankers in order to induce them to grant him an extension of time for his
payments.
Madame Campan, thunderstruck at what she heard, assured poor Böhmer that
he was the victim of a detestable plot; whereupon the jeweller confessed
that he began to feel alarmed, as the cardinal had declared to him that
the queen would be certain to wear the Necklace on Whit Sunday, and he,
Böhmer, was greatly astonished when he saw that she did not have it on.
On asking Madame Campan what she thought he ought to do, she advised him
to go at once to the Baron de Breteuil, and tell him candidly all that
had passed, and be ruled entirely by him. Instead of doing this Böhmer
hurried off to the cardinal. What transpired at this interview is not
known, but the following memorandum, in the grand almoner’s handwriting,
was said to have been found in a drawer at the Hôtel de Strasbourg at the
time a search was made for the cardinal’s papers:
“On this day, 3rd August, Böhmer went to Madame Campan’s country house,
and she told him that the queen had never had the Necklace, and that he
had been cheated.”
Böhmer must have spoken to the cardinal beforehand of his contemplated
visit to Crespy, for the cardinal admitted that, having regard to the
queen’s injunction to keep her name a perfect secret in the affair of
the Necklace, he had urged Böhmer not to speak to Madame Campan on the
subject, and in the event of any questions being asked him to say the
Necklace had been sent abroad.[152]
The half-crazy jeweller next hastened to the Little Trianon, but failed
in obtaining an interview with Marie-Antoinette. A day or two afterwards,
the queen having sent for Madame Campan to rehearse with her the part
of _Rosina_, which she was to play in Beaumarchais’ comedy, “The Barber
of Seville,” at her private theatre at the Little Trianon, took an
opportunity of asking her why she had sent Böhmer to her (who had been to
speak to her, saying that he came at Madame Campan’s request), when she
did not wish to see him.
“The expression,” remarks Madame Campan, “which this man’s name produced
on my features must have been very marked, for the queen observed it, and
commenced questioning me. I begged her to see him; I assured her that it
was necessary to her tranquillity; that an intrigue was being carried
on of which she was ignorant; that it was a grave one, since agreements
signed by her had been shown to people who had lent money to Böhmer.
Her surprise and annoyance were great. She made me relate several times
the whole of my conversation with him, and complained bitterly of the
vexation she felt at the circulation of forged notes signed with her
name; but she could not conceive how the cardinal could be involved in
the affair. This was a labyrinth to her, and her mind was lost in it. She
ordered me to remain at Trianon, while she sent off a courier to Paris,
under a pretext which I have now forgotten. He returned the next morning,
the very day of the representation of the comedy, which was the last
amusement the queen allowed herself in this retreat.”[153]
XX.
1785. FEB.–JUNE.
THE DIAMONDS ARE DISPERSED.—COUNT DE LA MOTTE GOES TO ENGLAND ON BUSINESS.
The De la Mottes had spirited away the Necklace it is true, but how were
they to turn it into hard cash? Every working jeweller in France knew
this famed piece of _bijouterie_ by repute almost as well as if he had
had a hand in its manufacture. The only plan, therefore, was for them,
somehow or other, to remove the diamonds from their settings, and to
dispose of them piecemeal. The first the De la Mottes contrived to do
after a fashion by means of a knife or some such instrument; the last
they found a difficult and even dangerous undertaking.
On the 15th of February[154] the countess’s first secretary and the
forger of the queen’s signature to the contract with the jewellers,
Rétaux de Villette, who was of course as deep in the plot as the De la
Mottes themselves, was intrusted with about forty of the smaller stones
to sell to two Jew diamond-merchants named Adam and Vidal for four
hundred francs a-piece. Vidal, believing the diamonds to be stolen, gave
information to the police, and the consequence was that Villette was
arrested and subjected to an examination, in the course of which he was
constrained to give up the name of the Countess de la Motte as that of
the person who had intrusted him with the diamonds to sell. Madame being
well known of old to M. Lenoir, lieutenant-general of police, to whom
it will be remembered one of her begging letters was referred,[155] and
her reputation being of the shadiest in her particular “_quartier_” M.
Lenoir gave directions to the inspector who had arrested Villette to make
diligent search at the “_Bureau de Sureté_” for information respecting
any recent robbery of diamonds. Nothing whatever being discovered to
implicate Villette in the least degree, he was discharged, and the
diamonds were restored to him.[156]
This was a narrow escape for Villette, who naturally enough declined
putting his liberty in jeopardy a second time. The consequence was that,
burdened though the De la Mottes now were with diamonds, they were unable
to turn them to profitable account. If attempting to dispose of a few
of the smallest stones excited all this suspicion, whatever would come
to pass, thought they, if any quantity of the larger brilliants were
publicly offered in the market? The thieves are for the moment at their
wits’ ends, and do not appear to have been particularly fertile in their
expedients, for what next suggests itself to them is to get hold of a
young fellow of dubious character calling himself Jean-Charles-Vincent
de Bette d’Étienville, whom Rétaux de Villette has met with at some
café—singularly enough the Café Valois—and under the assumed characters
of the Dame de Courville, personated by Madame de la Motte, the Sieur
Augeard, her steward, personated by Villette, and the Councillor
Marsilly, personated by the Count de la Motte, to make him their
pretended confidant in a cock-and-bull story about the lady desiring
with a view of legitimatizing a child she has had by some very great
nobleman, to get married to some gentleman of title, to whom a bonus of
one hundred thousand livres would be given on the day of the wedding.
They represented, however, that before this arrangement could be carried
into effect, it would be necessary to dispose of the lady’s diamonds,
which were valued at four hundred and thirty-two thousand livres; and
it was proposed to Bette that he should take them to Holland, and sell
them to the diamond merchants of Amsterdam—madame of course either
accompanying him, or dogging his footsteps to ensure his not giving them
the slip. Bette, although he found out a gentleman of title ready and
willing to save a lady’s reputation at the price of one hundred thousand
livres, cash down, seems to have drawn back at this latter suggestion,
which foreboded danger he fancied; and all madame’s powers of fascination
and persuasion proving of no avail, this abortive scheme had to be
abandoned.[157]
All this was of course very disheartening. To have plotted and schemed,
and watched and waited, and after doubts and misgivings, and positive
fears and dangers, to have at length achieved success, and then for
success to prove barren, was something awful. For the moment it
seemed as though there was nothing to be done except to barter away
as many diamonds as they could, and to have others reset to wear as
personal ornaments. It was certainly no use hiding so much brilliancy
under a bushel. At the commencement of March we find the Count de la
Motte strolling into the shop of Furet, clockmaker to the king, Rue
Saint-Honoré, with whom he had had previous dealings, and buying from
him three clocks, price three thousand seven hundred and twenty livres,
and giving him a couple of diamonds, which the jeweller values at two
thousand seven hundred livres, on account. A day or two afterwards madame
herself calls with a number of diamonds, which she wishes to have mounted
encircling a watch; but Furet explains to her that the stones are too
large for this purpose, and suggests mounting them as bracelets.[158]
She also exchanges a diamond with a Jew for a couple of china pomade
pots, and pays a visit to the goldsmith Regnier—of whom she had bought a
pair of diamond bracelets and the handsome service of silver plate with
which it will be remembered she astonished her Bar-sur-Aube connections
in the preceding year, paying for the same with the cardinal’s money—and
commissions him to set a couple of large diamonds, which she brings with
her, in rings, one for herself and the other for her husband.[159]
Transactions of this character, however, did not put them in possession
of the one thing needful—namely, ready cash. Diamonds were with them as
plentiful as blackberries, but diamonds are not meat and drink, and are
at best but an indifferent circulating medium, and the De la Mottes were
getting painfully hard up. The countess, however, proved herself as usual
equal to the occasion.
Unknown to her husband, she sells a parcel of twenty-two diamonds
to one Paris, a jeweller—to whom she had been introduced by M.
Filleul, a lawyer of Bar-sur-Aube, and an occasional visitor at the
Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles—for the sum of fifteen thousand livres, and
subsequently disposes of sixteen more diamonds to the same person for the
sum of sixteen thousand livres.[160] This furnished her with sufficient
funds to pack the Count de la Motte over to England with a letter of
credit for a couple of thousand crowns,[161] and the bulk of the larger
diamonds belonging to the Necklace. These diamonds, which the countess
had first declared were sold at the request and on behalf of the Cardinal
de Rohan, she afterwards pretended she had received as a gift from the
queen, and it will be noticed at the outset of the following narrative
that the count takes up this cue, although he stated to the English
jewellers that the gems were a family heirloom. This narrative of the
count’s is not wanting in circumstantiality, still, like everything else
emanating from the De la Motte mint, it has the customary false stamp
upon it, more particularly in that portion relating to the amount said
to have been received for the diamonds which the count succeeded in
disposing of, as we shall by-and-by show. It should be remembered that
this statement was not made public until long after the fact of the sale
and purchase of the diamonds in question had been proved beyond a shadow
of doubt by the English jewellers concerned in the transaction.
“I arrived in London,” says the count, “on the 17th of April, 1785, with
the Chevalier O’Neil, who was perfectly acquainted with the object of
my journey. As he knew the countess was admitted to the queen, I made
no mystery to him _of the present she had received from her majesty_,
nor of my motive for parting with the diamonds in London. I had a letter
of credit on Messrs. Morland and Co., to whom I went the day after my
arrival. On making inquiry for the most noted jewellers, I was directed
to Jefferys and to Gray; I first saw Jefferys, who lived in Piccadilly,
told him I had some diamonds to dispose of, and left him my address. The
next morning he came to my lodgings, where I showed him the eighteen oval
stones that belonged to the Necklace, and acquainted him with the price
_which the cardinal had fixed_. He requested me to let him take them home
in order to examine them, and offered me his acknowledgment, which I
accepted. He promised to bring me an answer in four days; the next day I
set out with the Chevalier O’Neil for Newmarket. During five days that we
remained there, I gained by betting nine hundred and sixty guineas, sixty
of which I expended in travelling expenses, the purchase of clothes, and
various other articles.
“On my return to London, I went to Jefferys, who told me that a gentleman
had offered four thousand pounds sterling; that he could not pay ready
money, but would give notes at six and twelve months’ date, and would
find ample security. I told him I would consider of it, took back my
diamonds, and returned him his acknowledgment. The same day I went to
Gray’s in New Bond Street,[162] left with him the largest oval stone,
and directed him to come to me the next day, when I would let him see a
greater quantity; the same day I purchased of him a self-winding watch.
The next day he came with a Jew named Eliason. I intrusted him with the
same stones I had left in Jefferys’ hands; he told me he had already
examined them, and that a broker whom Jefferys employed had brought them
to him. I then let him know the offer that Jefferys had made me, and the
terms of payment, adding, that not knowing Jefferys, nor the person he
had recommended to me, I did not choose to part with so considerable a
property upon credit. That besides, I proposed staying but a few days in
London, whither I might probably never again return, and that I did not
think proper to leave anything behind me that might create any anxiety.
“He answered that I was perfectly in the right, and that if we agreed on
the price he would pay me ready money. I told him my price: he took away
the diamonds, and promised to bring an answer the following day; which he
did, but still accompanied by Gray. He made me an offer of three thousand
guineas, which I would not accept. After pointing out stones that had
flaws and other defects they left me, with an assurance that the offer
they made me for ready money was very adequate; and that I should not
meet with a more eligible one. I let them go away, telling them I would
keep my diamonds rather than part with them at that price.
“Next morning they returned, and asked to inspect the diamonds a second
time: I permitted them. O’Neil was present, as well as my _valet
de chambre_. Eliason then drew out of his pocket a pearl necklace,
consisting of two very beautiful rows, a snuff-box set with brilliants
and pearls, with a medallion on the lid, and several parcels of pearl
seed. He valued these several articles at about five hundred and sixty
pounds sterling. I said that if he would give me four thousand pounds,
together with those articles, the bargain was struck. He exclaimed
loudly, and then made a motion to go, offering three thousand pounds and
the articles I had selected—a proposal which I rejected.
“In the interim Jefferys made a second application; I told him my
resolution was to sell them for ready money only. I then delivered to
him thirteen stones of the first quality I possessed; the two finest,
which belonged to the Necklace, not having been given to the countess;
and no doubt but the queen made a present of them to Mademoiselle Dorvat,
or some other woman in her intimacy, for there were several which were
similar. I had selected two, one intended to be set in a ring for the
countess, the other for myself. Regnier, my jeweller at Paris, set
them before my departure for London.[163] Both myself and the countess
commonly wore them. The cardinal has seen them both.
“I called the next day at Gray’s to purchase several articles in steel;
there I found Eliason, who told me I was over-tenacious, that his offer
was a very fair one. He showed me some very fine pearls for a pair of
bracelets, and a ring forming a neck-button; I went into a separate
apartment, where we entered into a bargain. After two hours’ difficulty
on both sides we at length agreed upon a price for the eighteen oval
stones, viz., three thousand pounds sterling ready money; the pearl
necklace of two rows, valued at two hundred pounds, the snuff-box one
hundred and forty, the pearl-seed one hundred and twenty, and a diamond
star which I took in Gray’s shop, valued at three hundred.
“This was the first bargain. When I had received the money and jewels,
he told me that Jefferys’ broker had brought him other diamonds which
were no doubt my property; that if I chose to sell them, I had better
do business with him than with another: that I should gain by it the
commission and some ready money. I went the same day and took out of
Jefferys’ hands the thirteen stones I had left in his possession. He
had come to the knowledge of my dealing with Gray, and being vexed at
having missed the opportunity of making the purchase himself, he upon
that account pretended, as will be seen hereafter, that he had acted
respecting the diamonds with more propriety than Gray, for that he,
Jefferys, surmising the diamonds to have been stolen, had given notice
at a police office (which in fact was a falsehood[164]), and had refused
to buy them. He afterwards the more readily made a declaration to this
purpose before a certain notary named Dubourg, at the request of M. de
Carbonnières, agent for the cardinal, as he said he believed me to be in
Turkey, and depended upon never seeing me again in England. His behaviour
to me when I returned to London will show how _delicate_ this Jefferys
was in his conduct; since he came to me after judgment was passed to ask
me whether I had not any diamonds to dispose of, telling me he would be
the purchaser, and allow me a greater advantage than Gray would. It will
soon be seen what answer I made him, and the method I took in order to
make apparent what the justificatory writings produced by the cardinal
consisted in.
“The thirteen stones taken from Jefferys I carried to Gray, telling him
I would come the next day to his shop myself, and that he might appoint
Eliason to be there at the same hour. The departure of the Chevalier
O’Neil prevented my keeping the appointment. He had received a letter
from his brother and another from his colonel, requiring his return with
all possible speed to join his regiment by the 15th of May. He had not
been able to obtain a longer leave of absence as he hoped; the troops the
emperor was then marching towards Holland were the occasion of the orders
he had received: he was therefore forced to leave me in London. He took
charge of several purchases I had made, and of the parcel of pearls I
had got in exchange. As he went by the coach, he took his place the day
before at Mr. Guyon’s office, where he found the Capuchin McDermott, a
professed spy, who for the things made known to me by his own confession
(and those certainly are the most harmless) deserves to be made an
example of. The Capuchin knew the Chevalier O’Neil, with whom he renewed
acquaintance; and finding in the course of conversation he had come over
with me, he begged he would introduce him to me, which the chevalier
did. He told me that as I did not understand English he would be my
interpreter, and do me all the little services in his power. I accepted
his obliging offer, and that day he dined with me. He had been procurator
of his order at Vassy, six leagues distant from Bar-sur-Aube; he knew my
family, and had seen me, by his account, a child.
“In this, my first interview, I did not communicate to him anything
relative to my having diamonds to dispose of; in short, I acquainted
him with no particulars beyond that I had money to remit to Paris. He
answered that he knew a merchant in the City named Motteaux, that if I
negotiated through his means he would allow me the same advantage as to
traders, whereas Mr. Hammersly would deal with me as with a nobleman.
He calculated the benefit I should reap by placing that sum with Mr.
Motteaux, and as it seemed to me rather considerable, and he persuaded
me that Mr. Hammersly would not make me the same allowance, I determined
to go to Mr. Motteaux, whither he accompanied me. I delivered to him
the three thousand pounds sterling I had already received on the former
bargain.”
McDermott, it seems, when he and the Count de la Motte were taking a
stroll together in Kensington Gardens, questioned the count, in an
off-hand Irish way, as to the sources of his wealth, and hinted that he
must have made some lucky coups at the gaming-table—one had not to know
the count long to discover that he was a practised gambler—whereupon the
count replied, in the coolest manner possible, that he was not partial
to “play.” “The truth is,” said he, “I married Madame de la Motte, with
her slender income of eight hundred francs, against the wishes of my
family, as I had not a single franc of my own; but we came up to Paris,
when Madame and the Countess d’Artois recommended us to several of the
ministers, who in their turn recommended the countess to lay her case
before the queen. She did so, was taken into favour, and hence our
present affluence.”[165]
“Let us return now to the thirteen diamonds I had left with Gray. When
the Chevalier O’Neil was gone I went to that jeweller, who immediately
sent into the City to let Eliason know I waited for him at his house. He
came, but we made no bargain; eight or ten days passed away in fruitless
meetings and considerations. They often told me they wondered how a
gentleman should have such a knowledge of diamonds as to ascertain the
exact value of them; but that I certainly must be sensible that such
articles were difficult to dispose of; that they should perhaps be
obliged to keep them two or three years upon their hands, during which
time the interest of the money was lost, and other things to the same
purport. At length, after much trouble and delay, we came to a settlement
for the thirteen stones, for the sum of two thousand pounds sterling,
ready money; a ring, convertible into a neck button, valued at two
hundred pounds sterling, and for which I lately got but one hundred;
a parcel of very fine pearls for the mounting of a pair of bracelets,
valued at a hundred and fifty pounds; another parcel of pearls for sixty
pounds, and a pair of girandole earrings, valued at five hundred pounds.
Such were the two bargains I made with Eliason in presence of Gray.
Six diamonds, which formed the trefoil of two oval ones, I exchanged
at Gray’s for a medallion set round with brilliants, two steel swords,
a shirt-pin, a pair of asparagus tongs, and a wine syphon. Four more
diamonds which were between the rose and the four tassels were likewise
exchanged at Gray’s for a ring, still in my possession, a small hoop of
diamond-seeds, a lady’s pocket-case, in satin and gold, with all its
fittings, a pair of steel buckles, and a miniature.
“I had sixty diamonds left, arising from the tassels, twenty-two from
the festoons, and the stone which formed the button. Out of the sixty I
selected twenty-eight, which I gave to Gray to set in drop earrings; and
the two-and-twenty of the festoons to make into a necklace of one single
row. I then had left only thirty-two stones arising from the tassels,
and stone forming the button. I chose the sixteen finest, which I kept
unmounted, and the remaining sixteen I parted with to Gray, at the rate
of eighty livres the carat, out of which I bought in his shop sundry
small matters not worth mentioning. Thus terminated all my negotiations
for diamonds in London.
“I had still remaining the button stone, which I showed to Mr. Morland,
asking him whether he could not find an opportunity of selling it to my
advantage. He said he would let an acquaintance inspect it, and let me
know his answer in two or three days. He did so by telling me he had the
stone in his bank, and that one thousand guineas had been offered for
it, which he believed might be increased to twelve hundred. He proposed
my calling in Pall Mall to take the diamond, and from thence go into the
city to Mr. Duval’s, the person who made the offer; but that he believed
it was not for himself. We met with Mr. Duval, who showed me several
articles in jewellery. I told him my design was not to purchase any,
since I was, on the contrary, come to treat with him about a diamond
which Mr. Morland had given him to inspect. After surveying it a second
time, he told me that the person to whom he had shown it offered but one
thousand pounds, which he (Duval) looked upon to be its full value. I
took back the diamond, and resolved to keep it till I found a means to
dispose of it more advantageously. The same day I gave it to Gray to set
in a ring.
“Let us now proceed to the enumeration of those stones that were sold and
exchanged in Paris. Before my departure for England, the countess had
delivered to M. Filleul some diamonds, which she had kept privately, that
had formed part of the festoons and knots of the tassels; she desired
him to sell them for her, and pay her the money, charging him not to
make me acquainted with it. He sold the whole parcel to one Paris, a
jeweller, for the sum of twenty-eight thousand French livres (francs).
Two stones, part of the festoons, were exchanged by me for two pendulum
clocks at one Furet’s, in the Rue St. Honoré, with twenty-five louis-d’or
in addition. One diamond, in like manner from the festoons, was set in
a ring by Regnier, my jeweller. I had a chain in small brilliants which
Franks the Jew had sold me; that I gave to Regnier, adding a few small
diamonds which belonged to the knots of the tassels, the whole of which
he made into a chain, which the cardinal’s counsel valued at forty
thousand livres. I with much difficulty parted with it for _sixty pounds
sterling_ in London. It was nearly the same with every particular; they
were, in order to obtain their ends, obliged to multiply the price for
which every article sold in a like proportion; and thus, from this false
estimation, endeavour to prove that the _whole_ of the Necklace had been
in my possession.
“I had now left in all sixteen diamonds which I had brought back from
London, four-and-twenty very small ones, which were on the sides of
each oval stone at the bottom of the tassels, twenty-eight encircling
the two large oval stones, two small ones on each side of the button,
eighteen of the small size, six of which held the two oval stones between
the festoon, and the twelve others which were immediately adjoining
to the ribbon at top. The rose and what held the tassels were not yet
taken to pieces. I delivered the whole to Regnier, out of all which he
selected the best diamonds, and nearly of an equality, to encircle the
top of a bonbonnière and mount a small pair of drop earrings which the
countess wanted to make a present of. The remainder I directed him to
sell, for which he got thirteen or fourteen thousand livres. These made
up the number of what I sold, as well at Paris as at London. Let us now
recapitulate.
“I received in ready money in London _five thousand pounds_ sterling from
Mr. Eliason, and fifty or sixty pounds from Mr. Gray.
“In exchange I received a medallion, a pair of girandole earrings, a
ring, a shirt-pin, a hoop, two steel swords, a pair of steel buckles,
one pound of pearl-seed, two rows of pearls forming a necklace, a mount
for bracelets, a small parcel of pearls, a neck-button convertible into
a ring, a snuff-box, a pair of asparagus tongs, a wine syphon, a lady’s
pocket-case in satin and gold with its fittings, a miniature, and a
pen-case of roses valued at sixty pounds sterling.[166] Some few other
small articles I had from Gray’s shop, as needles, knives, steel forks,
spring-pincers, scissors, a pair of silver buckles, an opera glass, a
small steel watch-chain.
“I sold at Paris to M. Paris several diamonds to the amount of
twenty-eight thousand livres, and I received nearly fifty louis-d’or for
a part of the pearl-seed carried from London by the Chevalier O’Neil. The
remainder of the pearl-seed was sold to Mordecai, a Jew residing in the
Rue aux Ours.
“I have already said I had delivered to Gray twenty-two stones to set
in a necklace, and twenty-six[167] for drop earrings. I had acquainted
him with the day of my departure, and he had promised the work should
be completed; yet the day previous thereto he showed me all the pieces,
only sketched, assuring me there was a great deal more work than he had
at first imagined, and that if I would leave them with him he had an
opportunity of conveying them to Paris within a fortnight. I left him
the diamonds with my address, and set out upon my journey on a Sunday
morning with the Capuchin McDermott, who attended me as far as Dover. At
parting with him I made him a present of a snuff-box with a very handsome
painting on the lid, and defrayed his journey back to London.
“When I left Paris I had taken credit for two thousand crowns; I won
at Newmarket near a thousand pounds sterling: out of both which sums
I expended a hundred guineas in saddlery, harness, and race-horse
body-cloths, a hundred guineas more for a phaeton, a hundred and fifty
guineas in English stuffs and clothes for myself and servants; the
rest was spent in travelling, and during my six weeks’ stay in London,
which will not appear extraordinary when it is known I had taken up
my residence at one of the principal hotels in that town, that I kept
two servants, a hired coach, and two saddle horses, that I often gave
entertainments, and that keeping the most fashionable company, I was
obliged to play and enter into expensive pleasures.
“All I now had left of the famous Necklace were two rings—one for
myself, the other belonging to the countess—a small diamond mounted on
a plum-coloured stone, a pair of drop earrings, and a circle on a black
tortoiseshell-box, and what I had left with Gray—namely, the necklace of
twenty-two stones and the earrings.
“Thus I have given a minute detail of the diamonds I possessed and of the
manner in which I had disposed of them.
“From the account I have kept and have just set forth of all the diamonds
I had in my possession or that of the countess belonging to the Necklace,
and by comparing it with an exact representation thereof engraved
on a scale of the size of the diamonds, it appears that the queen
had kept _two hundred and fifty-six diamonds_ of the same magnitude,
_ninety-eight_ smaller ones of the same form, and the _two finest
diamonds_ of the first size. The two hundred and fifty-six diamonds were
what composed the most beautiful part of the Necklace, on account of the
assemblage and the regularity of so great a number of stones.”[168]
Unfortunately for the count’s reputation for accuracy, a sworn affidavit
of Gray’s, setting forth a true extract from his ledger, and produced
at the time of the trial, gives the following version of his dealings
with the count. This not only shows a considerable variation of price in
respect to several articles received in exchange, but yields in round
numbers a total of nearly three thousand pounds in excess of the amount
admitted by the count to have been received:—
_Monsieur le Comte de Valois, of London_,
DR. to ROBERT GRAY.
_May 20th, 1785._
£ _s._ _d._ Prices quoted
| by Count de
| la Motte.
A medallion set with diamonds 230 0 0 |
A diamond ring 94 10 0 |
A pearl knot for a lady 52 10 0 |
A hand fire-screen 1 4 0 |
A funnel and glass 0 6 0 |
A purse 4 14 6 |
A handsome steel sword 100 0 0 |
Ditto ditto 45 0 0 |
Two toothpick-cases 12 12 0 |
A carving-knife and fork 1 4 0 |
A pair of blue steel buckles 0 18 0 |
2000 needles 1 10 0 |
A strong casket 5 5 0 |
A diamond hoop ring 13 13 0 |
Four razors 1 0 0 |
Setting a diamond ring 1 8 0 |
A ring-case 0 8 0 |
A silk pocket-case, with fittings complete 12 12 0 |
A corkscrew 0 12 0 |
A handsome star-shaped diamond brooch 400 0 0 | 300 0 0
A pair of asparagus tongs 2 12 6 |
A gold watch 38 0 0 |
A purse 4 14 6 |
A cord for a cane 1 1 0 |
A pair of scales for diamonds 1 1 0 |
A wine syphon 5 5 0 |
A pair of spring pincers 0 10 6 |
A pearl necklace 170 0 0 | 200 0 0
1800 pearls 270 0 0 | 120 0 0
A diamond aigrette in the form of a rose 60 0 0 | 60 0 0
A pair of steel buckles 18 18 0 |
A watch-chain 6 16 6 |
A handsome pair of diamond girandole |
earrings 600 0 0 | 500 0 0
A brilliant ring 100 0 0 | 200 0 0
A diamond snuff-box 120 0 0 | 140 0 0
A diamond shirt-button 28 0 0 |
A pair of buckles 7 7 0 |
Ditto ditto 3 13 6 |
A parcel of pearl-seed and other pearls, 1890 0 0 | 210 0 0
for embroidery |
Paid in cash 6090 0 0 | 5060 0 0
----------------+
Total £10,371 6 0 |
=================+
Credit by value received in various |
diamonds £10,371 6 0 | [169]
=================+
While the count was away leading a life of ease and pleasure—bargaining,
it is true, about diamonds to-day, but “betting at Newmarket” on the
morrow, riding about town in his “hired coach” or on his “saddle horse,”
with his groom behind, giving “occasional entertainments at the principal
hotels,” “keeping the most fashionable company,” “playing deeply,” and
“entering into the most expensive pleasures,”—while all this was going
on, madame the countess was putting off troublesome inquiries respecting
her husband’s whereabouts as best she could, saying one day that he
was in Berry looking after a legacy, at another time that he was in
Poictou, and finally that he was in England, where he had won £1000 on
a horse-race.[170] Still she managed to enjoy herself after her own
fashion. Cardinal Prince de Rohan reluctantly admitted that she visited
him at the episcopal palace at Saverne at the end of May, dressed in
man’s clothes, and moreover, that he had sent one of the episcopal
carriages to fetch her.[171] One can fancy the high jinks between the
countess and Cagliostro, and black-sheep Baron de Planta, and the Prince
de Rohan, and “_la petite comtesse_,” as Cagliostro’s wife was called,
over the cardinal’s matchless Tokay on this notable occasion.
XXI.
1785. JUNE 22–AUG. 6.
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.
On the 22nd of June, Count de la Motte finds himself in Paris again,
with a letter of credit for the sum of 122,896 livres in his pocket-book
on Perregaux the banker—the same shrewd Perregaux who, according to the
popular story, after refusing the services of young Jacques Lafitte,
engaged him the instant afterwards from observing him pick up and
carefully preserve a common pin as in dejected mood he crossed the
courtyard of the banker’s hôtel, and who subsequently took him into
partnership and gave him his daughter in marriage, and so enabled him to
found the great house of Lafitte and Co., of which he was so many years
the distinguished head.
The count turns his letter of credit into hard cash on the following
day,[172] and then calls upon Regnier with some of the stones he had
failed to get rid of in England, commissions him to mount the best of
them round the lid of a circular box (a _bonbonnière_), to set others for
a small pair of drop earrings which the countess intends making a present
of,[173] and sells him the remainder—namely, twenty brilliants, weighing
in the aggregate forty-two carats, one weighing four and a quarter
carats, and thirty-nine weighing fifty-nine and a half carats—for 27,000
livres, discharging at the same time Regnier’s claim for setting the two
diamond rings for himself and madame, and also an old debt due for either
jewellery or plate.[174]
The De la Mottes now make no secret of the affluence which, after years
of watching and waiting, is theirs at last. Madame, they confidentially
admit, is in high favour with the queen, who, they insinuate, showers
gifts upon her confidant with no niggard hand. The countess’s ambition
was to be lady of the manor of Fontette. She has the means of gratifying
it now; nevertheless, it is not to Fontette that she goes, but to
Bar-sur-Aube, which, with its somewhat free and pleasant society, has
greater charms for her. On retirement for a time to Bar-sur-Aube, her
heart is fixed. She and the count had been long looking forward to
spending the present autumn in their new abode, which by the aid of the
Parisian decorator, who for months past had been exercising his talents
upon the principal apartments, was rapidly becoming a model of elegance
and taste.
One little thing, however, was somewhat troubling the De la Mottes
at this moment and casting its shadow across their anticipated
enjoyment—namely, the affair of the Necklace, the first instalment in
respect of which would soon be falling due. Still the countess, having
accomplished what she had, would surely find it no very difficult task
to arrange a postponement which would leave her husband and herself at
liberty to enjoy their autumn holiday in peace and quietude. It is with
this view that the countess calls upon the cardinal, as we have already
stated, while the count, looking upon the affair as good as settled,
hies down to Bar-sur-Aube to await the arrival of several waggon-loads
of furniture which were on their way from Paris. Among these we may be
certain there were some handsome suites of the very latest fashion,
supplied, we know, by Héricourt, Fournier, and Gervais, the crack
upholsterers of the period, at the cost of 50,000 livres. There was no
lack of clocks too from Furet, of marble groups from Adams and Chevalier,
nor of mirrors, and chandeliers, and table-glass, and Wedgwood ware, then
getting into fashion in Paris, from Sikes.[175] A little automaton bird
too, that flew about the room all alone, and for which madame had given
1500 livres,[176] would certainly not be forgotten.
It must have been at this particular juncture that the cardinal chanced
to see some two or three letters actually written by Marie-Antoinette,
and that, struck by the dissimilarity of the handwriting of these letters
and those received from Madame de la Motte, he communicated his doubts
upon the subject to the countess.[177] She, with her active brain and
ever ready tongue, had of course a hundred reasons to prove to the
credulous cardinal that he was mistaken, and so set his mind at rest. Not
so as regarded her own; she felt none of that confidence with which she
could so readily inspire her dupe. She feared the mine was on the point
of being sprung, and that the explosion would take place before she could
make good her retreat. To reassure alike the cardinal and the jewellers
she goes with her casket of jewels,—which Regnier tells her are worth
100,000 livres to her notary, one Mainguet, with whom she pawns them for
a loan of 35,000 livres, 30,000 of which she takes to the Prince de Rohan
to give to Böhmer and Bassenge. Then she packs off Rétaux de Villette
post-haste to Bar-sur-Aube, and so much is she taken up with these urgent
matters that she neither dines nor sups nor sleeps at home on that
day.[178]
One can imagine the consternation of the Count de la Motte as, while
superintending the arrangement of the new furniture and chatting with
the decorator respecting the extremely satisfactory effect of the _tout
ensemble_ of madame’s boudoir, he catches sight of Villette driving up to
the house in hot haste, and looking far more grave than is the fellow’s
wont. The count rushes down the steps to meet him—they turn aside for
a few minutes’ conversation, and after a hurried lunch, and some hasty
instructions to the workpeople, the order is given to put fresh horses
to the carriage, and the pair are soon rattling over the road to Paris.
By dint of handsome “_pourboires_” to postillions, and considerable
wear and tear of horseflesh, the hundred and forty miles that intervene
between them and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles are got over in less than the
four-and-twenty hours. At noon on the following day (August 3) a council
is held, at which it is decided that madame shall send a message to
Bassenge, requesting him to favour her with a call. The jeweller, in the
belief that the summons can only refer to the Necklace, takes the Hôtel
de Strasbourg in his way, sees the cardinal, speaks to him of his own and
his partner’s inquietude at the queen having taken no notice whatever
of the firm’s letter of July 12, and informs him of the message he has
received from Madame de la Motte, to whom he now hastens. Bassenge finds
the countess alone, with no other furniture in the apartment beyond a
bedstead and a couch, and everything about the house betokening a sudden
“flitting.” The jeweller simply thought he was dreaming when, after the
ordinary compliments had passed between them, madame, with the calmest of
countenances and the firmest of voices, said to him: “I have sent for you
to let you know that you have been deceived—the word ‘_approuvé_’ and the
signature attached to the paper containing the conditions of sale of the
Necklace are forgeries—the queen’s handwriting has been counterfeited. As
for the rest, the cardinal, you know, is very rich; you had better look
to him, and insist upon his rendering himself personally liable.”[179]
Bassenge, as soon as he recovered his self-possession, hurried home
to communicate to his partner the astounding intelligence he had just
received, but Böhmer, it will be remembered, was at Crespy with Madame
Campan on this very day.[180] The jeweller therefore resolved to look in
again on the cardinal, and ask an explanation from him. The Prince de
Rohan, on being apprised of what the countess had said, shared in the
fears of the jeweller, though he dared not avow as much. He hesitated
for some time ere he made a reply; then he strove to reassure Bassenge
by affirming that he had in his own possession a written agreement of
the queen’s, and he bade the jeweller go home and make himself perfectly
easy; and home, and somewhat easier in his mind, Bassenge went. Great
stress was laid at the trial on this mis-statement of the cardinal’s,
still we can very well understand it to have been nothing more than an
exaggeration of the fact that he was in possession of letters which he
believed to be written by the queen, authorising the purchase of the
Necklace on her behalf.
When Böhmer returns home from Crespy on the following day, the two
partners compare notes, and decide that the queen ought to be seen
without a moment’s delay. To Versailles, therefore, Böhmer hastens, but,
as we have already stated, is refused an audience by Marie-Antoinette.
A day or two afterwards, however, he finds himself summoned by courier
to wait upon the queen, who has by this time learnt from Madame Campan
the result of her conversation at Crespy with the crown jeweller, and
is anxious to hear the astounding recital from his own lips. Böhmer,
disregarding all that Madame Campan has told him, and in the full belief
that the cardinal holds the queen’s written agreement for the purchase
of the Necklace, proceeds to Versailles in all confidence, determined
to be no longer trifled with, even by royalty itself. On his arrival he
is ushered into the queen’s private cabinet, when Marie-Antoinette at
once inquires of him: “By what fatality it is that she is still doomed
to hear of his foolish pretensions about selling her an article which
she had steadily refused for several years?” Böhmer, reassured by what
the cardinal had told Bassenge, no longer felt any doubt as to the queen
being really a party to the purchase of the Necklace, and replied, “that
he was compelled, being unable to pacify his creditors any longer.” “What
are your creditors to me?” inquired the queen. Böhmer then related to
her seriatim all that, according to his deluded imagination, had passed
between them through the intervention of the Cardinal de Rohan. She was
equally thunderstruck, incensed, and surprised at everything she heard.
In vain did she speak; the jeweller, alike importunate and dangerous,
repeated incessantly: “Madame, this is no time for feigning; deign to
confess that you have my Necklace, and order me some assistance, or else
a bankruptcy will soon bring the whole affair to light.”[181]
Marie-Antoinette, driven almost frantic by this flagrant imposture and
by the wanton manner in which her name had been abused and trifled with,
immediately sent for the Abbé de Vermond, “her private secretary, her
confidant, and her counsellor;”[182] and subsequently for the Baron de
Breteuil—the cardinal’s two bitterest enemies. Delighted at the prospect
they saw of crushing the grand almoner, not merely by effecting his utter
ruin at court, but by disgracing him in the eyes of all Europe, they
never for a moment thought of the consequences of permitting the name
of the second personage in the kingdom to be mixed up in a swindling
transaction and associated with those of a profligate ecclesiastic, a
wholesale forger, a Palais Royal courtesan, a sharper, and an abandoned
woman and thief.
Hardly had Böhmer made his partner acquainted with what transpired at his
interview with the queen, ere another courier in the royal livery dashes
up to the door of the jewellers’ establishment—“Au Grand Balcon,” in the
Rue Vendôme—this time with a letter from the Baron de Breteuil, minister
of justice and of the king’s household, and the Prince de Rohan’s
declared enemy, again requiring Böhmer’s attendance at Versailles. On
the receipt of this new summons, Böhmer hurries off to the cardinal for
instructions and finds his eminence by this time pretty well crazed with
this same Necklace business. Nevertheless he enjoins the jeweller not to
breathe a word about the queen, for should the minister discover that her
majesty had purchased the detested jewel, he would certainly inform the
king, and they would all be involved in one common disgrace. Should the
Baron de Breteuil question him as to the meaning of the letter which the
firm had sent to the queen, he had better reply that it referred to some
new set of diamonds which they desired to sell to her majesty.
Primed with these equivocal instructions, the crown jeweller proceeds
nervously to his interview with the minister; but whether he was as
reticent as the cardinal bade him be on the subject of the sale of the
Necklace we have our doubts. Böhmer’s object was to get his money; but
then he dared not fly in face of the instructions he received from the
minister. He therefore played fast and loose with the cardinal, not
daring to break with him for fear he should loose his 1,400,000 livres,
but betraying him, so far as he thought he might safely venture to do, to
his acknowledged enemy. The result was that a few days afterwards, on
the recommendation of the Baron de Breteuil, who assured the jewellers
that they should be paid for the Necklace, a memorial was drawn up and
forwarded to the queen by the crown jewellers, wherein was set forth a
complete history of the negotiations which had been entered into with the
cardinal, and which had resulted in the sale to him of the Necklace, as
they believed, on her majesty’s account.
At this point the arch _intrigante_ seems to have lost her head, for on
the morning of the 4th, the day after she had made her damaging admission
to Bassenge respecting the signature to the contract, she sends her maid
to the Hôtel de Strasbourg to beg the cardinal to call upon her. He does
so, when she receives him seemingly all in tears, and tells him that she
is a victim to the malevolence of the courtiers of Versailles, who are
jealous of the favour shown her by the queen; that she is obliged to fly
to avoid their attacks, and entreats of him to afford her an asylum until
she can provide herself with some safe retreat. The stupid cardinal, not
even yet convinced that he has been duped, or, if so, fearing to admit
as much, hesitates at first, but eventually consents to receive her,
her husband, and her maid at his hôtel.[183] The countess afterwards
pretended that it was the cardinal who sent for her and the count; that
he kept them almost prisoners, and used every argument to induce them to
cross the frontier into Germany with all speed, so as to be out of the
way when the storm burst forth. She even went so far as to say that the
count was obliged to threaten to use force ere he could get released.[184]
Only one motive can be suggested for the countess taking refuge at
the Palais-Cardinal. She knew, or she suspected, that the police were
watching her house and tracking her footsteps, and she did not know how
soon the outstretched hand of justice might be upraised to strike, and
she may have thought from the cardinal’s high position, and the power
and influence of his friends and connections, that the police would
not dare to violate the sanctity of the episcopal domicile. For two
entire days the De la Mottes remained in close seclusion at the Hôtel de
Strasbourg, when finding the confinement irksome, or thinking possibly
that the affair would be certain to be hushed up, or that the law if put
in force would not trouble itself about a couple of fugitives hidden in
some far-away country town in the Champagne, they left the cardinal’s
on the evening of the 5th of August for their own house in the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Gilles.
Arrived there the De la Mottes without a moment’s loss of time appear to
have made arrangements for sending the forger Villette out of the way.
Madame, calling him aside, confides to him what he is already well aware
of, namely, that her affairs are somewhat embarrassed, and that she and
the count propose retiring to Bar-sur-Aube until the storm has blown over
and the atmosphere is a trifle clearer. Placing 4000 livres in bank-notes
in her faithful secretary’s hand, “Go you,” said she, “to Italy for a
time;” and then to console the lover, whom hard necessity forced her to
abandon, she added, “I will soon recall you near me again.” The docile
Villette promised to do as he was bid. A cabriolet seems to have been
in waiting for him in the courtyard of the countess’s house, and into
it Villette got, and a little after two o’clock in the morning he was
presumed to be on his way to self-exile.[185]
The following morning, while the count was giving some directions
respecting the last van-load of furniture, which was then being packed
in the courtyard of the hôtel, Bassenge looked in, and in answer to his
inquiries after madame’s health was informed by the count that she had
been at Versailles for the last three days pleading for the cardinal. De
la Motte added that he had only returned from Bar-sur-Aube three days
before, when he heard about the Necklace business for the first time.
“If,” remarked he in a jocular way, “the queen should ask you the meaning
of the letter of thanks which I hear you have addressed to her, why not
say it merely meant that the Necklace had always been at her disposition,
and that it was only a renewal of the offers of it which had been
previously made?”[186]
No sooner had the count seen the last van-load of furniture safely off
than he went with Father Loth to Mainguet the notary, paid him his 35,000
livres, and took away the jewels which madame had deposited with him a
few days previously.[187] These were necessary to the coming display
which the De la Mottes were bent upon making at Bar-sur-Aube. Determined
to lose no further time, the count and countess set out the same evening
for their country retreat; and it is said that at the moment the countess
stepped into the carriage she consoled the cardinal by promising to
return the very instant he should have need of her.[188]
XXII.
1785. AUGUST 8–17.
TWELVE DAYS’ STATE AT BAR-SUR-AUBE.
The countess had informed Beugnot, who had called upon her a short
time previously to inquire if she had any commands for Bar-sur-Aube,
whither he was about returning to spend his holidays, that it would not
be until the commencement of October, that she would again have the
pleasure of seeing him. “I was therefore very much surprised,” observes
he, “to see Madame de la Motte arrive at Bar-sur-Aube in the early
part of August, bringing with her her entire establishment, husband
included. Villette alone remained in Paris as a forlorn sentinel, and,
what appeared most strange, every day there arrived waggons loaded with
furniture—a far larger quantity in fact than the house would hold—and
magnificent furniture too. There were numerous handsome mirrors and
looking-glasses with which the walls of the _salon_, already resplendent
with a profusion of gilding, were decorated; the chairs and couches,
covered with beautiful tapestry, were also gilt.[189] Furet’s clocks,
and Adams and Chevalier’s marble groups and bronzes ornamented the
mantelpieces, and scattered about the _salon_ were some of those costly
fancies with which the arts contrive to tempt the extremest opulence,
such as a pair of automatic canaries that sang a duet together, and
another automaton bird, which flew about the room of itself. There were
likewise two gold musical boxes—things which have become common enough
since, but were still rare at that time; and clocks which by means of
certain mechanical arrangements displayed different scenes every hour
they struck. On seeing these things, one divined that they could only
have been bought by people tired of their money and anxious for the
first opportunity of flinging it out of window. In the dining-room were
two magnificent buffets on which were displayed a profusion of valuable
porcelain and two complete services of silver plate.”[190] The hangings
of the countess’s bed were of crimson velvet trimmed with gold lace and
fringe and embroidered with gold and spangles, while the counterpane was
worked all over with pearls[191] brought, it will be remembered, by the
count from England, and for which Gray had charged him over two thousand
two hundred pounds, and which, according to the countess, were reported
in the neighbourhood to be of the value of one hundred and fifty thousand
livres. “As a consummation of imprudence,” remarks Beugnot, “the De la
Mottes exhibited a casket containing more than two hundred thousand
livres worth of diamonds, the count himself being supplied with a far
larger quantity than seemed proper for an honest man.”
“In the De la Mottes’ stables were twelve splendid horses, and in
their coach-house no fewer than five or six handsome carriages, made
in England,” says Beugnot, “with a care and intelligence which showed
that expense was the last thing these people troubled themselves about.”
Among these vehicles was a light and beautiful cabriolet in the form
of a balloon, and upwards of ten feet high. In this singular vehicle
the Count de la Motte used to drive about the neighbourhood, stared at
by the gaping peasants and townspeople.[192] The countess when paying
visits of ceremony rode in a carriage drawn by six horses with little
silver bells jingling at their collars and foxes’ brushes flopping at
their ears. She was invariably preceded by a couple of outriders, and
one day greatly astonished the Abbot of Clairvaux—who, though a little
king in these parts, only sported four horses himself—by driving up to
the abbey gateway in this unwonted state. The number of servants on the
De la Motte establishment was considerable, and their liveries were as a
matter of course extremely rich. Among them was one of those little negro
pages called “jokeis,” then much in fashion, engaged for madame’s special
service. In short, the count and countess at this period of their career
displayed in all their appointments a magnificence and a profusion more
than rivalling that of the wealthiest families in France.
Madame’s superb embroidered robes and her valuable point lace were only
in keeping with the splendour of her household display. As for her
jewels, she no longer depended on a pair of diamond bracelets to attract
attention, for had she not now the magnificent pair of girandole earrings
for which Gray the jeweller had charged the count six hundred pounds
sterling, and the diamond star-shaped brooch which had cost another four
hundred pounds, and one of the handsomest diamonds in the whole Necklace
set as a ring by Regnier, besides other diamond rings innumerable?
The necklace, formed of “twenty-two of the very finest diamonds from
the festoons,” which Gray had mounted in accordance with the count’s
instructions, was flashing at this moment in the jeweller’s shop window,
13, New Bond Street, dazzling the eyes of Piccadilly and Bond Street
loungers, and exciting the envy of high-born English beauties; for Gray,
hard man that he was, would not part with the handsome jewel to the
Capuchin McDermott—whom the count had commissioned to procure it, and who
had made application for it to Gray on the count’s behalf—until he had
been paid the expense of setting.
“We used to think,” remarks Beugnot, “that the Cardinal de Rohan paid for
all this brilliant extravagance, and we admired the good use which his
eminence made of the funds of the grand almonry. The first representation
we had witnessed of the magnificence of the De la Motte household had
astonished us; at this fresh display we felt uneasy and well nigh
indignant. Neither husband nor wife showed the least inquietude. Their
dinners were excellent; and fête followed upon fête. They endeavoured to
attract the neighbourhood to their house and get invited out in return,
and to a certain extent they succeeded.”[193]
Within about ten miles or so of Bar-sur-Aube is Brienne, famous for its
military school, where the young Bonaparte it will be remembered studied
mathematics and the art of war; and where, in the neighbouring château,
lived Louis Loménie de Brienne, last Count of Brienne, who was brother of
the Archbishop of Sens, prime minister of France just before the outbreak
of the Revolution, and himself war minister for a time under Louis XVI.
The ends of both brothers were alike untimely. One, the archbishop, died
from a midnight carouse in which he was forced to join by the Jacobin
emissaries who came to carry him off from his palace at Sens to the
guillotine; the other by the guillotine itself, going thither in the same
set of tumbrils as Madame Elisabeth, the king’s sister. At the Château
de Brienne—a splendid edifice built by the count with the large fortune
he received with his wife, the daughter of a rich _fermier-général_—as
at almost every other château of importance at this period, private
theatricals appear to have been in vogue.
“M. de la Motte one day mentioned to me,” remarks Beugnot, “that he had
received an invitation to one of these entertainments at the Château de
Brienne, and would be pleased if I would accompany him and accept of a
seat in his carriage. Being well known to M. de Brienne, I acceded to
the count’s request without hesitation, and on the appointed day we set
forth in a gorgeous equipage drawn by four splendidly-caparisoned horses,
and with three footmen behind us. Prior to our starting I felt strongly
inclined to recede, as I foresaw that I should have to undergo my share
of ridicule for this ostentatious display. On our arrival at the château
we alighted to the great scandal of those who saw us arrive. Happily for
us the preparations for the play absorbed almost everybody’s attention,
and among others that of the master and mistress of the house. We entered
the _salon_ so that we might be seen, and passed from thence into the
_salle de spectacle_. I was seated by the side of M. de la Motte, and
soon perceived that he was the object of malevolent glasses, which were
passed from hand to hand with shruggings of shoulders and mocking smiles.
He certainly furnished a good subject for them, for he was dressed in a
most singular style, and, what was in the worst of taste, diamonds were
displayed in every part of his toilette at a period when the greatest
simplicity already reigned in male attire.”
One can picture the count with one side of his three-cornered hat looped
up with the magnificent diamond aigrette which he had bought of Gray, and
with the medallion set with diamonds for which he had given two hundred
and thirty pounds attached to a ribbon round his neck; with his diamond
watch-chain, his various diamond rings, and his diamond snuff-box, value
one hundred and twenty pounds; and with one or other of the very handsome
steel swords which he had brought over with him from England swinging at
his side.
“The count wore a dress coat of sky-blue cloth, a white waistcoat
embroidered all over, and breeches of canary-colour taffeta. Still
this only indicated the somewhat antiquated elegant; but here is what
completed the absurdity. Madame de la Motte had taken it into her head
to have the left facing of her husband’s coat embroidered over with a
fine bouquet of lilies and roses intermixed. Nothing of the kind had been
worn by any one up to that time, and most certainly not since. Everybody
was asking what it could possibly mean: there were some who professed
to see in it a sort of parody upon the united escutcheons of monsieur
and madame, one of which contained _fleurs-de-lis_, the other roses.
Stupidity and self-conceit could hardly have gone further.
“When the play was over we returned to the _salon_. The assembly was
composed of the distinguished families of the neighbourhood and of men of
letters from Paris—of the Abbé Morellet, la Harpe, Masson de Morvilliers,
&c. I saluted Madame de Brienne, who scarcely condescended to nod to me
in return, and then turned her back upon me. My reception by the master
of the house was reduced to a ‘Good evening, sir,’ uttered in a dry tone.
One feels ill at ease in the midst of a numerous circle after having
been coldly received by the host and hostess. I continued standing, not
knowing whither to bend my steps in the midst of this hostile camp, when
my good star brought to the _salon_ the Count de Dampierre, a great
bore, who relieved me of my difficulty by at once seizing hold of me. He
profited by the opportunity to speak to me of innovations of every kind
which were already fermenting in his brain; and under the circumstances
it was quite a treat to me to listen to him. In order that we might not
be separated during supper, he dragged me at once to table, and seated
me by his side, when he offered me in his own person the example of an
individual capable of speaking with warmth and eating with avidity at one
and the same moment. I was occasionally a trifle inattentive, owing to
my desire to observe how my travelling-companion was faring; but M. de
Dampierre always brought me back to the subject of his discourse. ‘Never
mind him,’ he would say, ‘he’s only some poor devil of a swell at whose
expense people have been amusing themselves for the last two hours. Do
you know him?’
“‘Yes, a little.’
“‘Well, what is he? Is he one of us? Does he know where we are?’
“‘Not the least in the world.’
“‘Well, then, let them do what they please with him;’ and M. de Dampierre
forthwith resumed his dissertation.
“I only knew from the tales told by some of the guests of the tricks
which had been played upon M. de la Motte at the supper-table. It seems
that in spite of the splendid repast spread before his eyes he had been
debarred from partaking of the slightest nourishment, and that he rose
from the table as badly ballasted as Sancho Panza at the conclusion of
the first feast served to him under his own government. This could only
have been brought about by a concert of ‘good turns,’ the success of
which enraptured the originators who came to relate the affair to us. The
Count de Dampierre inveighed against this interruption:
“‘Ah! well, well! but leave us alone; we have neither diamonds nor
canary-coloured breeches, nor bouquets embroidered at our button-holes.
There is your man cowering in the chimney-corner: go and laugh at his
expense, since he is in the humour to submit to it, and permit us to talk
sense!’
“After a time M. de la Motte grew bold, and came to me to propose that we
should leave. I consented with all my heart; but there still remained a
dreg at the bottom of the cup for me to swallow.
“When I went in all humility to salute M. de Brienne, and to ask him
almost tremblingly if he had any commands to give me for Bar-sur-Aube,
he signalled to me to advance, so that in getting clear of the hands of
M. de Dampierre I fell into those of M. de Brienne, who was quite M. de
Dampierre’s equal in holding fast to a good listener. M. de Brienne had
not been at table, and had had of course nothing to do with the practical
jokes of which M. de la Motte had been the victim. Indeed, he had
listened with suppressed anger to the account which had been given him
of the tricks played off upon the count, still he did not approve of my
having presented myself at his house in such company. I excused myself as
well as I could, assuring him M. de la Motte had informed me that he was
invited for that particular day. M. de Brienne proved to me that whether
M. de la Motte was invited or not, I did very wrong to accompany him. I
agreed with him, and asked his pardon, as the shortest way of terminating
the discussion, whereupon he immediately opened a conversation upon
another subject. There were scarcely any affairs in the commune in which
M. de Brienne did not take a lively interest, and he did me the honour to
consult me upon many of them, consequently there were plenty of materials
for a lengthened conversation.
“Poor M. de la Motte remained at a distance, watching our gestures, and
awaiting the moment when I should be at liberty. During all this time
people passed and repassed him with expressions of contempt or pity. I
did not dare utter his name, though I had observed he had been waiting
for me fully an hour. I risked a first salute to M. de Brienne, as if
about to take my leave, but he paid no attention whatever to it, and
continued speaking. A few minutes afterwards I made a new attempt to
release myself, whereupon my host proposed to me to sleep at Brienne. As
our discussion continued I could see that my travelling-companion was on
live coals. At last, by a courageous effort, I succeeded in disengaging
myself, and left with M. de la Motte. We stepped into his magnificent
carriage, having behind us two footmen with lighted torches, and a negro
covered from head to foot with silver lace. The windows of the _salon_
looked out upon the court of honour of the château; Madame de Brienne
and every one present were at the windows to observe the magnificence
of our departure, and saluted us by clapping their hands, laughing, and
indulging in mocking remarks which distinctly reached our ears. The
carriage only rolled on the faster.”[194]
A day or two afterwards Madame de la Motte proposed to Beugnot to
accompany her on a visit she was about to pay to the Duke de Penthièvre,
but Beugnot, not wishing to place himself in a ridiculous position a
second time, very decidedly declined the honour. He however accepted the
countess’s offer to set him down at Clairvaux, where he had been invited,
and which was on the road from Bar-sur-Aube to Château-Villain, and to
call and fetch him on her return in the evening.
“In accordance with this arrangement,” says Beugnot, “we left
Bar-sur-Aube at eight o’clock in the morning of the 17th of August,
1785, a day I shall never forget. Madame de la Motte having set me down
at Clairvaux, as had been agreed, went on to Château-Villain, where
she dined and met with a reception which astonished those who composed
the Penthièvre court. The duke himself re-conducted the countess at
her departure to the door of the _salon_ opening on to the grand
staircase, an honour which he did not pay even to duchesses, but reserved
exclusively for princesses of the blood-royal, so strongly were the
lessons of Madame de Maintenon on the honours to be paid to illegitimacy
impressed upon his mind.”[195]
XXIII.
1785. AUGUST 15–23.
LETTRES-DE-CACHET IN THE ŒIL-DE-BŒUF—IN THE RUE SAINT-CLAUDE—AND AT
BAR-SUR-AUBE.
At noon on the 15th of August, 1785, on the festival of the Assumption,
and the fête-day of Marie-Antoinette, the Cardinal de Rohan, attired
in his sacerdotal robes, was waiting in the Salle de l’Œil-de-Bœuf the
arrival of the king and queen, before whom he was about to celebrate
high mass in the chapel of the Château of Versailles. Conspicuous among
the cardinal’s vestments was his gorgeously-embroidered alb—worn by him
only upon grand occasions, and valued at upwards of one hundred thousand
livres, with his arms and device, in the form of medallions, crowning
the larger and more brilliant flowers of which the rich and elaborate
design was composed.[196] The handsome Salle de l’Œil-de-Bœuf, which
takes its name from the two bull’s-eye windows level with the ceiling,
was thronged, according to custom, with noblemen of every degree of rank,
grand court ladies, great officers of State, soldiers and dignitaries
of the Church, all watching for the doors communicating with the royal
apartments to be thrown open, and for the king and queen to make their
appearance. As it was in the days of the Grand Monarque—as it was in
Louis XVI.’s time—as it was on that eventful morning of October 7, 1789,
when the château was stormed and the terror-stricken Marie-Antoinette
fled across it for life, when the loud cry arose of “Save the queen”—so
the Salle de l’Œil-de-Bœuf is now. Round the ceiling, from which hang
suspended three magnificent chandeliers of rock-crystal, runs a handsome
deep-gilt frieze of cupids, some with hunting-horns, and dogs engaged in
the chase; others either reaping or binding sheaves of corn, or snaring
birds or playing at see-saw. At the sides of the doorway leading into
the grand looking-glass gallery, where those not having the _entrée_ of
the Œil-de-Bœuf were accustomed to congregate to see the royal procession
pass, are two equestrian portraits, the one of Louis XIV. in the costume
of a Roman warrior, wearing, however, his customary full-bottomed wig,
with Fame crowning him with a wreath of laurel; the other of the king’s
brother, the Duke d’Orléans. Facing the same doorway is an elaborate
mythological picture representing the Grand Monarque surrounded by his
family, all being robed in exceedingly scanty draperies, the wigs of
the men forming their principal article of attire, and all having that
unpleasant leer in the eyes which the painters of the seventeenth century
seemed to have considered peculiarly bewitching, if not quite becoming.
Suddenly the doors are flung open, but, instead of the tall _suisse_
shouting out the customary announcement, “_Messieurs, le Roi!_” the
Cardinal Prince de Rohan is summoned to attend the king in his private
cabinet.
On proceeding thither, the grand almoner found the king and queen
together. Louis XVI., without any preliminary observations, thus abruptly
addressed him:
“I hear you have purchased some diamonds of Böhmer?”
“Yes, sire,” replied the cardinal.
“Pray, what have you done with them?” inquired the king.
“I thought they had been delivered to her majesty.”
“Who commissioned you to make the purchase?”
“A lady called the Countess de la Motte-Valois, who handed me a letter
from the queen, and I thought I was performing my duty to her majesty
when I undertook this negotiation.”
“How, sir,” exclaimed the queen, “could you believe that I should select
you, to whom I have not spoken these eight years, to negotiate anything
for me, and especially through the mediation of such a woman—a woman,
too, whom I do not even know?”
“I see plainly that I have been cruelly duped,” replied the grand
almoner, darting upon the queen as he said so a look of indignation and
disdain.[197] “I will pay for the Necklace: my desire to be of service
to your majesty blinded me. I suspected no trick in the affair, and I am
sorry for it.”
The cardinal then took from his pocket-book a letter purporting to be
written by the queen to Madame de la Motte, and intrusting her with the
commission. This letter he handed to the king, who after looking at
it held it towards the cardinal, saying: “This is neither written nor
signed by the queen. How could a prince of the house of Rohan, and a
grand almoner of France, ever think that the queen would sign herself
_Marie-Antoinette de France_? Everybody knows that queens sign their
baptismal names only.”
Louis XVI. then produced the copy of a letter sent by the cardinal to
Böhmer, and inquired whether he had ever written such a letter. After
glancing over it, the grand almoner replied that he had no recollection
of having done so; but when the king asked him what he would say if the
original letter, signed by himself, were shown to him, the cardinal could
not but confess that the letter was genuine.
“‘If this be the case,’ observed the king, ‘explain to me the whole
of this enigma. I do not wish to believe you guilty; I had rather you
would justify your conduct. Account, therefore, for these manœuvres with
Böhmer, these securities, and these notes.’
“In reply to the king’s remarks, the grand almoner, who was extremely
confused, kept continually repeating: ‘I have been deceived, sire. I will
pay for the Necklace. I ask pardon of your majesties.’ Then turning pale,
and leaning against the table, he said: ‘Sire, I am too much agitated to
answer your majesty in a way——’
“‘Compose yourself,’ interposed the king, ‘and retire into the adjoining
closet. You will there find pens, ink, and paper; write down what you
have to say to me.’
“The grand almoner retired as directed, and returned in about a quarter
of an hour with a written statement of a somewhat incoherent character.
After receiving it, Louis XVI. commanded him to withdraw.”[198]
De Besenval says that at this moment the king warned the cardinal he was
about to be arrested. “Oh, sire!” exclaimed the prince, “I shall always
obey the orders of your majesty, but deign to spare me the shame of being
arrested in my pontifical habit before the eyes of the entire court.”
“It is necessary it should be so,” replied the king. The cardinal wished
to insist, but the king abruptly quitted him.[199] On leaving the royal
cabinet the grand almoner encountered his deadly enemy, the Baron de
Breteuil, who had been lying in wait for him, and who at once called out
to a sub-lieutenant of his majesty’s body-guard, “In the king’s name,
follow me! Arrest the Cardinal de Rohan!” The officer proceeded to take
charge of his prisoner, who, precipitated as it were in a moment from his
high pinnacle of fortune, was conducted on foot in his rich pontifical
vestments, guarded on all sides, and pressed upon by an amazed crowd of
court idlers and hangers-on, to his hôtel looking upon the north wing of
the château. The distance he had to go was not great, through the long
looking-glass gallery—every eye in the immense throng with which it was
lined being turned inquisitively upon him—through a few apartments and
down the marble staircase, and across the marble court and the broad
“Cour Royale,” with the noonday sun shedding its burning rays upon his
head, and gilding as it were his gorgeous vestments; past the gaudy,
gilded, and over-decorated chapel in which he, Grand Almoner of France,
was never more to officiate with a king and queen and a brilliant court
appearing to give ear to his ministrations; thence through the iron
gate leading into the Rue des Réservoirs, where the Hôtel de Rohan—a
singularly plain-looking building, with rather a pretty garden approached
from a balustraded terrace in the rear, and easily identified at the
present day from the circumstance of its being the residence of the
receiver-general of the district—was situated.[200] So soon as the
necessary preparations could be made, the cardinal, guarded like a
common criminal, was whisked off to Paris to the Hôtel de Strasbourg,
from whence he was speedily transferred to the Bastille.
Ere, however, he quitted the palace of Versailles, “notwithstanding the
escort that surrounded him, and favoured by the attendant crowd, the
grand almoner stopped for a few moments, and stooping down with his face
towards the wall, as if to fasten his buckle or his garter, snatched out
his pencil and hastily wrote a few words on a scrap of paper placed under
his hand in his square red cap. He rose again and proceeded. On entering
his hôtel he contrived to slip this paper unperceived into the hand of a
confidential ‘heyduc’ who waited for him at the door of his apartment.”
The heyduc posts off to Paris, and arrives at the Palais-Cardinal early
in the afternoon. His horse falls dead in the stable, and he himself
swoons in the apartment of the Abbé Georgel after exclaiming wildly,
“All is lost; the prince is arrested.” The slip of paper which drops
from his hand is caught up and read with eagerness by the abbé, and in
accordance with the instructions contained in it, the scarlet portfolio
which held all the cardinal’s secret correspondence, including the
letters—gilt-edged or bordered with _vignettes bleues_—penned by the
phantom queen, and on which the Prince de Rohan set such store, is
forthwith committed to the flames.[201]
While the foregoing events were transpiring the Count and Countess
de la Motte were receiving and returning visits in tranquil security
at Bar-sur-Aube. It was two days after the arrest of the cardinal
that the countess set out on her visit to the Duke de Penthièvre at
Château-Villain, and Beugnot was awaiting her arrival at Clairvaux in
the evening. The abbot had pressed the young lawyer to pass three days
there if the ensuing fête of Saint-Bernard would not frighten him, and
had promised him as a reward that he should hear the famous Abbé Maury
from Paris preach the saint’s panegyric. “I agreed,” says Beugnot, “with
all my heart. The day of Saint-Bernard was a grand affair at Clairvaux.
The poor who presented themselves at the door of the abbey received
charity, and the _bourgeoisie_ of Bar-sur-Aube and its environs were
entertained at dinner in the refectory, at which the abbot presided. I
desired to be present at this banquet to laugh at the abbot, who had
spoken to me of this old custom as a piece of tomfoolery he was about to
suppress, and had mentioned with contempt the guests who would be present
at it.
“The Abbot of Clairvaux was above the middle height, and of a fine and
graceful figure. When after his election he had the honour of being
presented to the king at Versailles, the queen, struck with his handsome
person and the dignity with which he wore the costume of his order, could
not refrain exclaiming, ‘What a handsome monk!’ Dom Rocourt was polite
with men and gallant with women, and with all this, or in spite of it,
very stupid. I was never able,” says Beugnot, “to make him comprehend
when the Revolution arrived that the age had done with him, his abbey,
and his monks, who would have been only too happy to abandon him.”[202]
The Abbey of Clairvaux, founded in the year 1114, was one of the richest
and most magnificent abbeys in France. Its annual revenue was between
three and four hundred thousand francs. Situated in a picturesque glen,
the conventual buildings comprised the abbot’s residence, a handsome
church, said not to have been inferior to Nôtre Dame de Paris, and where
several early French kings and princes lay buried, with a treasury for
its ornaments and relics, an infirmary, a refectory and dormitories:
besides which there were a valuable library and beautiful gardens.[203]
Lastly, one must not forget its gigantic wine-vat, which held upwards of
200,000 gallons. To-day the abbey is a house of detention for criminals;
the site of its magnificent church—demolished during the first year of
the Restoration—being now a prison-yard. The abbot usually drove out
with four horses to his carriage, and had an outrider to precede him. He
caused himself to be addressed as “my lord” by his monks and dependents,
and by the many persons who had need of his assistance. He governed
despotically numerous convents of monks and nuns that were dependent on
his abbey, and it is said that he took especial pleasure in visiting the
nunneries subject to his sway.[204]
We left Beugnot at Clairvaux waiting Madame de la Motte’s return. Soon
after eight o’clock she made her appearance, when he at once acquainted
her with the engagement he had entered into. She wished to share it and
remain for the fête of Saint-Bernard, but the abbot excused himself,
explaining to her that the fête was altogether a religious one, and that
the ladies who commonly inhabited Clairvaux fled from it on that day,
abandoning it to the religious of Saint-Bernard and to their children.
They returned, however, on the following day, and the abbot, who was lost
in reverence and adoration of Madame de la Motte, pressed her to augment
their number. He was no doubt aware of the intimate connection which
existed between the countess and the Cardinal de Rohan, and he treated
her accordingly like a princess of the church.
A large company was assembled at the abbey on this particular evening
in anticipation of meeting the Abbé Maury, whose arrival from Paris
was now momentarily expected. The clock having struck nine without the
looked-for guest making his appearance, the company sat down to the
supper-table. Scarcely had they taken their seats, however, before
the sound of carriage-wheels announced some new arrival. This proved
to be the Abbé Maury, with “his Jesuitic eyes, his impassive brazen
face, image of all the cardinal sins,” who, after being welcomed by his
brother ecclesiastic, and introduced to the guests in the supper-room,
without being allowed time to change his travelling-dress, took his seat
at table, when, as a matter of course, he was at once assailed by the
inquiry as to whether there was anything stirring in Paris—in fact, any
news.
“‘What mean you?—any news?’ replied the Abbé Maury; ‘why, where do you
all come from? There is a piece of news which none can understand,
which has astonished and bewildered all Paris. The Cardinal de Rohan,
Grand Almoner of France, was arrested last Tuesday, the festival of the
Assumption, in his pontifical vestments, as he was leaving the king’s
cabinet. They talk of a Diamond Necklace which he was to have bought for
the queen, but which he did not buy at all. Is it not inconceivable that
for such a bauble as this a grand almoner of France should have been
arrested in his pontifical vestments—do you understand, in his pontifical
vestments?—and on leaving the king’s cabinet?’
“As soon as this intelligence reached my ear,” says Count Beugnot, whose
narrative we are quoting, “I glanced at Madame de la Motte, whose napkin
had fallen from her hand, and whose pale and rigid face seemed as it
were immovably fixed above her plate. After the first shock was over she
made an effort and rushed out of the room, followed by one of the chief
attendants. In the course of a few minutes I left the table and joined
her. The horses were already put to her carriage, so we at once set
forth.”
“‘I have perhaps done wrong in leaving so suddenly, above all in the
presence of the Abbé Maury,’ remarked Madame de la Motte. ‘Not at all,’
replied I; ‘your relations with the cardinal are known, and almost
avowed. He may have to forfeit his life perhaps; your plan is to run away
in advance of couriers, letters, or news. You would have done wrong in
losing time by supping at Clairvaux—but can you explain this arrest to
yourself?’ ‘No,—at least only through some trick of Cagliostro’s: the
cardinal is infatuated with him: it is not my fault, I have warned him a
hundred times.’ ‘So much the better,’ remarked I; ‘but what is this story
about a Necklace which the cardinal has been buying for the queen? How
is it that a cardinal is charged with such a purchase? and how comes it
about that the queen should choose for such a commission Prince Louis,
whom she openly detests?’ ‘I repeat to you, it is all Cagliostro.’ ‘But
you have received this charlatan at your house. Are you not compromised
in any way with him?’ ‘Absolutely not in the least, and I am perfectly
tranquil; I did very wrong to leave the supper-table.’ ‘It was not wrong.
If you are tranquil on your own account, you ought not to be so on
account of an unfortunate friend.’ ‘Ah! bah! you do not know him; only
see him in a difficulty; he is capable of abusing a hundred persons, of
saying a hundred foolish things to get himself out of it.’ ‘Madame de
la Motte,’ replied I, ‘you have just said more than I wished to hear; I
have a last service to propose to you; it is now ten o’clock at night,
we are approaching Bayet. I am going to leave you there in care of a
friend for whom you know I can answer. I will return with your carriage
to Bar-sur-Aube, and will warn M. de la Motte, who in an hour’s time can
come and fetch you in a post-chaise drawn by your best pair of horses.
He will take charge of your most valuable effects, and you will together
take, this very night, the road to Châlons, since that to Troyes would
not be safe for you. Do not go to Boulogne, Calais, or Dieppe, at which
places instructions perhaps have been already given to stop you; between
these ports there are twenty places where for ten louis they will land
you in England.’ ‘Sir,’ replied Madame de la Motte, ‘you are wearying
me; I have allowed you to go on to the end because I was thinking of
something else. Is it necessary to repeat to you ten times running that
I have nothing to do with this affair? I repeat it, I am very sorry at
having left the table, as though I were an accomplice in your cardinal’s
fooleries.’ ‘Madame,’ observed I, ‘let us say no more on the subject.
Still I should like to add once more—after your avowal—that you will
repent not having followed my advice. May Heaven grant in this case that
your repentance may not be more poignant than usual.’
“We drove along in silence for half a hour. As we entered the town I
entreated her to at least burn any papers which might compromise her or
the cardinal. ‘It is,’ said I, ‘a measure dictated by honour on the one
side and by prudence on the other.’ She consented; I offered to assist
her, and as she did not refuse, on leaving the carriage I accompanied
her to her room. Her husband, who had left home early in the morning
to join a hunting party, had not yet returned. We opened a large chest
of sandal-wood filled with papers of all colours and dimensions. Being
nervously anxious to make quick work of the matter, I inquired if
there were amongst them any bills of exchange, bonds, bank-notes, or
drafts, and on receiving an answer in the negative I proposed to throw
the entire heap into the fire. She insisted on at least a cursory
examination being made of them. We proceeded with it, very slowly on her
part, very precipitately on mine. It was whilst casting furtive glances
upon some of the hundreds of letters from the Cardinal de Rohan, that I
saw with pity the ravages which the delirium of love, aided by that of
ambition, had wrought in the mind of this unhappy man. It is fortunate
for the cardinal’s memory that these letters were destroyed, but it is
a loss for the history of human passions. What must have been the state
of society when a prince of the church did not hesitate to write, to
sign, and to address to a woman letters which in our days a man who
respects himself the least in the world might commence reading, but would
certainly never finish?
“Among these motley papers there were invoices, offers of estates for
sale, prospectuses and advertisements of new inventions, &c. Some of the
letters were from Böhmer and Bassenge, and made mention of the Necklace,
spoke of terms expired, acknowledged the receipt of certain sums, and
asked for larger ones. I consulted Madame de la Motte as to what should
be done with them. Finding her hesitate, I took the shortest course,
and threw them all into the fire. The affair occupied a considerable
time. When it was over I took my leave of Madame de la Motte, urging her
more strongly than ever to depart. She only answered me by promising to
go to bed immediately. I then quitted her apartments, the atmosphere
of which was poisoned by the odour arising from burning paper and wax
impregnated with twenty different perfumes. It was three o’clock in the
morning; at four o’clock she was arrested, and at half-past four was on
her way to the Bastille. The examination which I had made of her papers,
although a superficial one, had settled my doubts. I had observed so much
extravagance in the letters of the cardinal, that I believed both he and
the countess lost, and the one through the other.”[205]
The countess was sound asleep when the officers of justice arrived. An
inspector of police drew aside the bed curtains, and arousing her, showed
her the _lettre-de-cachet_ for her arrest.[206] From this moment until
her departure from Bar-sur-Aube the countess was closely guarded by
_exempts_ and cavalry of the marshalsea, while other _exempts_ compelled
her husband, who had returned home in the meantime, to accompany them
while they made a strict search throughout the house.[207]
“M. de la Motte,” observes Beugnot, “was very little affected at the
arrest of his wife. He had been hunting the day before, and contemplated
devoting several more days to this amusement. He called on me at six
o’clock in the morning, and told me in a quiet, confidential sort of
way, of the countess’s arrest. He assumed a calmness in my presence that
surprised me. ‘Madame,’ said he, ‘will only be away for three or four
days at the utmost. She is going to give the minister some explanations
which he requires of her. I reckon that she will return on Wednesday or
Thursday, when we will go and meet her, and bring her home in triumph.’
‘Sir,’ I replied to him, ‘you are I dare say unaware that last night
I advised your wife to start at once for England, and by the quickest
route. Had she followed my counsel, she would not be as she now is,
on the high road to Bastille. I now advise you to follow the course I
suggested to her, which will be much safer for you than losing precious
time and deceiving yourself by vain illusions.’ The count shrugged his
shoulders and left me, humming a tune. On the same day he took his place
in the diligence, and gained England without delay. It was on the 18th
of August that he left. Four days afterwards the police came to arrest
him,”[208] but found their bird had flown.
Neither the forger Villette nor the counterfeit queen D’Oliva were
objects of suspicion even until several weeks had elapsed; but eight
days after the arrest of the cardinal, the Count de Cagliostro and his
wife were arrested and sent to join the grand almoner and the Countess
de la Motte in the Bastille. In a memorial prepared by Cagliostro,
wherein he puts forward a claim for damages on account of the losses
sustained by him in consequence of this arrest, he says: “On August 23,
1785, the Commissary Chénon came to my house, attended by a bailiff and
eight police-officers. He told me that he had orders to escort me to the
lieutenant of police. He asked me for my keys, and obliged me to open
my escritoire, which contained various medicines, amongst others six
bottles of precious balsam. The bailiff in my presence seized upon the
articles he chose to take, and particularly four bottles of the balsam.
The _sbirri_ that accompanied him followed their chief’s example, and the
pillage began.”
The count then proceeds to estimate the amount of this pillage item by
item, and ends by bringing it up to the considerable sum of 100,000
livres (£4000 sterling). Amongst these items he cites a green pocket-book
containing forty-seven bank notes of 1000 livres each, besides which
he asserts there were gold and silver coin—double-louis, sequins, and
Spanish quadruples—plate, jewels, diamonds, &c., taken away.[209]
The cardinal’s equerry and particular confidant, the Baron de Planta—a
man of shady character, who had held a commission in a Swiss regiment in
France, had been broke for some misconduct, and had been for years under
a cloud at the time he was picked up by the Prince de Rohan during his
Vienna embassy—was likewise arrested, but had the luck to get released
after undergoing a brief examination.[210]
XXIV.
1785. AUG. 19–SEPT. 13.
A DREARY DAY AND NIGHT’S DRIVE.—THE BASTILLE.—A “VALOIS” SERVED OFF
PEWTER.
As we have already mentioned, the Cardinal de Rohan immediately after
his arrest was conducted, closely guarded, to his hotel at Versailles.
In the afternoon of the same day he was removed to Paris, to the
Palais-Cardinal, where he remained during the night; the officer
commanding the escort of royal body-guards, having been solemnly
cautioned to that effect, slept in the same apartment as his prisoner,
whom he never trusted out of his sight for a single instant.
The day following the Marquis de Launay, governor of the Bastille, came
to receive the grand almoner into his custody, and to transfer him to
the iron grip of that mysterious state prison which rarely rendered up
its victims until they were snatched away by the icy hand of Death. The
cardinal wished to go thither on foot under cover of the night, so as to
be free from observation. This favour was granted him, and, what is far
more remarkable, he was allowed to take with him a couple of _valets de
chambre_ and a secretary, and was informed that he would be permitted to
see his friends at stated times in the hall of this gloomy fortress.[211]
At a later period of his confinement, he was allowed to drive of an
evening along the Boulevards in the Governor’s carriage, strictly guarded
of course, and to give grand dinners in his rooms.[212]
The Countess de la Motte was arrested, it will be remembered, at four
o’clock on the morning of the 18th of August, and was at once hurried off
to Paris, distant about one hundred and forty miles from Bar-sur-Aube,
“entirely ignorant,” she remarks, “whither I was intended to be conveyed,
and so little anticipating the event that I was dozing in the carriage.
In the course of our journey the vehicle was stopped, and questions asked
by some person without, to whom the person within said: ‘Don’t you know
this carriage?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ replied the other. ‘Don’t stop us then; we
have nothing but a state prisoner;’ upon which the vehicle proceeded.
Hearing this conversation I awoke; the termination of it roused all my
faculties. ‘What do you say?’ exclaimed I in a tone of extreme agitation.
‘A state prisoner! alas! then am I a state prisoner?’ ‘Oh, no, madame,
no such thing;’ and these people swore that I was not one. But there
is some excuse for them; they belonged to the police, and perjury and
bearing false witness is no small part of their employment. Yet they used
such kind expressions that, knowing my innocence, I flattered myself I
was not deceived. One of them said to me: ‘Madame, it is so very early,
I’m afraid we shall not be able to get an interview with the Baron de
Breteuil, who has given me orders if we arrived too early to conduct you
to my house, and to wait upon him about eleven; therefore be composed
and try to sleep a little.’ All this time I remained upon my seat; but
soon after, they desired me to conceal myself in the bottom of the
vehicle; this was when we arrived at the Porte St.-Antoine, where they
endeavoured as much as possible to place themselves in such positions
before me that I might neither be seen by any one nor observe the turning
of the Bastille. Finding myself rather warm, ‘Let me see,’ said I; and
looking out I discovered the Bastille. ‘How!’ exclaimed I, with agitated
surprise; ‘is it to the Bastille then that I am going? Oh! you are all
impostors!’ They endeavoured to pacify me, and begged me not to make a
disturbance; told me that they were not their own masters; that they
had received their orders, but that they were absolutely ignorant of
the motive for which I was taken to the Bastille, and that they were
persuaded in a very few days I should be liberated.
“By this time we arrived at the first bridge leading to the governor’s
house. The postillion knocked, and many _invalides_ came out. The
post-chaise belonging to the police drove up to the governor’s door, who
came out himself in a _robe de chambre_ to the carriage to give me his
hand, begging me at the same time to excuse his _déshabille_. He then
conducted me into a large hall. Soon afterwards, the king’s lieutenant
arrived with a large book, wherein he entered the date of my arrival,
and afterwards presented it to me to sign my name, which request I
complied with. During this ceremony, which only occupied a few minutes,
the governor was in the court with the _exempts_, who were giving him an
account of every circumstance which occurred in the execution of their
orders. This over, the governor returned, and asked me if I would take
any refreshment, adding: ‘We shall take great care of you, madame.’ I
then asked him into which apartment I should go to receive the Baron
de Breteuil, remarking at the same time that I hoped he would come at
eleven, as the _exempts_ had informed me. ‘Oh, there is not the least
doubt of it, madame,’ replied the governor. He then called Saint-Jean,
the turnkey, to whom he gave my papers, to place them, as I have since
heard, in the archives; after which the governor desired the king’s
lieutenant to conduct me to my apartment. Some little conversation passed
relative to the place of my destination, of which the lieutenant seemed
uncertain. ‘Oh,’ said the governor, ‘_La Comtée_ is the best; it is
very light.’ He then put me in charge of the king’s lieutenant, whose
arm I took, persuaded that I should be shown into some other apartment,
and for a far different purpose. As I went along I saw some soldiers
(_invalides_) enveloped in blue cloaks, with large hoods over their
heads, and long bands hanging down. As I passed them I was not a little
surprised to see them turn their backs towards me, it being the rule
when any prisoner arrives for them to turn themselves round lest they
should take too much notice. I began to laugh with the lieutenant at the
novelty of this, and particularly at these grotesque figures in their
masquerade....
“We passed on till we arrived at the court, the staircase of which led
to the tower of _La Comtée_. After ascending this we arrived at the
apartment destined for my reception, all the gates of which were very
large, and moreover open. St. Jean, who was to be my turnkey, attended me
thither.
“Struck with such a dismal change of situation, so very different from
what I had ever been accustomed to, I could not help expressing my
dissatisfaction to the lieutenant. ‘If this is the place,’ said I, ‘which
the governor pleases to call my apartment, be sure I am greatly obliged
to him.’ I then went to look at the bed, which was indeed a wretched one;
told him that it would be impossible for me to sleep in so miserable a
bed as that, and demanded if he could not accommodate me with one as good
as the cardinal’s? He replied, very politely, that he really did not
comprehend my meaning....
“My disapprobation of the bed, however, was attended with favourable
results, for the turnkey substituted for the one which I had great
reason to complain of an excellent feather bed with fine sheets and
curtains. Thus accommodated, and extremely fatigued, I attempted to get
some rest; but I was scarce in bed when the lieutenant, with my own and
another turnkey, arrived. The two turnkeys examined my clothes and my
pockets, out of which they took all the contents, consisting of several
little articles, particularly a gold _étui_ set with pearls, another of
tortoiseshell, a small ivory box ornamented with gold, having on its lid
a miniature with a gold rim, containing a small mirror and some rouge, an
English pocket-knife, a knife with a tortoiseshell handle and gold blade,
my purse, containing eighteen louis and about nineteen livres, and a gold
repeating watch with a diamond chain.
“Indignant at such humiliating treatment, which I could not patiently
endure, I remonstrated with some asperity, and threatened to inform the
Baron de Breteuil, whom I was simple enough to believe I should see.
They were, however, regardless of my threats, and having executed their
orders, departed through those dreadful doors which with their horrid
bolts were closed upon me, and the sound pierced my very soul....
“About eight o’clock the turnkey came to my door. I spoke to him, but he
paid no attention to me, and departed without saying a word. I rose to
examine my dismal habitation, and traversed the room in every direction
backwards and forwards. I opened the window to see if I could discover
anybody, or make myself sufficiently conspicuous for any one to see
me. I climbed upon the sill, and held my face close to the bars, but I
could discover nothing; as for people, it was impossible to distinguish
them.”[213]
At noon the lieutenant of the Bastille came to fetch the countess to
an interview, as she asserts she thought, with the Baron de Breteuil,
instead of which she was conducted into the presence of the lieutenant of
police and the Commissary Chénon, who commenced examining her respecting
the Diamond Necklace, and ended by accusing her of having first obtained
possession of, and afterwards absconding to a foreign country with
the missing jewel. Madame de la Motte, perfectly unabashed, says that
she laughed outright in the commissary’s face at what she styles the
“ridiculous absurdity” of such an accusation. Her examination was
continued day by day, and when completed, the commissary, as the countess
artfully states, “gabbled over something which she scarce understood,”
but which she nevertheless signed. “It was this cunning dissembler,”
she remarks, “who made me sign those odious things which I was supposed
to have said myself, and which were so detestable that when they were
read by his majesty he spat upon them, saying, ‘Fie upon the filthy
creature!’”[214]
The countess, who in early life was glad to feed upon broken victuals
passed through a trap-hole in the miserable hovel that sheltered the
Saint-Remi family at Fontette, appears not to have entirely approved
of the _cuisine_ of the Bastille. What more particularly annoyed her,
however, was that she, who had been latterly accustomed to gold and
silver plate, should now be expected to dine off vulgar pewter. According
to her own account, she preferred enduring the pangs of hunger to
submitting to such an indignity, and sent the dishes away untouched. The
turnkey, she tells us, somewhat surprised at this proceeding, “said in a
rude manner, ‘So then you don’t choose to eat, don’t you?’ ‘No,’ replied
I, ‘I don’t choose to eat, and I desire to know if you serve the cardinal
off pewter? Inform the governor that the Valois are quite as nice as and
entitled to equal respect with the Rohans.’ The turnkey was astounded. He
looked at me respectfully, and mildly answered that he was ignorant who I
was; then begging my pardon he departed, and returned shortly afterwards
with a better dinner served in beautiful dishes with silver covers.”[215]
Poor Madame de la Tour, Count de la Motte’s sister, having applied
to the Marquis de Launay for permission to visit the countess in the
Bastille, was arrested by two _exempts_ on leaving the governor’s house,
and forthwith conducted to a cell in the gloomy old fortress, where she
was kept confined for a period of six months, in spite of the efforts of
her husband and family to procure her release. This was paying rather
a heavy penalty for her feelings of sympathy towards an incriminated
sister-in-law.
Before the countess had been immured in the Bastille a fortnight, we find
her attempting a rambling exculpation of herself in a document which
bears no address, but was no doubt intended to produce an impression
on the Baron de Breteuil, and which she describes as “Explanatory
reflections on the accusations made by Monseigneur le Cardinal de Rohan.”
“Does Monseigneur le Cardinal de Rohan believe me ass enough
not to have disappeared immediately if I had desired to retain
the Necklace under some pretext, as he accuses me of doing?
“Does Monseigneur le Cardinal believe that I caused the
Necklace to be sold here under the eyes both of the vendor
and of himself, and that I should have been able, had I been
guilty, to have so far deluded them as to remain at Paris so
tranquilly as I did, knowing all the while the date of payment?
Should I not rather have taken a safe departure before the
moment of payment arrived? Monseigneur le Cardinal de Rohan
was at Saverne for six weeks. Could not I have profited by his
absence to join my husband in England, with my whole household
and have remained there?
“Instead of which my husband was there by his orders, and
returned as agreed upon with Monseigneur le Cardinal. Would
it have been possible, with me living almost at his door, for
him not to have given me something during four years, or at
least to have taken care of me and mine, since all I had was
my pension of 800 livres? The expenses of my house were always
heavy enough to make it requisite for the cardinal to give me
large sums to keep it up; and at this time I solicited more
than ever both at Versailles and at Paris. Every day I required
_voitures de remise_, which were very dear; I had, too, a house
at Versailles to reside in when there. How, moreover, let me
ask, should I have done the bidding of a sovereign without
anticipating great returns from it, since sooner or later this
intimacy would certainly have been discovered? How could I
have exercised so little precaution, I say, as to remain in
Paris, where, if guilty, I should have taken the utmost care
on the contrary to appear more at my ease than under ordinary
circumstances, fearful of being suspected by Monseigneur
le Cardinal, whose people, and especially M. le Baron de
Planta (whom he also brought as a witness against me), came
continually to my house?
“Will Monseigneur le Cardinal dare to deny all the facts which
I have advanced in my examination, and which will at least
convince him that I have been forced to this, and that it has
only been in self-defence? But he accuses me wrongfully. I must
tell the truth to prove my innocence, and to prove that he was
not in a position to use me as a servant, as Monseigneur le
Cardinal pretends, in an affair of such importance, since it
concerned the person of the queen. Moreover I do not know any
one who is attached to her.
“I have the honour to be, with submission,
“COMTESSE DE VALOIS DE LA MOTTE DE LA PÉNICIÈRE.
“At the Bastille this Monday, 29th August, 1785.”[216]
Another letter is extant, bearing date Sept. 13, 1785, evidently written
by the countess during her confinement in the Bastille, though it has no
signature to it, and which, couched in terms of extreme familiarity, is
addressed to the Duke de Guines, a very grand gentleman of the court,
and, what is more, one of the queen’s most intimate friends. In this
letter, in the midst of the most absurd and nonsensical details, the
countess introduces the names of her sister and of Cagliostro and his
wife, on the two last of whom she seeks to turn the accusation directed
against herself.[217] The duke, who pretended not to understand the drift
of the letter, sent it to the Baron de Breteuil.
XXV.
EFFECT PRODUCED ON THE PUBLIC MIND BY THESE ARRESTS.—THE ENEMIES OF THE
QUEEN.
It is impossible to conceive the sensation produced throughout France,
and indeed throughout Europe generally, by these arrests and the
extravagant rumours to which they gave rise. Marie-Antoinette in various
ways had unfortunately made numerous enemies—through her persistent
efforts, for instance, to get the Duke de Choiseul appointed prime
minister; through her too decided partiality for particular favourites,
for whom she secured both places and pensions; and through what was
affectedly styled her want of prudence—in other words, her open disregard
of the rigid formalities of French court etiquette. Arrayed against her
were many of the oldest families in France, each of whom cherished some
particular grievance of its own. The consequence was, there were many
hostile interests at work intent upon destroying her reputation and
bringing about her ruin if need be, even at the expense of the monarchy
itself, so that the great fraud of the Diamond Necklace was altogether
regarded in the light of a political event, and no time was lost by the
different inimical factions in twisting it to serve their own purposes,
without the slightest regard being paid by any one of them to the real
character of the act itself.
We will here interrupt the course of our narrative to examine at some
length into the origin of this widespread animosity against the queen,
and to trace the causes of its rapid extensions through all classes of
French society. To do this it will be necessary for us to go back to the
very outset of her career.
When Marie-Antoinette, then a young girl of fifteen, first set foot
on French soil, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm with which she
was welcomed. Her progress from Strasbourg to Versailles was one long
ovation. At Versailles, save the dauphin’s old maiden aunts, who
made themselves sufficiently disagreeable, and the king’s mistress,
Madame Dubarry, who could not tolerate this fair and pure young spirit,
every one was more or less charmed with her. The old king, worn out by
excesses, and weary of the deceptive flattery which he daily had to
listen to, was captivated, not merely by her personal graces, but by her
frank and lively nature, her open unaffected ways. The women may have
secretly envied her, but the men could not help adoring her. She far
excelled the young female members of the royal family in beauty. At the
time of her marriage her form was not fully developed: her stature was
short, and her figure altogether small, though perfectly proportioned;
her arm was finely rounded and of a dazzling whiteness, her hand plump,
her fingers tapering, her nails transparent and rose-coloured, her foot
charming. When she grew taller and stouter the foot and hand remained
perfect, her figure only became a little inelegant, and her chest a
trifle too broad. Her face formed a rather long oval; her complexion,
which was really dazzling, displayed the most tender shades of colour,
from pearly white to delicate rose tint; her eyes were blue, soft, and
animated, and shaded by long, full lashes; her nose was aquiline, and
slightly tapered at the end; her mouth was small and delicate and well
arched, her lower lip prominent, after the Austrian type; her neck was
slender and a trifle long, but well set; her forehead was convex, and
furnished with too little of her beautiful chestnut-colour hair. The
_coiffure_ of the empire would have accomplished marvels for her, for the
hair turned down over her forehead would have given to her face a regular
beauty.[218]
Though the young dauphiness was addicted to reverie, and displayed a
fondness for retirement in the society of a few chosen friends, she was
far from being of a reserved disposition; indeed, she was a good deal
given to gaiety of that light, playful, almost pert character which
imparts movement and life to all around. She forced every one to laugh
with her. She cared nothing for the restraints imposed by the barriers of
etiquette. If it did not please her to walk in stately fashion, she would
run and skip about, regardless of her train or her ladies of honour. In
winter-time she would scamper over the slippery ground, dragging after
her the youngest lady of her court, whose duty it was to hold up her
train, and delighted while glancing behind at the score of racing trains
which etiquette required should follow in procession. In the old king’s
days she was known to have even laughed out loud in the royal box at
Preville’s funny face, to the great scandal of those who only deigned to
smile.[219]
At the very first court she held after she became queen, provoked by some
pleasantries on the part of one of her ladies, and the ridiculous figures
cut by certain ancient court dames who had come to pay their respects to
her, she could not refrain from laughing at them behind her fan. This
naturally enough gave great offence to these antiquated dowagers, who
vowed the queen had mocked at them, that she had not a proper respect for
age, and was utterly wanting in propriety. The name of “_moqueuse_” was
given to her in consequence.[220]
The young queen, with the full sanction of her husband, went early one
morning to see the sun rise from the highest point of Marly gardens—a
harmless enough proceeding, one would think, but which nevertheless gave
rise to most disgraceful calumnies. On another occasion she displayed her
skill as a charioteer, by driving about Marly in a cabriolet, preceded
merely by a single officer of the king’s body-guard. This spectacle
astonished the old courtiers, who had never seen a queen handle the reins
before, and who therefore pronounced the proceeding highly unbecoming, if
not, indeed, improper. At Marly, too, Marie-Antoinette established a kind
of _café_, to which the lords and ladies of the court betook themselves
in their morning gowns. All etiquette was set aside, and people enjoyed
here the same kind of liberty which was ordinarily to be met with in
establishments of this class. Every one had his own little table, at
which he was served with whatever he asked for.[221]
Marie-Antoinette, who was fond of dancing, organized a series of fancy
dress balls in the _Salle de Comédie_ at Versailles, into the spirit of
which her brothers-in-law and their young wives entered most heartily.
Being herself a good dancer, she was glad to secure good dancers for
these entertainments, but had to undergo no end of reproaches because
she, a young queen of twenty years of age, had appealed to the minister
of war to grant leave of absence to certain officers, favourites at these
fêtes, who had been ordered to rejoin their regiments. Everything she
did was wrong. She was blamed for being present at the summer promenades
on the terrace of the château of Versailles, then open to the general
public, when, attired in a plain white cambric dress and a simple straw
hat, she and Madame Elisabeth, and perhaps her married sisters-in-law,
would mix unobserved among the crowd, or seated on a bench, would listen
to the music performed by the king’s guards; watching and commenting
meanwhile on the secret flirtations which under cover of the night were
carried on on these occasions.
The foregoing incidents seem to have been harmless enough, but the same
can hardly be said of her excursions to the _bals de l’opéra_, when “lost
in their vortex, she was happy or trembling under her mask,” and whither
she would resort attended merely by a single lady of the court and with
her servants in undress grey liveries. On one of these occasions her
carriage broke down, and she was obliged to have recourse to a public
vehicle. On entering the theatre she is reported to have exclaimed to
her friends, “It is I, come in a _fiacre_! Isn’t it droll?” One can well
conceive an incident like this giving rise to much unpleasant scandal,
and can sympathise in the reproaches which her brother the Emperor Joseph
addressed to her on her frequent presence at these entertainments.
It was the misfortune of Marie-Antoinette to have made for herself a host
of enemies almost from the very first day she was called upon to share a
throne. Among others, of her brother-in-law, the Count de Provence, who,
attached to her at the outset of her career, took to quizzing her, and
criticising her conduct, and even to caricaturing her, while preserving
an outward appearance of friendship towards her, soon after she became a
queen. The Prince de Condé, allied to the Cardinal de Rohan by marriage,
was embittered against her because she very properly declined to receive
his mistress, Madame de Monaco, at court. A warm friendship had sprung
up between Marie-Antoinette and the young Duke de Chartres, afterwards
Orléans _Égalité_, on her first arrival in France; but after a time,
Louis XVI., who disliked the duke, and made a point of insulting his
friends whenever he got the chance, availed himself of the duke’s known
immorality to forbid the queen associating with him on the same familiar
terms as heretofore. The consequence was, the duke, who was unaware of
the real cause of his disgrace, conceived a strong dislike for the queen,
who on her part retaliated by saying many spiteful things respecting him.
Dislike grew into hatred, and hatred grew bitter and more bitter, until
at last the duke pursued Marie-Antoinette with a relentless vengeance
that was positively diabolic, and which only terminated with her life.
Dissolute, gouty old De Maurepas, prime minister, and all his kin, and
more particularly his nephew, the Duke d’Aiguillon, a former creature
of the Dubarry’s, and now a creature of the Duke d’Orléans, and whose
disgrace at court had been brought about by the queen’s influence,
were arrayed against her on account of the persistent exertions she
made to get her favourite, De Choiseul—whom Catherine of Russia used
to style the coachman of Europe, as when in power he directed all the
cabinets—appointed prime minister in De Maurepas’ stead. M. de Vergennes
too, whose handsome Greek wife the queen would not consent to receive,
cherished a steady hatred of her—all the more dangerous because it was
concealed—and even wrote regular reports respecting her to Louis XVI,
which the king kept secret, and which only came to light on the discovery
of the famous “_armoire de fer_” in the wall of the royal closet in the
Tuileries, a few months before the king’s death.
At the head of the enemies the queen had succeeded in making among her
own sex were, Mesdames Adelaide and Louise, two of the king’s aunts,
the former of whom had for a while exercised a control over her nephew,
and was now jealous and irritated beyond measure at the influence which
the young queen had acquired over her husband. Since their exile to
Lorraine, however, these old ladies had been comparatively powerless
for mischief. The partiality which Marie-Antoinette displayed for
the society of the Countess Jules de Polignac, had had the effect of
estranging her sisters-in-law from her. Count d’Artois, wishing to bring
about a reconciliation, said one day to the queen, on kissing her
hand, “My little sister, for a very long time you have slighted your
sisters-in-law, who are much attached to you, and who feel much afflicted
at your behaviour. I beg you to bestow on them your warmest friendship,
for they are worthy of it.” The queen replied somewhat petulantly, “These
ladies do not render me the deference which is my due; they ought to
remember that I am queen, and, moreover, that I belong to the House of
Austria, which takes precedence of all.” The Count d’Artois could not
help smiling, and, pressing the queen’s hand, said, “My little sister,
since you jest about the affair, I am enchanted, as it proves to me
that, whatever rancour may exist at present, will not last long.”[222]
The count, however, did not prove himself a true prophet, for the
ladies never became completely reconciled, and showed merely a distant
regard for each other. Perhaps the most dangerous enemy the queen had
was the stiff old Countess de Marsan—herself a Rohan, and cousin of
the cardinal, for whom in past years she had secured the post of grand
almoner—who during the late reign had been governess to the king’s
grandchildren, and who had been from the very first greatly scandalized
at Marie-Antoinette’s freedom of manners: the dauphiness’s most innocent
acts being magnified by this old prude into crimes. If she glanced at any
one, it was set down to coquetry; if she chanced to laugh, it was either
unbecoming, or else her gaiety was all forced; if she wore her hair
loose, she was compared to a bacchante; and even her simple white muslin
dresses were pronounced to be stage costumes, worn solely to create an
effect. The Duchess de Noailles, who had been Marie-Antoinette’s chief
lady of honour from the moment of her arrival in France, and Madame de
Cossé, her lady of the bedchamber, threw up their posts on the Princess
de Lamballe being appointed mistress of the queen’s household, and both
enlisted themselves among the malcontents, which comprised, in addition
to those we have already mentioned, the powerful families of Conti,
Montmorency, Clermont-Tonnerre, La Rochefoucauld, and Crillon.
XXVI.
LITTLE TRIANON, AND THE QUEEN’S SOCIETY THERE.
The enemies of the queen at the moment the Necklace scandal burst upon
the public were many and formidable; the real friends that she had
capable of defending her were but few. The Baron de Breteuil was well
enough disposed towards her, still it was not so much the shielding of
the queen’s reputation as compassing the downfall of his enemy, the
Cardinal de Rohan, that he had at heart. The Abbé de Vermond, who had
been Marie-Antoinette’s instructor, and was now a sort of secretary to
her, had only his fidelity to recommend him. He could influence the
queen, but wanted the head to direct her wisely. Specious M. de Calonne
was too busy raising new loans to supply a continually emptying royal
exchequer to trouble himself about necklaces or cardinals; besides, no
particular friendship existed now between the queen and him. He no longer
gallantly told her that if what she required was simply difficult it
was already done, and that if it was impossible, it should be done. The
Duke de Choiseul had been dead these several months past. Those intimate
friends of Marie-Antoinette’s with whom her daily life was chiefly spent,
and who formed what was styled her society, shared her unpopularity
to some extent, for it was the favours heaped upon certain members of
the Trianon set which had estranged so many of the old nobility from
her. Moreover, with the exception of the Count d’Artois and the Duke de
Coigny, there was not a man of influence among them who could do her real
service in the hour of need.
The _habitués_ of the Little Trianon—“the queen’s society,” as they were
styled—comprised, first, her youngest brother-in-law, the Count d’Artois,
who danced with her, hunted with her, acted with her, and entered
generally into the spirit of her amusements; then there was his wife, the
countess, exceedingly short of stature, with a complexion as fresh as a
rose, and a prepossessing if not a pretty face, yet with a nose which,
as Marie-Antoinette wickedly remarked, had never been finished; at one
time, too, there were the Count and Countess de Provence, the latter an
elder sister of the Countess d’Artois, and the reverse of good-looking.
Louis XVI. in his blunt way once told his brother that his wife was by no
means handsome, to which the Count de Provence quietly replied, “Sire,
I find her to my taste, and that is quite sufficient.”[223] Then there
was the queen’s sister-in-law, Madame Elisabeth, her true and loving
friend until death; next there were the Polignacs, foremost among whom
was the Countess Jules, the queen’s most particular favourite, who was
very handsome, with expressive blue eyes, a ravishing mouth, beautiful
small white teeth, a nose just a trifle _retroussé_, a forehead perhaps
a little too high, magnificent brown hair, a skin almost as white as
alabaster, low shoulders and a well set neck which seemed to give height
to her small figure. A touching sweetness formed the foundation of her
physiognomy—looks, features, smiles, everything with her partook of
the angelic. She had, moreover, wit and grace, and a natural ease and
_abandon_ which were positively charming. Negligence was her coquetry,
dishabille her full dress. It has been said of her that she never looked
better than when in a loose morning gown, and with a simple rose,
perhaps, in her hair. When the queen first took notice of her, she
and her husband, with their two young children, were living in a very
humble style (we have heard what Madame de la Motte had to say of her
poverty)[224] on a miserable income of three hundred and twenty pounds
a year. A pension of six thousand livres was immediately granted her,
and ere long she was appointed governess of the royal children, with a
salary of fifty thousand livres and her husband named postmaster-general,
and master of the horse to the queen, with a salary of eighty thousand
livres; in addition to which a joint pension of eighty thousand livres
was conferred upon them, besides other considerable emoluments which
brought their income almost up to three hundred thousand livres.[225]
The count, who through the influence of the queen had been raised to
the dignity of a duke, seems to have been an amiable sort of man,
very generally liked, for he had not allowed his good fortune to spoil
him. His sister, the Countess Diane, one of Madame Elisabeth’s ladies
of honour, was given, we are told, to gallantry and intrigue; her son
by the Marquis d’Autichamp—the same wicked rake who was so anxious to
escort Madame de la Motte from Lunéville to Paris—entered the Russian
service, and was killed at the battle of Austerlitz.[226] Her personal
appearance was the very reverse of engaging. She was compared to a brown
owl (she was a southern brunette), with all its feathers in disorder,
and to a paroquet, with a crooked beak and round eyes surrounded by dark
circles.[227] Nevertheless, she had only to open her mouth to have face,
form, toilette, the little she had received from nature, and the little
that she herself did to render herself pretty, entirely forgotten. It
was impossible to know her and not to be prepossessed in her favour. Her
arch way of looking at a subject, her piquant turn of thought, which was
almost epigrammatic, her sudden changes from gaiety to sadness, from
irony to sensibility, her audacity, which nothing could intimidate, her
daring and contagious recklessness, made her a general favourite in the
society over which she to some extent dominated. A woman like her was
invaluable to a court already depressed with melancholy, to put life into
the conversation, to dissipate dull thoughts, to defy alarm, to prophesy
fine weather, and display a perfect disregard for the future.
The young Princess de Lamballe, one of the earliest friends
Marie-Antoinette made in France, ranked next to the Countess Jules
de Polignac in her favour. She was a trifle jealous at having been
supplanted by her rival, and rather held aloof from the Trianon
_coterie_. Extremely beautiful, as amiable as she was handsome, and
left a widow when she was only eighteen—her husband, son of the old
Duke de Penthièvre, who received Madame de la Motte so courteously at
Château-Villain, having fallen a victim to early debauchery—a peculiar
interest attached to her. A native of the sunny south, she nevertheless
possessed all the northern graces. The sweet serenity of her countenance
was its great charm: there was tranquillity even in the flash of her
eye. On her beautiful forehead, shaded by her long fair hair, not a
cloud, not a trace existed of the early grief she had been called upon
to suffer. Her mind had all the serene beauty of her face. She was
gentle, affectionate, full of caresses, always just, always ready to make
sacrifices, devoted even in trifles, and disinterested above everything.
Who has not felt pity for her subsequent unhappy fate?
No one occupied a more prominent position in the queen’s society at the
Little Trianon than the Baron de Besenval, a handsome-looking man past
middle age, tall and well proportioned, with sharply-defined profile
and large well-formed nose, quick, intelligent eye, and a small mouth
curled up in a mocking and disdainful pout. Of cultivated tastes, full of
insolent grace, perfectly content with himself and ever ready to laugh
at others, pleasure was the sole pursuit of his life until the death
of Louis XV. brought him into closer contact with the Count d’Artois,
colonel-general of the Swiss guards, in which corps Besenval, himself
a Swiss, held a command. Of the count he made a friend, got presented
through his influence to the queen, whose confidence he secured and
whom he almost directed; was appointed lieutenant-general of the army,
grand cross commander of St.-Louis, and inspector-general of the Swiss
guards, without seeming at all astonished at his good fortune. In the
hour of danger, however, he was found singularly wanting, and it was soon
evident that he was not the man to save the monarchy or stem the tide of
revolution. His conduct while in command of the army of Paris has been
very generally and deservedly condemned.
M. de Vaudreuil was another prominent member of the Trianon _coterie_,
who, entering early in life the highest and most exclusive society of
Versailles, had come to the conclusion that human nature, as it was to
be found in courts, was neither so very beautiful nor so very great as
was commonly represented. Intellect charmed him, and above all that
intellect which sparkled with wit. He was the friend of all clever men,
spoke but rarely himself, but would lie in wait behind the hubbub of the
talkers and suddenly discharge his arrow right at the mark. What made him
a favourite with the queen was the fact of his being the best private
actor of his day. When young he had been remarkably handsome, but the
small-pox had destroyed his good looks. Suffering from disease of the
lungs, and subject to nervous twitchings of the body and to frequent fits
of depression, he had all the immunities of a sick person accorded him.
The good nature of the Duchess de Polignac and the indulgence of his
friends caused them to tolerate his caprices and whims. His disposition
changed daily according to his bodily ailments; still he was not without
certain vigorous virtues, for he was noble, generous, frank, loyal, and a
devoted and constant friend.
Next on the list of the queen’s favourites comes M. d’Adhémar, whose
musical skill and admirable voice had procured him the applause of the
master of the king’s music. He wrote verses and songs, acted well, and
accompanied himself on the harpsichord. His was but a little mind;
nevertheless, under a guise of modesty and humility he nourished grand
schemes of ambition, and eventually succeeded in securing for himself the
English embassy, in connection with which we shall hear of him again.
His complaisance was proverbial; he courted every one, offended no one,
made innocent jokes in an undertone of voice, and never lost his temper.
It will be understood what manner of man he was when we remark, that the
women spoke to him when they had nothing to say, the men when they had
nothing to do. Harmless as he appears to have been, he did not escape the
notice of the lampooners of the time, who characterized him as—
“Un marquis de hasard, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Chevalier d’industrie,
Major d’infanterie,
Colin de comédie,
C’est Monsieur d’Adhémar, a, a, a, a.”[228]
The remaining _habitués_ of the Little Trianon were the three Coignys:
the Duke de Coigny, the queen’s most constant friend, whom the Trianon
set desired to make her lover, which the Duke d’Orléans maintained
he already was—styling the young dauphin “_Le fils de Coigny_;”[229]
the Count de Coigny, a big, good-tempered man; and the Chevalier de
Coigny, an agreeable flatterer, whom all the women strove to secure to
themselves, and who was a favourite wherever he went; the Duke de Guines,
the “Versailles Journal,” as he was styled, who knew and repeated all the
scandal of the court, ridiculed everybody, and was consequently disliked
by everybody, who was an excellent musician, and prided himself immensely
on having played the flute with the great Frederick; the Prince d’Henin,
a philanthropist at court like a fish out of water; the Bailli du
Crussol, who made jokes with a most serious air; the Count de Polastron,
who played the violin in a ravishing style, and his pale and languishing
wife—the amiable “Goddess of Melancholy,” as she was called; the Count
and Countess de Châlons; the Count and Countess d’Andlau; the sensible,
witty, and good-natured Madame de Coigny; the Duke de Guiche, captain
of the king’s guards, and his young and lovely duchess, daughter of the
Duchess Jules de Polignac.[230] Besides the foregoing, there were a few
distinguished foreigners, such as Prince Esterhazy, the Prince de Ligne,
the Count de Fersen, a prominent member of the Swedish aristocracy, who
was styled by the women the “Beau Fersen,” and who in subsequent years
drove the _berline_ in which the royal family sought to escape from
France, and eventually lost his life in an _émeute_ at Stockholm in the
year 1810; and the Baron de Stedingk, the intimate friend of Fersen and
a great favourite with Marie-Antoinette, who said to him, on parting
with him in 1787: “Remember, M. de Stedingk, that under no circumstances
can any harm happen to you;”[231] implying that her influence, which
she believed to be paramount, would be exercised for his protection in
whatever quarter of the world he might chance to be, and little dreaming
that in a very few years there would not be another woman in all France
so powerless as she.
Having made acquaintance with the queen’s society at the Trianon, let us
now see what the Trianon itself was like; that Little Trianon to which
Marie-Antoinette retired to escape the splendours, the restraints, the
intrigues, and, most of all, the slanders of the court, and enjoy the
society of friends of her own choosing; a retirement which unhappily gave
rise to new calumnies—calumnies which it does not seem in nature for one
woman to invent or propagate of another, but which Madame de la Motte
more than insinuates in her lying “Mémoires Justificatifs,” and which
have outlived the other hideous slanders of which Marie-Antoinette was
the victim; that Little Trianon, where Madame de la Motte asserts most
of her pretended interviews with the queen took place, and where she
affirms Marie-Antoinette was accustomed to receive the Cardinal de Rohan,
who, according to the countess’s statements, would come late at night
disguised as a valet, and spend hour after hour with the queen in a small
pavilion in the gardens while she remained outside on the watch.[232]
On one occasion the Cardinal de Rohan certainly did go to the Little
Trianon, and in a partial disguise, but it was by bribing the gatekeeper
that he gained admission to the grounds. It was at the time when both
building and gardens were brilliantly illuminated in honour of the visit
of the Grand Duke Paul of Russia—afterwards the mad and luckless Emperor
Paul—and his Grand Duchess, who were travelling about Europe under the
titles of Count and Countess du Nord. The cardinal, who professed great
anxiety to see these illuminations, promised the gatekeeper to remain
in his lodge until all the company had left for Versailles; instead of
which, when the man’s back was turned, he slunk into the gardens, and,
with his cardinal’s red stockings showing below his overcoat, took up the
most prominent position he could select, where he waited for the royal
family and its suite to pass. The queen saw him and recognised him, and
next day gave orders for the instant dismissal of the gatekeeper; but
Madame Campan, who had been informed of all the circumstances, appealed
to Marie-Antoinette in the man’s behalf, and succeeded in getting him
retained in his post.[233]
To console Marie-Antoinette for not having appointed her favourite, the
Duke de Choiseul, prime minister, Louis XVI. is said to have given her
the Little Trianon, which skirts the park of Versailles and adjoins
the gardens of the Great Trianon, to do as she pleased with. “You love
flowers,” said he: “ah! well, I have a bouquet for you—the Little
Trianon.”
The repairing and embellishing of this miniature palace, the alteration
and enlargement of its grounds, with a host of artists and gardeners
subject to her sway, was for the next year or two Marie-Antoinette’s
greatest delight. The building, erected by the architect Gabriel, for
Louis XV., is of a square form, and each of its sides has a frontage
of only seventy feet. It is in the Italian style, and its different
façades are ornamented with Corinthian columns or pilasters and enriched
friezes and cornices. The depraved old king in the last years of his
life was enamoured with this “little corner of his grand Versailles.” It
was to his taste, for here he could live in retirement and at his ease.
In addition to its flower garden, laid out in the formal French style,
there was a botanical garden, which Louis XIV., at the time he lived at
the Great Trianon, caused to be planted with exotic trees and shrubs of
multifarious tints and perfumes then almost unknown in France.
The principal entrance to the Little Trianon leads immediately to the
grand staircase with its handsome gilded balustrade, in the interlacings
of which the initials M. A. are prominently displayed. Facing the
landing, as if in menace, is a head of the Medusa, which proved
powerless however to keep out scandal. After a small antechamber comes
the _salle-à-manger_, decorated with paintings of the four seasons by
Dejeune, and bathing and fishing subjects by Pater, and the re-joined
_parquet_ of which shows traces of the opening through which Loriot’s
flying table was accustomed to ascend at the orgies of Louis XV. In this
apartment commence the ornaments upon the panelling—crossed quivers
surmounted by wreaths of roses and garlands of flowers—executed by
order of Marie-Antoinette. The little _salon_ near the _salle-à-manger_
displays in relief upon its sides emblems of the vintage and the
attributes of the genius of comedy. Hanging from festoons of grapes
are bunches and baskets of fruit, masks and tambourines, flutes and
guitars, and beneath the marble beards of the goats that support the
mantelpiece more bunches of grapes are entwined. At the four corners of
the cornice of the grand _salon_ are groups of cupids at play. Each
panel, surmounted by the emblems of literature and the arts, springs from
a stalk of triple flowering lilies, garlanded with laurel and with a
wreath of full-blown roses by way of crest. Four paintings by Watteau—of
those graceful Decameron-like subjects in which he excelled—are on the
walls of this apartment. In the little cabinet which precedes the queen’s
bedchamber the finest arabesques run over the woodwork; here are cupids
bearing cornucopias overflowing with flowers, cooing doves, smoking
tripods, and crossed bows and arrows hanging to ribbons. Bouquets of
poppies intermingled with thousands of small flowers, all most delicately
rendered, are scattered over the panels of the bedroom; the bed with its
light blue silk hangings, the chairs and couches _en suite_, and the
console tables, looking-glasses, clock and chandeliers being, it is said,
much as they were in the days of Marie-Antoinette.
The most elegant façade of the little palace, with its four fluted
Corinthian columns and its four flights of steps in the form of an
Italian terrace, looks over the French garden, with its flower beds of
geometric form and the flowers themselves planted in straight lines. In
the centre of this garden, which is bordered by cool green arcades formed
of trees clipped into shape, is a small pavilion with groups of cupids
surmounting each of its four entrances. This was the summer dining-room
of both Louis XV. and Marie-Antoinette. At the end of one of these leafy
arcades is the theatre, where the queen and her friends performed alike
comedies and operas. Sculptured in high relief above the principal
entrance is a cupid grasping a lyre and a crown of laurel, with torches,
trumpets, and rolls of music lying at his feet. The interior decorations
of the theatre are white and gold; the orchestra stalls and fronts of
the boxes are covered with blue velvet, the panels being decorated with
cupids suspending garlands of flowers. On either side of the stage two
gilded nymphs gracefully twist themselves into candelabra, and above the
curtain two other nymphs support the escutcheon of Marie-Antoinette.
At the back and to the right of the little palace is the queen’s
production, the English garden as it is called, laid out with an absence
of formality which almost rivals the productions of Nature’s self. The
waters apparently wind according to their own fancy, the trees and
shrubs seem to have been sown at the will of the wind. Nearly a thousand
varieties of trees, some among them being most rare, join their shade and
mingle the different tints of their leaves, which vary from the lightest
and deepest greens to dark purple and cherry red. The flowers appear to
have been planted at hazard; the ground rises and falls at its will;
paths wind and go out of the way with provoking pertinacity; stones have
been converted into rocks, and small patches of grass made to resemble
meadows.
From a hillock in the midst of a thicket of roses, jasmine, and myrtle,
rises a belvidere, from whence the queen was accustomed to take in a
view of the whole of her domain. This octangular pavilion, with its four
windows and its four doors, and its eight sphinxes crouching upon the
steps, has repeated eight times over, in figures upon its skirtings and
in emblems over its entrances, the allegory of the four seasons, carved
by perhaps the cleverest chisel of the century. The interior is paved
with coloured marbles, and coloured arabesques run along its walls, with
more bows and arrows and quivers, more bouquets and garlands of flowers
and musical instruments, together with cameos and cages hanging from
ribbons, and little monkeys and squirrels that scratch the sides of a
crystal vase or play with the fishes. In the centre of the pavilion,
a table, from which hang three rings, rests upon three claws of gilt
bronze; this is the table at which Marie-Antoinette breakfasted, for this
belvidere was her morning _salle-à-manger_.
From here she could overlook her grotto and the group of artificial
rocks; the waterfall, and the trembling bridge thrown across the little
torrent; the lake, and, under the shade of the shrubs, the embarking and
landing-places, with the galley dotted all over with _fleurs-de-lis_; the
temple of love open to all the winds, with its statue, by Bouchardon,
of Cupid trying to trim for himself a bow out of the massive club of
Hercules; the groves that skirt the river’s bank; and, finally, at the
most remote part of the garden—the background, so to speak, of the
picture—the hamlet where Marie-Antoinette had the king disguised as a
miller, and the Count de Provence as a schoolmaster. Here are the little
houses of the village nestled together like members of one family.
The queen’s is the prettiest of them all, for it has vases filled
with flowers, and grape-vines in front of it. On the opposite side
of the lake, and near to the water’s edge, is the white marble dairy,
with its four goat’s-head fountains, and close beside it, and near
to a weeping-willow planted by the queen’s own hand, is the tower of
Marlborough, so called from the nursery song which the young dauphin’s
_bonne_ used to sing to him. Nothing is wanting to this pretty village
of the stage, neither the curé’s house nor that of the bailiff; nor
the mill, with its wheel which actually turns; neither the farmhouse,
with the stone troughs for the cattle, and the little barns to store
away the corn; nor the thatched roofs, the wooden balconies, the little
diamond-paned windows, and the flights of steps at the sides of the
cottages. Marie-Antoinette and Hubert Robert, the painter, had thought
of everything, even of painting rents in the stone work, cracks in the
plaster, with here and there beams and bricks jutting out of place, as
if time would not wither with sufficient rapidity this pleasantry of a
queen.[234]
Marie-Antoinette put aside all regal authority at the Trianon. Here she
was no longer queen, but merely the mistress of the establishment, which
was like an ordinary country-house, with its small retinue of servants
and all its unrestrained habits. When the queen entered the _salon_, the
ladies neither quitted the piano nor their embroidery-frames, nor the men
their games at billiards or backgammon. The king would come to Trianon
on foot, and unattended. The queen’s guests arrived at two o’clock to
dinner, and returned to Versailles at midnight. Marie-Antoinette’s
occupations and amusements were exclusively those of a country life.
Attired in a white muslin dress, a lace shawl, and a straw hat, she would
run about the gardens, or visit her farm, where she would take her guests
to drink her milk and eat her new-laid eggs; or she would conduct the
king to a summer-house, where he could read his book undisturbed until
she summoned him to a lunch on the grass; after which she would amuse
herself by watching the milking of her cows, or with fishing in the lake,
or, seated on a rustic seat, would occupy herself by winding up the
distaff of some young villager. Now and then she would give some grand
ball, to which all the courtiers from Versailles would be invited, when
dancing would go on under a large tent on the lawn in the day-time until
the sun set, and at night-time almost until it rose again.
All this must have been a great relief from Versailles and Marly and
the troop of intriguing courtiers that migrated backwards and forwards
according as royalty pitched its tent at one château or the other. There
was something too morally foul in the atmosphere of both these places.
Most of the evenings not given up to dancing were spent at play, which
some letters of court gossip of the time characteristically describe as
being “murderous.” The Count d’Artois, after losing two million francs,
was exiled by the king to Fontainebleau. On one occasion a certain M. de
Chalabre lost as much as 42,000 louis at a sitting, and being without
sufficient ready cash to discharge the whole of his obligations, had to
hand over debts due to him from the Countesses de Provence and d’Artois,
for fifty thousand and twenty-five thousand crowns respectively. The
queen, who was a winner of 7000 louis of poor Chalabre’s money, sent
the next day, we are told, for Mdlle. Bertin, her milliner, and paid
her account. Among the persons of rank and position admitted to these
assembles there seem to have been both sharpers and pickpockets, for on
one occasion a rouleau of fifty counterfeit louis was placed on a card
by M. du Luc d’Andilly, an ex-mousquetaire, and son of Count du Luc of
Picardy. On the cheat being discovered, the king ordered the culprit to
be degraded from his nobility and declared incapable of serving him in
future. At another time, Count Arthur Dillon, one of the queen’s intimate
friends, had his pocket picked of his purse filled with bank notes. It
was suggested that everybody in the _salon_—some forty in number—should
be searched, but nothing was done, and the count never saw his purse
again.[235]
Private theatricals were at this time in great favour with the queen,
whose Trianon _troupe_ comprised the Count d’Artois, who is said to have
danced passably well on the tight rope, but only acted in a manner that
was just bearable,[236] M. de Vaudreuil, M. d’Adhémar, the Duke and
Duchess de Guiche, the Countess Diane de Polignac, and M. de Crussol:
occasionally the Baron de Besenval, the Countess de Polastron, and Counts
Esterhazy and de Coigny had parts assigned them. The Count de Provence
and his wife considered these diversions beneath their rank, and the
king, moreover, disapproved of them. Out of politeness to the queen,
he was now and then present at the representations, when he habitually
hissed the actors. On one occasion, when the “Devin du Village” was being
played, and the queen was singing an air with more than her accustomed
taste, all at once a whistle was heard from the back of one of the
boxes. Marie-Antoinette soon perceived that it was from the king himself
that this interruption proceeded. Advancing to the footlights, she
bowed profoundly, and said, with a smile: “Sir, if you are dissatisfied
with the performers you can leave, and your money will be returned to
you.”[237] She then resumed her song, which she was permitted to finish
without further interruption. Beaumarchais’ comedy of the “Barbier
de Seville,” for which, Madame Campan tells us, Marie-Antoinette was
studying her part at the time she made the disclosure to her of the
conversation she had had with Böhmer respecting the Necklace, was the
last piece performed by this aristocratic _troupe_. It was played on the
19th of August, 1785, the very day on which the Countess de la Motte was
lodged in the Bastille.
XXVII.
1785.
CALUMNIES AGAINST THE QUEEN.—HER ANIMOSITY AGAINST THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.
From the day she became queen, to the very hour of her death, and
even after the grave had closed over her headless corse, the unhappy
Marie-Antoinette was fated to be the victim of calumny. Her youthful
levity was magnified into natural vice. Her most innocent amusements were
made the objects of dark suspicion. Her friendships were so many criminal
attachments. From Marly to Versailles, and from Versailles to Marly,
slander pursued her. It penetrated the groves of Trianon, and insinuated
that secret orgies, rivalling those of the “Parc aux cerfs,” were carried
on in this now favourite retreat. Indecent pamphlets referring to her,
written by hireling scribes, were circulated all over France. Libels
against her were even forged in the police bureau. Scandalous songs were
thrown at the king’s feet, in the “Œil-de-Bœuf.” Scandalous libels were
placed under his dinner-napkin. Courtiers repeated the last foul epigram,
the last lying report against the queen, in the royal antechambers,
whispered it and chuckled over it even in the queen’s presence; carried
it from Versailles or Marly, post haste to Paris, to the different
hostile _salons_, to the green-rooms of the theatre and the opera, and
to the _cafés_, thence to be disseminated all over the capital, even to
the _halles_; carried it to their country châteaux, and laughed over it
at their dinner-tables, whence it spread among their tenantry and the
inhabitants of the adjacent towns:
“And they who told it added something new,
And they who heard it made enlargement too,
In ev’ry ear it spread, on every tongue it grew.”
Fancy what a perfect fund of scandal this affair of the Necklace,
enveloped as it was at first in such an impenetrable mystery, provided
for these despicable minds! What an arsenal for defamation and calumny
it furnished to the avowed enemies of Marie-Antoinette! The Orléans
faction professed to look upon it as a state crime, pretending to believe
that the real culprit was the queen, who had secured the Necklace
through the medium of the cardinal, he having been her dupe in the first
instance, and afterwards her victim. They gave out, through their herd of
itinerant agents—men without characters, without homes, without bread,
without settled occupations, fitted only for scandalous adventures, and
living only by dishonourable expedients—that it was Marie-Antoinette
herself, “_la louve Autrichienne_,” as they styled her, who had met the
grand almoner in the park of Versailles at midnight; that it was she
who had heard his exculpation, and had listened to his new promises of
fealty, which had been sealed by embraces and the gift of a rose; and
further, that she had subsequently granted him several secret interviews
at the Little Trianon. On this false basis they raised their broad
superstructure of defamation, and pursued the queen with every species
of malignant slander in pasquinades, epigrams, and songs,[238] “unfit
for print or pen, the brutality of which nothing can exceed; but which,
nevertheless, found believers—increase of believers, in the public
exasperation—and did the queen, say all her historians, incalculable
damage,”[239] until finally the hideous fabrications culminated in the
epithet of Messalina, hurled at her by the furies of the _halles_ on her
way to the guillotine.
To this body of antagonists must be added those retailers of gossip and
small talk who, in a country like France, where most men are mixed up in
intrigues, (and no reputation is too sacred for the inuendo, the smart
sally, and the _bon-mot_,) delight and revel in scandals enveloped in
some degree of mystery. There was certainly no lack of mystery in the
affair of the Necklace, and these quick-witted individuals, thinking only
of the entangled web offered them to unravel, displayed their ingenuity
in suggesting clue after clue, regardless as to whether this or that
clever explanation which they put forward compromised the queen or no,
for the old loyal feeling of the nation was by this time utterly dead.
The lower classes of society in France had for some time past been
brought to believe, and not without reason, that kings and queens were
their natural enemies; that they despised, if they did not hate, their
poorer subjects, whom they only valued as so much food for powder, or
for what they could furnish to the exchequer through the hard extortion
of the tax-gatherer. Marie-Antoinette was deservedly blamed for her
thoughtless acquisition of the château of St. Cloud, at an outlay of six
million francs, at this particular period when several bad harvests had
imposed new hardships on the people; when provisions were frightfully
scarce, prices correspondingly high, and tillage employment, save as
“statute labour,” hardly to be had. The peasants in certain parts had
even been reduced to live “on meal, husks, and boiled grass.” In the
towns, the distress, if not so great, was still considerable, and large
numbers of men were out of work. Crowds of idlers, as a matter of
course, filled the cafés and cabarets—men with fermenting minds, and
only too ready to believe any new calumny against the objects of their
disaffection, and to lend their busy tongues to circulate the foulest
slanders through the land. Upon the quick fancies of these thoughtless
men, who never paused to examine what they heard, the enemies of
Marie-Antoinette, who went about inflaming the discontented, encouraging
the angry, and imposing on the thoughtless and the credulous, made a
lasting and fatal impression.
Whilst the numerous enemies of the queen were thus at work turning the
Necklace scandal to the best account, the Baron de Breteuil, whose hatred
of the cardinal knew no bounds, was straining every nerve to convert it
into an instrument for the effectual ruin of his enemy. The Abbé Georgel
assures us that this animosity went so far as to induce the minister to
promise Böhmer—who, according to some accounts, had in the first instance
been arrested in conjunction with Saint-James and others on suspicion
of being privy to the abuse of the queen’s name[240]—full payment for
the Necklace if he would aggravate his evidence against the cardinal. De
Breteuil also sent emissaries to the Bastille, to communicate with Madame
de la Motte, offering to save her if she would furnish sufficient proof
to inculpate his old enemy.
Beugnot, at this period a rising young barrister of four-and-twenty,
understood to be an intimate acquaintance of the De la Mottes, and known
to have been the person last in company with the countess previous to her
arrest, fully expected to be sent to join her in the Bastille. The Baron
de Breteuil, however, far from ordering Beugnot’s arrest, instructed
M. de Crosne,—recently appointed lieutenant of police in place of M.
Lenoir, promoted to the presidency of the administration of finances—to
send privately for the young barrister, when, playing on his vanity, he
recommended him to take the countess’s brief, as the trial was certain
to attract the eyes of all men, and could hardly fail to push forward a
young advocate in his career. But Beugnot, who knew his proposed client
too well, declined to avail himself of the opportunity. “The next day,”
observes he, “I received a new message from M. de Crosne, which involved
another visit on my part. The lieutenant of police gave me an opened
letter of Madame de la Motte’s, who, not understanding the difficulties
which I felt in charging myself with her defence, begged me to come
and see her. M. de Crosne backed up her request with some pressing
solicitations of his own; then judging from my obstinate refusal, or
possibly from something that Madame de la Motte had said to him, that I
thought there was danger attached to the post proposed to me, he sought
to reassure me on this point, and urged me to see the Baron de Breteuil.
I declined. ‘I could say nothing to the minister,’ I remarked, ‘which I
had not already said to him, neither would the former obtain from me what
I had refused to the lieutenant of police.’ M. de Crosne insisted still
more strongly, and gave me to understand that more condescension on my
part to the views of the authorities would be neither prejudicial to my
professional advancement nor to my fortune; his favourite refrain always
being—‘See the Baron de Breteuil.’ I gave M. de Crosne to understand that
I should not have that honour, since I did not see to what it could lead,
and I left him, after obtaining permission to address to him a letter in
reply to the one he had delivered to me.
“When recalling this scene, I can scarcely doubt the nature of the
political interest which the Baron de Breteuil took in Madame de la
Motte. He knew from one of his confidential emissaries, with whom I
had been conversing, that I treated the stealing of the Necklace as
comparatively a pitiful incident; but that I regarded the scene in the
park almost in the light of a capital crime. This was apparently in
precise accordance with his own views, and made him anxious that Madame
de la Motte’s counsel should share to the fullest extent in his opinions.
In replying to the countess’s letter, I grounded my refusal on my want
of talent and experience for so grave a business, and I added, that it
would be useless for her to insist further, as my refusal being dictated
to me by my conscience, nothing she could urge would induce me to revoke
it.”[241]
On her side, Marie-Antoinette, deeply and very naturally incensed
against the Prince de Rohan, and, truth to tell, quite as eager for his
destruction as the minister Breteuil, refused likewise to look elsewhere
for a culprit. Both she and the king believed the grand almoner to be
guilty of the peculation of the Necklace, and of an impertinent abuse
of the queen’s name. They knew he had contracted enormous debts; they
knew, too, that he had been charged with tampering with the funds of
a rich hospital, the Quinze-Vingts, of which he was treasurer, and
that he had hitherto led a most dissolute life. Was he not, therefore,
precisely the man who would be likely to perpetrate such a crime? Already
branded in public opinion for an alleged malversation of a million of
francs in the matter of the Hospital of the Quinze-Vingts, his office
of grand almoner, and his dignity as a prince of the Church, could not
raise him above suspicion. The aversion first excited in the queen’s
mind by the cardinal’s private letter against her mother, and his
injurious representations respecting herself at the court of Vienna,
was increased to positive hatred by the description of the scene in
the park of Versailles, by the frequent association of her own name
with his in people’s mouths, as well as by the offensive commentaries
provoked by that association. This burning abhorrence, continually fed
by fresh reports similar in character to the foregoing, so blinded
Marie-Antoinette to the strict rules and rigid formalities of justice,
that in her first moments of passion she is said to have demanded the
cardinal’s life of the king, and the king, moreover, is believed to have
promised her that he should not escape the scaffold.
XXVIII.
1785. SEPT.–OCT.
PREPARATIONS FOR THE TRIAL.—CAPTURE OF THE COUNTERFEIT QUEEN.
The Cardinal de Rohan, who in the first instance was looked upon as the
grand criminal in the Necklace affair, was no sooner in safe keeping
than the somewhat difficult question arose what should be done with
him. It is true that the queen, in her first moments of anger, urged on
by her adviser, the Abbé Vermond, and the cardinal’s enemy, the Baron
de Breteuil, was for doing swift execution upon the grand almoner; but
fortunately for the latter there were certain tedious forms of law to be
gone through before a prince of the holy Roman Church could be consigned
to the scaffold. Irresolute Louis XVI. had, of course, no opinion of his
own upon the subject, and it is quite certain that much indecision on the
subject prevailed among his chief advisers. Phlegmatic M. de Vergennes,
though no friend of the queen, seems to have thought it best to hush the
matter up, and let the scandal die out if it would, and he well-nigh
convinced the king that this would be the proper course to pursue. While
the affair was under discussion, Louis XVI. wrote to M. de Vergennes as
follows:
“I thank you, sir, for your new interview with M. de Breteuil. I have
weighed your reasons; come to-morrow before mass, and I will hear you
upon this subject once more. It is necessary that a decision should be
arrived at, so as to end with this intrigue of a needy man, who has so
scandalously compromised the queen, and who, in order to clear himself,
has no other recourse than to allege his connection with an adventuress
of the worst kind. He dishonours his ecclesiastical character. Being a
cardinal, he is none the less a subject of my crown.”[242]
This interview seems to have resulted in a proposal to the cardinal,
offering him the option of throwing himself upon the clemency of the
king, or of being arraigned before the parliament, not doubting that he
would be only too ready to accept the first of these two alternatives.
The cardinal, however, decided upon consulting his friends and advocates;
and among the latter were two of the ablest members of the Paris bar, the
one, M. Target, robust of brain and body, pompous in speech, learned as
intense study could render him, versed in the treasures of literature,
fiery, impetuous, an athlete redoubtable to all,[243] who, as member of
the National Assembly, subsequently busied himself a good deal in framing
the constitution, and was in after years applied to to undertake the
defence of Louis XVI. himself—a duty which he declined on the plea that
he was getting old; the other, M. Tronchet, who, though ten years older
than Target, did undertake to defend the king, although he knew he was
engaging in a hopeless cause—Tronchet, whose natural phlegm disposed him
to listen with attention, and whom a healthy judgment directed aright
even in the most difficult matters.[244] The cardinal’s friends were all
of them in favour of the parliament; while his advocates were divided in
opinion. Nevertheless, by the parliament he decided he would be judged,
and made known his election to the king in the following terms:
“Sire,—I respectfully thank your majesty for the alternative you have
been pleased to offer me. I have no hesitation in preferring the
parliament, as affording me the surest way of unmasking the intrigue of
which I am the victim, and of proving my innocence before the world.”[245]
On receiving this reply, and exactly three weeks after the cardinal’s
arrest, the king issued his royal letters patent, addressed to the
Parliament of Paris, formally apprising it of the great fraud that had
been committed in the queen’s name, and of the arrest of the supposed
authors of it, and requiring the parliament to investigate and judge
the affair. The cardinal having selected the parliament as the tribunal
before which he desired to be arraigned, now protested, in his character
of bishop and prince of the holy Roman Church, in a somewhat mild way,
against the competency of the judges he had himself chosen, and humbly
besought the parliament that he might be tried by an ecclesiastical
tribunal, composed of his peers or brethren in the episcopacy, in
accordance with the recognised rights and privileges of the Catholic
Church. This request being refused, the cardinal had no option but to
accept the tribunal named by the king. On the pope hearing of this, he
summoned a consistory, which unanimously declared that the Cardinal de
Rohan had acted contrary to his dignity as a member of the sacred college
in recognizing the authority of the parliament, and at once directed his
ecclesiastical suspension for a period of six months, at the end of which
time, in the event of his persisting in his course, he was to be struck
off the list of cardinals.[246] In this dilemma, the Abbé Lemoine was
despatched to Rome by the cardinal’s friends, and succeeded in proving to
the pope that the Prince de Rohan had made the protests which his dignity
required, though without avail, and that he only accepted a secular
tribunal because he was compelled to subscribe to the will of the king.
The interdict was thereupon removed, and the cardinal reinstated in all
his functions.
While these formalities were being discussed, and the affair still
partook of the character of a political contest between the adherents and
friends of the house of Rohan united with the enemies of Marie-Antoinette
on the one hand, and the court and government and partizans of the
crown on the other;—while people were eagerly devouring the statements
circulated on behalf of the accused, and were now blaming, now seeking to
exculpate the cardinal, and were either attacking or sympathising with
Madame de la Motte, and ridiculing Cagliostro,—an individual whom no one
was particularly regarding, was silently, but none the less earnestly,
labouring to overthrow the cold calculations of political animosity,
and dissolve all those dreams of private vengeance of which the Prince
de Rohan was the object. This was the Abbé Georgel, the cardinal’s
vicar-general, who had taken upon himself the task of disentangling
the threads of this complicated affair. With the sanction of the grand
almoner, he went first of all to the jewellers, and arranged with them
that they should receive payment for the Necklace in full, with all
interest then due or that might hereafter accrue, and he gave them as
security an assignment under the cardinal’s hand, of the revenues of the
Abbey of St. Waast, to the amount of three hundred thousand livres per
annum. Thus this able man of business, by a single wrench, so to speak,
drew out the most envenomed shaft, converting the jewellers from enemies,
if not into friends, at any rate into very harmless antagonists. The
cardinal’s other creditors, whose claims amounted to nearly two millions
of livres, on hearing of this assignment, became clamorous, and had also
to be successfully arranged with.[247]
The abbé directed his attention to the state prosecution, in order to see
whether it could not be diverted from the cardinal, the actual victim
of the fraud, to the countess and her confederates, the perpetrators of
it. Night and day, with the pertinacity of the true Jesuit, did the Abbé
Georgel pursue his plan; now visiting the Bastille and interrogating the
cardinal next examining his friends, his visitors, and his domestics,
and then again the different individuals to whom these referred him, and
taking notes of every scrap of information he obtained. For many weeks
his industry seemed to yield him no result, for as yet he was without
anything like a positive clue. At length, from hints given him by the
Abbé de Juncker, he tracked out Father Loth, one of the countess’s minor
instruments, and so far privy to, if not an actual accomplice in, her
misdeeds as to judge it prudent on his part to keep entirely in the
background until the Necklace inquiry was brought to a close.[248] For
a long time he was a most unwilling witness, but eventually the Abbé
Georgel skilfully extracted from him all that he knew, and learned
for the first time the names of Mademoiselle d’Oliva and of Rétaux de
Villette, and the _rôles_ they had been engaged to play. The announcement
of this discovery demolished in a moment the subtle political intrigue,
the object of which had been to send the Cardinal de Rohan to the
scaffold.
Encouraged by this stroke of good fortune, the abbé proceeded to track
the fugitives, for Mademoiselle d’Oliva, and Rétaux de Villette, had both
turned their backs upon Paris soon after the countess’s arrest. Through
the good offices of the Count de Vergennes, who prevailed on the king
to consent to a demand being made in his name, for the surrender of the
“_jolie demoiselle_” of the Palais Royal she was arrested at Brussels
on the 16th of October in the middle of the night by the sub-lieutenant
of police, three civic officers, a greffier, and some half-dozen of the
town guard—rather a formidable force to take an unprotected female of
four-and-twenty into custody. It is supposed to have been owing to the
exertions of Marie-Antoinette’s sister, the Duchess of Saxe-Teschen,
then _gouvernante_ of the Austrian Netherlands, that the Demoiselle
d’Oliva and her lover, a certain M. de Beausire, formerly attached to
the household of the Count d’Artois, were routed out. In a letter of
the queen’s, written to her sister, she says, “Your government, I am
certain, will second me in searching for the woman who played the part
in the garden scene, and who has taken refuge with you.”[249] D’Oliva
was at once brought to Paris, and lodged in the Bastille. She, however,
knew nothing beyond what related to the nocturnal scene in the park of
Versailles, when she had been tricked out to play the part of queen.
Yet what Mademoiselle d’Oliva did know she told with frankness and with
an air of perfect truth. A memorial, ostensibly on her behalf, was
brought out by the indefatigable abbé, containing the announcement of
the important fact, now proved beyond a doubt, that it was the humble
individual now in custody, and not the Queen of France, who took part
in the famous interview which had given rise to so much scandal. The
story was so clear, the incident so fully explained, that the malice of
ten thousand tongues was in a moment deprived of its nutriment, and
the great figure of Marie-Antoinette was suddenly withdrawn from the
scene—too late, alas! for her subsequent reputation,—while the innocence
of the cardinal was everywhere beginning to be felt.
Before D’Oliva’s memorial made its appearance, however, and indeed,
before the counterfeit queen’s capture, Madame de la Motte had been
engaged in furnishing her counsel with the materials for a memorial on
her own behalf, which was made public early in November, when, in all
probability, she had not heard of D’Oliva’s arrest. This formed number
one of that series of lying “Mémoires” issued by the countess, which,
in their endeavour to explain away certain new evidence that had come
to light, contradicted former statements made by her, contradicted each
other, and at times contradicted themselves. The countess avers that
so great was the excitement on the occasion of the issue of her first
memorial, that M. Doillot, her advocate, was obliged to have a guard at
his house during the distribution of the copies, six thousand of which
were sold in the course of a day or two.[250]
The countess, who had been in the Bastille for several months, feeling
by no means dissatisfied with the turn her case was apparently taking,
and contenting herself with denying all knowledge of the Necklace,
experienced a certain degree of disquiet on learning of the arrest of
Mademoiselle d’Oliva; still, her fertile brain was soon at work to
concoct some kind of explanation of the circumstances to which this new
witness might be expected to depose. Besides, if it came to the worst,
could she not fall back upon her system of general denial? and was not
D’Oliva a person of notoriously bad character, whose word would weigh
as nothing against that of a descendant of the house of Valois? It must
have been about this time that she would have also heard from her counsel
of the rumours afloat respecting the depositions which Carbonnières,
intendant of the cardinal’s household, had procured in England from the
jewellers Gray and Jefferys, and have seen how necessary it was that the
more complete story which she would now be constrained to tell should fit
in all its parts with this new and unexpected evidence. It was more than
ever requisite that she should be wakeful, since she had heard, like the
rest of the world, that the prosecution would be a contest between the
queen and the Baron de Breteuil on the one hand, and the Prince de Rohan
and his powerful partisans on the other; and there are strong reasons
for believing that the home secretary and other enemies of the cardinal
had insinuated to her, through various channels, that if she could only
produce good evidence against the grand almoner, no other victim would be
required. If we can believe her own statement, that “mercenary hireling,”
as she calls him, Commissary Chénon, “made use of every argument to
exasperate me against the cardinal,” and wound up by saying, “He indeed
may lay all manner of things to your charge, but make yourself easy, we
shall take care to saddle him with everything.”
XXIX.
1786. JAN.
THE TRIAL: EXAMINATION OF THE ACCUSED.
At length, after the law had exhausted its customary period of delay, the
examination of the accused commenced. The Cardinal de Rohan was first
questioned, and told his story much the same as the reader has already
gathered it from the preceding pages. Mademoiselle d’Oliva was next
examined, and simply confirmed all that she had stated in her published
memorial, from which we have quoted the chief passages. Pecuniary
embarrassment, she said, was the sole reason of her leaving Paris within
a few weeks of the time that Madame de la Motte was arrested, for it was
then that her creditors began to press her for payment of their claims.
She went to Brussels by the recommendation of a person who lived in the
same house that she did, and whom she knew to be a native of that place.
It was now the countess’s turn, for as yet Rétaux de Villette had proved
more than a match for the sleuth-hounds of the Abbé Georgel, and was
still skulking in some safe retreat. As for Cagliostro, his examination
was to be deferred until after the countess’s had been brought to a close.
Madame de la Motte commenced by detailing the chief incidents in her
career, from the time she was taken notice of by the Marchioness
de Boulainvilliers until the moment of her first introduction to
the Cardinal de Rohan, with something like a regard for truth. When
questioned respecting her pretended intimacy with the queen, she said
she had not the honour of being known to her, and denied ever having
represented that she had access to her; averred that she had never shown
any letters purporting to be from her majesty; that she had never been
honoured with letters from her, and consequently could not have shown any
such letters.
With regard to Mademoiselle d’Oliva, the countess stated that all she
knew of her arose from casually meeting her in the Palais Royal, when
she learnt from her that her husband, who was a friend of Monsieur de
Choiseul, had left her, and gone to America. Compassionating her lonely
condition, and finding her to be, to all appearances, a well-conducted
young person, she had asked her to her house, “and had taken her on one
occasion to Versailles, where she stayed with her for three days.” When
asked if she had not told D’Oliva that she was a lady of the court, on
terms of close intimacy with the queen, by whom she was charged to find
a person who would render her majesty some service, for which a reward
of fifteen thousand francs would be given, she ridiculed the entire
affair. She maintained it to be an invention on the part of the cardinal
and Father Loth, who both knew of the unpleasantness that had arisen
between her husband and herself with regard to the woman D’Oliva, whom
she afterwards found by her behaviour to be anything but the respectable
person she represented herself, being, in fact, a common courtesan who
had been receiving the visits of Count de la Motte for some time past.
She admitted that D’Oliva walked in the park of Versailles with her
husband and Villette, on some evening in July of the year 1784, while
she was promenading with the Cardinal de Rohan, but she utterly denied
the whole story of dressing her up to personate the queen, and then
conducting her to the park and instructing her what she was to say on
being addressed by a great personage to whom she was to hand a letter
and a rose. The countess protested that she felt highly indignant at the
mere suggestion of these “numerous falsehoods,” these “horrible reports;”
that “the entire thing was most absurd, and nothing but a foolish and
incredible fable, most wretchedly concocted by its author, the Prince de
Rohan.” She said, of course it was false that she had ever told D’Oliva
that the queen was pleased at the way in which she had acquitted herself,
or that she had read a letter to her, purporting to be from the queen,
saying the same thing; and as for having given D’Oliva one thousand or
three thousand livres, or any money whatever, after this affair, she had
certainly done nothing of the kind.
When asked if she had obtained from the Cardinal de Rohan two sums of
50,000 livres and 100,000 livres, in the months of August and November,
1784, in the queen’s name, she simply ridiculed the suggestion, and
pertinently asked, was it likely the cardinal would have been so mad as
to have handed over to her such considerable amounts as these without
receiving orders perfectly well known to have come from the queen, or, at
any rate, without taking some kind of acknowledgment from her for them?
On being questioned with respect to the Necklace, the countess denied
having had anything whatever to do with its purchase. She said she only
saw the jewellers once before it was sold to the cardinal, on which
occasion she peremptorily declined meddling in the affair. When asked
if she had carried or had shown to the cardinal a letter purporting
to be from the queen, wherein the queen expressed a wish to possess
the Necklace, she ingeniously observed, that if it were intended to be
suggested that she had been the bearer of any such letter as that alluded
to, she desired the letter might be produced, for it was the cardinal’s
duty to have preserved a document of such importance. She admitted
having casually spoken to the cardinal about the Necklace the day after
the jewellers had shown it to her, but the cardinal appeared to pay no
attention to what she said, although he afterwards sent to her for the
jewellers’ address. She certainly showed his note to Böhmer and Bassenge,
but never said or hinted to them that he was acting on behalf of the
queen, whose name was never once mentioned. With regard to the actual
purchase of the Necklace she knew positively nothing until several days
afterwards, when the cardinal told her that he had bought it for the
queen.
As to the contract, the countess declared it had not been given to her
to show to the queen, and consequently she could not have returned it to
the cardinal “approved” and signed. When the contract was first shown to
her she immediately recognised the body of it as being in the cardinal’s
handwriting, but she did not know the writing of the signature: she
positively denied having written it herself, or that it had been signed
by any person she knew.[251]
In reply to further questions, Madame de la Motte stated that she did not
know when the Necklace was handed over, and could not say whether she
saw the cardinal at Versailles on the 1st of February, 1785, although she
saw him most days when he was there. She had no hesitation in declaring
the story about the cardinal bringing the Necklace to her house, and
the casket being handed over to a person who came with a note from
the queen, to be absolutely false from beginning to end. The countess
indignantly denied ever having had the Necklace in her possession, or
having had it taken to pieces; but, knowing well enough that there was
evidence forthcoming of her and her husband having sold some of the
diamonds forming part of it, she endeavoured to make her admission fit,
as it were, with the evidence she thought likely to be brought forward.
She maintained, however, that she was merely acting as agent for the
cardinal, who, she said, sent her first of all twenty-two diamonds in
a little box, with a note bidding her sell them as soon as she could.
Subsequently he sent her a second box, containing a number of small
diamonds which she was likewise to dispose of. The first parcel of
diamonds Villette, she said, endeavoured to sell, but was unsuccessful,
and they were eventually sold to the jeweller Paris for fifteen
thousand livres, by recommendation of Monsieur Filleul,[252] advocate
of Bar-sur-Aube, and this amount she duly remitted to the cardinal, who
afterwards sent her sixteen other diamonds, which she sold to the same
person for sixteen thousand livres, and forwarded the amount to the
cardinal in the early part of May. The small diamonds, she said, she sold
to Regnier, together with one of larger size which the cardinal had given
her, for the sum of five thousand five hundred and forty francs. The two
diamond rings which, it will be remembered, were set by Regnier, were
set, she said, for the cardinal, and she asserted the same with respect
to a _bonbonnière_ which Regnier had encircled with diamonds for the
count.
During the same month, while the Cardinal de Rohan was at Saverne, she
said, one Carbonnières, a member of the cardinal’s household, came to
her in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles, at six o’clock in the morning, and
inquired if it would be possible for her to undertake a journey to
Saverne in four days’ time, some urgent business which he had in hand
preventing him from going himself. He had something of great value and
importance to transmit to the cardinal, who, he knew, would be very much
pleased with her if she but did what he asked. At the expiration of the
four days, Carbonnières, she said, brought her a large sealed packet, and
lent her his walking-cane, and directed the coachman to proceed by the
Porte St. Martin as far as Pantin, the first stage. On reaching Saverne
she put up at an inn, and apprised the cardinal of her arrival, whereupon
he sent over one of his own carriages to fetch her. Immediately she saw
the cardinal she gave him the sealed packet, and he asked her to stay and
dine with him, but as she was dressed in man’s clothes she was obliged to
decline. The cardinal, after thanking her for the trouble she had been
at on his account, then made her a present of the _bonbonnière_ which
Regnier had mounted with diamonds for him. “Open it,” he said, “and you
will find something.” She did as directed, and saw it was full of unset
diamonds. On leaving the cardinal intrusted her with a packet of letters
for Carbonnières, which, on her arrival at Paris, she duly forwarded to
the Hôtel de Strasbourg, together with the walking-cane which had been
lent to her.
At this point of her examination the countess essayed what she thought
would prove a grand _coup_, which, bewildering and astonishing her
judges, would make her innocence apparent with due melodramatic effect.
She stated that in the month of March of the year before she went,
accompanied by her niece, a little girl of ten or twelve years of age,
daughter of Madame de la Tour, to the Hôtel de Strasbourg to meet that
great, that extraordinary man, as the cardinal invariably called him,
the Count de Cagliostro, whom she had seen at Strasbourg four years
previously, and who was on the present occasion to exhibit some of
his marvellous performances. She and her niece were conducted to the
cardinal’s sleeping apartment, which was lighted up with twenty or thirty
candles, when Count Cagliostro, calling her niece to him, took her upon
his knee, and made her promise never to reveal to any one what she was
about to see. He then dressed her out with a blue, green, and black
ribbon, and also a white ribbon, to which was attached a cross and a
star, and put on her a white apron covered over with different orders,
and ornamented with beautiful silver lace. He next placed his naked sword
upon her head, and pronounced these words: “I command thee, in the name
of the Great Cofte and of the angels Michael and Raphael to show me what
I shall presently tell thee;” and, taking her niece by the hand, he led
her behind a screen where there was a table and a bottle of very clear
water, on which he made her place her hand. The count then passed to the
other side of the screen, where Madame de la Motte and the cardinal were
seated, and commanded them to keep strict silence. He then pronounced
certain words, of the meaning of which she understood nothing—but which
the cardinal told her were to drive away the evil spirit—and said to her
niece: “Say, ‘I command thee to make me see all that I desire.’ Strike!
What dost thou see? Hold thy hand always upon the bottle. What dost thou
see?” “Nothing, monsieur.” “Strike again. Strike! strike! What dost thou
see? Dost thou not see a woman dressed in white, with a long fair face?”
“Yes, monsieur.” “Who is it? Dost thou not see the queen? Dost thou know
her?” “Yes, monsieur; it is the queen.” “Say again, ‘In the name of the
Great Cofte I command thee to show me all that I shall desire.’ Strike!
What dost thou see, little one? Seest thou not an angel on thy right,
who turns towards thee as though to embrace thee? Seest thou?” “Yes,
monsieur.” “Ah well! embrace him!”
Some days afterwards the Count de Cagliostro, who was not satisfied with
this _séance_, at which all had not been made visible that he desired,
directed that her niece should be dressed entirely in white, with her
hair hanging loosely down, when he recommenced the same ceremony. The
cardinal, on this occasion, forced her to go behind the screen, and
Cagliostro made her and her niece go upon their knees, after which he
said to the latter: “I ordain thee, &c. What seest thou, little one? Look
at the point of my sword. Dost thou not see some one kneeling? Who is it?
Name them!” “It is my lord cardinal and my aunt.” “What does my lord do?”
“He takes a crown of six livres from a snuff-box which you hold in your
hand.” “What further does he do?” “He takes a crown of three livres out
of the same box.” “What more dost thou see at the point of my sword? Dost
thou not see a magnificent palace and gardens?” “Yes, monsieur.” “Whom
dost thou see there?” “No one, monsieur.” “Look again; look well.” “I
see nothing, monsieur.” Then Cagliostro, finding that she saw nothing,
said to the cardinal: “She is too old, she is not pure. I must have
another child.” To which the cardinal remarked: “I understand, one of
those you know well.”
Eight days afterwards, Cagliostro went through a similar performance with
two young children by turns, and in the following month there was another
_séance_ at the cardinal’s hôtel, when Cagliostro directed a table to be
taken to one end of the saloon, and a large number of lighted candles
to be placed upon it. He then laid his naked sword, crossing it with a
poignard, in the centre, and arranged around it a quantity of medals,
and the crosses of Jerusalem and St. Andrew, and commanded the countess
to lay her hands upon them, and swear that she would never divulge what
she was about to see and hear, and what was going to be proposed to her.
Then, turning to the cardinal, Cagliostro said to him: “Prince, go now;
go now, prince.” They spoke together in a low tone, and the cardinal
went to his secretary, which stood by the side of his cabinet, and
brought from it a rather large oval-shaped box of white wood, whereupon
Cagliostro said to him: “There is still another; bring it forth.” On
opening these boxes they were both found to be full of diamonds, and the
cardinal then said to her: “Will your husband go to England if I send
him? I will give him two thousand crowns, which he can place with some
banker here for a draft upon London.” Whereupon she asked the cardinal
the name of this banker and his address, to which he replied: “It is
Bergaud (Perregaux), Rue du Sentier; he is my ordinary banker. Here, take
the diamonds; I will settle the price. Impress upon your husband on no
account to sell them without first of all having them set, and tell him
he must not bring any unset ones back with him.”
The count went to England as the cardinal had suggested, and shortly
afterwards the cardinal said to her, “Write to your husband to send me
what money he has received, for I have some pressing payments to make.
You remember seeing a lady with me during Holy week. I have promised
her five hundred thousand livres. She is a German, and is about to
marry a gentleman of Versailles so as to legitimatise a child of which
I am the father.” On being written to, her husband hastened home again,
bringing with him drafts upon Bergaud (Perregaux) for 121,000 livres, a
medallion set with brilliants valued at one thousand crowns, a pair of
girandole earrings valued at two thousand crowns, a diamond pin, and two
large diamond rings, which, together with the drafts for one hundred and
twenty-one thousand livres, were handed to the cardinal, who returned the
earrings, the pin, and the medallion, saying, “Here, keep these for your
trouble.” She told the cardinal that her husband had left behind him,
in England, a quantity of diamonds to be sold or else set, to which the
cardinal replied, that he would prefer their being sold, but would see
about this on his return from Saverne.[253]
One can very well understand that on the conclusion of this marvellous
narrative the sitting of the court was adjourned, and that on the
following day Madame de la Motte was asked by her judges what witnesses
she could bring forward in support of the extraordinary statements she
had made. The countess replied there was only the servant who brought
her the first box of diamonds from the cardinal, as the note which
accompanied it had been taken possession of by the Prince de Rohan with
all his other letters to her, when she was confined under lock and key at
the Palais-Cardinal.
On being asked to account for the opulence which she was known to have
displayed at the very time that she and her husband were, as she said,
selling these diamonds on the cardinal’s behalf, she recapitulated
various presents of money which she affirmed the cardinal had made her;
in addition to which, she said, she had received considerable gifts from
the royal princes and princesses and from ministers of the crown. She
stated that the diamonds which had been handed to her by the cardinal,
including those remaining unsold in England, were of the value of three
hundred and seventy-seven thousand livres; nevertheless these did not
comprise all that belonged to the Necklace sold to the queen, as the
cardinal had given numbers away; and among them, some of the most
beautiful to the lady, whom he wanted to marry to a gentleman attached
to the suite of the Count de Provence, and others to the Countess de
Cagliostro. After having expressly stated that the diamonds she and her
husband disposed of did not comprise all that belonged to the Necklace
sold to the queen, Madame de la Motte maintained, in reply to questions
asked her, that she neither knew nor suspected that any of the diamonds
sold by them formed any portion of the Necklace in question; otherwise
she would have had nothing to do with them, but would have felt it her
duty to have warned the jewellers. When her husband, on seeing such a
large number of unset stones, asked the cardinal where they came from,
the prince replied that they belonged to an old set of jewels which he
had no longer any occasion for now that he was getting old. When reminded
that it was at this very time Laporte had spoken to her of the jewellers’
inquietude at finding the Necklace was not worn by the queen, Madame
de la Motte observed, that in this case the jewellers ought to have
addressed themselves to the cardinal, particularly as she had warned them
to be cautious. She denied that the cardinal had at any time expressed
astonishment to her at her majesty not wearing the Necklace; the reverse,
indeed, was the fact, it was she who had expressed her astonishment to
the cardinal.
The countess, as a matter of course, denied having shown to the cardinal
a letter purporting to be from the queen respecting the payment of the
sum of seven hundred thousand livres to the jewellers; she also denied
having given thirty thousand livres to the cardinal to be handed over
to them as interest for the delay in the payment of the instalments.
When asked what she borrowed from thirty to forty thousand livres from
her notary for at this precise date, she was ready with her answer.
It was to oblige the Marchioness de Crussol (the same who went to the
guillotine with Madame Elisabeth, the king’s sister, when these two poor
ladies embraced each other at the foot of the scaffold), who came to her,
and told her of the embarrassing position in which the ambassadress of
Portugal was placed through having pledged her diamonds, which she was
unable to redeem, and which would have been sold if Madame de la Motte
had not furnished the money to take them out of pawn.
She tried to persuade her judges that the cardinal had called upon
her one morning, and complained to her that he had been duped in
the affair of the Necklace; that he had shown her a letter which he
imagined had come from the queen, containing these words, “Send by the
little countess[254] a sum of money—the amount of which she could not
recollect—for these unfortunates. I should be annoyed if they get into
trouble.” He suspected, however, that the letter was not in the queen’s
handwriting, and that he had been made a dupe of. He paced up and down
the room exclaiming, “Has she deceived me, this little countess? has she
deceived me? Oh, no! I know Madame de Cagliostro too well; she is not
capable of this.”
On being asked if she knew a certain Dame de Courville, she replied
that she had seen her with the cardinal in holy week the year previous,
and that she knew her as a neighbour living within a few doors of her
own house. She then proceeded to say that this was the same lady the
cardinal desired to marry to a gentleman belonging to the suite of the
Count de Provence, and to whom he had promised to give five hundred
thousand livres. When asked if she knew an individual named Augeard[255]
or one Bette d’Étienville, or one Marsilly, a counsellor, she replied
that she knew none of those persons. This concluded the countess’s first
examination, which lasted from the 20th to the 26th of January, an
entire week, and of which we have given all the chief points to enable
the reader to see the scope and power of Madame de la Motte’s inventive
faculties, and her proficiency in the arts of falsehood and deceit.
It was now Cagliostro’s turn to be examined. In answer to questions put
to him, he said that he was a professor of medicine, of noble birth, and
had travelled largely in Asia and Africa, as well as Europe, most of the
chief cities of which he had visited. He was intimately acquainted with
the Prince de Rohan, and since his (the count’s) arrival in Paris, on
the 30th of January in the past year, had been in the habit of seeing
him generally three or four times a week. During this period the prince
and his friends had occasionally dined with him at his house in the Rue
Saint-Claude. The Necklace, respecting which so much had been said, was
purchased before this time. He remembered the cardinal expressing certain
doubts to him with regard to the genuineness of the signature affixed
to the contract, when he, sharing in them, advised the grand almoner
to throw himself at the king’s feet and confess everything that had
transpired; but this he resolutely refused to do.
With regard to the scene at the Hôtel de Strasbourg, described by the
Countess de la Motte, Cagliostro asserted this was merely an attempted
experiment in animal magnetism, in which he was no great believer. The
ribbons which the child was dressed out in were some that were lying
about the apartment. He denied having placed his drawn sword on the
child’s head, and having made use of the words ascribed to him; but
admitted there was a bottle of clear water on which the child placed
her hand. The affair was got up entirely at the instigation of Madame
de la Motte, who displayed great anxiety respecting the forthcoming
accouchement of some great lady, and he performed the experiment in the
hope of calming her. The countess’s story about the table with a large
number of lighted candles upon it, and the naked sword and poignard, and
the crosses of Jerusalem and St. Andrew, had not a particle of truth in
it. He never placed Madame de la Motte’s hand upon these things, and
nothing of what she had described took place. The cardinal did not fetch
any diamonds from his secretary, and, indeed, the whole affair was a
pure piece of invention. The cardinal had given him and his wife a few
articles of jewellery as presents; all these things, and whatever other
diamonds he possessed, had been seized by the police, and were still in
their custody, and could be produced. The cardinal had never given the
Countess de Cagliostro any diamonds forming part of the Necklace, nor any
sum of money arising from the sale of the diamonds. He had never told
the cardinal that his wife was intimate with the queen. She had never
seen the queen, and was never once at Versailles, and could have had no
correspondence with any one for the best of all reasons—she could not
write.[256]
Cagliostro, in his examination, having stripped the countess’s highly
inventive narrative of its marvellous character, and exposed her
falsehoods with respect to the diamonds, and having, moreover, previously
stated in his memorial that he had cautioned the Cardinal de Rohan to be
on his guard against Madame de la Motte, whom he stigmatized as a wretch,
but that the cardinal would not believe him, the countess’s indignation
knew no bounds. Knowing the doubtful kind of reputation that attached to
Cagliostro, and the peculiar nature of the relations commonly believed
to subsist between him and the cardinal, who, it was thought, aided and
abetted him in his endeavours to discover the philosopher’s stone—it was
commonly reported that Cagliostro had prevailed on the cardinal to obtain
possession of the Necklace, that he might experiment upon the diamonds
and centriple their value[257]—the countess believed she could readily
have diverted not merely suspicion towards the “low empiric,” as she
was now in the habit of styling him, but have induced a firm conviction
of his guilt. This had been her aim from the outset, as is evident from
the insinuations in which she indulged in her memorial with regard to
Cagliostro, whom she, or rather her counsel, introduces in the following
grandiloquent style:
“His name, his surname, his quality? he and the woman attached to his
fortunes?—The Count and so-called Countess de Cagliostro!
“His age?—One of his valets said that he knew not the age of his master,
but for himself he had been one hundred and fifty years in his service.
As for the master, he sometimes gave three hundred years as his age,
at other times he said he had assisted at Galilee at the marriage of
Cana.[258]
“His country?—A Portuguese Jew, or Greek, or Egyptian from Alexandria,
who had brought with him to Europe the sorceries and allegories of the
East.
“His habits and his religion?—Doctor of the cabalistic art; one of those
extravagant members of the Rosy Cross who profess to raise the dead, and
make them hold converse with the living—masters of all the sciences,
skilled in the transmutation of baser metals into gold—beneficent spirits
who attend the poor for nothing, and sell immortality to the rich.
“His fortune? in short, his means of supporting that luxurious
ostentation which he has displayed before our eyes?—A sumptuous hôtel,
elegant furniture, a well-supplied table, servants in all sorts of
liveries; and the court of this hôtel always noisy with carriages,
announcing in the midst of an intelligent nation visionaries of every
rank—in a word, Cagliostro, without inheriting anything, without
purchasing anything, without selling anything, without acquiring
anything, is possessed of all. Such is this man.
“What are his great deeds?—Many are known in the different courts of
Europe, others are known to Madame Böhmer;[259] but let us confine
ourselves to the third filtration of the Necklace, when it is needful
to dispose the Count de la Motte to carry to a foreign country a
considerable quantity of diamonds. This is the grand result furnished by
the crucible of the operator.”[260]
Cagliostro, it may be observed, was greatly excited on hearing of the
arrest of his wife, and on afterwards learning that she was ill, became
perfectly frantic. He pretended to believe that she was dead or at her
last extremity, and threatened to kill himself if he were not permitted
to see her, or she were not immediately set at liberty.[261]
XXX.
1786. FEB.–MARCH.
THE TRIAL: THE CONFRONTATIONS OF THE ACCUSED WITH EACH OTHER AND WITH THE
WITNESSES.
The examinations having at length terminated, the confrontations of the
accused with each other, and with the principal witnesses, now commenced.
At the time these were going on, the accused, in accordance with custom,
were deprived of the assistance of their counsel, who were not permitted
to hold any intercourse whatever with them. Madame de la Motte and the
cardinal were first confronted with each other. The countess describes
being ushered into the hall of the Bastille, and the cardinal making
his appearance shortly afterwards. The oaths having been administered,
the opponents surveyed each other attentively; though, says Madame, the
cardinal, “pretending to amuse himself with his pencil, which he twirled
about in his fingers, affected not to regard me,” and the duello of words
at once began. And it was a mere duello of words, for the real points
of the affair seem hardly to have been touched upon. At the outset the
countess evidently thought she was getting much the best of the contest,
for she observes in her “Life,” that in her replies to the cardinal’s
interrogatories her expressions “were so strongly pointed, so pertinent
and forcible, that every one present gave smiles of approbation.”[262]
When questioned as to whence she derived the means for such an unwonted
display of opulence as she was known to have exhibited, she pointed to
the cardinal, and gave the judges distinctly to understand that the
relations subsisting between them were those of lover and mistress, and
not benefactor and supplicant as had been commonly supposed; hence the
motive for the liberal gifts which she had received at the hands of the
Prince de Rohan.[263]
As the contest went on, the cardinal, according to Madame’s version,
got some further awkward thrusts which touched him to the quick, and
made him “look uneasy, and turn suddenly pale, and complain of a violent
headache,” which stayed the proceedings for a time. When these were
resumed, the countess thought it necessary to object to what she styles
some impropriety on the part of the cardinal—he put some pertinent
question which it was not convenient for her to answer—whereupon a three
hours’ altercation ensued, during which the plethoric cardinal grew “red
as fire,” while madame, less excited “came off,” she tells us, “with
flying colours,” the judges bestowing upon her “smiles of encouragement.”
Thus ended the first day’s confrontation.
The day following, the cardinal entered the hall quite chapfallen;
“instead of his former fierce and haughty demeanour, his eyes appeared
to ask pardon, and his countenance was sweet and engaging.”[264] His
“mildness” gave the countess “fresh spirits, and increased her hopes,”
but a scene of wrangling began immediately—each accused the other of
having had the Necklace, and of knowing what had become of it. “At this
moment,” remarks the countess, “I was not mistress of my temper, and
loaded them all with reproaches,” which brought down upon her a severe
reproof from the judges, which did not, she confesses, “in the least tend
to abate her violence.”[265] The second day’s proceedings terminated,
therefore, in a greater tempest than the first had done.
If we believe what Madame de la Motte says, the cardinal, as the
confrontations progressed, grew quite sentimental. Weak and foolish to
the extreme point of folly we know the grand almoner to have been, still,
now that the film was removed from his eyes, we can hardly credit that he
acted the old dotard’s part as the countess would have us believe. “He
blew me over kisses,” she says, “and when he discovered my eyes turned
aside upon any other object, he played with his pencil to attract my
notice.” At another time, “he clasped his hands eagerly together, and
lifting up his eyes to heaven, ‘Ah!’ exclaimed he, ‘how unhappy we are!’
He even shed tears.”[266]
On a subsequent occasion the countess pretends that when they were by
themselves at one end of the hall the cardinal approached her, took her
by the hand, and led her to the fireplace, and that while they were there
standing in an attitude of the most friendly regard, engaged in earnest
conversation, she suddenly rang the bell, which brought in De Launay,
governor of the Bastille, and two of his officers, who surprised them in
the attitude above described. “The lieutenant, De Losme,” she observes,
“could scarce pardon me to see me holding discourse with my executioner,
‘a person,’ said he, with indignation, ‘that endeavours to prove you a
thief;’” and who did, indeed, in due course, not only prove her to be a
thief, but procured her a felon’s punishment.
Although, according to her own account, these confrontations opened so
triumphantly for her, the countess at their close had lost much of that
confidence which her overweening vanity had led her to feel, and tried
hard to prolong the proceedings by urging that application should be made
to the king for permission for her to send a letter to her husband, “to
engage him to come in person to confront and disprove this preconcerted
system of lying accusations which pretends that he has gone off with a
part of the necklace.” As if the count could not have come forward, and
done all this of his own accord, as he might possibly have been tempted
to do had he not entertained a wholesome fear of the scourge and the
branding-iron, and of being chained to the oar as a galley slave for the
rest of his life.
Judging from the countess’s report of these confrontations, they would
seem to have been merely a series of wordy wranglings; it is, however,
quite certain that in the course of them many facts damaging to her in
the last degree were brought to light. Her wretched poverty, up to the
very moment when she touched the first fifty thousand livres of the
cardinal’s money, was proved beyond a doubt, as well as the comparative
affluence which she displayed immediately afterwards. And the same with
respect to the almost Oriental style of luxury in which the De la Mottes
commenced to live immediately after the count had returned from England
with the proceeds arising from the sale of the diamonds to the jeweller
Gray.
The countess in her confrontation with Laporte—who had first mentioned
the Necklace to her, and had introduced her to the crown jewellers—tried
to wheedle him by such a shallow manœuvre as thus addressing him: “I
believe you to be an honest man, Monsieur Laporte. Forget for a moment
that you have made any deposition, and distinctly answer my questions.”
Laporte, however, stuck to his text, and nothing favourable to the
countess could be extracted from him.[267] When she and the Baron de
Planta, the cardinal’s equerry, are brought face to face, he declines
to swear black to be white, and persists in saying that he had himself
carried to her the two several sums of fifty thousand livres and one
hundred thousand livres, for which she had applied to the cardinal in the
queen’s name. “I swear in the presence of justice, and on my honour and
my head,” exclaimed the indignant baron, “that I myself gave you these
amounts from the Cardinal de Rohan to be remitted to the queen;”[268]
whereupon madame pronounces him to be mad, and in proof of her assertion
recounts, with evident unction, the particulars of an attempted
indelicate assault upon her by the baron in the month of October,
1784.[269] Regnier, the goldsmith and jeweller who supplied the De la
Mottes with a service of plate, &c., and received diamonds in discharge
of his account, having given his version of his transactions with the
count and countess, the latter, following her usual system of denial,
contradicts Regnier point blank, whereupon he exhibits the entries in his
books made at the time. She then admits everything, and asks herself,
with seeming astonishment, how it was possible in less than a year for
her to have so far lost her memory.[270]
The countess, when confronted with Father Loth, loaded him with a
shower of reproaches. “You bad man,” exclaimed she, “it is you who have
led my husband astray; you have introduced him to disreputable women.
You have persuaded him to live on bad terms with me. You have robbed
me.”[271] Grenier, the goldsmith and money-lender, had deposed that
Madame de la Motte had ordered of him two superb robes of Lyons silk,
saying she intended making a present of them to the queen; in reply
to which he had told her point blank that it was not likely she would
dare to take the liberty of making presents to her majesty. Whereupon
the countess remarked, that there was no such ceremony as he supposed
between relations! She had, moreover, told him that she had reinstated
the cardinal in the queen’s good graces, and that her majesty dared
refuse her nothing, and had also shown him a letter which she said had
been written to her by the queen, but which she would not allow him to
read.[272] When brought face to face with Grenier, she exclaimed, “He
has been in the Bastille for fifteen days, and when he comes out his
first act is to depose against me out of revenge, because I once had him
put outside my house, and because it was in relation to me that he was
imprisoned.”[273]
With regard to her confrontations with the Demoiselle d’Oliva, the
countess complains that questions were put to the latter in such a form
that she had only to answer yes or no. “I did not let this escape me,”
she remarks, “but desired Dupuis de Marcé, one of the reporters of the
case, appointed by the parliament, to suffer her to speak, and not to
be her mouthpiece. He turned red, was stung with rage, and getting up
like a demoniac, put an end to the sitting.”[274] When it was resumed,
and that portion of D’Oliva’s declaration was read which spoke of the
letters, purporting to have been written by the queen, which the countess
had shown her, Madame de la Motte cannot conceal her agitation. She makes
signs to D’Oliva, winks her eyes at her, and finding that she takes no
notice, keeps repeating the action. When charged with this, she replies
in a furious tone of voice, “I make signs to you? Yes, I make you a sign
that you are a monster for having said such a thing.” She then proceeds
to charge D’Oliva with having behaved immodestly when on a visit to
her at Charonne, says she was guilty of positive indecencies, that she
was only a common courtezan, who had been for some time her husband’s
mistress, and who had usurped a title to which she had no claim. She next
enlarged upon D’Oliva’s affairs generally, and spoke of her pecuniary
embarrassments, and of the real and supposed disappointments she had
experienced, with “audacity, arrogance, and fury;” for all of which she
was duly taken to task by D’Oliva’s counsel in a new edition of his
client’s “Mémoire.” “Proud and vile woman,” the memorial proceeds to
say, “who caressed me when I could serve you, who disdained me when I
exposed you, who hate me when I confound you, descend, descend from the
supreme height of your genealogical tree, from whence you brave the law,
impose upon its administrators, and insult by turns your unfortunate
co-accused.”[275]
As for Cagliostro, on whom and on whose wife the countess had tried her
utmost to shift a portion of her own guilt—out of revenge, we suppose,
for the count having been the first to suggest to the cardinal that she
had tricked him in the Necklace business—he is “this oracle who bewitched
the cardinal’s understanding,” a low alchemist, a false prophet and
profaner of the true religion, a mountebank and a vagabond. To which
Cagliostro pertinently replied, “Not always a false prophet, for had the
Prince de Rohan taken my advice he would have seen through the artifices
of the countess, and neither of us been where we are. To her numerous
calumnies I will content myself with making a laconic reply, the same
that was made by Pascal under parallel circumstances—a reply which
politeness forbids me to make in the vulgar tongue, but which madame’s
counsel will translate for her, _Mentiris impudentissime_.”[276] The
countess, not knowing the meaning of the phrase, imagined, correctly
enough, that it was something exceedingly offensive, and to use her
own language, “put an end to the scene by throwing a candlestick at
the quack’s head! Cagliostro, enraged and foaming at the mouth, said
to me, ‘He will come, thy Villette! he will come! it is he that will
speak!’”[277]
Referring to her confrontation with Madame Dubarry, the countess
observes, “I cannot withstand the temptation of saying a few words
concerning the part assigned to the ‘queen dowager,’ the immaculate
Dubarry of monastic memory. She stated that I had been at her house to
solicit her protection, and that I had left with her a memorial, signed
‘Marie-Antoinette de France.’ The fact is, I only went to her house out
of curiosity in a good coach and four. Upon her signifying to me that
she thought the branch of Valois had been extinct, I gave her a memorial
of my genealogy, signed ‘_Marie-Antoine_ d’Hozier de Sérigny, Judge of
the Nobility of _France_.’ When confronted with me she assumed an air of
haughtiness and insolence, but I hastened to make her sensible of the
distance between her birth and mine.”[278] This wrangling between such a
pair of demireps must have been highly amusing to all who chanced to be
witnesses of it.
The cardinal, alluding to the confrontations in one of his memorials,
says that Madame de la Motte generally either cried or went into
convulsions at them, and that with her, audacity, gaiety, and tears
succeeded each other by turns, according as she found herself capable
of sustaining a part, or felt herself forced to succumb to feelings of
remorse and fear.[279]
During Lent of 1786, while the public excitement with reference to the
Necklace trial was at its height, the Abbé Georgel, grand-vicar to the
cardinal, whose office of grand almoner gave him spiritual jurisdiction
over the royal chapel at Versailles, the Hospital of the Quinze-Vingts,
and the Assumption, caused to be printed and posted on the doors of the
churches and sacristies dependent on the grand almonry, a charge, wherein
he quoted the words of St. Paul to his disciple Timothy, exhorting him to
blush neither for his captivity nor for his bonds. Copies of this charge
were even posted in the royal chapel itself.
The zeal of the Abbé Georgel here carried him a little too far. The king
and queen were deeply irritated, and the Baron de Breteuil sent for the
offender and spoke sharply to him on the subject. Instead of expressing
regret, the faithful grand-vicar, intoxicated with the success he had
already met with in thwarting the enemies of the cardinal, his master,
ventured to brave the minister of justice, replying to his remonstrances
with firmness, and insisting on his right to exercise the powers which
the cardinal had delegated to him. The minister, taken aback at so much
assurance on the part of a mere abbé, required Georgel to furnish him
with an explanation in writing. This the grand-vicar did in the following
terms:
“I had the honour to observe to you, sir, that monseigneur the cardinal
not being under the bonds of a legal decree, enjoyed, even where he was,
his rights as citizen, bishop, and grand almoner in all their fulness;
that a detention which had not been pronounced by law did not take away
from a prisoner the right to exercise his civil and ecclesiastical
functions; that such an interdiction could be the consequence only
of a decree of banishment or imprisonment; that the grand-vicars of
monseigneur the Cardinal de Rohan, furnished with his powers, were
legally authorized to exercise in his name and under his orders their
respective functions; and that our legal code was precise on the
application of these principles.
“You then tell me, sir, to send you all these details in writing. I obey
the minister of the king, and shall await with the profoundest respect
the orders of his majesty respecting the conduct which I ought to show in
my quality of grand-vicar.”[280]
This was another false step on the abbé’s part, for the minister
retaliated by a _lettre-de-cachet_, and the only order the grand-vicar
received from his majesty was a command, dated March 10, 1786, to depart
from Paris within four-and-twenty hours for Mortagne in Brittany. Thus
at a most critical point in the proceedings instituted against him was
the cardinal suddenly deprived of the services of his able and energetic
grand-vicar.
On the 26th of March, owing to the exertions of Counsellor D’Epréménil,
who pressed her case on the attention of the parliament, the Countess
de Cagliostro succeeded in regaining her liberty after upwards of
seven months’ confinement in the Bastille; and about this time the
women of Paris, who were great partisans of the cardinal’s during the
entire period of his imprisonment, took to wearing in their toilettes
a combination of scarlet and straw-colour ribbons, jocularly entitled
“cardinal on the straw”—meaning the cardinal in prison. Grand dames of
fashion, too, at the Easter promenade of Longchamp, came out in straw
bonnets with scarlet crowns, and trimmed with scarlet ribbon, which
Mademoiselle Bertin, the queen’s milliner—at this moment out of favour at
court—had introduced under the name of _chapeaux au Cardinal_.[281]
XXXI.
1786. APRIL–MAY.
ARREST OF THE FORGER VILLETTE—HIS EXAMINATIONS AND CONFRONTATIONS.
It is now that Rétaux de Villette is unearthed with the Abbé Georgel’s
sleuth-hounds in full cry. Tracked from town to town, and from village to
village, he is at length run down at Geneva, having, says one account,
since the news of the Necklace affair, crossed the Swiss frontier,
assumed various disguises, and turning his musical talents to account,
acted the part of a vagrant musician, playing on his mandoline along the
streets and highways to amuse the passers-by. One version of his capture
represents him as having been trepanned in some low Geneva tavern, whilst
overcome by drink, into enlisting in some phantom regiment, by which
adroit manœuvre he was enticed from off the “sacred republican soil,”
and carried away to Paris in triumph.[282] Another version affirms that
he had got mixed up in a local brawl at the time the abbé’s emissaries
pounced upon him, which is likely to be the truer statement of the two,
as it is corroborated by his own account of his arrest. “A disturbance,”
he says, “probably brought about by design, arose in the public streets
between two Geneva watchmakers. A Frenchman, witness of the affair,
interposed as peace-maker; whereupon he was seized, together with the
two disputants. ‘Where do you come from?’ was asked of him. ‘From
Lyons.’ ‘Ah! there has been a great robbery recently committed there.
What brought you to Geneva?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘What is your name?’ ‘Rétaux
de Villette.’ ‘To prison with him!’ A few days afterwards an inspector
of police arrived from Paris, and carried off the prisoner to the
Bastille.”[283]
This must have been about the commencement of April, and no sooner did
Villette find himself within the grip of the French police for the
second time than he became quite chapfallen. On the road to Paris he
was low-spirited to a degree, constantly speaking of himself as a lost
man, as a victim about to be sacrificed. His distress, he tells us, was
“aggravated by the jokes of the officers, in which they appeared to
take a malicious pleasure.”[284] Now and then when cheered with wine
he would chat confidentially with police-inspector Quidor concerning
his _liaisons_ with Madame de la Motte, and would let fall scraps of
information respecting the “_belle demoiselle_” of the Palais Royal, the
part she played at the midnight meeting at Versailles, and the influence
which the countess exercised over the Prince de Rohan; but with regard
to everything that related to the Necklace, and the _billets-doux_—“gilt
edged,” or bordered with “vignettes bleues,”—and the forged signature to
the contract with the jewellers, he preserved a discreet silence.
When housed within the gloomy walls of the Bastille he became slightly,
but only slightly, more communicative. He railed at his former mistress
for having been the cause of his ruin; described how he came to Paris to
obtain a situation in the marshalsea, when, unfortunately for him, he
fell into the snares of the siren, who, by pretending to have influence
in high quarters, won his confidence, and by promising to do something
better for him than his modest expectations led him to hope for, induced
him to relinquish all idea of the post he was on the point of securing.
Being frequently at her house, the countess employed him in drawing up
and copying memorials setting forth the claims of the house of Valois,
and asking sometimes for restitution, and at others for pecuniary
assistance; also memorials on behalf of individuals in whom Madame de la
Motte took an interest, addressed either to the ministers, or to persons
in high official positions, from whom places were solicited for the
applicants.
At his first examination Villette confessed absolutely nothing but what
he was well aware was already known beyond the possibility of doubt.
For instance, he admitted that he was acquainted with Mademoiselle
d’Oliva, and that he accompanied the count and her to Versailles on a
particular day, in the evening of which she was dressed out, and went
with the countess to the park, where he and the count also proceeded. In
substance he admitted the acting of the part of the queen by D’Oliva,
who left the park with him and the count—the countess going off with
the Cardinal de Rohan and the Baron de Planta. Villette scrupulously
avoided everything like an admission of having written any letters for
the countess. He denied having written a letter for D’Oliva to give to
the cardinal, or one for the countess to read to D’Oliva as though it
were from the queen. He believed D’Oliva was paid for the part she acted,
but did not know the amount; he himself carried her three hundred livres
on one occasion. When questioned respecting the Necklace, he replied
that he knew absolutely nothing about it, nor of the negotiation for its
purchase, nor of the letters said to have passed between the cardinal and
the queen relative to this purchase. He confessed he was very frequently
at Versailles, but could not tell whether he was there on the particular
day the Necklace is said to have been delivered. At any rate he knew
nothing of the circumstances connected with its delivery, was not the
bearer of any letter respecting it, and certainly did not write any such
letter. Was not aware of the Necklace being taken to pieces, though he
admitted having had some diamonds given to him to sell. Did not know the
object of the count’s journey to London; was not aware that he sold any
diamonds there, or that he returned to Paris with letters of credit for a
considerable amount. He admitted having assumed the name of Augeard, but
only as a disguise for carrying on intrigues with women.
Villette of course utterly denied all knowledge of the signature to the
contract, but when asked if he thought the cardinal was able to discern
whether the signature was genuine, he replied, that for his own part,
without possessing the intelligence of the cardinal, had he been in his
place he would not have been duped. During the time he was in familiar
intercourse with the De la Mottes they appeared, he said, to live like
persons of means, but he knew nothing of their sources of income. With
respect to their opulence, although he had witnessed it, he had never
shared it, save as a hanger-on—a guest who always had a seat at their
table. With regard to the De la Mottes’ motive for leaving Paris in
August last, he understood from madame that her circumstances were
embarrassed. He admitted having received four thousand livres from
madame, but only as a loan to enable him to visit Italy, where he had
long desired to go; and confessed to having slept part of the night in
a cabriolet in the courtyard of the De la Motte hôtel ere setting forth
on his journey early on the following morning. Finally he stated that
he had had no correspondence with the De la Mottes subsequent to his
departure.[285]
Less than a month’s reflection in the Bastille seems to have sharpened
Rétaux de Villette’s memory on several essential points, for he writes
a letter to the Count de Vergennes, in which he confesses everything
except the receipt of the casket containing the Necklace; this he
persisted in denying to the last. In consequence of this letter he is
again brought up for examination, when, the contract being produced
and shown to him, he admits the words “approuvé” and the signature to
have been written by himself alone, not in imitation, however, of the
queen’s handwriting, but in his own ordinary hand.[286] It was done, he
said, at the request of Madame de la Motte, and on her assurance that
it was to oblige the cardinal. He also confessed to having written, at
the countess’s dictation, all the _billets-doux_—gilt-edged, or bordered
with _vignettes bleues_—which purported to have been addressed by the
queen to the Prince de Rohan, and two letters in particular, in which the
queen charged Madame de la Motte to ask the cardinal, in her name, first
of all for sixty (fifty) thousand livres, and secondly for one hundred
thousand livres, for an immediate payment the queen had to make.[287]
Villette positively denied having been the bearer of a billet purporting
to have been written by the queen on the evening of the 2nd of February,
and of receiving the casket containing the Necklace, and he complacently
referred to the striking difference that existed between the individual
indicated by the Cardinal de Rohan and himself. The former, he remarked,
had big black eyebrows, a pale thin face, and slender figure; whereas his
eyebrows were light, his face full and somewhat rubicund, and his figure
inclined to be portly. With regard to the Necklace, he knew that it had
been broken up, and that the diamonds intrusted to him to sell formed
part of it, but he denied having had any of the diamonds given to him, or
of having received money from Madame de la Motte for appending the forged
signature to the contract. “It is true she has lent me money,” observed
he, “and I have kept a note of it, but whenever I have spoken to madame
on the subject she has always been polite enough to say that she did not
wish the matter mentioned.” Finally, he expressed his firm belief that
Cagliostro was entirely innocent of any complicity in the affair.[288]
The countess now undergoes a second examination at which she denies that
Villette wrote any letters to the cardinal in the name of the queen.
Having had time to reflect upon the weight of evidence against her,
she now admits the truth of the statement with respect to the meeting
between the cardinal and D’Oliva in the park of Versailles, but pretends
the affair was a mere pleasantry got up to quiet the restless cardinal.
She still denied that she had applied to him for the several sums of
fifty thousand and one hundred thousand livres, and maintained that she
had never received these amounts. Denied, moreover, having ever seen
the contract with the jewellers, and having got Villette to sign the
same. When told that Villette had confessed, she simply replied that she
could not conceive his motive for stating the signature to be his; said
she first knew of the signature being forged when the cardinal showed
her part of a note written by the queen. Next day, after having again
reflected, we find her adhering to her text, and contenting herself with
remarking that Villette had been overpersuaded to say that he signed the
document, and by her orders.
At Rétaux de Villette’s first confrontation with the countess, after
making the damaging admissions which he had done, he seems to have given
way to feelings of remorse at having betrayed, as he says, “a woman whom
I loved to adoration, and who had loaded me with benefits.” He declared
that De Launay, Dupuis de Marcé, Fremyn, the Count de Vergennes, and
others, had forced him to assert, with the view of saving himself, that
the countess alone had instigated him to write the false signature of the
queen so as to cheat the cardinal, whereupon the sitting was immediately
broken up without giving him time to finish what he was about to say.[289]
When confronted, however, with Madame de la Motte on a subsequent
occasion, he tries his hardest, though in vain, to induce her to speak
the truth. He told her that her denials could be no longer accepted as
proofs while he, the principal agent, and other witnesses were giving
her the lie. “You will not see,” he continued, “that everybody accuses
you, and that your voice necessarily loses its power. It is useless to
deny that the cardinal, you, and I are culpable in this affair. You seek
to destroy the avowal which I make of my own guilt. You say that I lie
when I accuse myself of forgery. You ruin yourself in acting thus, and
evidently do not understand your own interests.”[290]
Madame, however, conceived that she did, and was prepared with her
rejoinder, which she made with all the tact and vehemence of the
professional advocate. “The observations,” remarked she, “that M.
Villette has made are only made to frighten me. I fear nothing, and am
perfectly calm. To all his remarks I persist in replying that I neither
urged him to write the signature nor the ‘_approuvés_,’ nor any other
similar writing purporting to come from the queen. If M. Villette is good
enough to say that he has written the signature and the ‘_approuvés_,’ it
is owing to the fear with which he has been inspired on being told that
his ordinary handwriting bore so striking a resemblance to the signature
appended to the document, and that he would be certain to be condemned,
by reason of this resemblance alone, to corporal punishment. He has been
told that if he confessed to this, his punishment would be materially
lightened. This is what has caused him to make the confession, which I
maintain is false.... I repeat that I am in nowise guilty. I await with
calmness the punishment that may be awarded me, and I ask no grace.
“With regard to M. le Cardinal, whom M. Villette has just said he
believed to be as guilty as we two, I shall not charge myself with his
defence, nor with that of any other person, not knowing whether he is
guilty or no. If I were in possession of any secret that would tell
against the cardinal in the Necklace affair I should not hide it, because
for a long time past he has caused me much suffering. As for myself, I
again say that I have no confession to make, as M. Villette pretends I
have, for I am not guilty, and I am persuaded that he is no more guilty
than myself. If I were guilty I would make a confession, in the hope that
my punishment would be less grave. As it is, I could only make a false
confession; and although M. Villette tells me that every proof has been
obtained against me, and that I have only my bare assertions to oppose
to these, I repeat again that I leave my judges at liberty to find me
guilty, still asserting that I am innocent and free from crime.”[291]
With this smart peroration of madame’s the confrontations were brought
to a close, and the accused were remanded back to their several quarters
in the gloomy old fortress to await the next step which the law would in
due course take. The revelations of D’Oliva, and more particularly those
of Villette, by utterly changing the aspect of things, had sadly weakened
the countess’s confidence in her line of defence, and the hold which she
believed she had on the sympathy of the public. To retain so much of the
latter as was possible, she published a third memorial, or summary, as
it was called—her second was simply a rejoinder to Cagliostro—made up,
as was her custom, of an artful combination of ingenious fallacies well
calculated to perplex, if not to delude, the understanding.
M. Feuillet de Conches has, among his collection of autographs,
an extensive MS. in the countess’s handwriting, consisting of her
observations upon the various “Mémoires” issued on behalf of her
co-accused, and of reports of what passed at her own examinations and
confrontations. This was evidently prepared for the use of her advocate,
M. Doillot, who drew up her memorials from materials she supplied him
with, and whom it is quite certain, from the evidence furnished by this
MS., Madame de la Motte did not scruple to attempt to deceive, just as
she tried to deceive her judges, and, indeed, every one else with whom
she came in contact.[292]
“Her foot on earth, her forehead in the skies,
Things done relates, not done she feigns,
And mingles truth with lies.”
In neither of the countess’s memorials does she seek in any way to
implicate Marie-Antoinette, nor make the least claim to that intimacy
with royalty which she subsequently maintained in her “Mémoires
Justificatifs” with such wanton audacity, and again in her “Life,
written by herself,” but lays everything to the charge of the cardinal,
fascinated, deluded, and overruled by Cagliostro. As a type of the
depravity of the human heart when no moral laws restrain its licence,
a book more astounding and impudent than “The Life of Jeanne de St.
Remi de Valois, Countess de la Motte,”—from which, in the course of our
narrative, we have extracted everything of the least importance wearing
an air of truth—was, perhaps, never written.
New memorials, however, were of no use now. Her game, which had been most
audaciously played, was played out. People of every class turned against
her. The queen and the cardinal were no longer victims to that prejudiced
and hastily-formed opinion which, without waiting for the pleadings of
the lawyers or the verdict of a jury, passes sentence beforehand. Alone
and apart from even her fellow-prisoners, this powerful impostor stood
detected as the liar, the swindler, the thief, the contriver of the
plot, the single and crafty director of a complicated fraud. And the
man who was the first to betray her, and “whose villany and diabolical
machinations,” to quote the countess’s own words, had caused all this to
come to light, had been one of her familiars—friends she could hardly be
said to have had—a constant hanger-on at her house, an almost daily guest
at her table, “who, by way of rendering himself necessary,” says the
countess, “pretended that, as my husband and I were young people, it was
requisite we should have some trusty person to superintend our domestics.
He superintended, and had the disposal of everything in the house,
and when I went into the country he had all the keys, and the care of
paying my servants.”[293] Recalling all this to mind in her “Life,” the
countess heaps on Father Loth some of her choicest expletives—“serpent”
and “viper” being the most favourite. He is, for instance, “the serpent
that stung me to the heart;” “the serpent that darted his envenomed
sting against me;” “the dangerous viper that stung the bosom that
cherished it;” “this disgrace to human nature;” “this iniquitous monk,
who embezzled my money and my watch;” “this perjured and malignant monk;”
“this solitary savage;” “this dexterous hypocrite;” “this hypocritical,
this notorious villain;” “this monster,” “this profligate and abandoned
wretch;” “this wretch who has violated every moral obligation.”[294]
The countess’s confederates had confessed themselves guilty, but there
was this excuse for them—they were merely her tools and instruments.
Villette, in his time of tribulation, might well protest that he was
not that great friend and confidant of Madame de la Motte which he was
represented to be, for, said he, “_she had no friends, and her confidence
never was bestowed absolutely on any one_.” She merely instructed her
instruments in what was necessary to the parts they had to perform, and
kept the secret of the combinations entirely to herself.[295] D’Oliva
had captivated the public by her ingenuous explanation of a stratagem
which, it was evident to every one, she had had no share in conceiving
or conducting to its issue, although she had taken a part in it. And as
to the forger Villette, he had rendered so great a service to the law by
his complete exposure of the crime which had been committed, and had so
disarmed resentment by his apparent contrition, as to call forth towards
himself a kind of latent pity, in which contempt and disgust were to some
extent mingled.
With regard to the countess, nothing seemed capable of subduing the
wanton energy of this bold bad spirit. Confronted alternately with the
cardinal, with the girl D’Oliva, with Cagliostro, and with Rétaux de
Villette, besides several minor witnesses, she stood, as we have seen,
face to face with them, unabashed against them all. At first she denied
everything; accused them of the very crimes she had herself committed;
charged them with inventing, conducting, and executing the fraud from
first to last; even swore that her two chief confederates, standing there
as witnesses against her, had been suborned by the relations of the
cardinal, and had formed a conspiracy to shift their own dishonour upon
her. She told her judges to remember that she was a Valois, descended
from the princes who had formerly reigned over them. Perching herself on
this imaginary pedestal, she seemed to forget that she was a prisoner on
her trial before the country, and thundered her denunciations against her
fellow-prisoners in the loudest key, every eye shrinking and quailing
beneath her own. Her judges were for the moment amazed and overawed by
an assurance which far surpassed anything hitherto seen in a court of
justice, whilst the cardinal respectfully styled her “madame” whenever he
addressed her.
Every time she was called upon to explain some circumstance with
reference to which the statements of the rest of the accused tallied
and directly contradicted her own assertions, those present glanced at
one another expecting that she would be mute at last, and yield to the
weight of evidence against her. But no; her fertile invention, like that
of Napoleon at Marengo, supplied her at a moment’s warning with some new
combination. When asked to explain the source whence she had derived the
means of supporting her extravagant expenditure during her twelve months
of display, she replied that she had met with princely benefactors. The
Cardinal de Rohan had alone given her 203,720 livres. Observing the
looks of incredulity with which this statement was received, to account
for the cardinal’s unheard-of liberality, she explained to her judges
that relations of a very tender nature existed between her and the grand
almoner.[296] She asserted, moreover, that she had got up the scene with
D’Oliva in the park of Versailles to revenge herself upon the cardinal
for an infidelity of which he had been guilty.[297] Among her other
“princely benefactors” she enumerated Madame, the Countess de Provence,
who, she stated, had given her 13,200 livres, while the Duke d’Orléans
had given her 12,000 livres, the Duke and Duchess de Chartres 26,000, the
Duke de Choiseul 12,000, the Duke de Penthièvre 8,400, M. de Castries
3,000, and the contrôleur-général 6,000. All these statements were of
course false. For instance, the Countess de Provence had only given her
twelve or fifteen louis, and this immediately after the fainting scene,
we imagine; the contrôleur-général had given her about fifty louis;
and M. de Castries eight hundred, instead of three thousand livres. M.
d’Ormesson, whose name she does not mention, said he had sent her a few
louis _by the hands of the police_; while, as regards the eight thousand
four hundred livres which she pretended she had received from the Duke de
Penthièvre, the chief of his council, the Abbé de Noir, who happened to
be present, rose up and indignantly declared the countess’s assertion to
be false.[298] Being asked to explain what she had done with the 150,000
livres extorted from the Cardinal de Rohan in August and October, 1784,
in the queen’s name, Madame de la Motte calmly smiled, and with a look of
offended dignity and wounded innocence, vowed that she had never so much
as seen the money.
As each damaging fact came to light the countess did not content herself
with launching tirades of abuse merely against the witnesses, “who
swore,” she tells us, “precisely what the cardinal’s advocates pleased
to put into their mouths.” According to her own admissions, she on more
than one occasion abused her judges to their faces,[299] while behind
their backs she heaped upon them every variety of vituperative epithet.
Commissary Chénon was “a wretch and a cunning dissembler;”[300] Fremyn
was her “inveterate enemy;”[301] Dupuis de Marcé was “bought over,”
was a “creature of the house of Rohan,” was “a monster,” “a sly and
venomous serpent,” “a perfidious miscreant,” and “prevaricated to a
scandalous excess.”[302] Both he and Fremyn were “dissemblers,” both
“would convict the innocent rather than hear the truth;” “every ray of
evidence which would have made in my favour was refracted and broken
by the medium through which it passed;”[303] both had “the villany to
alter and interpolate the records.”[304] She further accused the deputy
procureur-général and the judges of having “caballed against her;”[305]
maintained that even the registrar, Le Breton, was “in the cardinal’s
interest.”[306] So, too, was the governor of the Bastille, rigorous old
De Launay, to whom she moreover applies the epithet of “this perfidious
governor.”[307]
While these examinations were proceeding, and when it was perfectly
well known that Count de la Motte was residing in security on the
other side of the Channel, an abundance of legal formalities were gone
through to ensure his arrest, had he only happened to have been within
the jurisdiction of the Paris Parliament. For instance, on the 15th of
December, 1785, a writ of capture of the count’s body was decreed, and
on the 15th of the following January, Regnault, “huissier of our said
court,” was despatched to Bar-sur-Aube to execute the writ in question.
On the 13th of February it was ordered that the said Marc-Antoine-Nicolas
de la Motte should be summoned that day se’nnight by public proclamation,
to have law and justice done upon him, which summoning accordingly
took place in the town of Bar-sur-Aube, and subsequently at Paris, “by
Simonin, sole sworn crier of the king, provost and viscount of Paris,
and huissier of the Châtelet of Paris, accompanied by Regnault, huissier
of our said court.”[308] Count de la Motte, however, failed to put in an
appearance at either place.
XXXII.
1786. MAY 29, 30.
THE CONCIERGERIE.—BEFORE THE COURT OF PARLIAMENT, GRAND CHAMBER, AND
“TOURNELLE.”
At eight o’clock on the night of the 29th of May, 1786, while the
countess was quietly seated at supper, the gaoler of the Bastille burst
into her room with the disagreeable intelligence that her business,
“which looked a devilish bad affair indeed, was likely to be terminated
_à la grève_” (that is, by the gallows). “Hold you in readiness at
eleven o’clock,” said he, “for they will begin with you.” At eleven,
accordingly, she was conducted to the council hall, where, after being
searched by the _huissiers de la chaîne_, she was taken in a coach to
the Conciergerie, that grim, grey stone building, at the river’s brink,
on the Ile de la Cité, whose time-worn, massive, conical-capped round
towers frown disdainfully upon the crowd of handsome modern buildings
around,—the one unrestored specimen of mediæval architecture of the least
importance in all Paris.[309] To this same dismal prison some six years
subsequently, Marie-Antoinette herself was sent, quitting it only when
she went forth to die upon the scaffold.
“Released from the Bastille,” says Madame de la Motte, “Paris appeared
to me superb, but our journey seemed extremely short. It was near
midnight. All the front yard before the court of the Palais de Justice
was illuminated, as well as the court itself; it was as light as day. The
palace was amazingly crowded; all the guard were under arms. An officer
came to give me his arm to alight from the carriage. I was conducted
to a large hall, which they call the _greffe_, whither I was attended
by four or five hundred persons. All the passages, the tables, every
place was crowded.... I listened with pleasure to a profusion of civil
things that were said to me by the surrounding multitude, many of whom
expressed very warm and sincere wishes for my success, and seemed much
pleased at the manner in which I returned their civilities. About two
o’clock, finding myself fatigued, I expressed a desire to take some rest;
and after paying my respects to this numerous company, the keeper’s wife
conducted me to the apartment prepared for my reception.”[310]
At six o’clock the Parliament, both Grand Chamber and Tournelle,[311]
began to assemble. The princes and princesses of the house of Condé,
allied to that of the cardinal, and of the houses of Rohan, Soubise and
Guéménée, had gone into mourning, and thus significantly attired, placed
themselves in a line in the corridor along which the councillors of the
Grand Chamber had to pass, so that they might salute them as they entered
the hall.[312] When they arrived, Madame de Marsan, pointing to the
cardinal’s assembled relatives, said to the councillors—“Gentlemen, you
are about to judge the whole of us.”[313] Upwards of sixty judges took
their seats. The sittings were long and numerous, as it was necessary to
read over the reports of the previous proceedings. A master of requests,
a friend of the cardinal’s, took notes of all that the judges said
while this was going on, and passed them to the cardinal’s counsel, who
found means of communicating with the prisoner, and of advising him as
to the course he should pursue when under examination. The counsellor
d’Epréménil too, a warm partisan of the grand almoner’s, likewise
apprised his friends of many particulars which it was important for them
to be acquainted with.[314]
The countess was in readiness, in the event of being summoned, by about
half-past six o’clock. “It has been said,” remarks she, “that I was
tricked out and dressed; but the truth is, I had plain cambric linen, a
cambric cloak, and for a bonnet a half-undress gauze, without ribbons,
and was even without powder in my hair. The gauze cap which I wore on
my head very little squared with the ridiculous assertion that I was
dressed. They began with poor Oliva,[315] who was delayed with her child.
[She had given birth to an infant since her arrest.] The keeper’s wife,
to whom I expressed a desire to see her, brought her to my chamber,
which was very near. I consoled the mother, but I gently reproved her
for the wrongs she had done me in following so blindly the advice of her
advocates relative to the supposed letter of the queen which she said I
had shown her.”[316]
The countess is mistaken in supposing that D’Oliva was the first to be
interrogated. It was Villette who had that honour. He entered the hall
and took his place on the _sellette_ with “his eyes bathed in tears,”
and during his examination showed more good faith and repentance than
he had heretofore done, avowing all his crimes without the slightest
reserve. It was remarked, however, that for the first time he seemed
anxious to accuse the cardinal, whom he had previously sought to shield,
by maintaining that he had been the dupe of the falsehoods and intrigues
of Madame de la Motte. Villette’s examination was soon over, and between
ten and eleven o’clock the keeper of the Conciergerie and his son
conducted the countess up “the little staircase,” which all criminals
were obliged to ascend. Fremyn, “the dissembler,” then came forward and
took her hand, and led her to the hall where the judges were assembled.
In this well-known apartment of the ancient Palais de Justice, where in
the early days of the French monarchy the kings of the Capetian race were
accustomed to keep their court, the Grand Chamber of the Paris Parliament
had held its sittings for upwards of a century; and here it was that,
under the presidency of the king, the famous _lits de justice_ were
likewise held. At the present day the Court of Cassation, the supreme
court of appeal in France in matters criminal as well as civil, holds its
“solemn audiences” in this celebrated chamber, the interior of which,
in this renovating age, has not a single trace of its ancient mediæval
character remaining to it.[317]
“The appearance of the hall, crowded as it was in every part, was to me,”
remarks Madame de la Motte, “a most tremendous sight; it was an awful,
an alarming crisis. It is here that, accused without guilt, I was tried
without justice, and condemned without proof, the accusation against me
being supported on the narrow foundation of false testimony, apparent
even to my very judges as contradictory and replete with absurdity. Too
soon I understood the ambiguous meaning of my counsel, who, in attempting
to prepare me for the occasion, had spoken to me of the ‘_sellette_.’ I
heard a number of voices tending to encourage me, and striving to inspire
me with confidence. ‘Must I then occupy this seat?’ exclaimed I; ‘must
I be forced into this _sellette_, formed only for the reception of the
guilty?’ Agitated by the most heartrending sensations, I remained a long
time in a most dreadful situation, my knees knocking together, and
my whole frame trembling with agitation, and feeling myself unable to
articulate a single syllable. At length, but I scarce know how, I found
myself seated, overwhelmed with shame at finding myself surrounded by
such a number of judges, by such a crowd of spectators.”[318]
Such is the account which the countess herself gives of this incident. A
contemporary record of the proceedings states, however, that she seated
herself in the _sellette_ with an impudent air, which she maintained
throughout the two hours she was under examination, and indeed until she
quitted this seat of shame.[319] After she was seated she heard, she
says, “a general cry, which was re-echoed throughout the hall: ‘Proceed,
proceed, madame; take courage!’ This encouragement, from so many of my
judges, supported my sinking spirits; their looks animated me, and by
degrees I was in a condition to answer them with that _consistency of
truth and energetic fortitude which innocence alone inspires_.
“So great was the malice of Fremyn against me that he could not help
exhibiting, even in the very face of my judges, a degree of rudeness and
indelicacy which, upon such an occasion, in such a situation, but ill
became him. This man came up to me rudely and desired me to take off
my hood. I looked at him very attentively, and said, ‘Even before this
august assembly you prove at this very moment how much you are my enemy.’
The assembly applauded what I said, and remonstrated with an air of
disapprobation, ‘Oh! why do you so? Let the lady wear her calash.’
“The chief president, M. d’Aligre, now read to me my first interrogatory,
which was expressed in so very few words that my judges could not
determine from my reply whether I was innocent or not. ‘I should wish,’
I remarked, ‘that my judges would interrogate me upon those points
which have relation to the Necklace; to these I am particularly anxious
to reply, that I may have an opportunity of demonstrating what I have
already advanced, what I have above a hundred times repeated, and
what I have never swerved from.’ The judges all exclaimed that I was
right, and were unanimously agreed to make some additions to the first
interrogatory, which did not mention a syllable of the leading point of
accusation—the Diamond Necklace. ‘The cardinal has stated,’ said they,
‘that he brought the Necklace himself to your house at Versailles, and
that he waited in an alcove till the arrival of a person who was to
fetch it on the part of the queen; that you insinuate it was one of her
majesty’s pages; that this man, as described by the cardinal, is very
dark, has large black eyebrows, thin and tall, with large black eyes, his
figure extremely slender. The cardinal observes also, that the alcove was
about half open.’
“‘Absurdities like these, gentlemen,’ rejoined I, ‘raise my indignation,
and I am convinced they will have a similar effect upon you.’ I then
pointed out the contradictions in the cardinal’s assertions, explaining
how, when he saw M. Villette at the confrontation, he immediately said
that he recollected his profile, and that he was the very same person
to whom I gave the Necklace; M. Villette being, in every respect,
diametrically the reverse of the cardinal’s description. I called the
particular attention of my judges to this circumstance, as it showed them
the kind of reliance they could place on the remainder of the cardinal’s
allegations. ‘Even if there did come a man, as the cardinal pretends,’
I went on to say, ‘does it wear a semblance of propriety, that if he
brought a letter or note written to me, the cardinal should act upon
that, even although the note should say the bearer was to be trusted
with the jewels in question? Now the cardinal ought not to have returned
me this note, which would then have become a receipt for him; both this
note and the other, which mentions the receipt of the jewel, saying, “it
is superb,” and which MM. St. James, Bassenge, and Böhmer, all depose to
having seen in the cardinal’s hands. I request him to bring these letters
before my judges, as well as two hundred others which he has read to me,
and told me that they all came from the queen; and ask that he should be
called upon to declare whether these letters were written by M. Villette.
I hope you will emphatically insist that the cardinal shall produce them
to the court, to be compared with that same _approuvé_ of the contract
with the jewellers, which Villette himself confesses to have written. If
my judges will take the trouble to examine these, I dare affirm that they
will find letters in three different hands, but not a single one in the
hand of M. Villette.’
“‘Messieurs St. James and Böhmer have deposed that they have read a
letter in the hands of the cardinal upon the terrace at Versailles,
containing this expression: “I am perfectly contented with the jewel; it
is superb,” &c. These persons have further deposed that the cardinal at
the same time informed them that this letter came from the queen; and
I, for my part, gentlemen, repeat what I have previously deposed,[320]
and do now positively affirm and most solemnly declare, that I have also
seen—that I have also myself read that letter.’
“The president then asked me if I really believed that letter came from
the queen as well as the two hundred other letters which the cardinal
showed me. I replied, that ‘the cardinal had given me his confidence and
trusted me with his secrets. During the whole time I was so intrusted, he
told me that he had seen the queen, and received letters from her;’ which
was all I could, consistent with delicacy and propriety, permit myself to
say.
“I had scarce uttered these words, when four abbés all rose up at once,
though at some distance from each other, and began their speeches
together. Nothing was to be heard but the hoarse jargon of contention.
At length the discord abated, and the three gave way to the first; but
as his question was of no consequence, I did not condescend to make
any reply. At this, many persons present significantly shrugged their
shoulders. The second and third were of a piece with the first; the
fourth, as having more pretension to wit, I thought it necessary to reply
to. This was the Abbé Sabattier, whose stentorian voice almost shook the
foundations of the hall. ‘The countess,’ said he, ‘pretends that she has
not interfered in any way concerning the sale of the Necklace. Why, then,
when she was asked, “Who those persons were she had at her table?” did
she reply that “They were persons with whom she had business?” I maintain
that this answer goes to prove that she has been concerned in the sale
of the Necklace; for if it were not to treat with them respecting it,
why should she have any business with them?’ I looked at this great and
penetrating genius with all that admiration which so shrewd a remark was
entitled to. ‘The question,’ said I, ‘that the Abbé Sabattier puts to me
is destitute of common sense; it is, therefore, unnecessary to reply to
it.’ All the voices then raised themselves with one accord, bawling to
the registrar, ‘Write down what madame says, that the Abbé Sabattier’s
question is unworthy an answer, and has in it neither reason nor common
sense!’
“The abbé, a good deal nettled, exclaimed, loudly, ‘Gentlemen, I have a
right to speak without being an object of derision, however much what
I may have said may amuse you.’ At this they all burst into a roar of
laughter. As soon as they had finished exercising their risibility,
‘Gentlemen,’ said I, ‘the questions of Messieurs the abbés do not in the
least surprise me. I am forewarned that these gentlemen, who are about
five in number, have had some hopes of recruiting their party by the
addition of a sixth, and that all will give their votes in favour of the
cardinal.’ The registrar was now ordered, with a great deal of solemnity,
to read to me the question of this aforesaid sagacious abbé, whom I
answered in the following manner:—
“‘Gentlemen, the jewellers have indeed charged me in their depositions,
but in their confrontations, where they were with me face to face, they
have discharged me, since in carrying them the cardinal’s note which
requested their address, Bassenge admits that I desired him to use
particular caution in dealing with the cardinal. I ask my judges if the
jewellers are under no obligation to me, however slight it may be? Am
I not the primary cause of the sale of the Necklace [no doubt of it,
and the jewellers must indeed have felt greatly obliged to the countess
for the share she had altogether in the business], since it was to the
cardinal I spoke of it, who purchased it, he says, for the queen? Laporte
himself positively deposed that I had told him above a hundred times
that I would have nothing to do with the sale of the Necklace, and even
that I absolutely rejected the offer of two hundred thousand livres in
diamonds. I would further observe to my judges, that if I had wished to
have appropriated the Necklace to my own use, I should certainly, in that
case, have accepted the jewellers’ offer, so as to conceal my intention
of stealing the Necklace.’
“M. de Bretignières, honorary counsellor, who sat near me, now asked
me a question. ‘Since then, madame,’ said he, ‘you have read and seen
such a great number of letters in the cardinal’s hands, you can tell
us what they contained, and if the cardinal answered them?’ I replied,
that the question was extremely indiscreet and dangerous, and that it
had better be put to the cardinal, who could be commanded to produce
these letters, in which case the counsellor could satisfy his curiosity
by reading them himself. My judges still insisting on clear categorical
answers respecting these letters, I was obliged to reply as to their
contents. ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ answered I, ‘one of them makes mention of
an appointment broken—of their pleasure at meeting; others “thee’d” and
“thou’d” the cardinal.’ ‘Does madame really believe that these letters
came from the queen—were written by the queen herself?’ ‘I do not know
whether I ought to declare my thoughts concerning the acts of a queen,
whom I am bound to honour and respect.’ ‘But did not madame think these
expressions very strong—too strong to induce her to believe that they
came from the sovereign?’ ‘That was the reason of my first expressing
astonishment to the cardinal.’ ‘What answer did he make?’
“I was at length obliged to answer fully the questions which were put,
feeling, after being so persecuted, that I could not retreat; but I
cannot now remember the immense number of questions I was asked, nor the
answers I gave. ‘Bravo! bravo!’ frequently exclaimed many of my judges.
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said they, clapping their hands, ‘’tis well
replied.’ ‘Let the lady alone,’ cried out numerous voices.”
The “Compte rendu” of the Necklace case fortunately enables us to
supply the deficiency in the countess’s memory with respect to the
foregoing incident. It seems that, in referring to a particular letter
which she first of all stated commenced with the words “Send _to_ the
little countess,” and which letter she asserted had been shown to her
by the cardinal as written by the queen, she continually misquoted the
opening phrase, converting it into “Send _by_ the little countess.” M.
Barillon, after pointing out this variation in her evidence, asked of
her the reason of it—a simple enough question, not requiring, one would
think, much consideration to answer. The countess, however, after much
hesitation, remarked with an air of mystery that she did not wish to
reply to it; because, by doing so, she would offend the queen. Whereupon,
several of the judges represented to her that the sacred persons of
their majesties could not suffer by any statement she might make, and
that she owed the whole truth to justice. Then, getting angry, she
exclaimed, that the letter really commenced with the words, “Send _thou_
the little countess,” and she added that the cardinal had shown her
upwards of two hundred letters in which the queen “thou’d” and “thee’d”
the grand almoner, and made assignations with him, several of which had
taken place.[321]
The countess tells us that she now made observations on the whole of
the accusation against her. “All the questions which had been addressed
to me,” she goes on to say, “together with my answers, were written
down and read over to me. The president then asked me if I had anything
more to add, to which I replied in the negative, only I particularly
entreated that my judges would condescend to examine thoroughly into this
business with an impartial eye, from whence I could not but entertain the
strongest hopes that their definitive judgment would be in my favour.”
“My enemies,” remarks Madame de la Motte, “have laboured to convey the
impression that before my judges I was bold and loquacious. They accused
me, too, of pride. They were also kind enough to put words into my mouth
which I never made use of, making me say, with respect to the cardinal,
‘I am going to confound this great knave.’”[322]
Whether these accusations are true or false, we have no means of
judging. It is quite certain, however, that the countess considered she
had acquitted herself in rather a smart manner before her judges; and
when they laughed at and cheered her sallies against the abbés, she no
doubt thought she had succeeded in hoodwinking not a few of them, quite
forgetting that though mankind may be ready enough to be amused, it is
not invariably at the expense of its reason and its judgment.
“After I had made my obeisances to the assembly,” continues the countess,
“I withdrew, and was conducted by the keeper of the Conciergerie and a
great many gentlemen whom I did not know, to his wife’s apartment. All
paid me their compliments, all expressed their approbation, observing
that I defended myself well, and that even an experienced advocate could
not have pleaded my cause better.”[323]
As soon as the countess had retired, the first president gave orders
for the _sellette_ to be removed, and sent to inform the cardinal that,
this having been done, he could present himself before the court.[324]
The Prince de Rohan entered, attired in a long purple robe, the mourning
colour of cardinals, and with scarlet stockings and cap, and wearing
his orders round his neck, saltier-wise. “He had,” says his admiring
grand-vicar, in his most grandiloquent style, “the noble presence of a
man profoundly affected, but calm, in the midst of his troubles; his
countenance expressed alike respect, modesty, and dignity, which disposed
his judges favourably towards him. He held himself erect at the bar,
his pallid complexion indicating the ravages of a recent illness which
had nearly proved fatal to him. The first president, at the request
of several of the councillors, invited him to be seated during the
long examination which he was about to undergo. The prince marked his
sensibility of the proffered favour by a profound bow, and only availed
himself of it at the third invitation. Questioned successively by certain
of his judges, who hoped to obtain satisfactory information on points
not perfectly plain, he astonished them by the clearness, the precision,
and the force of his answers. He perceived the great interest which his
humiliating situation inspired, and profited by it frankly to develop the
various false steps which his good faith and credulity had caused him to
take. ‘I was completely blinded,’ exclaimed he, ‘by the intense desire
which I felt to regain the good graces of the queen.’ This touching
scene excited a profound sensation in the breasts of the members of this
august tribunal which was about to decide the fate of one of the highest
personages in the kingdom.”[325]
When the examination of the cardinal was concluded, Cagliostro was
summoned before the court. He presented himself before his judges dressed
in a green velvet coat, embroidered over with gold lace; his hair,
plaited from the top of his head, fell in small curls over his shoulders,
which gave him a singular appearance, not altogether inconsistent with
the character of the charlatan he was commonly believed to be. “Who are
you?—whence do you come?” was asked of him. “I am a noble traveller,” he
replied. At these words the countenances of the judges brightened up, and
observing that they seemed well disposed towards him, Cagliostro entered
boldly upon his defence, intermingling his bad French with Greek, Arabic,
Latin, and Italian. His expression, his gestures, and his vivacity were
as amusing as the subject-matter of his discourse, and he quitted the
hall perfectly satisfied with having made his judges smile.[326]
The Demoiselle d’Oliva was examined the last. As she had already
confessed all she knew, and had nothing to add to her previous testimony,
the interrogatories addressed to her were not many, and she was soon
permitted to retire.
XXXIII.
1786. MAY 31.
DEBATE IN THE COURT OF PARLIAMENT.—THE SENTENCES.
From half-past four in the morning of the 31st of May all the members of
the cardinal’s family, women as well as men, were assembled at the door
of the parliament chamber, in order to be in the way of the judges as
they passed into the hall. “They employed,” we are told, “no other means
of solicitation beyond preserving a mournful silence, in which might be
discerned alike their grief, their firmness, and their respect for the
throne and for the laws. This mode of solicitation, so noble, so worthy
of the illustrious houses of Rohan, Soubise, Guéménée, and Lorraine, and
at the same time so perfectly conformable to the nature of the affair in
which the cardinal was implicated, made a more profound impression upon
his judges than all the eloquence which was exercised in his behalf.”[327]
If the members of the cardinal’s family did not, on this occasion,
publicly appeal to his judges in his favour, it is certain that during
the course of the proceedings every effort had been made by the grand
almoner’s relatives and friends to increase the number of his adherents
among the councillors who had to judge the case. Mesdames de Marsan and
de Brionne, and the Prince de Soubise, visited all the members of the
Grand Chamber in turn, and solicited them in the cardinal’s behalf;[328]
besides which, on the very morning of the trial, Madame de Brionne,
dissatisfied with the attitude of the first president, did not scruple
to reproach him in his own house with his partiality and bad faith, and
to plainly tell him that it was well known he had sold himself to the
Court.[329] We know that the prime minister, the Count de Vergennes,
was a secret partisan of the grand almoner’s, and we know also, that M.
de Laurencel, the procureur-général’s deputy, drew up a list of names
of members of the Great Chamber, wherein he set forth against each
the means that had been employed to gain that particular councillor’s
vote. This list was found in after years among the papers which
Marie-Antoinette intrusted to M. Campan during the Revolution, and which
his daughter-in-law, Madame Campan, afterwards had under her charge. From
this document it would seem that ladies of the highest position did not
scruple to accept large bribes to exercise their powers of seduction in
the cardinal’s behalf, and it was by these means, we are told, that some
of the most venerable and most respectable among the judges had been
corrupted.[330]
Between five and six o’clock the Parliament, Grand Chamber, and
Tournelle, had assembled. The number of members present amounted to
sixty-two, which subsequently became reduced to forty-nine, when the
loquacious clerical councillors had retired, as they were obliged to do,
on its being found that the judgment involved afflictive punishments.[331]
The proceedings were opened by the procureur-général, M. Joly de Fleury,
who, when contrôleur-général in former years, had experienced his share
of persecution at the hands of Madame de la Motte, with whom he had now
the opportunity of clearing off a few old scores. In a most able speech
he submitted to the Parliament the following extremely fair proposition:
First, that the Parliament should adjudge the “_approuvés_” and the
pretended signature of the queen to be forgeries; secondly, that Count
de la Motte should be sentenced to the galleys for life, by reason of
his contumacy; thirdly, that Villette should undergo a similar sentence,
and further, that he should be whipped and branded, and his effects be
confiscated; fourthly, that Madame de la Motte should be confined for
life in the prison of the Salpêtrière, after being whipped and branded,
her effects to be likewise confiscated; fifthly, that the Cardinal de
Rohan should ask pardon of the king and queen for having been wanting
in respect towards their sacred persons; that he should be banished the
precincts of the Court, and that, during a period to be fixed by the
Parliament, he should be suspended from his office of grand almoner;
that he should be sentenced to such alms-giving as the Parliament might
direct; and, finally, that he should be kept in confinement until he had
obeyed and satisfied the judgment now given. Sixthly, that D’Oliva be put
out of court. Seventhly, that Cagliostro be acquitted.[332]
The party opposed to the queen at once rejected these proposals. No
sooner had M. Joly de Fleury done speaking, than M. de Barillon, a
partisan of the cardinal’s, started up and exclaimed that the conclusions
to which they had just listened were not those of a procureur-général,
but rather those of a minister whom it was not difficult to recognize;
alluding, of course, to the Baron de Breteuil. The advocate-general,
M. Séguier, to the surprise of the excited councillors, joined in this
attack upon his colleague, whom he personally denounced.[333] Hereupon
quite a scene ensued and accusations were bandied backwards and forwards
between the legal officers of the crown. M. de Fleury reproached M.
Séguier with his loose and disorderly life, with his nightly rambles in
the Palais Royal, and the money that these cost him. “It may be so,”
replied the other, “out of my house I do what I please, but no one has
known me to sell my opinion basely to fortune.” The procureur-général
made no reply to this insinuation but remained stupefied as it were with
his mouth open.[334]
The incident having terminated, M. de Mineres passed in review all the
various impostures of Madame de la Motte, maintained that the cardinal
was not her only victim, that the jewellers had been equally deceived,
for they loaded her with thanks for the exertions she had made in their
behalf, and offered her presents, whereas, neither thanks nor presents
were offered to the cardinal, whom the jewellers regarded simply as an
instrument chosen by the countess to conduct the negotiation: other
speakers instanced the letter of thanks which the cardinal had repeatedly
advised the jewellers to send to the queen, as a convincing proof of his
good faith. M. de Jonville, third master of requests, attributed the
evidence which appeared to tell most against the cardinal entirely to the
bad memory of Böhmer, of which he gave several proofs.[335]
The speeches of Councillors D’Epréménil and Fretteau, and the Abbé
Sabattier, produced however the greatest effect. This celebrated trio
showed the utmost boldness in attacking the court and braving its anger,
and spoke vehemently in favour of the cardinal’s complete acquittal.[336]
Singularly enough, it was these very same three men who, a year or two
afterwards, stirred up the Parliament to refuse to register the royal
edicts, and were among the first to demand the convocation of the
States-general, for which acts of temerity the two last were packed off
by _lettres-de-cachet_—the one to the Castle of Ham, the other to dreary
Mont St.-Michel, and D’Epréménil, a few months later to the Isle of
Sainte-Marguerite (Calypso’s enchanted island,) whence he returned—the
Revolution having made rapid strides meanwhile—“a red-hot royalist,”
to finish his career under the axe of the guillotine. M. Robert de
St.-Vincent was another of those who spoke in favour of the Prince de
Rohan, who, he maintained, had been deceived by the most plausible lies.
He denied the legality of the procureur-général’s conclusions, and the
power of the Parliament to incorporate them in its judgment, and asked
for the cardinal’s acquittal. He condemned, too, the publicity given to
the proceedings, and expressed his regret that the king and queen had not
been advised by some wiser minister, who would have been more regardful
of the dignity of the crown. The president, D’Ormesson—the same who
sent the countess a few louis “by the hands of the police”—offered an
amendment to the procureur-général’s proposition, to the effect that the
cardinal should retain his offices and dignities, but that he should be
required to ask pardon of the queen for the offence he had committed.
There was no difference of opinion among the judges as to the measure
of punishment to be meted out to Madame de la Motte, excepting that MM.
Robert de Saint-Vincent and Dyonis du Séjour pressed the passing of
sentence of death upon her. As her crime, however, had been unforeseen by
the laws, this penalty could not be legally inflicted.[337]
The discussion, which was very animated, continued throughout the day. At
two o’clock in the afternoon the sitting was suspended, in order that the
judges might dine at a table which the first president had had set out
for them in the hall of St.-Louis; the greater number, we are told, ate
standing, and by half-past three the sitting was resumed. Between nine
and ten o’clock at night, after the final voting had taken place, the
following judgment was delivered.[338]
“The Court, the Great Chamber assembled, in the exercise of its
jurisdiction and on the conclusions of the procureur-général of
the king, declares that the words ‘_approuvé_’ and the signature,
‘_Marie-Antoinette de France_,’ have been fraudulently appended to the
margin of the document, entitled, ‘Propositions and Conditions of Price
and Payment’ for the Necklace brought in question at this trial, and
which are falsely attributed to the queen; orders that the said words
‘_approuvé_,’ and the said signature, ‘_Marie-Antoinette de France_,’
shall be struck out and erased from the said document, and that mention
shall be made of the present decree on the same, which will be and shall
remain deposited in the criminal registry of the Court,[339] of all of
which affirmation shall be made by the court registrar.
“Adjudging the consequences of the contumacy declared good and valid
by the decree of the Court of the 10th of April, 1786, against
Marc-Antoine-Nicolas de la Motte accused, absent—
“For the facts proved by the proceedings condemns the said
Marc-Antoine-Nicolas de la Motte to be flogged and beaten naked with
rods, and branded with a hot iron on the right shoulder with the letters
‘G. A. L.’ by the public executioner; this done to be led and conducted
to the galleys of the king, there to be detained to serve our said king
as convict for life.[340]
“Declares all the goods of the said Marc-Antoine-Nicolas de la Motte
acquired and confiscated to the king, or whomsoever he may appoint, a
fine of two hundred livres to the king being previously levied thereon:
which sentence, by reason of the contumacy of the said De la Motte, shall
be written upon a tablet, which shall be affixed to a post planted for
this purpose in the Place de Grève (place of execution).
“Banishes Louis-Marc-Antoine Rétaux de Villette from the kingdom for life.
“Condemns Jeanne de Valois de Saint-Remi de Luz, wife of
Marc-Antoine-Nicolas de la Motte, while having a halter round her neck,
to be flogged and beaten naked with rods, and branded with a hot iron
upon both shoulders with the letter ‘V,’ by the public executioner; this
done, to be led and conducted to the prison of the Salpêtrière, there to
be detained and confined for life.[341]
“Declares likewise all the goods of the said De la Motte, and the
said Rétaux de Villette, acquired and confiscated to the king, or to
whomsoever he may appoint; a fine of two hundred livres to the king being
previously levied upon each.
“Upon the complaint and accusation brought at the request of the
procureur-général of the king against Marie-Nicole Le Guay, alias d’Oliva
or Dessigny, puts the parties out of court and discharges the process.
“Discharges Alexandre de Cagliostro and Louis-René-Édouard de Rohan from
the complaint and accusation brought against them at the request of the
procureur-général of the king.
“Orders, that the memorials printed for Jeanne de Saint-Remi de Valois
de la Motte shall be and shall continue to be suppressed, as containing
false statements, injurious and calumnious alike against the said
Cardinal de Rohan and the said De Cagliostro.
“Upon the remainder of the request of the said De Cagliostro, alike
against Commissary Chénon and De Launay, governor of the Bastille, puts
it out of court, without prejudice to his appeal when and how he may be
advised; upon the rest of the demands, requests, and conclusions of the
parties puts these out of court.
“Gives permission to the Cardinal de Rohan and the said De Cagliostro to
cause the present judgment to be printed and posted up wheresoever it may
seem good to them.”[342]
Contemporary accounts agree in stating that something like ten thousand
people were assembled in the courts and passages of the palace and in
the neighbourhood of their approaches, all anxious to learn the judgment
of the Parliament.[343] Crowds streamed across the Pont Neuf, the Pont
Saint-Michel, the Pont-au-Change, and the Ponts Notre-Dame, coming from
all parts of Paris. There were courtiers, men of letters, financiers,
abbés, avocats, avoués, shopkeepers and their wives, students, working
men, soldiers, police agents, men and women from the _halles_, and idlers
of every description. “About nine o’clock at night,” says Madame de la
Motte, “I heard a report like that of acclamation in the courtyard. I ran
to look out of one of the windows which commanded a view of the court,
and saw crowds of people running very fast by the great staircase. I
could not distinctly understand what they said, except that one of them,
who was very near the window, cried out, ‘Bravo! bravo! Upon my word, it
is very fortunate for the cardinal; but what will become of poor Madame
de la Motte?’ The moment these words vibrated in my ear, they were like
an electric shock. Unable to sustain myself, my legs bent under me: I
tottered and sank into a chair. When I was a little recovered, the keeper
of the Conciergerie, assisted by his son, conducted me to my apartment,
where having left me for a few minutes, with a view of gaining authentic
information of the definitive sentence of the court, they soon after
returned. ‘The cardinal,’ said they, ‘is put out of court, and delivered
from further process; Cagliostro and D’Oliva are the same; Villette,
madame, is banished, as well as you.’ ‘For how long?’ ‘I believe, for
three years; but everybody blames the judges. We think there will be some
alteration.’”[344]
It is likely enough that, out of consideration for the countess and her
well-known violent temper, the foregoing innocent piece of deception
was practised upon her by the keeper of the Conciergerie, who soon
afterwards prevailed upon her to retire to rest. Meanwhile the judges
were leaving the palace, pressed upon by an immense crowd of people, who
made the walls of the old building ring again with their acclamations. A
thousand voices shouted out, “_Vive le Parlement!_” “_Vive le Cardinal!_”
The market women, throwing themselves in the way of the departing
councillors, vociferated their applause, and offered them bouquets of
flowers. M. Titon, one of the reporters of the case, who, with his
fellow-reporter, Dupuis de Marcé, had adopted the conclusions of the
procureur-général, threw the flowers back again with marked ill-humour,
to let the people see that he merited no share of this popular ovation.
Something, however, more substantial than flowers were in store for M.
Titon, for the king conferred on him the post of civil lieutenant in
reward for his zeal.[345]
When MM. Target and De Bonnières, the advocates who had advised the
cardinal to take his trial before the Parliament, sought to enter the
record office to communicate the judgment to their client, curt old De
Launay, governor of the Bastille, who had the Prince de Rohan in his
charge, informed them that he had received specific orders from the Baron
de Breteuil not to allow any one to speak to his prisoner. On its being
represented to him that the cardinal was no longer in legal custody,
since he had been formally discharged of the accusation against him by
the judgment of the Parliament just rendered, and on the bystanders
expressing their disapprobation by loud murmurs, he eventually permitted
the two advocates to enter. “The cardinal, robed in the Roman purple,”
says Cagliostro, “was carried off in triumph;”[346] and so he was, but
to the Bastille. As soon as the interview between the grand almoner and
his counsel had terminated, De Launay informed him that, the Parliament
having separated, he would have to return to that gloomy state prison.
Hearing this, the cardinal proceeded to follow his gaoler to the
carriage, while the people rushed forward, and kissed both his hands and
his garments. To impose upon the crowd De Launay gave orders for the
vehicle to be driven “to the hôtel,”[347] and the people, imagining the
Palais-Cardinal to be intended, ran beside the carriage, shouting their
congratulations, and only quitted it when it disappeared within the walls
of the grim old fortress, every stone of which was destined in little
more than three short years to be razed to the ground.
XXXIV.
1786. JUNE.
THE SENTENCES CARRIED OUT.—“WHAT IS RESERVED FOR THE BLOOD OF THE
BOURBONS?”
The evening following that on which judgment was pronounced, the gates
of the Bastille were opened to the cardinal, who returned to the
Palais-Cardinal at half-past ten o’clock at night. There he found the
members of his family and the people of the _quartier_ waiting to receive
him, and testify their joy at his acquittal.[348]
Cagliostro shared the popular ovations. He, too, was conducted back in
a sort of triumph to the Bastille, where he remained until he recovered
possession of the portfolio and other effects, minus, however, the one
hundred thousand francs in cash and bills seized in his house, he tells
us, by Commissary Chénon. He left the Bastille late at night in a hackney
coach. The evening, he says, was dark, the part of the city he lived in
retired, but when he arrived at his house in the Rue Saint-Claude he
found himself welcomed by the acclamations of thousands. The doors of
his hôtel had been burst open; the courtyard, the staircase, the very
apartments—indeed, every corner of the house was crowded with people.[349]
As for Rétaux de Villette, he himself tells us that he was recommended by
both the gaoler and the executioner to take his departure as rapidly as
possible—advice which he was only too ready to follow. “Outside the city
gate,” he says, “a great man, who belonged, I believe, to the cardinal,
took me on one side, and gave me a purse of fifty-five louis, and a note
to the Abbé d’Aimar, to whom, he told me, I was to make known my future
wants. When, however, I desired to profit by these instructions, I could
obtain no reply.”[350] Cagliostro says that Villette was banished in the
ignominious sense of the term—that is, led out of prison, with a rope
round his neck, by the executioner, who, when they arrived together at
the city gate, gave him, first of all, a loaf, and then a kick behind,
with strict injunctions never to return.[351] The fifty-five louis,
however, were some sort of salve to the indignity offered to the person
of the ex-gendarme.
Mademoiselle d’Oliva, on being told that she was adjudged “_hors de
cour_,” thought it to be a prohibition against her going to Versailles
any more, and faithfully promised to observe it.[352]
It will be readily understood that the sentences of the Parliament
excited the indignation of both the king and the queen. The former
inveighed against the judgment as being a most outrageous one. The
cardinal, he said, knew too well the usages of the Court to have been
idiot enough to believe that Madame de la Motte was admitted near the
queen, or was charged with any such commission as that of the purchase of
the Necklace.[353]
As for Marie-Antoinette, she was profoundly afflicted. “Come and weep
with me, come and console your friend, my dear Polignac,” she writes;
“the judgment which has just been pronounced is a shameful insult. I
am bathed in tears of grief and despair. One can flatter oneself with
nothing when perversity exhausts every means to crush my spirit. What
ingratitude! But I shall triumph over the wicked by tripling the good
which I have always tried to do. They will feel greater pleasure in
afflicting me than I shall in revenging myself upon them. Come, my dear
heart.”[354]
In writing to her sister, the queen does not restrain her indignation
that the cardinal, whom she believed to be the most guilty in the affair,
should have been allowed to escape. It is thus she expresses herself:—
“1st June, 1786.
“I need not tell you, my dear sister, how indignant I feel at the
judgment which has just been pronounced by the parliament. It has no
respect for royalty; it is a shameful insult, and I am bathed in tears
of despair. What! a man who had the audacity to lend himself to that
indecent and infamous scene in the arbour, who supposed that he had an
assignation with the Queen of France, with the wife of his king, that the
queen had received a rose from him,[355] and had suffered him to throw
himself at her feet, should not, when a throne is concerned, be held
guilty of high treason, but should be simply regarded as one who had been
deceived! It is odious and revolting. Pity me, my good sister; I did not
merit this injury, I who have endeavoured to do good to all who surround
me, and who only remember that I am the daughter of Marie-Thérèse, to
show myself, as she recommended me when embracing me at my departure,
French to the very bottom of my heart. To be so sacrificed to a perjured
priest, to a lewd intriguer, how grievous! But do not think that I shall
allow myself to do anything unworthy of me. I have declared that I will
never seek to revenge myself beyond doubling the good which I have
already done. I need not tell you that the king is indignant like myself;
he exiles the cardinal to La Chaise-Dieu, and Cagliostro is expelled from
France. Adieu! My children are well. We all embrace you, and press you to
our hearts.”[356]
To Madame Campan, who knew more of the particulars of the intrigue than
any one else about the queen, Marie-Antoinette mournfully said: “Make
me your compliments of condolence; the intriguer who wished to ruin me,
or to obtain money by abusing my name, and forging my signature, has
just been acquitted. But as a Frenchwoman, also receive my compliments
of condolence. A people is indeed unhappy to have for supreme tribunal
a set of men who are swayed by their own passions, many of whom are
susceptible of corruption, while the remainder are possessed of an
audacity which they are only too ready to manifest against authority, as
they have just shown in so marked a manner.”[357]
“At this epoch,” says Madame Campan, “the happy days of the queen
terminated. Adieu for ever to the peaceful and simple pleasures of
Trianon, to the fêtes where once shone the magnificence, intellect,
and good taste of the court of France; adieu, above all, to that
consideration and respect, the forms of which surround the throne, but of
which the reality alone is its solid base.”[358]
Spite of the judgment of the Parliament, the cardinal was not allowed to
go entirely scot-free. The king at once wrote to the Baron de Breteuil,
requiring him to demand from the cardinal the resignation of his office
of grand almoner, and the surrender of the various orders the king had
conferred upon him. Accompanying this letter was a _lettre-de-cachet_
banishing the cardinal within three days to his abbey of the Chaise-Dieu,
in the midst of the Auvergne mountains, where the king sarcastically
intimated he would not be likely to receive much company. Until his
departure he was commanded to see no one, except his relatives and
counsel. If nothing else could be done, a stop could, at any rate, be put
to receptions and ovations at the Palais-Cardinal.
On receiving the above instructions, the Baron de Breteuil who was
suffering from gout in the stomach, rose, it is said, from his bed
completely resuscitated at the prospect of being the bearer to the
cardinal of such agreeable news.[359] He presented himself to the Prince
de Rohan, on the morning after the release of the latter from the
Bastille, and just as he had ordered his carriage intending to go round
and thank his judges. The prince without appearing the least disquieted
informed the minister that he would observe two of the orders of the king
with the fidelity, the exactitude, and the submission which the Rohans
had always shown for the sovereign’s commands; but, with regard to his
resignation of the office of grand almoner, he could not confide this
to M. de Breteuil, as he had had the honour of sending it to the king
an hour ago through the Count de Vergennes.[360] The minister pressed
the prince to sign some further paper in reference to this resignation,
observing that he did so with regret, but was obliged to obey the
orders of the king his master. “Monsieur,” replied the cardinal, in a
nettled tone, “the king himself has already done justice on me. I have
no need of an executioner.” This _mot_ speedily circulated all over
Paris, and the minister was henceforth styled “Bourreau (executioner)
Breteuil.”[361] Louis XVI.’s minister of justice experienced a more
severe rebuff when charged, a few years later, with carrying out the
terms of a _lettre-de-cachet_ banishing the Duke d’Orléans to his château
of Villers-Cotterets for his famous protest at the “royal session,” when,
as Carlyle remarks, he “cut his court moorings.” The baron wished to
accompany the duke in his carriage, in order that, in accordance with
the king’s commands, he might not lose sight of him, whereupon the duke
observed, with disdainful pride, “Ah, well! jump up behind.”
On June 2, the day after Cagliostro’s release from the Bastille,
police-inspector Brugnières entered his apartment and addressed him
“in the king’s name,” at which ominous words his heart, he says, sank
within him. The order of which Brugnières was the bearer was dated
on the day preceding, and enjoined the count to leave Paris in three
days, and the kingdom within three weeks. Next day Cagliostro removed
to Passy, and some few days after to St.-Denis, whence he started with
his wife to Boulogne-sur-Mer. On the 16th they embarked for England
under circumstances the most sentimental, if we can credit the count’s
narrative of the affair. “The shores that I quitted,” observes he, “were
lined by a crowd of citizens of all classes, who blessed and thanked
me for the good I had done their brethren, addressing to me the most
touching farewells. The winds carried me far away from them, and I heard
them no more, but I saw them again on their knees, with their hands
raised towards heaven, and it was my turn to bless them, and to cry out
and repeat, as though they could hear me: ‘Adieu, Frenchmen! adieu, my
children! adieu, my country!’”[362]
The Countess de la Motte remained for three weeks in the Conciergerie
ignorant of the true nature of her sentence, and hoping, whatever it
might be, that it would not be carried out. “At length,” she tells us,
“the twenty-first of June arrived, that eventful day which will live in
my remembrance as long as memory itself shall live—that day the most
accursed in the calendar of my misfortunes.
“One of the gaolers came to my chamber, and told me that he had come
from my counsel M. Doillot, ‘who,’ said the deceiver, ‘is now in the
_greffe_, (the record office,) and desires to see you as he is going
immediately into the country, which is the reason why he comes so early
in the morning. It is to read you a letter which he has received from
Versailles. It will be unnecessary for you to regard your dress, because
he is in so great a hurry.’ I threw on hastily a morning gown, and
followed this impostor, who made me descend a small staircase which I
used to pass every morning to go to the lodge of the _concierge_. He went
before me and entered first. I pushed the door from me to get through,
which I had scarce half effected when I found the door forcibly pushed
to by a person on the other side with as much violence as if he wished
to secure an ox, whom he was fearful would escape. Some one immediately
seized me by the right arm, and dragged me into the _greffe_, where
another laid hold of my other arm, and bound me fast. The first thing I
observed was the _huissier_ Breton holding some papers in his hand, which
I conceived, as the _concierge_ had told me, would be read, announcing
my pretended banishment. ‘No, certainly,’ said I to Breton, ‘I will not
endure to hear so unjust a sentence, nor fall upon my knees to receive
the condemnation of an iniquitous cabal, predetermined to sacrifice me!’
A great number of strange persons were present, many of whom seized me
rudely round the waist, and others by the legs to oblige me to kneel
down, but not being able to succeed they held me suspended at a distance
from the ground. While I was in this posture the _huissier_ read my
sentence, but the cries I uttered almost drowned his voice.
“Overpowered by superior strength my resistance became more feeble, and
in this condition I was dragged to the place where the sacrifice was to
be completed. Weary and faint, exhausted by my cries and the ineffectual
struggles I had already made, entreating those around me to avenge the
innocent and _the blood of their good King Henry II.!_ I at length lost
all sense of reason. I could see nothing, could feel nothing which could
serve to show me what they intended to do.”[363]
We will supplement Madame de la Motte’s own account of the infliction of
the sentence passed upon her, by some extracts from contemporary memoirs
which furnish several curious additional particulars.
“Madame de la Motte,” writes the Hon. Mr. Eden to Mr. Pitt, “was called
up at five, and informed that the Court wished to see her. She had no
suspicion of the judgment, which is not communicated here to the accused,
except in the case of a capital sentence. She went in an undress, without
stays, which proved convenient. Upon the registrar reading the sentence,
her surprise, rage, and shrieks were beyond description. The _bourreau_
(executioner) and his assistants instantly seized her, and carried her
into an outer court, where she was fastened to a cart with a halter round
her neck. The _bourreau_ talked to her like a tooth-drawer, and assured
her most politely that it would soon be over. The whipping was slight
and _pro formâ_, but the branding was done with some severity. It is a
good idea that the ‘V’ (_voleuse_—thief) on her shoulders stands also for
Valois.”[364]
The Countess de Sabran, writing on the day of the occurrence to the
Chevalier de Boufflers, says—“Madame de la Motte was punished to-day,
at 6 o’clock in the morning, in order to avoid too great a concourse of
curious people. The unfortunate woman was sleeping profoundly when they
came to tell her, that her lawyer was waiting to talk with her about her
affairs; they had adopted this course the more easily to effect their
object. She got up, not fearing anything, put on a small petticoat and
a cloak, and descended quickly to the room where she beheld eight men
and M. Le Breton, the registrar, who held her sentence in his hand.
At this sight she was much agitated, and tried to fly; whereupon they
threw themselves upon her, and tied her little delicate hands, which
people called charming and which are certainly very dexterous. ‘Why such
precautions?’ she boldly asked. ‘I shall not escape you; if you were
executioners, you could not treat me worse.’ She believed that it was
only a question of removing her to a convent, there to pass a few years.
They told her to go down on her knees, and as she was not inclined to
do so, one of the executioners gave her a blow on the ham-strings which
brought her to the ground. M. Le Breton then read her sentence. At the
moment she heard she was going to be whipped and branded, she went into
convulsions and into a fearful fit of passion, biting everything that
was near her, tearing her clothes, pulling out her hair, &c. In spite
of this the executioners seized her and carried her to the place of
punishment. There, they put the rope round her neck, and tried in vain
to undress her; she defended herself like a lion, with feet, hands, and
teeth, and so obstinately that they were obliged to cut her clothes and
even her chemise in order to make an end of the affair; which was very
indecent, as in spite of the unreasonable hour which had been chosen with
the object of keeping people away, spectators were present in very great
numbers.
“She uttered loud cries, always saying: ‘Spare the blood of the Valois.’
She hurled forth curses against the Parliament, the cardinal, and even
some one more sacred, and struggled so that the executioner could not
perform the operation of branding her as perfectly as he wished, and
scored her all down the back. After the infliction of this sanguinary
punishment, they conveyed her in a hackney coach to the Salpêtrière.”[365]
Nougaret, author of the “Anecdotes of the reign of Louis XVI.,” says,
that “on the countess being conducted before her judges, the registrar
proceeded to read her sentence; on hearing which, astonishment, fury,
rage, and despair seemed all of a sudden to take possession of her.
Determined not to hear her sentence to the end, she flung herself on
the ground and rolled about like a person convulsed, giving vent to the
most horrible yells. The executioner and his assistants had the greatest
difficulty in removing her to the court of the palace, where her sentence
was to be inflicted. Immediately she perceived the instruments of
punishment, she seized one of the executioners by the collar, and in a
moment of frenzy bit a piece out of his hand, then sunk on the ground in
convulsions far more violent than those she had recently recovered from.
It was found necessary to tear her clothes off from her to mark her with
the red-hot iron on her shoulders. During this operation, her cries and
imprecations were redoubled. A few hours afterwards there circulated all
over Paris the following epigram on the countess’s pretensions to the
honours of the house of Valois”—the _fleur-de-lis_, (the arms of the
Valois,) it should be remembered, invariably formed part of any mark with
which culprits were branded:
“À la moderne Valois
Qui contestera ses droits?
La cour des pairs elle-même,
Quoi qu’en termes peu polis,
Lui fait par arrêt suprême,
Endosser les fleurs-de-lis.”[366]
Louis Blanc, in his “History of the French Revolution,” quoting mainly
the Baron de Besenval and the Abbé Georgel, says: “Tied with cords, and
dragged into the court of the Palais, she commenced to utter cries, not
of terror, but of fury. Addressing herself to the people, she exclaimed,
‘If they treat thus the blood of the Valois, what is the lot reserved for
that of the Bourbons?’ And in the midst of the groans which indignation
drew from the crowd, these characteristic words were heard:—‘It is my
own fault that I suffer this ignominy; I had only to say one word, and I
should have been hung.’ [She not only said this word, but launched forth
a succession of impure and calumnious charges against the queen, couched,
too, in the foulest language.] Then like as was done to Lally Tollendal,
they placed a gag in her mouth, and as she was struggling with despair
in the hands of the executioner, the red-hot iron, which ought to have
marked her on the shoulder, glanced off and marked her on the breast.”
Rétaux de Villette asserts that “people were posted in the court of the
palace to make a great noise, so that none of the public who chanced
to be present might hear what Madame de la Motte said. The sentence
executed, she was thrown half dead into a coach, and driven at full
gallop to the Salpêtrière,”[367] the prison where abandoned women were
confined. One of the doors of the vehicle having flown open on the road,
the officers in charge of the countess were only just in time to save
her from springing out and throwing herself under the wheels. When she
arrived at the Salpêtrière, she made a further attempt to destroy herself
by forcing the coverlid of her miserable truckle bed into her mouth.[368]
On the day the Countess de Valois de la Motte underwent the infliction of
the first portion of her sentence, Louis XVI. set out on a royal progress
to Cherbourg, to be present at the submerging of the first cone for the
foundation of the gigantic breakwater there. As this was being slowly
lowered into the sea amidst shouts of _Vive le Roi!_ from thousands of
lusty Norman throats, we may be quite certain that, what might chance to
be “in reserve for the blood of the Bourbons” was one of the very last
things the king was likely to trouble himself about.
XXXV.
AUG. 1785–JUNE 1786.
COUNT DE LA MOTTE’S FLIGHT—COLD STEEL AND POISON.
We must now go back a little in our narrative and see what has become of
Count de la Motte since his flight from Bar-sur-Aube. Beugnot mentions
that he took his place in the diligence, but he seems to have gone in one
of his own carriages, and posted as fast as he could, day and night, to
Boulogne, where he arrived on the night of August 20, having accomplished
the journey of three hundred miles, all stoppages included, in little
more than forty-eight hours, and whence at noon on the 22nd he crossed
over to England.[369] The authorities, who had shown such remissness in
not having him arrested earlier, now that he was beyond their reach began
to bestir themselves, and sent orders to the officers of the marshalsea,
at Boulogne and other ports, to overhaul all vessels leaving the harbour,
and capture the count if they only got the chance. The officer of the
marshalsea at Boulogne was lucky enough to capture the count’s carriage,
which had been left behind at the “Hôtel du Lion d’Argent,” and in his
simplicity set a man to watch it, for we know not how many days and
nights, in the vain hope that the count would return and claim it.[370]
This we need hardly say he had not the remotest intention of doing.
Of the various dangers and mishaps which befel the count on this,
his second visit to England, full particulars are to be found in the
narrative which he himself has written of his adventures.[371] He
started, he tells us, with merely a hundred louis in his purse, and made
with all speed for England, where, on the occasion of his former trip,
he had left some diamonds, “which it was natural,” he observes, “he
should procure.” His first call, therefore, was on Gray the jeweller,
from whom he obtained the diamonds in question, and ere long was living
on the proceeds arising from their sale. While waiting for intelligence
as to the turn affairs were taking in Paris, he tells us that he visited
the Haymarket Theatre one evening, and that while returning home in a
hackney coach a daring attempt was made to assassinate him. His hat
fortunately saved his skull. A sword was then thrust through the little
window behind, and nearly spitted him to his seat. However, he seems to
have escaped without bodily injury.
Under the pretence that his life was not safe in London, the count takes
a journey to the north. Whether his life were really in danger it is
impossible to say, but it is quite certain that his liberty was; for
there were serious thoughts at this time of kidnapping him and carrying
him over to France. The proposal emanated from a spy in the pay of the
French government named Le Mercier. “If,” reports he, “in order to
carry the individual off, cunning should not suffice, we will employ
force to conduct him to some isolated spot on the banks of the Thames,
where we will take care to have stationed for a fortnight previously,
if necessary, one of those vessels which bring coal to London from the
north. Their hulls are so thick, that it would be impossible for any one
confined in the hold to make himself heard, let him cry out as loud as he
will.”[372]
Before this amiable suggestion of the spy Le Mercier could be acted
upon, Count de la Motte had taken up his quarters in Lancaster, whence
he went to Dublin, next to Glasgow, and finally to Edinburgh. Here, he
says, he made the discovery that an attempt had been made to poison him,
as he believed, at some Dublin dinner party. At any rate, he was so ill
that he was obliged to keep his bed for three months. On his recovery
he found that he was watched whenever he went abroad, which was likely
enough to have been the case, as at this time Count d’Adhémar, ambassador
of France in England, wrote, it is said, to a great personage at the
French court, stating that Count de la Motte had withdrawn among the
mountains of Scotland, where the so-called privileges of the Scotch
prevented any legal seizure of his person being made; nevertheless he,
the ambassador, had found ten well-disposed hardy mountaineers who would
undertake to capture the count and carry him over to France, for which
service, as they would probably have to employ as much force as seduction
in the accomplishment of it, and incur the risk of being hanged, they
demanded a thousand louis each. The queen, having heard of this letter,
at once said that even if it were necessary to give double this amount,
there ought not to be a moment’s hesitation, since the presence of
the Count de la Motte was the one thing wanting to thoroughly unveil
a most abominable conspiracy and to punish the authors of it. Orders
were thereupon given to place the requisite sum at the ambassador’s
disposal.[373] By this time, however, the count had left Edinburgh,
and gone south to Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, he pretends, the capuchin,
McDermott, whose acquaintance he made when last in England, bribed by the
handsome offer of ten thousand pounds, attempted to poison him on several
occasions.[374] We do not believe a word of this; the French government
were no doubt anxious to secure the count’s presence at the approaching
trial, and would have been only too glad of a chance of kidnapping him;
but that they, or indeed any one else, wished to put him out of the way,
is extremely improbable, for it was his evidence, and not his silence,
that they desired to ensure.
About this time, namely, early in April, 1786, a woman named Costa,
wife of one of the ambassador’s spies, who had succeeded in scraping
acquaintance with Count de la Motte, crossed over to Paris with a letter
from the count to M. Doillot, Madame de la Motte’s counsel, in which he
stated that he could make the innocence of his wife clear as day if he
only dared come forward. The count insinuated that he had a letter of the
cardinal’s, inquiring of him whether he had succeeded in disposing of the
diamonds.[375] On the woman Costa’s return to England she went, according
to her own account, by direction of the Paris police to Count d’Adhémar,
who bade her tell her husband to take a house at Newcastle-on-Tyne, so
as to facilitate the drugging of the count and conveying him on board a
French ship which was lying ready in the harbour under the command of
one Surbois, an _exempt_ of the French police. Madame Costa asserted
that her husband had already received a bribe of a thousand guineas for
this purpose (less a commission of sixty guineas which the ambassador’s
secretary deducted for his little pickings out of the affair), and had
been promised nine thousand guineas more when the count was safe on
board.[376] Costa, however, seems to have let the count into the secret,
and they came up to London together to work upon the ambassadorial
exchequer as best as they could.
Arrived there on the 18th of May, Count de la Motte tells us that shortly
afterwards he meets the French ambassador at Lady Spencer’s and proceeds
to draw him out. From what the ambassador lets fall, the count comes to
the conclusion that the government now wish to get him out of the way
simply to ensure his silence. “Your presence and deposition,” remarks
the ambassador, “would entirely overthrow all that has hitherto been
done, and the business would take quite a different turn.” He tells the
count that, according to the advice of the Duke of Rutland, they could
have seized him when he was at Dublin. They thought, however, they had
sufficient evidence to convict the cardinal without his testimony. Next
day the ambassador observes to him: “It was feared that you would have
espoused the cardinal’s cause in preference to that of the queen. You
know your position: the De Rohans accuse you of having run away with
the remainder of the Necklace.” He then suggests that the count, by
surrendering himself can do himself no harm, and might do the queen some
service, and undertakes to procure him a passport in eight or ten days
at the farthest. De la Motte of course wants money, or, at any rate,
hints that he does, and D’Adhémar promises him five or six thousand
livres. It is then arranged between them what the count is to say in his
defence. He is on no account to state that the countess had access to
the queen; neither is he to mention anything about the letters said to
have been sent by the queen to the cardinal. De la Motte, playing with
the ambassador like a cat does with a mouse, does not see how he can
acquit the queen; whereupon the ambassador glides off to the cardinal,
tells the count to repeat all the indecent speeches he has heard him make
respecting her majesty, who will not be displeased at his so doing. He
next advises him to say nothing about De Polignac, Coigny, Vandreuil,
Dillon, or Fersen—all belonging to the queen’s society. “As to the
Necklace,” continues D’Adhémar, “I would advise you to say that you are
persuaded the cardinal gave it, partly or wholly, to your wife. The
countess will never allow that to be the case, but I am certain it really
was so. Finally, you must not say a single word respecting the Baron de
Breteuil.” The count suggests giving up the countess’s necklace which
Gray had set, and which by this time must certainly have been in pawn, if
not sold outright. This, D’Adhémar says, would certainly please the king.
Then advising the count to change his name, and to avoid the tattling
of the _Courrier de l’Europe_, the ambassador brings the interview to a
close.
Other interviews follow; the count no doubt bleeding the ambassador from
time to time pretty freely. Although he talked enough about surrendering
himself, it is tolerably certain he had no intention of running that
risk. Vergennes, moreover, believing that the count’s presence might
damage the cardinal’s cause, received the proposition with coldness, and
did not send the required passport. D’Adhémar on one occasion showed
Count de la Motte the draft of a letter which he had sent to the king
through the Count de Vergennes, wherein he informed his majesty that
the count desired to surrender himself and justify the proceedings of
his wife. “I have, however, been tricked and betrayed by Vergennes,” he
remarked, “who kept back the letter until it was too late, for judgment
has now been pronounced.” D’Adhémar tells the count that his presence in
Paris is now more necessary than ever. “The procureur-général is going
to prefer a fresh complaint against the cardinal for ‘criminal attempts’
upon the queen, for the language he has used, the letters he has
exhibited, the pretended meetings by night, &c., and the Parliament will
be by statute obliged to try the Necklace affair over again in connection
with the new charge.” On leaving the ambassador the count hastened to a
neighbouring coffee-house, where he sees a copy of the judgment to which
M. d’Adhémar had just referred, in the _Morning Post_ newspaper, and at
once writes a savage letter to M. de Vergennes, copies of which he sends
to the English and French press.
A few days afterwards, the ambassador’s secretary tells the count that
the queen has determined to abandon the new prosecution, on account of
the scandal it would create, but will contrive to deprive the cardinal of
his blue ribbon and places at court, and banish him to herd with monks in
the savage parts of Auvergne. At this news, which indicates a stoppage of
further supplies, Count de la Motte is inconsolable, and feels, moreover,
that he has been duped. To let him down as gently as possible, the court
protection is promised him. For the future, however, the ambassador is
“not at home” to the count’s morning calls; neither does he take any
notice whatever of the count’s numerous letters.[377]
The count, now grown indignant, threatens all manner of exposures, and
with his letters to the newspapers becomes a complete nuisance to the
representatives of the French government in England; the ambassador,
however, escapes further persecution, for just at this moment he is
summoned to Paris by his government, who, after a time, relieve him of
his diplomatic functions, and appoint the Marquis de la Luzerne, brother
of the old Bishop of Langres, in his stead.
XXXVI.
1786. JUNE–DEC.
THE SALPÊTRIÈRE.—TRUCKLE-BED AND PRISON FARE.—THE COUNT THREATENS THE
FRENCH COURT.
“As soon as Madame de la Motte arrived at the Salpêtrière,” remarks
Madame Robin, the then superior general of the hospital, “she was taken
to the registry where all our prisoners are enrolled before they are
sent to their several prisons: she remained near three-quarters of an
hour apparently without any knowledge of what passed—totally insensible.
A little after she came to herself, I begged her to search her pockets
and let me take her earrings. She presented to me her right ear; she
could not speak, and she was so disfigured that her shape scarce appeared
to be human, yet she seemed patient as a lamb going to the fold. The
_huissiers_ then crammed her into the same hackney-coach, and conveyed
her to the hall of the Salpêtrière. Before she entered the prison itself,
she was taken extremely ill, and we thought she would never recover.
“We seized the first moment when she appeared to be recovering, and
caused her to be placed by some of the sisters in a bed one of the
prisoners had given her, which was fortunate for Madame de la Motte,
otherwise she would have been under the necessity of lying in a bed full
of vermin with six of the poor old women.”
“The next day,” says Madame de la Motte, “a number of girls, habited
in the dress of daughters of charity, came to visit me in crowds;
they appeared and disappeared like lightning. The officiating sister,
Geneviève, whom I shall never forget, conducted me to a small court to
take the air, and left me to return to her business. I was scarcely
seated when I saw a very great number of poor women coming out of a gate
into this same court, making a most dreadful clattering with their wooden
shoes. As soon as they saw me they exclaimed, ‘Oh! there she is; there
is the lady in the court.’ These poor creatures, whose appearance spoke
a variety of wretchedness, approached and invited me to see the place
destined for my reception. Some of these women took me by the arm and
led me to what they called the dormitory, the place where they slept and
where they worked. I had no sooner entered the door of this infernal
mansion, than I recoiled with terror, but there were many women behind,
who prevented me from running back, otherwise I should have fallen, so
great was my horror at sight of this hall, containing one hundred and
twenty-seven women, whose wretchedness may more easily be imagined than
described. I shrunk back at the sight of this hideous spectacle, while
big tears rolled down my cheeks, and with a voice stifled by the effect
of grief, I said, like a child insensible to what passed around me, ‘Poor
Valois! oh, poor Valois!’
“It will be extremely difficult for me to paint the horrors of this
dreadful mansion; every effort is inadequate to give with sufficient
strength of colouring the interior description of this house of misery
and its wretched inhabitants. One would have imagined from their conduct
and behaviour that these women had been reared in the forests, for they
were almost as wild and savage as tigers, having always in their hands
either stones, bottles, or chairs, ready to throw at the head of any
one that displeased them. Every day teemed with new squabbles; they
frequently fought together, and would sometimes beat one another almost
to death. This prison was moreover a seminary of vice and depravity
even too shocking to mention, and, instead of a house for the salutary
correction of their souls, may more justly be denominated the place of
their destruction.
“I will attempt to give a description of this abode of horrors. The entry
is by a small court about twenty feet broad and forty-four in length.
Opposite the entrance doors are seven dark cabins under a gallery built
upon pilasters. These cabins, or rather dungeons, are in general between
five and six feet long and four and a half broad; in each there is a
straw bed, a mattress, without any furniture, not so much as a chair.
Those women who come thither, and have money, may purchase these cabins
of the old prisoners. In each of these cabins is a window about a foot
and a half square, with no glass, but very thick wooden shutters,
fastened with massive iron bolts. Below these shutters is another small
opening to let the air into these cabins. At the bottom of this court, to
the right, are four stone steps, after which is a little passage which
divides the great dormitory from the little court. On the right is a
small court leading to the great one, to serve as a walk for one hundred
and twenty-seven females, eighty feet long and near sixty wide: the
walls about sixty-two feet high. Opposite the entrance gate of the court
leading to the dormitory is a chamber for one sister, to which there is
an ascent of five steps.
“Facing the little court is the gate of the dormitory, which is very
low. This dormitory is sixty feet long and thirteen broad: the ceiling
fortified with large strong joists; the wall strengthened in the same
manner. In this dormitory are six beds about five feet in length,
composed also of a truss of straw, a mattress, and two coarse cloth
coverings. Round the beds are benches and some chairs. The right side
of the window is filled with women at work, who have purchased these
places, as I also paid for mine, for I had been obliged to sit down on
the ground in the court, all the places, forty in number, being occupied.
The walls are entirely surrounded with thick shelves, on which the women
put their victuals. Beneath this dormitory is another, the half of which
is below ground, where there are three or four beds in a better air than
the others. Upon the right is a corridor, three feet broad and about
seventy-five feet long, in which there are thirteen cabins much the same
as those of which I have before spoken, with low unglazed windows and
iron bars, so that the miserable inhabitants have no defence from the
inclemency of the seasons, but the rain, wind, hail, and snow beat in
upon the cabins. By mounting upon the window sills, you may see even to
the fourth court, which is called the Court Sainte-Claire, where there
are always a great number of people. Facing the dormitory is a small
staircase conducting to a particular little court which leads into a
square opposite to the chapel of this same prison. On the right is the
cell of the superior sister, Martha. Going out on the right you come
to a court leading to the kitchen, where are three doors to enter the
Salpêtrière, on both sides of which there are turnkeys. As you come out
from the Salpêtrière there are seven courts, and in every court there
are a great number of turnkeys. On the left, opposite the entrance
passage by the Court Sainte-Claire, are two porticos, leading to the
three gates of the Salpêtrière. There are in all nine courts, which you
have to pass before you can leave the hospital.
“The inhabitants of this den have an old petticoat for clothing, and a
gown of course grey cloth, stockings of the same kind, a coarse shift,
a pair of wooden shoes, and a cap. Every woman is allowed thrice a week
three ounces of boiled beef, on the other days about two pennyworth of
cheese, with fat broth, and five pounds of bread each day. Such is the
regulation allowance for the sustenance of these wretches. Women, who
before have scarce ever had a needle in their hands, are here taught to
work in a short time. Some are taught to stitch wrist-bands, others to
make shirts and all kinds of plain work; their labours are, however, of
no advantage to them.”[378]
Whilst the countess is doing dreary penance in the Salpêtrière, and
her husband is haunting the London “hells,” waiting the return of the
French ambassador from Paris, to know whether it was intended to do
_him_ what he styles “justice,” a paragraph, no doubt instigated by the
count himself, appears in some of the London newspapers, reproaching him
for his timidity in not publishing a certain justificatory memoir which
had been talked about for some time past. Indeed, so notorious had the
matter become, that the Duke of Dorset writes to Mr. Eden (afterwards
Lord Auckland), special envoy at the French court, under date December 7,
1786—a week before the appearance of the paragraph in question—informing
him that the Count de la Motte was about to publish a memoir in England
respecting the Necklace affair, which, as it would be certain to contain
nothing but falsehoods and calumny, he advises the French government to
get answered immediately on its appearance by some clever fellow, and
suggests the editor of the _Courrier de l’Europe_, who is understood to
be in their pay, as a likely sort of person for the task.[379]
The count, who is getting rather fond of using his pen, finding it a
convenient weapon wherewith to insinuate his threats, addresses a long
letter to the papers in reply to the aforesaid paragraph, and stating in
explicit terms what he intends to do if this “justice,” for which he is
so anxious, is not speedily done him. It did not, perhaps, occur to the
count that the only justice he was entitled to demand was that already
meted out to him by the highest legal tribunal in his country, namely,
the Court of Parliament, which had sentenced him to the scourge, the
branding-iron, and the galleys. This letter of the count’s we subjoin:
“To the Printer of the _Morning Chronicle_.
“Sir,
“In consequence of a letter inserted in your print of the 13th
instant, I think myself called upon to interrupt a silence
which I meant to keep till the return of Comte d’Adhémar; but
such a conduct, in the actual state of affairs, would only
serve to give weight and add importance to the groundless
reproaches of timidity and indifference laid to my charge.
It is incumbent on me, in this answer to your correspondent,
first to account for the motives that have hitherto engaged me
to silence, and then to give a slight idea of the memorial I
propose to lay before the public for my justification.
“I arrived in London on the 18th of last May, and have never
since moved from this capital. At that period—previous, as it
appears from the above date, to the conclusion of the famous
process—I had frequent interviews with the French ambassador.
My memorial will contain a circumstantial detail of what passed
between us at each appointment. From the line of conduct which
his excellency struck out for me, as well with respect to M. de
Vergennes as to my comportment before the Parliament of Paris,
and from the secret motives imparted to me of the various
attempts of taking me forcibly away, it will self-evidently
appear that the ambassador looked upon my departure not only as
certain, but that my presence, earnestly desired, and zealously
solicited by the most illustrious personages (whose names I
shall mention), would undoubtedly delay the sentence, and make
the whole affair wear a different aspect. What was the result?
The very personages alluded to, like Comte d’Adhémar, were
imposed upon by a minister who, in appearance, and for form
sake, feigned to second their endeavours, but who in reality
overturned the structure, and brought it to the ground by his
wily manœuvres and contributed alone to extricate the cardinal
from the disagreeable situation in which he was implicated. May
a complete disgrace reward the former for his officiousness!
This is my ardent wish, and his enemies will not fail to
accelerate it by their reiterated solicitations. But I resume
the thread of my subject.
“Notwithstanding all the instructions he had received, the
ambassador could not, no more than myself, foresee a sentence
such as has been awarded. He was the first to acquaint me with
it, and at the same time hinted at plans which could not but
turn greatly to my advantage, since they tended to give me an
opportunity (which was the first wish of my heart, and for
the obtaining of which I exerted every nerve) of appearing
before the Parliament, and entering upon my justification. His
excellency further assured me, that I should meet with powerful
friends, whose patronage would counterpoise all the credit and
combined efforts of the house of Rohan.
“As those projects were never called into execution, and as the
supreme power, apprehensive of a minute explanation, pronounced
the cardinal’s fate, I thought it expedient, considering the
promises made to me, to wait the ambassador’s arrival, no
ways doubting but that, in consequence of his account of my
conduct throughout the whole business, some regard would be
paid to it, and justice done me. But if the answer I expect
from his excellency be not satisfactory—if my just demand be
not acceded to, then I shall look upon myself as free to act,
and demonstrate by a detail, equally true and well supported,
by letters which I fortunately have in my possession, and
which will corroborate my assertion, why Mademoiselle d’Oliva
was chosen by me to play a part for half an hour, not on the
terrace, as was purposely given out, but in the interior of the
garden of Versailles. The world shall be informed of the grand
object of this rehearsal, as well as the catastrophe projected
for the first night’s representation, which, by-the-by, did not
take place, on account of the principal performer having been
warned, not indeed of all the snares laid to entrap him, but
secretly put on his guard, not to expose himself imprudently
in places where he was liable to be surprised by his enemies,
who would snatch at every opportunity to effect his ruin.
It will appear that, in consequence of this caution, it was
thought desirable to alter the plan, that it gave rise to the
purchasing of the Necklace (for which I shall account in the
clearest manner _by making special mention of its real owner_,
who made my wife a present of some of the most brilliant
diamonds, which I sold in London as my property), and kept by
much the more considerable part, which may be worn in different
manners, without ever being known by the jewellers: and why?
By the concatenation of those circumstances, which happened
pending the process, my wife and I were abandoned and inhumanly
sacrificed. These illustrations will convince the public that
certain caricature print-makers whom I know, and consequently
despise, aimed at deceiving the judgment, and prepossessing
them against me, by putting in my hand a Necklace, of which I
had a very small share.
“That the readers may have nothing to wish for, and in order
to point out to them the causes of so tardy a revenge (which
was hatching without success, ever since the death of Louis
XV.), I begin my account at the era of the cardinal’s embassy
at Vienna, and trace every event that has taken place till the
final decision of the famous affair.
“I am not to be told that my memorial, if published, will, by
the secret and curious anecdotes it contains, raise against me
a host of powerful foes, who will not fail to seek for, and
meet with, sufficient opportunity to wreak their vengeance on
me. But what of that? My intentions shall be fulfilled; and,
whatever be my fate, I shall have the comfort of having left
behind me an authentic justification, and of having unveiled
the whole of the intrigue. And who knows but I may be fortunate
enough to hear one day or other, for the good of my country,
that my memorial has opened the eyes of him who has been kept
so long in the dark! But for that I shall be told the memorial
must not reach him, and all the avenues will be strongly beset.
I am aware of it. But on the other hand, I shall observe that
there exists a powerful party, whose interests it is to forward
it, who have been long employed in working a mine, which only
waits a favourable opportunity for explosion. To hasten this,
if my memorial has, as it were, the effects of a match, I
shall look upon all the misfortunes I have encountered as the
path leading directly to that event, and shall think myself
sufficiently rewarded for the injuries and persecutions I have
experienced.
“After this declaration, sir, I trust I shall be no longer
reproached with a timidity unknown to me; and that, considering
the infamous manner in which I have been treated, no one will
blame my just resentment.
“I am, very sincerely, Sir,
“Your very humble servant,
“COUNT DE LA MOTTE.
“No. 10, Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place.”[380]
That this letter may not fail in its effect, it is again published in
the same newspaper, two days afterwards, _in the original French_. One
can well conceive that the mail-bags that day carried a goodly number
of copies of the journal in question to the French capital, and there
can hardly be a doubt but that the count’s letter, coupled with the note
which the Duke of Dorset had addressed to the English ambassador at
the court of Versailles, and which had been communicated to the French
government, created considerable consternation among the party of the
queen.
XXXVII.
DEC., 1786–JUNE, 1787.
MYSTERIOUS HINTS GIVEN TO THE COUNTESS TO EFFECT HER ESCAPE.—SHE RESOLVES
ON ATTEMPTING IT.
It must have been about this time that hints were given to Madame de la
Motte with reference to attempting to escape from her confinement. Her
own version of the manner in which these hints were given is like most of
her statements about herself, strongly tinged with the romantic; still
it is tolerably certain that hints of some kind or another were given to
her. She fixes the date when these overtures commenced not later than
the beginning of December, 1786; but considering that she deferred her
attempt to escape until July of the following year, we should be inclined
to fix it at some later period, and certainly subsequent to the time when
the French court were made acquainted with the letters just referred to.
However, we will let her tell the story in her own words:
“It was about the latter end of November or the commencement of December,
1786, that one of the soldiers, doing duty as sentinel in the court of
the Salpêtrière, to see that the women made no holes in the dormitory
to escape by the aqueducts, passed the end of his musket through a
broken part of the wall and attempted to touch Angelica, who waited upon
me as a servant, and who was sentenced to be confined for life in the
Salpêtrière. ‘What do you want with me?’ asked Angelica. ‘Is not your
name Angelica?’ said he, softly; ‘are you not the person who waits upon
Madame de la Motte?’ ‘Yes,’ replied she. ‘Very well,’ said he; ‘I heard
many lords and ladies yesterday, in the Palais Royal, mention your name
as being the person who is so attentive to her. Tell me if you want
anything. I always carry about me an ink-stand, paper, &c., which I will
furnish you with, as I know you have not permission to write. Prepare
your letters, if you wish to write to anybody, and I will take charge of
them.’
“Angelica thanked him for his kindness, but frankly confessed she could
neither read nor write.
“‘No matter,’ replied he, ‘there is your mistress, Madame de la Motte; I
would advise you to get her to write for you to the different ladies who
come here, and beg her to recommend you to their goodness.’
“Two days after this, about three in the morning, the same soldier again
touched Angelica with his musket, and gave her a packet of gilt paper,
a large bundle of quills, a bottle of ink, and a letter for herself.
‘Madame de la Motte will read it to you,’ said he. Next day Angelica
brought me the letter, at every line of which I was struck with such
astonishment that I could scarce believe my eyes. This mysterious letter
was as follows:
“Assure yourself, Mademoiselle Angelica, that I shall be extremely
happy if I can be instrumental in procuring your liberty. Command me,
and believe that I shall seize every opportunity of being useful to you
[and, immediately preceding the last line,] ‘UNFORTUNATE, put this letter
before the light—’TIS UNDERSTOOD—be sure to be discreet.’
“After having read to Angelica so much of this letter as concerned her, I
made use of some pretext to send her to the dormitory, and the moment I
was alone put the letter to the light, when writing began to appear as if
by the power of magic. At length all was visible, and the following words
astonished my eyes:
“‘You are earnestly exhorted to keep up your spirits, and to take proper
nourishment, that you may have sufficient strength to support the fatigue
of your journey. PEOPLE are now intent upon changing your condition.
Speak your wishes, and mention the day you are willing to depart, that
a post-chaise may be prepared, which you will find at the corner of
the king’s garden. Be discreet; ’tis your interest to be so. Confide
implicitly in the bearer, without entertaining the smallest suspicion.’
“Judge of my astonishment on perusing this mysterious paper! Surely, said
I to myself, I am awake, and in sober certainty of the truth of what I
see. But who can be the persons who have thus interested themselves in
my misfortunes? This singular expression, ‘It is understood,’ was never
used by any person but myself, the cardinal, and the queen. Perhaps they
both, repenting of what they have done, ashamed of having the weakness
to suffer me to be sacrificed, at this moment wish to give me liberty.”
To this letter Madame de la Motte tells us she wrote an answer to the
effect that she was anxious to escape from her confinement, and begged
her unknown correspondent to aid her in the attempt. In due course, she
received the following reply:
“PEOPLE have reflected; endeavour to procure the model of the key that
will open easily that side where you wish to go out. Act for the best,
and compose yourself.”
“For two months,” she says, “I laboured at the attempt, and at length
succeeded in making two designs—one small and the other large—in which I
thought I had fortunately delineated the wards of the key, and which, the
moment I perceived to be perfect, I enclosed in a letter, which I gave
to Angelica to convey to the soldier, who, about a fortnight afterwards,
brought a key made exactly after the paper model. I had the patience to
wait two whole days without sufficient resolution to make the experiment;
but on Sunday, between six and seven in the morning, when Angelica and
myself were together in the gallery, the opportunity seeming favourable,
with a trembling hand and palpitating heart I applied the key to the
lock, when, gracious heaven! what was my surprise and joy at finding
the door open! We both endeavoured as much as possible to conceal our
emotions, and proceeded to try whether this same key would open the other
three doors. In the afternoon of the same day I pulled off my shoes and
crept softly along to the second door, which, to my great joy, was also
obsequious to my touch. I shut it again, ascended the steps softly by
three at a time, all in a tremble for fear of discovery, found, as I
wished, all was fast and everything quiet. I then attempted to open the
door on the other side of the gallery near the second dormitory. This I
did with wonderful facility, and with as little trouble as I had opened
the others.”[381]
Strange to say that although, according to the countess’s own account,
she was in possession of the means of escape by the end of February
(1787) at the latest, she took no steps to profit by them until three
months afterwards, pretending that, in the interim, she had been engaged
in using her influence with persons of condition to procure the release
of her attendant, Angelica, when all the while she had the means of
releasing her in her own possession. However, the girl eventually obtains
her pardon, and madame has now leisure to attend to her own affairs.
It was on the 1st of May that Angelica was set at liberty. On the
13th the countess, who has long since found means of carrying on
communications with her former friends, sends a letter by the hands
of “a young _confidante_,” whom she has managed to gain over, to an
old lover of hers, the Baron de Crussol, the same who procured the
Count de la Motte his post in the Count d’Artois’ body-guard, and who,
with his brother, the Bailli de Crussol, were of the queen’s set at
Little Trianon. The baron played _Basile_ in Beaumarchais’ comedy, “The
Barber of Seville,” at the private theatre there, when Marie-Antoinette
performed the part of _Rosina_. This letter, which is all love and
tenderness, contains the customary appeal of the De Valois for pecuniary
assistance. In the course of it the countess tells the baron that the
Duchess de Duras, “_dame du palais_” to the queen, “a very virtuous and
worthy woman,” is going to pay her a visit next week, and then follows
this characteristic passage: “I shall see her alone; the public must not
know of it, as it might get talked about on account of my being forbidden
to see any one _for fear I should speak_.”[382] To return, however, to
the countess’s narrative. “I reflected within myself,” says she, “that
if I should run the hazard of going out in the dress of the Salpêtrière,
I should be easily discovered in the event of being met by any of the
sisters. I conceived also that a male habit would be more favourable for
my escape, and communicated this to my unknown correspondent, to whom I
wrote:
“‘I wish to have a large blue coat, a flannel waistcoat, black breeches,
a pair of half-boots, a round high-crowned hat, to make me appear taller,
a switch, and a pair of leather gloves.’
“All these the guard brought me about ten or twelve days after; he
carried the great-coat under his cloak, the waistcoat in his pocket,
and the switch in the barrel of his musket; and about two nights after
he brought the half-boots and a man’s shirt. Thus furnished with wings
for my flight, I was wholly intent on my game, and, what is not a little
singular, without the least fear of not being able to effect my escape;
not one shadow of doubt presented itself to my imagination, nothing gave
me the least uneasiness; I felt myself quite confident of success, and I
found myself much happier than I had been for a long time. I reflected
that I was under the immediate protection of the queen, and would not
suffer myself to entertain a doubt that it was the queen herself, and no
one else, who had taken this interest in my behalf.
“After a time, however, a feeling of apprehension came across my mind and
led me to suspect the sincerity of my unknown correspondent. Surely, I
thought to myself, this cannot be a plot concerted to lull me to security
that I may afterwards be more easily got rid of. It cannot be so; they
really wish to render me service, there can be no doubt of it, since I
have the key and the proper dress; but whither will this post-chaise
conduct me?—probably to some convent; and does the queen suppose that I
can be happy there? I will never consent to go to a convent, and only to
some place where I can be free—where I am at liberty.
“About this time I was not a little surprised by a visit from M. de
Crosne, lieutenant of police. About six o’clock one afternoon I was
conducted to Sister Martha’s apartment, where I saw M. de Crosne, with M.
Martin, secretary, and another person who was a stranger. M. de Crosne
at first did not know me; he appeared much surprised and affected to
find me so reduced, so altered for the worse, and his sensibility deeply
affected me. I read in his face, as in a mirror, how different I then
was from what I had been when he formerly knew me. Affliction had worn
me down almost to a skeleton; my eyes were languid and inanimate. [The
countess used to pride herself on the killing effect of her eyes.] I was,
as it were, but the fleeting shadow of what I had once been in the days
of my prosperity. I stood for some moments unable to articulate a single
syllable. At length, awaking from my reverie, I saluted him, when the
amiable man kindly inquired if there was anything I was in want of, as if
so, he would give the necessary orders.
“At these words I quite lost myself, and forgetting every consideration
that should have restrained me, I drew near him, and repeated, ‘Want
anything? Oh, sir, it is too much to bear—that I should be thus
confined!’ M. de Crosne, greatly affected, would not suffer me to recite
the melancholy catalogue of my woes, which I was entering into with all
the energy that grief inspired.
“I could not help thinking that M. de Crosne was sent hither expressly
to see me, and the more I reflected upon this visit of his, the more
suspicious I became. I began to see that they were fearful I should
say too much, and that it was judged expedient rather to endeavour to
soothe than drive me to extremities; for if I had really any ill-will,
any grudge towards the queen, I thought to myself, neither the Baron de
Breteuil nor the lieutenant of police would take the pains to favour me
with the slightest attention.”[383]
It should be noted that it was at this period, namely, early in the month
of May, that the Duchess de Polignac and her sister-in-law, the Countess
Diane, went to England, ostensibly to drink the Bath waters, but really,
it is believed, to come to terms with Count de la Motte through the
medium of their intimate friend the Duchess of Devonshire.[384] One may
here quote a bit of court gossip contained in a letter dated Versailles,
June 27, 1787, and written to Stanislaus Poniatowski, king of Poland, to
the effect that, on the occasion of this visit, the Duchess de Polignac
paid Count de la Motte four thousand louis for certain letters said to
have been written by the queen. If there is any truth in the story,
these were in all probability copies of the letters purporting to have
been written by Marie-Antoinette, together with the cardinal’s replies,
and which were afterwards published in the Appendix to the Countess’s
Life.[385] Of this visit of the Duchess de Polignac we shall again have
occasion to speak.
At length the countess takes her final resolution, and fixes upon some
day between the 8th and the 11th of June, either at eleven o’clock in the
morning or six o’clock in the evening, for her escape. The arrangement
was this: the guard was to disguise himself as a waggoner, and with a
whip in his hand, was to walk round the King’s garden (the Jardin des
Plantes) at the times specified on each of the above-mentioned four days.
The attendant who had succeeded Angelica, and whom the countess was
obliged to take into her confidence, begged that she might be permitted
to accompany her. After some hesitation, the countess gave her consent.
XXXVIII.
1787. JUNE–JULY.
THE COUNTESS’S ESCAPE.—A LAST VISIT TO THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF BAR-SUR-AUBE.
On the morning of the 11th of June, the last of the four appointed, days,
“Marianne and I, before our departure, took each of us a cup of coffee
to revive our spirits and give us courage. I then proceeded to open
the doors, three of which I fastened again with my key, and the fourth
Marianne pulled towards her. Marianne, who knew the house perfectly
well, took the shortest turnings she could find, believing that I was
following her. I, however, managed to lose sight of her; nevertheless, I
did not lose my courage, but passed on until I found myself in a large
hall wherein were a great number of small beds in each of which was a
child. After having cast my eyes round me, I inquired of the sisters
the way out. I did not well understand the directions they gave me,
but, after traversing many courts, found myself at length in a spacious
court among a number of people who had come to gratify their curiosity
with a sight of this prison. I followed a party who entered the chapel
to view it, taking care to mix myself up with the rest of the company.
After addressing a fervent prayer to heaven to inspire me with courage,
I soon had the gratification of finding myself outside those doors which
I had always looked on as impassable. Here I saw no one but the sisters,
to whom I gave some money as though I were an ordinary visitor, and
at length fortunately reached the high road. Here after some delay I
discovered my good Marianne waiting for me near the river.[386]
“The King’s garden was crowded with people, but I fortunately managed
to escape observation, and leaped into the boat to Marianne, who was
already there with two strange gentlemen. Fearful of a discovery, I made
signs to her not to speak to me. The two gentlemen were seated; but lest
my awkwardness in my new habiliments should be discovered, I remained
standing. At length we gained the opposite bank, and upon our landing
near the arsenal, that hideous place, the Bastille, opposed itself to my
view. Marianne conducted me through byways and narrow streets until we
found a hackney-coach which took us to Charenton. On arriving there we
stopped at a bootmaker’s to exchange my half-boots for a pair of shoes,
after which we hired a cabriolet, which conveyed us a distance of seven
leagues. We then alighted, and walked till half-past eleven o’clock at
night.
“We slept at a village called Maison-Rouge, and at six the next
morning pursued our journey on foot till ten in the evening, when we
stopped a few hours to repose ourselves. Here I inquired whether I
could have a cabriolet. I could not, however, be thus accommodated. We
were, therefore, obliged to take a cart, which conducted us about two
miles from Provins. About five in the evening we stopped at the first
cabaret and dined, and after dinner, fearful of being suspected by the
marshalsea, I despatched Marianne to purchase women’s apparel. She
returned with a jacket of narrow-striped red cotton, an apron of the same
stuff, a petticoat striped blue and white, a pair of leather shoes, such
as are worn by peasants, and a pair of very small buckles. We departed
from this inn at six the same evening.
“The town of Provins was about sixteen leagues from Paris, but I did
not judge it prudent to take the coach from here, there being no other
conveyance besides the post, which I wished as much as possible to avoid.
We proceeded towards the back of the town, where we met a great number
of officers walking together, one of whom I overheard say: ‘Oh! there’s
a woman in man’s clothes.’ When they drew nearer they pulled off their
hats, and begged permission to accompany me. One of these gentlemen’s
professions of service were so very profuse that I found it extremely
difficult to engage him to desist from following me. ‘You are,’ said
he, ‘some young girl but just escaped from a convent, and your lover is
certainly near at hand waiting for you in a post-chaise.’ ‘If such is
your opinion, sir,’ replied I, ‘it is very impolite of you to think of
following me, particularly as you have no right to expect that I should
confess to you, if you should be right in your conjecture.’ At this he
withdrew. I turned towards the left, under a hill, and not being able to
find a place more retired, we concealed ourselves under a verdant recess,
where a brook of water ran down towards the meadow. Here Marianne and I
assumed our new disguise, which made us appear exactly like peasants,
each of us holding in our arms a little basket of eggs, and a pound of
butter neatly covered with a piece of linen, which was bought for that
purpose. I threw my former apparel into the brook, putting stones into
the coat pockets and the hat, that they might sink more easily, and
that no trace of my flight might be discovered. We went five leagues on
foot the same evening, and stopped, about eleven o’clock, at the first
house of entertainment in the suburbs of Nogent,[387] which is about
two-and-twenty leagues from Paris. Here again I was so much fatigued
that, after our supper, poor Marianne was obliged to put me upon her
shoulders, and bring me into the cow-house, and lay me on the straw, for
there was neither bed nor chamber.
“The day after, about seven, we hired a cart, which conveyed us directly
to Troyes, about nine leagues from Nogent, where we slept till four the
next morning, when we again pursued our journey on foot. On our road we
met a waggoner, who civilly asked us to get up into his cart, a proposal
which we readily accepted. He conveyed us to the town where he lived,
about two leagues distant, but this honest rustic would receive no
money;[388] he would have no other recompense than a promise of marriage,
which I was constrained to give him. I told him that I and my cousin
Marianne had lived at Chaumont, in Champagne, and gave him a fictitious
name and address. On parting with him we were fortunate enough to procure
a farmer’s cart, which took us to Vendeuvre, where we dined, and about
two we set forward again in a covered carriage, which conveyed us seven
leagues further. We passed through Bar-sur-Aube, and at six we were put
down at a village about three leagues from there.
“When I arrived at this place I wrote letters to some of my husband’s
relations, with which I sent Marianne, who could not find many of the
persons in whom I confided. She went to seek a friend of Madame de la
Tour, sister of M. de la Motte, to whom she sent in my note. This lady
immediately knew my writing, and ran to her wardrobe, and gave Marianne
petticoats, shifts, handkerchiefs, with half a louis, which was all she
had in her pocket, and greatly regretted that she had it not in her
power to do more. She then accompanied her to M. de Suremont, M. de la
Motte’s uncle. This gentleman’s wife, after having coldly received Mdlle.
Charton, which was this young lady’s name, and Marianne, refused to come
and see me. M. de Suremont sent Marianne to desire me to meet him half
way. A place was appointed, and it was about midnight when we met. The
night was extremely dark, and we sat down on the bank of a ditch. M. de
Suremont appeared very glad to see me, but expressed his extreme regret
that he could not accommodate me with more than four louis, telling a
very lamentable story that his buildings had cost him so much money, and
that he was very much in debt. ‘But pray where are you going?’ said he
to me. ‘I am going to London,’ replied I, ‘for the English newspapers
have for a long time mentioned my husband’s name; I dare say he is
there.’”[389]
The countess makes no mention in her narrative of another of her
Bar-sur-Aube friends coming to see her while she lay concealed in the
stone quarries outside the town—the mother of young Beugnot, to whom, in
her days of affluence, the countess had given the surplus of twenty louis
for her poor pensioners. This noble-hearted lady came out at night to
comfort the wretched wanderer whom she believed to be innocent, and gave
her all the consolation which a pious mind could suggest in a case so
deplorable, returned her the twenty louis with some addition of her own,
and parted with her like a Christian sister.[390] Such was the singular
hold which this extraordinary woman seems to have had on the human heart,
which began when she was a barefooted beggar on the public highway, and
continued even when she was a branded outcast.
“I did not,” continues the countess, “consider it prudent to return to
the same inn which we had quitted at midnight, as I feared our being
suspected, or taken for thieves, with which all the environs of Chaumont
are greatly infested, I therefore chose to walk the remaining part of
the night. The moon, which was at full, made it extremely pleasant. We
proceeded nearly a mile and a half, but had not advanced far into the
forest before we determined to return again towards the town. We knocked
at the first carbaret we came to, but the people not only refused to open
the door, but threatened to shoot us, taking us, without question, for
thieves. Shivering with cold, we were necessitated to take up our lodging
on the steps of their door till the next morning, and at this season the
nights were extremely cold, and the country wore almost the appearance of
winter. About six in the morning three peasants and a woman passed by,
who had two large dogs with them. I related to them our situation, and we
traversed the forest together as far as Columbey, where we parted. Having
breakfasted, we took the post, which conveyed us seven leagues further.
At six the next morning we recommenced our journey on foot. The day was
terribly hot, and we suffered severely in climbing the mountain, which
is extremely steep, and very high, without any shelter from the intense
heat. Marianne, who was very much troubled with shortness of breath, and
incapable of proceeding any farther, sat down and wept bitterly till,
fortunately, a good old peasant, who was on horseback, offered to take
her behind him, to which she would not consent; but, as his house was
but a short distance, she agreed to take the good old man’s arm, while I
seated myself on the horse. Taking Marianne’s bundle, I gave the reins to
the horse, who brought me to the house before his master, where the old
man’s daughter, who was lately married, recognized the beast. I briefly
related to her the circumstance which procured me the pleasure of seeing
her, whereupon she despatched one of her sisters to the curate’s house
to fetch some fish, and some of the best wine from another neighbour.
Marianne was also well received. We were afterwards presented to the
husband; and this good family lodged us with kindness. Not only did
they regale us with a good supper of pigeons, and excellent fish, and
delicious wine, but they accommodated us with their own bed, where we
slept soundly for six hours. After a good breakfast we departed at ten in
their cart to reach Joinville, these good people refusing to receive a
single son for their entertainment.
“The keeper of a carbaret where we had sought shelter from a violent
storm consented to conduct us as far as Nancy; and the rain having
subsided, we availed ourselves of this proposal of our host, and
continued our journey till we came into the midst of the most dismal
forest I ever saw. It seemed a place perfectly adapted for the black
business of robbery or murder. Here another terrible storm came on, and
we travelled in the midst of a heavy shower for almost two hours and a
quarter. It was now near ten o’clock, and we were still in a hollow, one
side of which bordered another forest reputed to be most dangerous, and
along the skirts of which our road lay for a distance of some miles. I
could not but feel alarmed, and what added to my fears was, that I had
not the least knowledge of that road. Our conductor was also a very
ill-looking fellow, and his conduct was such, that though I cannot
say he had really any bad design, yet his behaviour was sufficiently
equivocal to make me suspicious. After a dreary ride of a couple of
hours I discovered a light: it is impossible to express how welcome that
discovery was, as it dispelled those apprehensions which the darkness
of the night had made more terrible. Our guide now composed himself a
little, and told me he was going to bait his horse, after which we might
pursue our journey. ‘Most certainly,’ replied I; but when we arrived at
the inn, which was at about midnight, I determined to take some rest.
“We sat down to supper, and I told our guide that we did not choose to
expose ourselves any more that night, as his horse seemed to be so much
fatigued. This determination did not seem agreeable to him; he stormed
and swore, but all to no purpose. ‘I am determined,’ said I resolutely,
‘not to proceed till six o’clock in the morning.’ We did, indeed, set
out an hour sooner, but then there was no danger; though, when he put us
down upon an eminence on the side of Nancy, I really thought he seemed to
quit us with an air of regret at having failed of his prey. After having
dined at Nancy, we took a voiture, which conducted us to Lunéville, where
we stopped and slept at the Hôtel du Saint-Esprit, from whence the next
morning I wrote to M. Aminot, my cousin, an officer in the gendarmes.
I took the precaution not to sign my name to this billet, in which I
merely mentioned that a lady, one of his father’s acquaintances, wished
to communicate some news from his family. Upon the receipt of my billet
he did not lose a moment, but followed Marianne, who introduced him to
my chamber. He approached me: ‘Really, madame,’ said he, ‘I have not
the honour to recollect you.’ ‘Do you not know your unhappy cousin?’
said I. I could utter no more; my sensations checked my tongue. He also
appeared greatly astonished. ‘Is it possible, my dear cousin,’ said he,
‘that this can be you?’ He then embraced me affectionately, but his
joy at meeting me could only be equalled by his surprise. The evening
before my arrival, he had received letters from Paris, one of which he
showed me, which mentioned my surprising escape from the Salpêtrière,
observing, that there were flying reports that the queen had facilitated
my escape. My cousin and I spent two or three days together; and as I
communicated to him my desire to pass through Switzerland, though without
explaining my motive, he gave me in writing the plan of my route, which
was by Luxembourg. After this interval of rest, Marianne and I pursued
our journey, at five in the morning, on foot. We went eleven leagues this
day; and the next, not being able to procure a coach, we were obliged
to walk nine leagues further. After this fatigue I really was fearful
that I should lose my companion, who was most violently attacked with
asthma; and for five days the physician and surgeon were doubtful of her
recovery. As soon as Marianne was in a condition to support herself, we
took a voiture for Metz, where we slept, and the next day departed for
Thionville, about ten leagues from thence. The diligence put us down at
the sign of the ‘Three Kings,’ kept by one Phillips.”
This inn appears to have been a regular place of resort for the officers
quartered in the town, and the countess pretended that, owing to certain
consequential airs she indiscreetly gave herself, her incognito was more
than suspected by these gentlemen, who importuned her with their visits
and invitations to prolong her stay in the town, which of course only
made her the more anxious to get away.
“We proceeded on our journey,” resumes Madame de la Motte, “and slept at
Etauche; and the next day we departed in a tilted carriage. My intention
was to go into Switzerland, and to remain a short time at some frontier
town, from whence I could write to M. de la Motte, conceiving this was
the only chance of being secure, and that Providence, which had so long
guided and supported me, now granted me my wish, and directed me to an
hospitable mansion inhabited by the most worthy, the most charitable of
beings.”
Here they stopped to bait their horses, and were pressed by the hostess
to stay. “‘If, madam,’ observed she, ‘you have any fears of being upon
French ground, instantly dismiss them; nobody has any power over you
here.’ ‘I have no fear,’ replied I; ‘but I am in want of money, and wish
to write to my family.’ ‘Very well,’ replied this good creature, ‘for
that very reason I insist that you shall remain with me; you can write
from hence.’ About two days after I wrote to M. de la Motte, under cover
to Mr. McMahon, his friend in London, to which I received an answer in
about ten days, to the effect that he would make inquiries for some
proper person that he could trust, whom he would send to fetch us as soon
as possible. Three weeks, however, passed away without any emissary from
my husband. At this time my good hostess had no idea who I was: a report
gained ground, and even reached the military society at Luxembourg, that
there was a person at the house of Madame Schilss with a tall, stout
girl, who perfectly answered the description of Madame de la Motte and
the girl Marianne. I was every day visited by a great number of officers,
both old and young, then residing in the village, who constantly prefaced
their visits with expressions of condolence, observing how very dull it
must be for me to be alone in a place so destitute of amusement. The
Chevalier de Curel, of a family at Langres, appeared to be one of those
most officious in circulating the report that I was the Countess de la
Motte, which made me tremble for the consequences, and I conceived that,
by associating my hostess in my confidence, she might find some means
of silencing these reports. I therefore trusted her, leaving everything
to her discretion. This good lady rendered me very essential service;
for when persons came to make inquiries of her, she amused them with
different stories, and at the same time enjoyed the most profound secrecy
on every one of them.
“These reports made me extremely unhappy, particularly as I had not
received any further news from London, though the letter which I had
received led me to hope that I should shortly have another to apprise me
of the day when somebody would come to fetch me. At length, about the
27th of July, in the afternoon, a lady and gentleman came to inquire
for me. Madame Schilss, informed that I had been long in expectation of
some persons from England, was very well pleased. She introduced them as
persons she could trust, and my own confidence was increased when the
lady presented me with a letter from M. de la Motte.”
Accompanied by this lady, who proved to be Mrs. McMahon, Madame de la
Motte travelled first of all to Brussels and from there to Ostend,
whence, after a forty-two hours’ passage, the pair arrived safe at Dover.
“At seven we took the route for London,” continues Madame de la Motte,
“where we arrived at seven the next morning, and at nine my eyes were
greeted by the sight of M. de la Motte. It is not my intention,” remarks
the countess in her most sentimental vein, “to attempt to describe those
mutual transports which glowed in either bosom at this interview. The
situation, the circumstances of the parties, will raise corresponding
emotions in the bosom of sensibility which will convey my idea more
strongly than all the pomp of diction that may captivate the ear, but not
impress the soul.”[391]
XXXIX.
AUG. 1787–APRIL, 1789.
IN LONDON.—THE COUNTESS GIVES UP FORGERY AND TAKES TO CALUMNY.
“I remained a fortnight,” continues Madame de la Motte, “at the house
of Mrs. McMahon, in the Haymarket, without venturing abroad to take the
air, fearing lest I should be discovered. Every coffee-house in the
neighbourhood of this place was filled with persons, many of whom were
foreigners, eager to gratify their curiosity by seeing me. To prevent the
inconvenience of being stared and pointed at, my friend, Mrs. McMahon,
contrived to take me out about nine or ten o’clock in the evening.”
The countess tells us that she found her husband in great distress,
waiting impatiently the moment when his unfeeling uncle and aunt,
Monsieur and Madame de Suremont, would send over such property of his as
remained in their hands. The count had not long to wait, it appears, for
the De Suremonts arrived in London a few days after Madame de la Motte,
when they delivered to him a “ring, which had formed the stud of the
Necklace; a watch-chain which,” says the count, “I sold for fifty pounds
sterling; and a box I had taken in exchange, and which I sold to Gray for
sixty pounds. Restoring these three articles, they told me that they were
all they had been able to preserve of our jewels. Having had full leisure
to invent these falsities, and persuaded that I could not have been
informed of their conduct and the depredations they had committed on my
property, they spared no pains to convince me of the truth of what they
said, which would indeed have appeared reasonable had my intelligence not
been so well founded.
“Affecting to be satisfied with what they had delivered to me, I, the
same day, procured a writ to be issued, hoping thereby to frighten them
into a surrender of the remaining jewels; but they imagining, from the
inquiries they had made, and the advice they had received, that I could
not by any means molest them, pretended to show the utmost indignation at
my conduct, and finally declared that they had nothing left belonging to
me; that they had sold every article; and that, could they have foreseen
the ingratitude I now evinced towards them, they would have given up all
my jewels to the government.
“Judging from their resolute tone that something more than words was
requisite to bring them to a sense of justice, I insisted no farther,
but, urged by necessity, put the writ into the hands of a sheriff’s
officer, who soon after, though much to my regret, arrested my uncle, a
man of property, childless, enjoying the first offices in the place of
his residence, and possessing the esteem of all its inhabitants, and whom
I really respected. The case was otherwise with his beloved consort, a
despicable woman, detested by all who knew her, who, I am certain, had
prevailed upon her husband to be guilty of such a piece of meanness and
injustice. The moment she saw him arrested she came to me, urging my
acceptance of bills to the amount of my claims, still assuring me she
had nothing of mine, and that she was going to part with some of her
own property to purchase her husband’s release. Finding she could not
make me accede to the terms she proposed, she ended by acknowledging
everything, and departed to fetch what she had asserted upon oath had
been surrendered to government.
“On her return she gave up two rings that had belonged to the Necklace, a
pair of drop earrings (out of which she had taken four diamonds, which I
only perceived after we parted), a hoop ring, a neck-button, a hair-ring,
set round with stones, and another ring of small value. The day after
this forced restitution my relations returned to their own home, where
they have shared the remainder of the spoil; I have not heard of them
since, excepting being informed, in a circumstantial manner, of all the
havoc they have made in my house at Bar-sur-Aube, and of the contempt
they have drawn upon themselves by their behaviour to me.”[392]
The count informs us that he sold the articles which he so fortunately
recovered to Gray the jeweller, who, spite of the part he took in the
Necklace trial, was still ready enough to buy any more diamonds that
the De la Mottes had to sell. The amount which the count received for
these trinkets—all that remained to them of the famous Necklace—was two
thousand two hundred pounds, a mere per-centage on the sixty thousand
pounds at which the matchless jewel was originally valued, but still a
nice enough little sum of money for people in a “hard-up” condition.
True, it would not go very far in supporting even an approach to that
state to which the De la Mottes had accustomed themselves, and which the
hard fare and dismal cells of the Salpêtrière had not entirely destroyed
madame’s taste for. Unfortunately “some people having learned that the
count’s relations had brought him nearly sixty thousand livres’ worth
of diamonds, eager to share the spoil, swore false debts against him. I
myself,” says madame, “saw him arrested five times for different sums.
M. de la Motte’s attorney availed himself of this, and advised him, to
use his own expression, to rid himself at once of these troublesome
scoundrels by giving a gratuity of two hundred louis to one and one
hundred and fifty louis to another, while eighty louis were given to
an attorney who had never once appealed to the laws in favour of his
unfortunate client, from whom he had frequently received different sums
to extricate him from real or fictitious embarrassments.”
Such being the state of affairs means have to be found to replenish
the almost empty exchequer. The count has recourse, no doubt, to the
gaming-table, for all his life he has been an inveterate gambler. The
countess, on whom her sentence has had this wholesome effect, it had
cured her of her propensity for forgery and theft, bethinks herself that
calumny, if the envenomed shaft be only skilfully aimed, might yield a
golden prize. This contemplated slandering of the queen “was an arrow I
still preserved,” says Madame de la Motte, “as the best in my quiver,
resolving to threaten, but not to shoot till reduced to the very last
extremity.”[393] In pursuance of this resolution, rumours are wafted
abroad—care being especially taken that they shall cross the Channel
and penetrate to the royal apartments at Versailles—to the effect that
the Countess de la Motte is engaged in writing her “Mémoires,”—the very
titles of the chapters of which she had managed to get published in
the English newspapers,—wherein she intends to give “an exact detail of
the extraordinary events which contributed to raise her to the dignity
of confidant and favourite of the Queen of France, with some further
particulars relative to the mysterious transaction of the Diamond
Necklace.”[394]
If Count de la Motte is to be believed, the Duchess de Polignac made at
this period a second visit to England, again “to drink the Bath waters.”
Our opinion, however, is that, either by accident or design, he has put
forward the date of the visit (which it is quite certain the duchess made
early in May, returning to France at the end of June)[395] for upwards
of a month; for Madame de la Motte, according to her own statement, did
not arrive in England until the early part of August. Either the case
is as we have suggested, or else the countess arrived in England more
than a month earlier than she represents herself to have done. Supposing
this to be the fact, the visit of the duchess now alluded to would
be the same visit of which we have already spoken.[396] The count in
his autobiography states that, soon after his wife arrived in London,
he received a message from the Duchess of Devonshire (the beautiful
Georgiana), begging him to call upon her at Devonshire House. The count
goes there, and on being introduced into the drawing-room is presented to
the Duchess de Polignac and her sister the Countess Diane, who observe
to him that, having come over to drink the Bath waters, and having heard
that Madame de la Motte proposed publishing some memoirs, they thought
they might perhaps be of service to her—in other words, might save her
from fresh persecutions, and insure her the means of an honourable
existence for the future.
On the count communicating all this to his wife, she immediately
resolved, he says, to leave London with the least possible delay, for
she feels certain that the intention is to kidnap her and take her back
to the Salpêtrière, and threatens she will throw herself into the Thames
if her husband will not leave London with her that very day. The count,
knowing that she was quite capable of carrying out her threat, wrote to
the Duchess of Devonshire, explaining his wife’s fears, and informing the
duchess of her resolution. De la Motte, in answer to the Abbé Georgel’s
assertion that Madame de Polignac bought the MS. of the “Mémoires,”
affirms that at this time not a line of them was written, and never
would have been written, had it not been for M. de Calonne (madame’s old
friend and ex-controller-general), who called a few days afterwards and
suggested that the “Mémoires” should be at once written, so as to profit
by the offer of the queen. With this view he introduced to them a M. de
la Tour, a writer in the _Courrier de l’Europe_ to throw their rough
notes into shape; and in consequence the countess at once set to work,
and produced her celebrated “Mémoires Justificatifs.” Supposing this
statement to be true, the chances are, that the Duchess de Polignac, in
the settlement she made with the De la Mottes, provided for these memoirs
never seeing the light. In one of those letters of court gossip, from
which we have made frequent quotations, it is explicitly stated that
Madame de Polignac was assured that “these writings would not appear.”
The queen, who was no doubt gratified at the success which she believed
had attended the Duchess’s negotiations, had all the apartments of the
latter newly furnished at her own expense just before the duchess’s
return from her mission, and went, accompanied by the king, to sup with
her on the evening of her arrival.[397] One can plainly see that the
spirit which pervades this book of Madame de la Motte’s was prompted by
an axiom of which she is herself the author, and which is to be found
in the second volume of her “Life.” “_No calumny_,” says she, “_is
so certain to be believed as that which one woman propagates against
another_.”[398] In the midst of the long string of infamous slanders in
these so-called Justificatory Memoirs, with which the writer has sullied
for all time the name of a noble-hearted, if somewhat erring woman,
there occurs this passage: “If the Queen of France were not what she is,
should I have been to her what a defenceless bird is in the hands of a
froward child, who, after being amused with it for a few moments, strips
it of its feathers one by one, and then throws it into the destructive
talons of a devouring animal?” Most people, after reading these “Mémoires
Justificatifs,” will be inclined to reverse the application of the above
simile, and will look upon poor Marie-Antoinette as the defenceless bird,
and seek for the devouring animal, with its destructive talons, in Jeanne
de St. Remi de Valois.
When the MS. of these “Mémoires” was completed, it was sent to M.
de Calonne, who, according to the count, altered it to suit his
own purposes. Madame says that the ex-minister even added indecent
expressions against the queen—his aim being to get recalled to France
and to secure the restoration of the blue ribbon of which he had been
deprived. With this object in view, armed with the De la Motte libel, the
ex-minister writes to Versailles, offering terms. The queen, however,
rejects his proposal with disdain. Calonne now desires to have the MS.
printed without delay, and for this purpose orders type and presses to be
sent to the house where the De la Mottes reside, so that the work may be
done in all secrecy.
During its progress, the ex-controller-general seems to have carried
on an intrigue of another kind with the countess, and one which was,
moreover, so notorious as to be openly referred to in the scandalous
publications of the time.[399] He used to twit her about the branding
she had received, and on one occasion, when the countess was boasting
in a large assembly of the capital hand she held at picquet, he
spitefully observed she had better be careful, or she would certainly be
_marked_.[400] Some little misunderstanding which occurred between the
pair made them thenceforth at daggers-drawn with each other.
Just about this time, a new ambassador from the French court arrives in
England—the Marquis de la Luzerne, brother of the Bishop of Langres, the
countess’s early patron, and reputed lover. He has heard of Calonne’s
proceedings, and loses no time in sending an envoy to the De la Mottes,
to point out to them that Calonne will be certain to play them false,
and to make arrangements for an interview. Calonne gets scent of what
is going on, and tries to carry off the MS., but does not succeed. The
interview with the ambassador takes place; Count de la Motte shows M. de
Luzerne the MS., with Calonne’s corrections and interlineations, and it
is arranged that the ambassador shall make a definitive proposition so
soon as he has received instructions from Paris. Calonne hears of this
interview, goes to the De la Mottes, and demands the restitution of the
MS.; threatening all the terrors of the law if they do not comply. The
count remains firm, and madame, by the aid of an English naval officer,
who subsequently translated her “Mémoires” into English, shows up the
ex-French minister of finance in a pamphlet, which she styles, “A Scourge
for Calonne,” and which goes off like wildfire, copies fetching as much
as six louis each in Paris on its first appearance.[401] The Marquis de
la Luzerne, having received his instructions, communicates them to the
count. He is commissioned to make an offer of ten thousand livres a year,
with fifty thousand livres down, to enable the De la Mottes to discharge
their more pressing debts. The countess, according to her husband’s
account, is opposed to accepting this very liberal offer, talks very
big about her position before the world, clearing her character, &c.;
the count, however, thinking that the solid pudding is to be preferred
to all this, over-persuades his wife, and they give their acquiescence.
The money is to be speedily forthcoming; but, unfortunately, one
of those proverbial slips between the cup and the lip now chances.
Cardinal-Archbishop Loménie de Brienne is dismissed from his office of
prime minister, and M. Necker is summoned to occupy his place, and M.
Necker will have nothing whatever to do with a De la Motte negotiation
in any shape or form. Such is the count’s version of this affair of the
“Mémoires,” but, like everything else from the De la Motte mint, it must
be received with suspicion.[402]
When or how the MS. of these “Mémoires,” of Madame de la Motte’s was sold
to the French court, we have no means of ascertaining; but that it was
sold, and that after the sale the “Mémoires” were published in breach
of good faith, is a moral certainty. In all probability the Duchess de
Polignac negotiated the purchase, which was likely enough carried out
through the medium of the French ambassador, the statement about M.
Necker being a falsehood concocted to conceal the fact of any sale of the
MS. taking place. Madame Campan asserts, in the most solemn manner, that
she herself had seen, “in the queen’s hands, a manuscript of the infamous
memoirs of the woman Lamotte, which had been brought to her from London,
and which were corrected by the very hand of M. de Calonne in all those
places where a total ignorance of the usages of the court had made this
wretch commit the most palpable errors.”[403]
In the doubtful Lamballe Memoirs this Princess is represented as giving
a most circumstantial account of her having become the purchaser of a
printed copy of Madame de la Motte’s “Mémoires Justificatifs” corrected
by the hand of M. de Calonne, and of the existence of which she was first
made acquainted by a letter addressed to her by Sheridan. This occurred
immediately subsequent to a visit paid by her to England where she went
on two occasions—once during July 1787,[404] and a second time in June
1791.[405] On the receipt of the work in question she delivered it, she
says, to the queen, who at once brought it beneath the notice of Louis
XVI. in proof of Calonne’s villainy. Had the princess’s narrative stopped
here we might have felt disposed to put faith in it, but, unfortunately
for its claims to be regarded as authentic, it goes on to say that the
king forthwith indignantly ordered Calonne to resign his portfolio, and
that the minister begged permission to return it to the king with his own
hands. On this request being granted, the book was produced, and a scene
ensued which ended in the king leaving the room, and Calonne falling upon
his knees before Marie-Antoinette and imploring her to pardon him.[406]
Now as Calonne was dismissed from office, and exiled from Paris in April
1787, three months before the Princess de Lamballe’s first visit to
England, and more than four years before her second, and was never called
upon to serve the king afterwards, and as moreover Madame de la Motte’s
first libel, her “Mémoires Justificatifs,” was not printed until 1789,
it is quite certain that there is not a particle of truth in the above
narrative, which induces us to believe that the so-called “Mémoires
relatifs à la Famille Royale de France” claiming to be based on a private
journal of the Princess de Lamballe’s, are, like many other pretended
Memoirs of the time, nothing more than a clumsy forgery.
Madame de la Motte herself indirectly admits that it was the desire of
pecuniary gain rather than any particular anxiety to “clear her character
before the world,” which induced the publication of her “Justificatory
Memoir.” “My husband,” says she, “standing on the very brink of
ruin”—they had received since they had been in England two thousand two
hundred pounds for their diamonds, and at least as much more we should
suppose for the MS. of the “Mémoires,” so that if this statement is
true, they must have dissipated between four and five thousand pounds in
the course of a couple of years—“was necessitated to have recourse to
printing my ‘justification’ as the only means of satisfying the craving
demands of his creditors, whom he was obliged to avoid, as they made
every effort to arrest him; while I, with misery like a vulture gnawing
at my heart, and poverty chasing even at my very heels, detesting that
burden of life which it is yet my duty to support, and, God forgive me!
cursing the hour of my birth, remained defenceless—unable to protect
myself from insult, or to ward off the blows which malice aimed at my
reputation.
“M. de la Motte printed five thousand ‘Mémoires’ in French and three
thousand in English, confident, from the advice he had received, that
the queen would not suffer them to be published, though I constantly
represented to him the absurdity of this belief.... How could he hope the
government would make terms with us, when they knew that the original
MS. of the ‘Mémoires’ was in the possession of M. de Calonne, who could
make it public whenever he thought proper?[407] It never accorded with
my sentiments,” continues the countess, “to enter into any pecuniary
negotiations with the government; the only thing I had at heart was the
vindication of my honour; and, had I been left to my own discretion,
neither sceptres nor crowns should have purchased my silence.”
This was a safe enough reservation, as neither sceptres nor crowns were
likely to be offered even to a descendant of the house of Valois; but we
question whether madame could have withstood the temptation of a certain
number of _billets_ of the bank of France, had these been tendered to
her, for times were hard with the De la Mottes, and it was necessary
above all things to “put money in the purse.” At any rate, she would
have promised to keep silence, would have taken the money, and then have
broken her word.
It must be remembered that all the time this bargaining is going
forward for the sale and purchase of these wretched libels, Paris—nay,
France itself—is in a state of ferment, what with the meeting of its
states-general, the quarrels of its first and third orders, the braving
of the royal authority, the dismissal of Necker; with troops constantly
under arms, riots out of which bloodshed arises in the streets, the
tocsin sounding from all steeples, attacks upon the prisons, the
states-general in permanent session, to be followed ere long by the
storming and capture of the Bastille—in other words, a Revolution!
XL.
APRIL, 1787–MAY, 1792.
THE COUNT HAWKS THE LIBELS ABROAD.—IS IMPRISONED IN LA FORCE AND THE
CONCIERGERIE.—THE LAST OF THE DE LA MOTTE LIBELS.
Count de la Motte, having circulated copies of his wife’s “Mémoires
Justificatifs” among the London booksellers and in other directions, and
being, as usual, involved in debt, thinks it prudent to make an excursion
to Holland, where he believes some business in these libels may be done;
for it is, reasons he, just as easy to smuggle copies of them into France
over the Flemish frontier as across the British Channel, and we all
know that Mynheer has never been particular as to the character of the
wares he trades in. To Holland, therefore, the count goes in the month
of April, 1789. In tracing his career from this date we have but few
materials to guide us beyond his own posthumous “Mémoires,”[408] which
abound in evident exaggerations, and no less evident falsehoods. The
reader is therefore cautioned to accept the count’s statements with the
same reserve which we have already asked of him in respect to many of the
assertions of the countess. Truth would seem to have held no place in the
De la Motte system of morals.
Before the count had brought his negotiations respecting an edition of
his wife’s “Mémoires” to a close, news comes across the Low Countries of
a rising of the people of Paris and the fall of the Bastille. The count
forthwith borrows fifteen louis from one of his Dutch acquaintances,
with whose daughter he has been flirting up to a point that her father
speaks seriously to him of matrimony, and hurries off to Paris, where he
arrives on the 18th of August. He at once addresses himself to Bailly,
the newly-elected mayor, from whom he asks a safe-conduct until the
judgment against him in the Necklace affair can be brought before the
new tribunals. He next has an interview with Mirabeau, who, he says,
had already heard of his arrival, and informed the Duke d’Orléans of
it, telling the duke at the same time they might reckon upon the count
joining them in the attack which they contemplated making upon the
“Austrian she-wolf” (Marie-Antoinette). The count thereupon calls on the
duke, who proposes to him that he shall present a petition at the bar of
the National Assembly, and subsequently supplies him with funds through
Mirabeau.
The count tells a mysterious story of some unknown individual calling
upon him at this period, and making an appointment for him to be,
between twelve and one o’clock at night, in the Avenue de Paris, at
Versailles, near the iron railings of the château, where he would find
Mirabeau, disguised in a long blue cloak and round hat. The count keeps
the appointment, and meets with Mirabeau as described, and receives from
him a form of petition, which he is to copy out by six o’clock in the
morning, and then return the original draft. Mirabeau, he says, called at
his hôtel at the time named, when he handed him the copy of the petition,
and pretended that the draft was destroyed, pointing at the same time to
some fragments of burnt paper in the grate, as proof of the fact. Out of
this draft petition, in Mirabeau’s handwriting, the count sees his way
to make some money. Without loss of time he takes it to M. de Montmorin,
minister for foreign affairs, informs him of the nature of the intrigue
which is going on, and explains who are the prime movers in it. By this
means he gains over the minister, who is, of course, all affability, and
speaks to him of the offer made some time back by M. de la Luzerne, which
offer, he says, he is quite prepared to carry out. From this moment the
count is in clover; for he obtains bribes from both parties, each of whom
he of course sells to the other. After a time, matters being considered
ripe, Mirabeau urges him to come to the bar of the National Assembly,
and present his petition; but this the count is indisposed to do. He
pretends, therefore, that he has consulted two advocates, both of whom
advise him that the Assembly is not competent to deal with his case, and
so manages to shuffle out of the affair, thereby however cutting himself
adrift from the Orléans party.
Count de la Motte, it seems, has an old score to clear off with Father
Loth for what he professes to regard as his contemptible betrayal of the
countess in the Necklace affair. He ascertains that, as a reward for
his treachery, the De Rohan family have got Loth appointed one of the
brotherhood of the Knights of Malta, with comfortable quarters in the
Temple. To the Temple, therefore, the count hies, armed with a stout
club, with which he proposes knocking out poor Father Loth’s brains.
“I know not,” says the count, “whether he was warned, or whether he
recognised me wandering about the Temple, but the fact is he quitted the
place abruptly, and I could never find out what became of him;” a lucky
result for Father Loth, who thereby preserved his customary modicum of
brains in an uncracked skull.
The famous march of women to Versailles took place at this period,
and the Paris papers announced that Madame de la Motte led the column
of Mœnades, who went to storm the château. This was a piece of pure
invention, for the countess was still residing in England, where,
according to the count, overtures were from time to time made to her
by the agents of the Duke d’Orléans. M. de Montmorin, hearing of this,
proposes furnishing an apartment for the countess, and providing her with
funds to come to Paris, so that she may be beyond the duke’s influence;
but the countess, having a wholesome dread of the branding-iron,
and fearing that a “C” (_calomniatrice_) might be added to the “V”
(_voleuse_) which already graced her shoulders, and having, too, the
terrors of the Salpêtrière before her eyes, prefers remaining where she
is, spite of Orléanist agents and other ills by which she is beset, a
resolution which, as we shall presently see, proved most unfortunate for
her.
Some short time after the receipt of the countess’s letter wherein she
expresses the above determination, news reaches the count of a most
frightful accident having befallen his wife, and almost immediately
afterwards comes a long letter from herself, written on her bed of
suffering, corroborative of the dismal intelligence. The count—who is
openly living with a notorious courtesan of the period, _la belle impure
Seymour_, as she was styled[409]—takes the matter very coolly; writes,
no doubt, a short sympathizing note in reply, but as for hastening to
the bedside of his dying wife, to watch beside it even for a few hours,
and speak to her those few kind words of comfort which might have
helped to assuage her sufferings and lighten the gloom of her departing
moments, this never enters into the man’s thoughts. The summer days pass
pleasantly enough with him; he can lounge in the Palais Royal gardens in
the morning, and in the Palais Royal gambling saloons at night, and it is
only from the hawkers in the streets that he gains intelligence of his
wretched wife’s death. Hearing the news shouted out on the boulevards,
he buys one of the broadsides and turns into a neighbouring café to read
it, takes it all for granted, and, so far as we can discover, troubles
himself no further on the subject.
Deprived of his helpmate, the miserable woman on whose mendicancy, vices
and crimes he had lived from the very day that he married her, the count
has now to labour single-handed against the government, and after a time
against society itself, for the means of subsistence. He obtains an
audience of M. Duport du Tertre, minister of justice, whom he presses
with reference to a rehearing of the process against him in the Necklace
affair, and from whom he asks, and eventually obtains, a letter _d’ester
à droit_, which confers the right of appearing before a court of law
spite of the judgment of the Parliament of Paris, still hanging over
him. Of course if the count can get the case reheard, and the judgment
set aside, all the De la Motte property seized at Bar-sur-Aube would be
restored to him. Duport du Tertre was by no means opposed to this course,
for though a minister of the crown, he sympathised with that party who
wished to bring Marie-Antoinette before the new tribunals with reference
to her share—for they persisted in believing her to have had a share—in
the Necklace transaction.[410] Meanwhile, by some skilful manœuvring of
his own, the count is brought into communication with M. de Laporte,
intendant of the civil list, keeper, in fact, of the king’s privy purse,
who, he says, tells him that the king, having heard so good an account
of his opinions, and conduct, and devotion to his person, has accorded
him a certain credit on the civil list, and has commanded Laporte to say
that justice shall certainly be done him in the Necklace affair. And as a
sort of earnest of what the count is to expect in future, M. de Laporte
at parting places in his hand a sealed packet, containing two thousand
four hundred francs in assignats.
Time wears on, the troubles of the court increase, and the flight of the
royal family from Paris is decided on. The count asserts that it was
arranged for him to accompany an old friend of his, ex-mayor of Lyons,
in a carriage, in which a large amount of specie was to have been stowed
away, and that they were to have kept a short distance ahead of the royal
party. For some reason not given, this arrangement, which we do not
believe was ever made, is not carried out.
The count, with whom the revision of the Necklace process has become
a fixed idea, persistently bores the minister of justice to order a
rehearing before one of the new courts, and in November, 1791, by the
king’s direction, according to the count, a sort of council is held, at
which M. Duport du Tertre presides, when it is decided that the count
shall appeal to the third tribunal. The president of this is a certain
M. de Plane—believed to be amenable to court influence,—who, the count
tells us, fought by the side of his father at the battle of Minden, and
promises to do all he can to assist the son of his old comrade.
No sooner is this decision arrived at than the count obtains one thousand
crowns from Laporte, who asks him to call upon him at the Tuileries
that evening. The count goes, and to his astonishment finds himself in
the presence of the king. His first movement, he tells us, is to throw
himself at his sovereign’s feet. On his rising, the king informs him
that, from what he has heard, and the good opinion which he has himself
formed of him, he has decided to grant him all that he asks. He then
inquires of the count whether he happens to have with him the original
draft of the petition drawn up by Mirabeau. Of course, the count has
brought his portfolio, and instantly produces the document in question.
“_Le misérable!_” exclaims the king, “he deserved his fate;” which
observation of his majesty satisfies the count Louis XVI. was not
ignorant that Mirabeau had been poisoned. The son of the Chevalier of St.
Louis, and former gendarme at Lunéville, having declared to his sovereign
that he was ready to shed his last drop of blood for him, now makes his
obeisance, and retires from the royal cabinet.
On January 4, 1792, Count de la Motte, having taken the precaution to
go the day beforehand to La Force, and choose his cell just as a man
might engage the most convenient vacant room at an hotel, proceeds to
constitute himself a prisoner. His apartment being somewhat damp, he
orders a large fire to be made, and retires to rest for the night,
but is, by-and-by, aroused from his sleep by a sense of suffocation.
Springing out of bed, he finds his cell on fire, and shouts loudly for
assistance. After a time he is rescued, but not until his hair is singed
half off his head, and his great-coat burnt, more or less, to tinder.
Hébert’s “Père Duchesne” came out the next day with an accusation against
the “Austrian she-wolf,” of having caused the prison to be set on fire
to consume both M. de la Motte and the documents he was on the eve of
producing implicating her in the Necklace affair. From La Force the
count is transferred to the Conciergerie, and on the second day of his
arrival there his old friend and former barber, Burlandeux—he to whom
the De la Motte furniture was wont to be consigned to save it from being
taken in execution[411]—pays him a visit in company with some seven or
eight others, whom Burlandeux introduces as Manuel (afterwards procureur
of the commune), Sergent (one of the “killers” at the ensuing September
massacres), Panis (a friend of Danton’s), Robespierre, Marat, Hébert,
etc., all of them having come to compliment the count upon his courage
and to offer their aid, while vilifying poor Marie-Antoinette in most
offensive language. De la Motte then has his say, tells his visitors that
he is a _voluntary_ prisoner, and exclaims vehemently against the old
Paris parliament for having “sacrificed an innocent woman, deprived of
the means of defence, that they might save a debauched prelate.” At the
conclusion of the count’s harangue, his new friends, seemingly very well
satisfied with what he has said to them, take their leave.
The hearing of the appeal for the revision of the Necklace process at
length comes on. De la Motte pretends that the public excitement is
intense, the hall being packed from floor to ceiling with Jacobins—ragged
men and slatternly women for the most part—in the midst of whom he
recognizes Burlandeux. According to the count, the judgment which the
third tribunal eventually pronounces, at the suggestion of the president,
would have had the effect of restoring to him all his property seized
by the crown, if at this moment the minister of justice had not given
orders for all the documents relating to the process to be remitted to
the _procureur du roi_, who afterwards brings the whole affair before the
first tribunal. The following letter, written by the count to the king,
puts the matter, however, in a somewhat different light:—
“Sire,—When I voluntarily constituted myself a prisoner I
should, in accordance with the promise made to me by M. Duport
(du Tertre), and after the precautions which he had taken,
have obtained my liberty and the entire restitution of my
property within the week. For four months have I been detained
and persecuted by a cabal which, disregarding all prudential
considerations, seeks to give an annoying _éclat_ to this
affair. M. de Plane, president and judge of the third tribunal,
was appointed to examine me, which he did in the most indecent
manner, his questions having no other object than to try and
compromise the queen, and principally to find the means of
confronting her with me in open court, as a necessary witness
and deponent of facts set forth in this horrid process.
“M. A. DE LA MOTTE.
“From the Conciergerie of the Palace of Justice, May 5th,
1792.”[412]
At the time the foregoing letter was written, unless there is a mistake
in the month—May instead of April—judgment had actually been pronounced
by the third tribunal exactly one month previously, namely on the 5th
of April, a circumstance, one would imagine, of which the person most
concerned could hardly have been ignorant.[413]
The count’s old friend Burlandeux pays him another visit at this
particular juncture. “Dog of an aristocrat!” exclaims the enraged barber,
thrusting his fist in the count’s face, “Capet and the Austrian she-wolf
will never help you to get out of this prison.” After thus abruptly
delivering himself, Burlandeux, to the count’s great relief, quietly
retires.
While the De la Motte appeal was going forward, one day a stranger asks
to speak to the count. He proves to be a bookseller named Gueffier, who
has received, he says, from his correspondent in London the whole of the
French edition of the last “Mémoires” of Madame de la Motte,[414] which
“Mémoires,” the count avails himself of this opportunity of stating
(believe him, who pleases), were written against his advice. The count
says that he communicated the above information to M. de Laporte, who
obtained the king’s authority for him to treat with Gueffier for the
purchase of the work. The fact, however, is that De la Motte wrote direct
to the king upon the subject, as may be seen by the extract which we are
enabled to give from his letter, which, curiously enough, bears the same
date as his other letter to the king—namely, May 5th, 1792:
... “There has just been bought up by a bookseller of Paris, named
Gueffier, ‘the Life of Madame de la Motte, written by herself,’ and
printed in London. Before constituting myself a prisoner, I informed M.
Duport (du Tertre) of the existence of this work, which is really by
Madame de la Motte, and which she sold on certain conditions, in order
to maintain herself, to a printer in London, who ought, after having
received what he has advanced and his own charges, to deliver up the
complete editions of the work in French and English. Your majesty has,
without doubt, been informed of these facts by M. Duport, who some time
since endeavoured to buy up the work, and prevent its being made public.
It appears that these endeavours were without result, as the French
copies have arrived at Rouen, and are to be published in a few days at
the shop of this Gueffier. This is what the London printer, whom I saw
two days ago, assured me.
“I have informed my counsel of these details, and they seem much alarmed
for the public tranquillity, and that of your majesty and the queen,
on account of the dangers of the publication of this work. They have
imperatively counselled me to have it seized before it arrives in Paris,
as the property of Madame de la Motte, and now belonging to me by the
right of succession. But as the booksellers who have purchased it, and
who advanced Madame de la Motte the money, claim what is due to them,
I shall either be forced to abandon the seizure or to pay them their
demand. I cannot myself make a sacrifice of twenty thousand francs. I
therefore beg your majesty to put yourself to the necessary expense in
order to frustrate the projects of these evil-disposed persons. My plan,
if it meets with your majesty’s approval, is to seize and seal up this
work at Rouen, and to offer the holders of it the amount due to them
from Madame de la Motte. The whole will then be sealed up and delivered
by my counsel to M. de Laporte, who will dispose of it according to your
majesty’s orders.”[415]
Negotiations are opened with Gueffier, who offers to surrender the
whole of the copies on receiving a sum of twenty-five thousand francs.
The count suggests eighteen thousand, which Gueffier eventually agrees
to accept, whereupon M. de Laporte forwards the count twenty thousand
francs, with an intimation that he need not trouble himself to return the
balance.[416]
An attempt, of which the king and M. de Laporte evidently knew nothing,
had, it seems, been previously made to sell the manuscript of this
edition of the countess’s life to Marie-Antoinette. But the queen,
guided by past experience, saw clearly enough that, whether she bought
the manuscript or not, the libel was equally certain to be published,
and indeed it must have been printed off at the time the manuscript
was offered to her. She therefore peremptorily refused to enter into
any negotiation. “At the commencement of 1792,” writes Madame Campan,
“an estimable priest asked of me a private interview. He had heard of
a new libel of Madame de la Motte’s, and told me he had remarked that
the people who came from London to get it printed in Paris[417] were
actuated only by the desire of gain, and that they were ready to deliver
up the manuscript for one thousand louis, if some friend of the queen
could be found disposed to make this sacrifice to ensure her tranquillity.
“I communicated this proposition to the queen, who declined it, and
commanded me to reply that, at the time when it was possible to punish
the circulators of those libels she had considered them so atrocious and
so improbable that she had disdained to take any steps for arresting
their course, that if she now were imprudent enough to buy up one only,
the active espionage of the Jacobins would not fail to discover it, and
the libel so bought would not the less be printed, and would become much
more dangerous when the public learnt the means she had adopted to keep
it from their knowledge.”[418]
M. de Laporte had the edition of the countess’s life, which had been
purchased from Gueffier, conveyed to his hôtel; but after a time, growing
alarmed at the daily increasing excesses of the population of Paris, and
fearful that at some moment when he least expected it, an irruption might
be made into his house, and these “Mémoires” carried off and distributed
among the people, he gave an order for them to be burnt with all
necessary precaution and secrecy. Unfortunately, the person who received
this order confided the execution of it to one Riston, a dangerous
intriguer, and former advocate of Nancy, escaped, a year previously, from
the gallows, by favour of the new tribunals, although he had been proved
guilty of fabricating impressions of the great seal, and forging decrees
of the council in proceedings undertaken at the request of the king’s
household. “I had,” says Bertrand de Moleville, minister of marine, “to
read over to the witnesses their depositions, and to confront them with
the accused, at the peril of being assassinated, not only by Riston, who,
at one of the sittings, threw himself upon me with a knife, but also by
the brigands in his pay, with whom the hall of audience was filled, and
who were enraged at finding their threatening outcries did not prevent me
from repressing the insults which the accused offered unceasingly to the
witnesses who came to depose against him.
“This same Riston, who a year previously was in the toils of a capital
accusation, instituted against him in the name and by order of the king,
finding himself charged with a commission which interested his majesty,
and the importance of which was apparent from the mystery attaching to
it, troubled himself less about the best way of executing it than in
making a parade of this mark of confidence. On May 30th, 1792, (at ten
o’clock in the morning), he had the printed sheets conveyed in a cart,
which he himself accompanied, to the porcelain manufactory at Sèvres, and
caused a great fire to be made of them in the presence of all the workmen
belonging to the establishment, who were expressly forbidden to approach
near it. All this parade, and the suspicion to which it gave rise in
these critical times, caused the matter to be publicly talked of and
discussed; and the same evening it was brought before the Assembly, when
Brissot, and others of the Jacobin party argued with as much effrontery
as vehemence that these papers, burnt with so much secrecy, could have
been nothing else but the registers and correspondence of the Austrian
committee. M. de Laporte was called to the bar, and gave a most exact
account of the facts. Riston was also summoned, and confirmed the account
given by M. de Laporte. But these explanations, however satisfactory they
ought to have been, did not appease the violent feeling which this affair
had excited in the Assembly.”[419]
Madame Campan tells an interesting anecdote in connection with this
unfortunate casualty. “One day,” observes she, “M. d’Aubin came and
said to me, ‘the National Assembly has been engaged with a denunciation
made by the workmen of the manufactory of Sèvres, who brought to the
president’s desk a pile of pamphlets, which they said was the life of
Marie-Antoinette. The director of the manufactory was called to the
bar, and declared that he had received orders to burn these printed
works in the kilns used for baking the porcelain.’ Whilst,” says Madame
Campan, “I was giving an account of this to the queen, the king coloured
and hung his head over his plate. The queen said to him, ‘Do you know
anything of this, sir?’ The king did not answer. Madame Elisabeth asked
him to explain what it all meant. Still the same silence. I promptly
retired. A few minutes afterwards the queen came to me, and told me it
was the king who, out of regard for her, had caused the whole of the
edition printed from the manuscript of which I had spoken to her, to be
purchased, and that M. de Laporte had not thought of any more secret way
of destroying the work than having it burnt at Sèvres, in the presence
of two hundred workmen, one hundred and eighty of whom were certain to
be Jacobins. She told me that she had concealed her grief from the king;
that he was dismayed, and that she could say nothing when she found
that his tenderness and goodwill towards her had been the cause of this
accident.”[420]
Such was the end of the last of the De la Motte libels, which were
nevertheless reprinted in subsequent years, and even so recently as the
year 1846, more than half a century after their first dissemination, so
thorough is the vitality of calumny!
Marie-Antoinette, in reply to questions put to her at her trial, with
reference to the papers burnt at Sèvres, said: “I believe it was a libel.
I was not, however, consulted on the matter. I was told of it afterwards.
Had I been consulted, I should have opposed the burning of any writing
which was against me.”[421]
XLI.
MAY, 1789–AUG. 1791.
RETRIBUTION.—THE CRIMINAL AND HER ACCOMPLICES.
We must now go back in our narrative to the point of time when Count de
la Motte left England to traffic in his wife’s “Mémoires” abroad, with
what success we have already seen. Judging from the countess’s dolorous
account of their dealings with them in England, it is evident that
trouble as well as profit resulted from these “Mémoires Justificatifs.”
Neither she nor her husband were satisfied with disposing of copies of
them through the ordinary channels, but sought to force a trade among
merchants, and even hatters. It seems that nine hundred copies of the
French, and two hundred and fifty copies of the English edition of
the “Mémoires,” together with two hundred and eighty-three copies of
the countess’s “Scourge for Calonne”—published at the several prices
of one guinea, half a guinea, and five shillings—were intrusted to a
French hatter in New Bond Street, named Coup, who advanced the count, at
various times, something like three hundred pounds upon them. “Without
any previous demand,” says Madame de la Motte, “Coup came one day (May
14, 1789), in the absence of my husband, at the head of half a dozen
bailiffs, and lodged an execution at my house in Chester Place, where he
for the first time told me he had sufficient authority, my husband never
having even mentioned the circumstance to me.
“This was another disagreeable attack, and I saw my house and furniture
sold on the 21st of May, without being able to procure any account from
this man of the books he had sold, which would have been more than double
his demand, as at that particular juncture the sale of these books must
have been at once rapid and extensive. He even had the meanness to put
an execution upon four or five hundred ‘Mémoires’ which remained with
him, and which were sold for only six guineas, and were resold by the
purchasers at half a crown and three shillings each.
“Of the five thousand ‘Mémoires’ which had been printed, Coup had
received only nine hundred. I proceed to mention what became of
the remaining ones. My credulous husband, profuse of confidence,
notwithstanding he had been formerly deceived by a man pretending to be a
capital merchant, trusted this man with a certain number of ‘Mémoires,’
French as well as English, which he was to dispose of as merchandise to
his correspondents in different countries, from whom, in a short time, he
would receive remittances.
“M. de la Motte, though formerly deceived, yet gave him his confidence,
and delivered to him nine hundred and nine French ‘Mémoires,’ valued at a
guinea each, three hundred and eighty-six English ditto, valued at half
that sum, and a number of the ‘Scourge for Calonne,’ for all of which
we never received one farthing. This man’s wife, upon whom I took pity,
remained in my house during the time of the execution, under the specious
pretext of rendering me service. Alas! what service did she render me?
Small miniature paintings of great value, and other valuable articles to
the amount of forty or fifty guineas, she put into her pocket, and when
I reclaimed these effects, she made me a most audacious and impertinent
reply, to the effect that when M. de la Motte should pay them, they
would then give an account. Against their injustice I have no remedy.
They have no property, and I am heartily sick of having any business
with attorneys, who have already had too much to do with my unfortunate
husband.
“Mr. Ridgway, who was the publisher of all these ‘Mémoires,’ had, upon
supposition, about four hundred. These he sold for about one hundred
and eighty pounds, out of which there was eighty pounds for expenses. I
have scarce received one hundred pounds, and I have remaining, out of
eight thousand copies, eight hundred French, and three hundred English
‘Mémoires,’ for which I have received no money.
“Very soon after this execution was levied against me, my servant,
Angelica (the same who was with the countess in the Salpêtrière, we
suppose) got into bad company, and was advised to sue for her wages, to
the amount of twenty guineas. She applied to an attorney, who threatened
me with arrest. Alas! I that am nobly descended, that have been the
favourite of a queen, that have basked in the sunshine of affluence and
felt the smiles of distinction, am now nothing; and were it not for the
benevolence of some respectable characters, I might probably be reduced
to the dire necessity of returning to my former mean situation, and of
imploring charity of every passing stranger.”
And this is what ten years of struggling, scheming, intriguing,
and petitioning; of lying, swindling, forgery, theft, slander, and
depravity—and all to be lady of the manor of Fontette—have brought this
wretched woman to at last! “Misery, like a vulture, gnawing her heart,”
she says, “and poverty chasing at her very heels;” her household goods
sold for debt incurred with respect to her malicious libels; herself
threatened with arrest by the very servant whose release she procured
from the Salpêtrière, while her husband is flirting in Holland with some
flaxen-haired young _frau_. Either to console herself in the midst of
these accumulated troubles, or else—and which is by far the most likely
reason—with the view of pecuniary gain, she now writes her “Life,” in
two volumes, octavo, taking care to reiterate therein all her previous
malignant slanders against the French queen.
“Nothing,” says she, almost prophetically, “could have induced me to
undertake a task like this—to retrace a life which has already been
too long, and which, if my ideas of it are as just as I could wish, is
drawing fast to a close; nothing,” she continues, in her most high-flown
style, “could have roused me from this lethargy of grief but the desire
of rescuing my memory, when this fluttering pulse shall cease to beat,
and the hand that now guides my pen be mouldered into dust, from the
detractions of malice. Abused, insulted, and disgraced, the wounds of
bleeding honour are too deep to be closed. Do they call for vengeance?
No; there is a just and righteous Judge, before whose tribunal I shall
again meet my enemies, where neither the strong arm of oppression nor
the ‘gilded’ hand of offence will be sufficiently powerful to vanquish
innocence.”[422]
Such were the motives which inspired the countess to write her “Life.”
Curiously enough, the Duke d’Orléans chances to be in England at this
precise period—he arrived in London during October, 1789, and did not
return to France until the following July—and it is believed that he
encourages madame, by liberal bribes, to prosecute her task, even if he
does not have a hand himself in its production.[423] The count, too, is
by this time in Paris, and in communication with the government, and
there are the best of reasons for believing that the countess’s main
object in writing this work was to extort more money from a well-nigh
bankrupt royal exchequer. Be this as it may, the work is completed
towards the close of the year 1790, when the Count de la Motte is
receiving bribes both from the French ministry and the Orléans party;
but “its publication is delayed,” we are informed, “from overtures being
made for its suppression by a person pretending to be charged with a
commission for that purpose from the then highest powers in France. Some
months were wasted in fruitless negotiation, till the unexpected flight
and consequent embarrassments of the royal fugitives destroyed that
flattering prospect and pleasing hope of the countess’s being relieved
from the difficulties in which the most vindictive persecutions had
involved her. The speedy flight of the negotiator, who had impressed her
with an idea that she would soon be placed beyond the reach of fortune by
the immediate settlement of an annuity upon herself, and the liquidation
of her husband’s debts, on condition of giving up the manuscript and
printed copies of her ‘Life,’ left her to struggle with these new-created
difficulties which his flattering assurances had tended so greatly to
increase.”[424]
The struggle was but a brief one, for a very few days afterwards a
catastrophe occurred which speedily placed this wretched woman beyond
the reach of worldly trouble. According to the count, certain agents of
the Duke d’Orléans, finding themselves frustrated in their efforts to
induce Madame de la Motte to quit England, conceived the idea of having
her arrested, in the belief that, when they had her in their power, they
could by promises, and the prospect of a brilliant revenge, prevail upon
her to allow herself to be conducted to Paris. “Among these infamous
agents,” says the count, “there was one who went before a justice of
the peace and swore on the Scriptures that Madame de la Motte owed him
a hundred guineas, when he was immediately furnished with the necessary
order for her arrest. Armed with this document, the officers presented
themselves at her house, and requested her to accompany them—she being
ignorant all the while of even the name of the villain who had sworn to
the debt. Even had the debt been real, no one had the right to arrest
a married woman, and Madame de la Motte was sufficiently acquainted
with the laws of the country to be aware of this circumstance. Still,
it was necessary that she should furnish proofs of her marriage, which
she could not do, as, when she quitted Paris, all her papers remained
at the Bastille. These scoundrels, therefore, insisted upon carrying
her off; whereupon she declared to them that, if they used violence,
she would put herself under the protection of the passers-by, who would
come to her rescue. She told them, however, that she was going to send
for her lawyer, who would, if requisite, find the necessary bail, and
she despatched her servant for that purpose, cautioning her beforehand,
that if the lawyer was not at home, she was, on her return, to make her
a certain sign, and to say that he was coming, so that she might settle
within her own mind what course to pursue in this emergency. Angelica
had no sooner left, than the countess, with the view of keeping her
vile persecutors in a good humour, served them with some luncheon and a
bottle of port wine. While they were seated at table she walked about the
room, conversing with them, and looking out of the window to watch for
the return of Angelica, who, seeing her mistress at the window, and not
having found the lawyer at home, made her the sign agreed upon.
“Madame de la Motte, seizing a favourable moment, abruptly opened the
door and double-locked the scoundrels inside the room. The window being
open, one of them looked out to see whether she left the house. Her
extreme anxiety, and the state of confusion she was in owing to this
unjust aggression, were, no doubt, the reason of her not remarking the
hackney-coaches stationed before the house, into one of which she might
have got, and been driven in a few minutes into another county, when, in
the event of her persecutors discovering her retreat, it would have been
necessary for them to have procured a new writ before they could have
again arrested her. But instead of adopting this very obvious course,
and not, perhaps, imagining the fellows would be on the watch to see
what became of her, she took refuge in a neighbouring house, the people
belonging to which were known to her.
“In the meanwhile these infamous tyrants, by dint of kicking at the door
of the room, succeeded in getting themselves released. They immediately
made for the house which they had seen the countess enter, and demanded
of the owner that she should be surrendered up to them. The owner
replied that he knew no such lady, and refused to allow them to make a
search. They, however, insisted, declaring that if Madame de la Motte
were not there, they would take upon themselves all the consequences
of the trespass. Thereupon they proceeded to search the house. Not
finding the object of their search on the ground or first floors, they
ascended to the second story, the proprietor following them and renewing
his protestations. At last they arrived at a room, the door of which
being locked they demanded to have it opened. In vain they were told
that it was let to a lodger who always took his key with him when he
went out; not doubting but that Madame de la Motte was concealed here,
they threatened to burst the door open if the key were not immediately
forthcoming.
“The countess, who was really in this room, had persuaded herself that
a plot had been got up to carry her back to France, and there imprison
her again. She was consequently in a most bewildered state. Opening the
window, which looked into a yard, she got out and suspended herself
by her hands to an iron bar which served as a guard, determined to
precipitate herself to the ground if these fellows should succeed in
breaking in the door. Unfortunately it was of common deal, and a few
kicks sufficed to start the panels. The instant the countess caught
sight of the head of one of her pursuers she let go her hold and fell
with violence upon the pavement It was her misfortune not to have been
killed on the spot: her thigh was broken in two places, her left arm was
fractured, and one of her eyes was knocked out; in addition to which, her
body was a mass of bruises. In this state she lived for several weeks,
during which time I received from her a long letter giving me a detailed
account of this tragical event.
“Thus died, at the age of thirty-four, a woman whose whole life was one
long career of misery, but which might have ended happily had not the
privilege of her birth, by over-exalting her imagination, developed
beyond measure those sentiments of pride and ambition which conducted her
to her fall.”[425]
The editor of “The Life of Jeanne de St. Remy de Valois, heretofore
Countess de la Motte, written by herself,” furnished, in a supplement to
that work, a few additional particulars of the melancholy termination
of her career. He says, that “she received most of her injuries through
falling against the trunk of a tree, and that, while the feelings of
the surrounding spectators were agonized at the sight of the dreadful
spectacle which her bleeding and mangled form presented, the sheriff’s
officer, with a disgraceful apathy, was only intent to maintain the
legality of his caption, and refused to surrender the almost lifeless
body until he had good bail for its security.”[426]
Spite of the prominent place which the countess and her doings had
recently occupied in the public mind of Europe, the English journals
of the day notified the fact of her decease in such brief terms as the
following:
“August 26, 1791.—Died at her lodgings, near Astley’s Riding School,
Lambeth, the noted Countess de la Motte, of ‘Necklace’ memory, who lately
jumped out of a two pair of stairs window, to avoid the bailiffs.”[427]
Of the last surviving representative of the royal house of Valois,
Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi, the Countess’s youngest sister, a few meagre
particulars have been preserved. In Madame de la Motte’s days of grandeur
she was engaged to be married to a certain Paul François de Barras,
nephew of the Count de Barras, and a particular friend of her brother’s,
the young Baron de Valois, and who was subsequently better known as
commandant of the Convention forces against the Robespierre faction on
the 9th Thermidor, as the friend and patron of young Bonaparte, and chief
of the Directory. “My disaster,” (her sentence in regard to the Necklace
affair) naïvely observes the countess, “prevented the nuptials.”[428] In
July, 1786, we find the Abbess of Jarcy, to which convent Mademoiselle
de Saint-Remi had again retired, writing to the Baron de Breteuil on her
behalf, and thanking him for the assistance which he had accorded to
“virtue in distress.” A couple of months afterwards, when this assistance
is required to be renewed, the baron is favoured with a second letter in
the following terms:
“I consider my requests on behalf of Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi,” writes
the abbess, “founded as much on justice as on charity. The innumerable
examples of the goodness of our monarchs in such cases authorizes my
prayers. And although the example of a foreign sovereign ought not
to influence the will of our august master, I do not see that it is
wrong of me to dwell upon what the Emperor, brother of the best of
queens, has just granted to the wife and children of Count de Székély,
condemned to the pillory, the galleys, and other punishments. His goods
were confiscated, and the sovereign gave them back to his wife and
children. He did more: he preserved to them, even to the last survivor,
the perquisites which the culprit enjoyed as first lieutenant of the
Hungarian _gardes nobles_.
“Is the position of Mademoiselle de Valois less deserving of pity? Alas!
she deserves it much more. There remained some fortune to the Countess
Székély, whereas our unfortunate is alone in the world. Lastly, she is
of the blood of our kings—very respectable blood, M. le Baron, in the
estimation of both you and I.
“Shall I tell you, M. le Baron—and why should I hide it any longer?
Poison has twice failed to conduct the unhappy one to the tomb she longs
for. Without the most prompt help—without the assistance of antidotes
administered for twelve hours in succession, the unfortunate wretch would
have expired in the most frightful torments: less frightful, however,
than those which she is menaced with suffering without the alms which I
claim for her, and which you cannot refuse—I do not hesitate to say it—to
her extreme misfortunes.”[429]
Exactly one year subsequently, namely, in September, 1787, we find a
certain Abbé Phaph interesting himself very warmly in the young lady’s
affairs, and writing to the countess, who has only recently arrived in
England, urging her to sign some document which he has prepared, the
effect of which would be to give the sister a charge upon the De la Motte
property at Bar-sur-Aube. This the countess very decidedly declines to
do, and writes back requesting her sister to send her over “three gowns
which she fetched away from the mantua-maker’s”[430] just after her
arrest, and which she has ever since detained!
The next we hear of Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi is that she is living
openly with the aforesaid abbé as his mistress.[431] In April, 1787, we
find her engaged in a process against the domain for the restitution
of the family papers and deeds of succession, which she stated were
under the seals affixed to the effects of her sister; but orders having
come from Versailles for all proceedings in the matter to be suspended,
the suit had to be abandoned.[432] From this time we lose sight of
Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi until January, 1794, the height of the
Terror, when, caught up in the revolutionary vortex, she is sent to the
Port Libre prison as a _suspect_. Here she is at first mistaken for her
sister, until people call to mind that the countess has been dead some
years.[433] Six months afterwards she is transferred to the Carmes, and
in less than another month—namely, on the 22nd of August, three days
before the arrest and execution of Robespierre—she has the good fortune
to regain her liberty.[434] What subsequently became of her, and the
precise date at which she died, are involved in obscurity. Beugnot speaks
of her as having retired to some convent in Germany,[435] and a paragraph
in Count de la Motte’s “Mémoires” would lead us to suppose that her death
took place about the year 1817.[436]
But little is known of the future careers of the countess’s two
Accomplices, the forger Villette, and the counterfeit queen D’Oliva.
Villette, on being banished from France, proceeded to gratify that
longing which he pretended he had to visit Italy where he seems to have
lived for some years, apparently not caring to profit by the opportunity
which the Revolution afforded him to return once more to the land of his
birth. He published at Venice, in the year 1790, as his contribution
to the lying literature of the Diamond Necklace affair, a small octavo
volume, of less than one hundred pages, under the title of “Mémoire
Historique des Intrigues de la Cour, et de se qui s’est passé entre la
Reine, le Comte d’Artois, le Cardinal de Rohan, Madame de Polignac,
Madame de la Motte, Cagliostro, etc.”[437] In this work he informs us
that he forged the queen’s signature under the eyes of the cardinal—a
prince who overawed him, and who had so many opportunities of benefiting
him—and of Madame de la Motte, a woman whom he adored; a pension of
six thousand livres a year being promised him for his compliance, one
thousand crowns of which he received, the following day, on account.
The words “_of France_,” were added, he says, by the cardinal’s express
directions. Villette pretends that Cagliostro, the cardinal, and Madame
de la Motte, were equally concerned in the plot; Cagliostro, whom at
the trial he emphatically declared to be innocent of all share in the
fraud, being the most guilty of all. The Necklace was obtained, he said,
with the sole view of selling it, so that the trio might replenish
their bankrupt exchequers, the cardinal having exhausted his resources
in supplying Cagliostro with funds to carry on his experiments for the
discovery of the philosopher’s stone, which experiments they hoped might
turn out successful by the time the Necklace had to be paid for. Villette
pronounces all the “Mémoires” put forth at the time of the trial to be
merely so many romances, fabricated for the sole purpose of concealing
the truth. Of the countess’s _liaisons_ he speaks in the most open
terms. “Abandoned,” he says, “by her husband, a depraved libertine and
gambler, she sought to captivate other men, and to render them slaves
to her charms.” What these charms were, Villette himself shall tell.
“Strong natural wit, a graceful figure, a white and transparent skin,
and eyes bright and piercing.” He says that he possessed the countess’s
entire confidence, and knew of all her intrigues, and particularly her
_liaisons_ with the cardinal; he then proceeds to say that she was
seduced in the first instance by the Marquis de Boulainvilliers, and that
she afterwards admitted the Bishop of Langres to her embraces, that the
Marquis d’Autichamp was her next lover, that she had a _liaison_ with the
Count d’Artois even, and reckoned the Count de Dolomieu and M. de Coigny
on the list of those she had ensnared. “I have described her,” concludes
Villette, “as she was—amiable, pretty, and over-complaisant; too good not
to have been a trifle weak, too passionate not to have been somewhat of a
libertine. This woman, whom I loved to adoration, and who had loaded me
with benefits, I dared to betray.”
The termination of the career of Rétaux de Villette would appear to have
been even a more sorry one than that of the woman he so adored, if the
statement is true that he died by the hands of the hangman, swung off on
the leads of the Castle of Saint Angelo, at Rome.[438]
The Demoiselle d’Oliva married her old lover Beausire, the same who
accompanied her to Brussels at the time of her flight. He was an offshoot
of nobility, and, as we have already stated, was formerly attached to
the household of the Count d’Artois. D’Oliva’s married life was but
brief, and anything but happy, for she died, it is reported, in 1789,
in the greatest misery.[439] Next year her husband became commandant
of the National guard of the Temple section, but finding his influence
rapidly declining, he retired to Choisy, near Paris, and managed to get
appointed procureur of the commune; finally he pursued the despicable
calling of _mouton_, or informer, and drew up the lists of proscription
in the Luxembourg prison, when it was choke-full of persons _suspects_.
Against the majority of these there was not a shadow of evidence, but as
evidence must be forthcoming in some form or other, the poor wretches
were accused of having plotted in prison. It was remarked that Beausire’s
old acquaintances who had had the ill-luck to win money of him at play
were certain to be on his list of victims, and it was said that he
spoke privately to the public accuser to have them guillotined.[440]
“This Plot in the Prison,” remarks Carlyle, “is now the stereotype
formula of Tinville; against whomsoever he knows no crime, this is a
ready-made crime. His judgment-bar has become unspeakable, a recognized
mockery, known only as the wicket one passes through towards death. His
indictments are drawn out in blank; you insert the names after. He has
his _moutons_, detestable traitor jackals, who report and bear witness,
that they themselves may be allowed to live—for a time.”[441]
Beausire was at the head of these _moutons_, was, in fact, the chief spy
of the detestable Boyenval, who gloated over the number of victims he was
instrumental in bringing to the guillotine. He said of Beausire, that he
made use of him, but that Fouquier Tinville did not like him, and that
he could have him guillotined whenever he pleased.[442] And it pleased
Boyenval at last to put this covert threat of his into execution, and
“D’Oliva’s husband was hurled in.”[443]
XLII.
1786–1793.
DUPE AND VICTIM.
What became of the Dupe—Cardinal Prince Bishop Louis-René-Édouard de
Rohan? Finding the bleak air of the Auvergne mountains sorely trying
to his constitution, broken as it was by excesses and long confinement
in the Bastille, the cardinal asked and obtained permission of the
king to choose another place of residence. Either he or the Baron de
Breteuil fixed upon the Abbey of St. Bénoît, on the Loire, near Orléans,
but the lady superior of this establishment, alarmed at the prospect
of the cardinal and his large retinue of servants coming there and
eating them out of house and home, besides being very backward in his
payments, protested that she was unable to afford the cardinal the
necessary accommodation.[444] Eventually he was taken in at the Abbey
of Marmontier, near Tours, where, we are told, he was ever lamenting
the mad hopes in which he had permitted himself to indulge with regard
to the queen, and the blind confidence he had reposed in Madame de la
Motte.[445] Growing tired after a time of his new home, the cardinal
made various efforts to obtain permission to return to his diocese, and
even sent medical certificates to his old enemy, the Baron de Breteuil,
setting forth that the air of his native Alsace was absolutely necessary
to the restoration of his health. The king at last gave an unwilling
consent, and for a time the cardinal lived in something like his old
accustomed luxurious state at pleasant Saverne. On the approach of the
Revolution he was nominated, by the influence of the popular party—who
thought that his desire to be revenged upon the court would secure him
to their side—a deputy of the clergy of Alsace. Being still under
sentence of exile he did not dare accept the nomination, and a certain
Abbé Louis was elected in his place. The abbé dying, the cardinal was
again chosen, and the National Assembly having cancelled his sentence of
exile, after some delay he came to Paris and took his seat, amidst loud
shouts of applause—much, however, against the wish of his illustrious
relatives, who, one and all, hated the Revolution as a certain individual
is said to hate holy water. For a time the cardinal, with the view of
self-preservation, went with the revolutionary current, and even took
the civic oath; but when his co-reformers began to meddle with the
property of the clergy, decreeing the sale of their lands and superfluous
edifices, he cut himself adrift from them, and retired once more to his
loved Saverne, to dream, however, no more mad dreams of love and ambition
while pacing up and down his once-favourite “Promenade de la Rose.”
Any mere wordy formula the cardinal was willing enough to swallow, but he
could not tolerate sacrilegious hands being laid upon church property,
and particularly church property that he was interested in. “Messieurs
of the clergy,” said a wag of the time, “it is your turn to be shaved;
if you wriggle too much you will be certain to get cut;” and cut the
cardinal, and with him the unfortunate crown jewellers, certainly did
get, for the latter’s security on the rich revenues of the Abbey of St.
Waast, of which the nation had taken possession, was now only so much
waste paper, and bankruptcy was the result. Shortly after the grand
national oath-taking ceremony in the Champ de Mars, the cardinal was
summoned by the Assembly to resume his functions as deputy within fifteen
days, but instead of doing so, he wrote a letter, stating that as it was
impossible for him to give his adhesion to the new civil constitution of
the clergy, he placed his seat at the Assembly’s disposal. The cardinal
was now looked upon as one “_suspect_,” and had ere long to retire to
Ettenheim, a dependency of his Strasbourg bishopric, lying beyond the
French frontier on the opposite bank of the Rhine. Here, in his capacity
of prince of the German empire, he caused levies of troops to be made to
swell the army under the command of his relative, the Prince de Condé,
whom he aided in every possible way. These proceedings of his greatly
exasperated the revolutionary party; he was constantly being denounced
in the National Assembly, and on one occasion Victor de Broglie brought
forward a proposition to indict him before the national high court; but
the Assembly, knowing the cardinal to be beyond its reach, sensibly
enough refused to entertain the proposal, although it was renewed again
and again. It contented itself, on first hearing of the cardinal’s
flight, with instructing the municipality of Strasbourg to seize and make
an inventory of his effects, of which they were to retain custody until
further orders.[446] “Deprived of his vast revenues,” says the cardinal’s
biographer, “he lived a modest and frugal life, intent only on securing
the happiness of his diocese, now reduced to a small patch of territory
on the right bank of the Rhine.”[447] This life of virtuous restraint
which the old spendthrift and debauchee, stripped of his fat benefices,
was compelled to lead in his declining years, was perhaps as severe a
punishment as could have been meted out to him. He died on the 16th of
February, 1803, having attained an age only a little more than a year
short of the allotted three score years and ten.
The cardinal and his “familiar” do not appear to have met again on this
side of the grave. Cagliostro, as we have seen, had to make a rapid
retreat to England, and here he remained for about a couple of years.
Then he went to Switzerland, to Savoy, and finally to several of the
chief cities of Italy. On December 27th, 1789, when the proceedings of
the revolutionary party in France were exciting the utmost alarm in the
minds of members of the sacred college, Cagliostro had the ill-luck to
get arrested, denounced, it is said, by his wife as chief of a society
of Illuminati. He was confined in the Castle of St. Angelo, and after
fifteen months detention, was found guilty of practising freemasonry, and
sentenced to death, which sentence was commuted to perpetual imprisonment
in the Castle of St. Leo, where he is believed to have died in 1795. His
wife was condemned to a life of religious seclusion in the Convent of
Ste. Apolline.[448]
And what became of the Victim?—the Austrian she-wolf!—the Austrian
tigress!—the Iscariot of France! Messalina, Brunehaut, Frédégonde, and
Médicis! as she was indifferently called by her relentless persecutors? A
more powerful pen than our own shall record her cruel fate:—
“On Monday, the 14th of October, 1793, a cause is pending in the Palais
de Justice, in the new Revolutionary Court, such as these old stone walls
never witnessed—the trial of Marie-Antoinette. The once brightest of
queens, now tarnished, defaced, forsaken, stands here before Fouquier
Tinville’s judgment-bar, answering for her life. The indictment was
delivered her last night.[449] To such changes of human fortune what
words are adequate? Silence alone is adequate.
“There are few printed things one meets with of such tragic, almost
ghastly, significance as those bald pages of the _Bulletin du Tribunal
Révolutionnaire_, which bear title ‘Trial of the Widow Capet.’... The
very witnesses summoned are like ghosts: exculpatory, inculpatory, they
themselves are all hovering over death and doom; they are known, in our
imaginations, as the prey of the guillotine. Tall, _ci-devant_ Count
d’Estaing, anxious to show himself patriot, cannot escape; nor Bailly,
who, when asked if he knows the accused, answers, with a reverent
inclination towards her, ‘Ah, yes! I know madame.’ Ex-patriots are here
sharply dealt with, as Procureur Manuel; ex-ministers shorn of their
splendour. We have cold aristocratic impassivity, faithful to itself even
in Tartarus; rabid stupidity of patriot corporals—patriot washerwomen—who
have much to say of plots, treasons, August tenth, old insurrection of
women,—for all now has become a crime in her who has _lost_.
“Marie-Antoinette, in this her utter abandonment and hour of extreme
need, is not wanting to herself, the imperial woman. Her look, they
say, as that hideous indictment was reading, continued calm; ‘she was
sometimes observed moving her fingers as when one plays on the piano.’
You discern, not without interest, across that dim revolutionary bulletin
itself, how she bears herself queen-like. Her answers are prompt, clear,
often of laconic brevity; resolution, which has grown contemptuous
without ceasing to be dignified, veils itself in calm words. ‘You
persist, then, in denial?’ ‘My plan is not denial: it is the truth I have
said, and I persist in that.’ Scandalous Hébert has borne his testimony
as to many things—as to one thing concerning Marie-Antoinette and her
little son, wherewith human speech had better not further be soiled. She
has answered Hébert; a juryman begs to observe that she has not answered
as to _this_. ‘I have not answered,’ she exclaims with noble emotion,
‘because nature refuses to answer such a charge brought against a mother.
I appeal to all the mothers that are here.’ Robespierre, when he heard
of it, broke out into something almost like swearing at the brutish
blockheadism of this Hébert,[450] on whose foul head his foul lie has
recoiled. At four o’clock on Wednesday morning, after two days and two
nights of interrogating, jury-charging, and other darkening of counsel,
the result comes out: sentence of Death! ‘Have you anything to say?’ The
Accused shook her head, without speech. Night’s candles are burning out;
and with her, too, time is finishing, and it will be Eternity and Day.
This Hall of Tinville’s is dark, ill-lighted, except where she stands.
Silently she withdraws from it, to die.
“Two processions, or royal progresses, three-and-twenty years apart, have
often struck us with a strange feeling of contrast. The first is of a
beautiful arch-duchess and dauphiness, quitting her mother’s city, at the
age of fifteen, towards hopes such as no other Daughter of Eve then had.
‘On the morrow,’ says Weber, an eye-witness, ‘the Dauphiness left Vienna.
The whole city crowded out, at first with a sorrow which was silent. She
appeared: you saw her sunk back into her carriage, her face bathed in
tears; hiding her eyes now with her handkerchief, now with her hands;
several times putting out her head to see yet again this Palace of her
Father’s, whither she was to return no more. She motioned her regret, her
gratitude to the good Nation which was crowding here to bid her farewell.
Then arose not only tears, but piercing cries, on all sides. Men and
women alike abandoned themselves to such expression of their sorrow.
It was an audible sound of wail in the streets and avenues of Vienna.
The last courier that followed her disappeared, and the crowd melted
away.’[451]
“The young imperial maiden of fifteen has now become a worn, discrowned
widow of thirty-eight, gray before her time. This is the last
procession: ‘Few minutes after the trial ended, the drums were beating
to arms in all sections. At sunrise the armed force was on foot, cannons
getting placed at the extremities of the bridges, in the squares,
crossways, all along from the Palais de Justice to the Place de la
Révolution. By ten o’clock numerous patrols were circulating in the
streets; thirty thousand foot and horse drawn up under arms. At eleven
Marie-Antoinette was brought out. She had on an undress of _piqué blanc_.
She was led to the place of execution in the same manner as an ordinary
criminal, bound on a cart, accompanied by a constitutional priest in
lay dress, escorted by numerous detachments of infantry and cavalry.
These and the double row of troops all along her road she appeared to
regard with indifference. On her countenance there was visible neither
abashment nor pride. To the cries of _Vive la République_ and _Down with
Tyranny_, which attended her all the way, she seemed to pay no heed. She
spoke little to her confessor. The tricolour streamers on the house-tops
occupied her attention in the streets du Roule and Saint-Honoré; she
also noticed the inscriptions on the house fronts. On reaching the
Place de la Révolution, her looks turned towards the _Jardin National_,
whilom Tuileries; her face at that moment gave signs of lively emotion.
She mounted the scaffold with courage enough. At a quarter past twelve
her head fell; the executioner showed it to the people amid universal,
long-continued cries of _Vive la République_.’”[452]
And this was the fate reserved for her of whom Burke had said that he
thought “ten thousand swords would have leapt from their scabbards to
avenge even a look that threatened her with insult;”—who, on her first
entry into Paris, was welcomed by a wild sea of human beings, that
surged along her line of route and filled the vast space of the Place du
Carrousel;—the fair young dauphiness, to whom, as she looked forth from
the gallery of the Tuileries upon the swaying mass beneath, the old Duke
de Brissac gallantly said, “Madame, you have under your eyes two hundred
thousand lovers;”—the young queen who, when called upon to share her
husband’s throne, with mixed feelings of gratitude and pride wrote thus
respecting her adopted country to her mother:
“Though God caused me to be born in the rank I now occupy, I cannot but
admire the order of His providence which has selected me, the last of
your children, for the finest realm in Europe. I feel more than ever how
much I owe to the tenderness of my august mother, who took so much pains
and care to procure for me this great establishment.”[453]
“Beautiful Highborn that wert so foully hurled low!... Oh! is there a
man’s heart that thinks, without pity, of those long months and years of
slow wasting ignominy: of thy Birth, soft-cradled in Imperial Schönbrunn,
the winds of heaven not to visit thy face too roughly, thy foot to light
on softness, thy eye on splendour; and then of thy Death, or hundred
Deaths, to which the Guillotine and Fouquier Tinville’s judgment-bar was
but the merciful end? Look _there_, O man born of woman! The bloom of
that fair face is wasted; the hair is grey with care; the brightness of
those eyes is quenched, their lids hang drooping; the face is stony pale,
as of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand has mended,
attire the Queen of the World. The death-hurdle, where thou sittest pale,
motionless, which only curses environ, has to stop; a people, drunk with
vengeance, will drink it again in full draught, looking at thee there!
Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous sea of maniac heads; the air
deaf with their triumph-yell! The Living-dead must shudder with yet one
other pang; her startled blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony
that pale face, which she hides with her hands. There is no heart to say,
God pity thee! O think not of these; think of HIM whom thou worshippest,
the Crucified,—who, also treading the wine-press _alone_, fronted sorrow
still deeper; and triumphed over it, and made it holy; and built of it a
‘Sanctuary of Sorrow,’ for thee and all the wretched! Thy path of thorns
is nigh ended. One long last look at the Tuileries, where thy step was
once so light—where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the
block: the axe rushes—dumb lies the World. That wild-yelling World, and
all its madness, is behind thee!
“Beautiful Highborn that wert so foully hurled low!... _Thy_ fault in
the French Revolution, was that thou wert the Symbol of the Sin and
Misery of a thousand years; that with Saint Bartholomews, and Jacqueries,
with Gabelles, and Dragonades, and Parcs-aux-cerfs, the heart of mankind
was filled full, and foamed over in all-involving madness. To no
Napoleon, to no Cromwell wert thou wedded; such sit not in the highest
rank, of themselves; are raised on high by the shaking and confounding of
all the ranks! As poor peasants, how happy, worthy had ye two been! But
by evil destiny ye were made a King and a Queen of; and so both once more
are become an astonishment and a by-word to all times.”[454]
XLIII.
1792–1831.
“NESTOR DE LA MOTTE.”—ILL GOTTEN GAIN NEVER PROSPERS.—GREEN OLD AGE.
Count de la Motte survived all the actors in the Necklace drama, and
lived to see France once more in the throes of a Revolution and the
Bourbons again dethroned—lived in fact, to the commencement of our own
era, and heard of, if he did not see, steam-vessels daily crossing the
Channel, and railways carrying passengers upwards of twenty miles an hour.
We left the count pursuing his second appeal with reference to the
Necklace case. He had not long to wait for a decision, for we find that
on July 27, 1792, the first tribunal gave judgment “on the appeal lodged
by Marc-Nicolas la Motte from the judgment given against him on the 5th
of April last by the third tribunal established at the Palais de Justice”
in the following terms:—
“Whereas the complaint remitted by the procureur-général to the former
Parliament of Paris on September 7, 1785, is only signed at the end
and not on each sheet, which is contrary to law, the present appeal is
annulled, together with the judgment given by the former Parliament of
Paris on December 5, 1785.
“Nevertheless, having regard to the gravity of the offence, it is ordered
that the said La Motte shall remain in custody, and that the documents
in the suit shall be hereunto annexed to serve as a record of the
proceedings, and that the same shall be brought before the director of
the jury to decide upon as he may be advised.”[455]
The count pretends that in the first instance the judgment said nothing
whatever about his remaining in custody, and that it was only on the
Jacobin public accuser (?) rising and stating that as no notice had been
taken during the proceedings of the letters patent issued by the king, he
opposed the count’s being set at liberty, that the unpleasant addendum
was made. According to the count, the king at once offered to withdraw
the letters patent, but was overruled by the minister. In a few days it
was too late; Louis XVI. was dethroned and a prisoner at the Temple, his
own keeper of the seals, Duport du Tertre, sealing with the great seal
the order for his arrest.
About this time poor M. de Laporte is also arrested and sent to join the
count in the Conciergerie, and in a week or two, after a swift trial
before the newly constituted tribunal of August 17th, the harmless old
man is sent to the guillotine. Swiftly as the new tribunal does its work
with the _suspects_, and swiftly as the newly invented guillotine seconds
it, still it is not sharp enough for revolutionary patriotism, with
Verdun fallen and the Duke of Brunswick in full march upon the capital.
By Marat and Billaud, and Sergent and Panis and some few others, the
hideous September massacres are planned, and De la Motte is horrified
at learning that his name, with the fatal red cross against it, stands
second on the list of proscribed prisoners in the Conciergerie. The count
pretends that he and a party of fellow-prisoners secretly arm themselves
and decide upon making a desperate resistance, though where they got
their weapons from is by no means clear. According to his version, he is
provided with a dagger and a couple of pistols, and takes up his post at
the grating at the end of the corridor, where he remains on the watch,
and from whence, not only did he see the prisoners tried, but slaughtered
as well. Throughout the night nothing is heard but the unlocking of
doors and drawing of bolts, followed by shouts, shrieks, and groans;
and an hour or so before daybreak comes the sound of heavy footsteps,
of loud voices demanding the keys, and sharp blows against the door at
the entrance to the corridor leading to their cells. All at once the
count hears his own name shouted out, and thinks the time has now come
to battle for his life. A few more blows and the door gives way, and a
band of strangers rushes in—friends, however, and not enemies, who caress
the count, clasp him to their breasts, and carry him off triumphantly in
their arms. The outside of the prison gained, they entertain him at a
neighbouring café, and then summoning a vehicle, three of his liberators
accompany him to the Rue de Choiseul, where they insist upon his going
and at once making his demand upon the “domain” for the entire value of
his effects seized at Bar-sur-Aube in virtue of the sentence passed upon
him by the Parliament of Paris.
The count of course does as he is bid, and what is most surprising,
according to his own statement, without previous notice or proving
his identity, or even the shadow of a legal claim, he succeeds in
obtaining from the “domain” a sum of thirty thousand francs on account,
twenty-seven thousand francs of which he stows away in his pocket-book,
and the remaining three thousand, which are in assignats, he hands to his
deliverers to dispose of as they may think proper.[456]
It was lucky for the count that he had been transferred to the
Conciergerie, for at the time the foregoing scenes were being enacted in
this prison, this is what was transpiring at La Force, where the count
was originally confined. “At one o’clock in the morning of September
3rd,” writes Maton de la Varenne,[457] “the gate leading to our quarter
was again opened. Four men in uniform, each with a drawn sabre and
blazing torch, mounted our corridor, preceded by a turnkey, and entered a
room close to ours to search a box which we heard them break open. This
done, they halted in the gallery and began questioning one Cuissa to
know where La Motte was. La Motte, they said, under a pretext of finding
a treasure which they were to share in, had swindled one of them out of
three hundred livres, having asked him to dinner for that purpose. The
wretched Cuissa, whom they had in their power, and who lost his life that
night, answered trembling that he remembered the circumstance well, but
did not know what had become of La Motte. Determined to find La Motte,
and confront him with Cuissa, they ascended to other rooms and made
further search there, but evidently without success, for I heard them
say, ‘Let’s look among the corpses then, for in God’s name he must be
found!’”
The count had not long regained his liberty before he was discovered
by his niece, daughter of Madame de la Tour, she who as a child had
taken part in the famous incantation scene enacted by Cagliostro at the
Palais-Cardinal, and of which the countess made so much at the Necklace
trial. The game of appealing and petitioning against the judgment
rendered in the Necklace trial being now up, and it being the duty of all
patriots to hurl back foreign invasion, Count de la Motte returns to his
old profession of arms, raises a company of cavalry, composed chiefly of
former friends in the gendarmerie, gets appointed captain, has his troop
reviewed by the colonel on the Boulevards, and next day finds himself
denounced by patriot Burlandeux, who charges him with being both royalist
and aristocrat, and swears that the company he has joined is composed
entirely of men of his own stamp, with not a single _sans-culotte_
among them. The count not desiring to return to his old quarters in the
Conciergerie—for again there with Danton as minister of justice, the
chances are that he would only leave them for the guillotine—is glad
enough to return his sword to its scabbard, and accept a passport for his
native town of Bar-sur-Aube.
On his arrival there he finds the great pavilion attached to his house
occupied by the provincial directory, which necessitates his furnishing
a few rooms in the house itself for his own accommodation. Having done
this, he proceeds to Tonnerre to fetch his sister and niece, who have
taken up their residence there. At Tonnerre the count stays for several
weeks, smitten with the charms, or possibly the expectations, of a young
lady, only daughter of a rich proprietor. “I was thirty-six,” remarks
he—he was upwards of thirty-eight—“but I did not look so old; she was
eighteen.” The count finding himself favoured in his suit, asks the hand
of mademoiselle in marriage, and is accepted.
Time passes pleasantly enough for the next month or two; the count is
installed in the old house at Bar-sur-Aube, and has his sister and niece
residing with him. The shooting season is on, and only give the count
his dog and his gun and he will not lack for amusement. Of course he
makes frequent journeys to Tonnerre, although something like fifty miles
of cross roads intervene between the two places; but what are these to
a man in love, who has been accustomed to the saddle too all his life?
How he manages to live at this time he does not condescend to tell us.
There are no more sealed money packages from poor old Laporte. Was it on
the balance of the assignats which he received from the domain?—if he
ever did receive what he states—or was it upon his sister, Madame de la
Tour? We think the latter the most probable. M. de la Tour had emigrated,
and the count’s anxiety that his sister should live with him arose, we
expect, from his desire to live on her.
It is at this time, November, 1792, that the king is brought to trial;
the count is nervously anxious for news of the result of the proceedings,
simply because, as he admits, he still entertained some faint hopes of
being able to obtain a further supply of cash from the dethroned monarch.
Louis XVI. dead, the count is reduced to his shadowy claim on the domain.
During the next eighteen months, De la Motte leads the life of a
country gentleman at Bar-sur-Aube. He hunts, and shoots, and fishes,
and cultivates his little plot of land, and rides constantly over to
Tonnerre. The queen is now brought to trial, and he is appealed to, he
says, to come to Paris and depose against her, but declines to do so. “In
my opinion,” observes this contemptible hypocrite, professing to believe
in his wife’s pretended intimacy with Marie-Antoinette, “the queen was
not so blamable (in the Necklace affair) as Madame de la Motte believed.
In her position it was difficult to interfere between the law and its
victim. I was persuaded this sacrifice had cost the queen much, and I had
had proofs of the goodness of her heart.”[458] In May, 1794, the count
proceeds to Paris to urge his claim against the domain, which claim of
his has now become as much his fixed idea as the revision of his sentence
in the Necklace trial was a year or two ago. He met, however, with no
success; and after two months spent in wearying appeals, returns home
again, balked in all his plans, and thoroughly disgusted to find that
Bar-sur-Aube has now its revolutionary committee, and its denouncers of
_suspects_, and is by no means a secure place to reside in. Tonnerre,
he thinks, will be more preferable, so to Tonnerre he hies, but only to
find that it also has its denouncers. The count hastens home again, and
finds his sister and niece already arrested as the wife and daughter
of an _émigré_; thinking his turn will not be long in coming, he keeps
his horse ready saddled in his stable, puts a pair of pistols in the
holsters, and prepares to ride away at the first signal of danger.
With the view of keeping in with the revolutionary party, the count gives
a supper to the members of the committee, after which proof of patriotism
they grant him a certificate of citizenship in proper form. Protected by
this, he returns to Tonnerre, and proceeds to take the necessary steps
for his marriage. But the municipality will not permit the banns to be
published until the count produces a certificate of the countess’s death,
and this, owing to the war with England, he is unable to procure. Back
to Bar-sur-Aube the count rides again and obtains such certificate as
he can from the authorities there—his uncle, M. de Suremont, the same
that had to disgorge the jewels belonging to the count which he had
appropriated—being mayor at the time. Ere, however, the count can return
to Tonnerre he is arrested by order of a government commissioner, and
carried off by a couple of _militaires_ to Troyes, to the same prison
where his sister and niece are already confined. Here the time seems to
have passed pleasantly enough with music, singing, reading of plays and
flirtations between the male and female prisoners. Among the latter is
the “wife of an _émigré_, with a charming daughter of eighteen”—eighteen
seems to have been an irresistible age with the count. “Not having,” says
he, in the coolest manner, “any further relations with the people of
Tonnerre”—although he was about setting out to his wedding at the very
time he was arrested—“I decided upon marrying this young person.”
Fortunately for the count, Robespierre’s fall takes place at this period,
and he and his fellow-prisoners regain their liberty. On returning to
Bar-sur-Aube he finds that all his arms and horses have been appropriated
by the officers who arrested him, and that they and his servants have
pretty well stripped his house between them. He at once institutes
proceedings in the local courts, obtains a judgment by default, and the
two _militaires_ are cast in damages for fifty thousand francs, which
damages the count of course hopes to get some day or other. At any rate,
thenceforward these fifty thousands francs become his fixed idea, and we
hear no more of his claim against the domain.
The count, being sadly in need of ready cash, sells his house—that
house on which so large a portion of the proceeds from the sale of the
famous Necklace had been squandered, to the postmaster of Bar-sur-Aube.
The commodious stables serve admirably for the post-master’s stud of
horses, the elegantly decorated _salons_ and _chambres à coucher_ furnish
handsome reception and sleeping rooms for his guests. The great pavilion
is reserved for the count’s own use for the space of a year; and here
he, his wife—for he has married the charming young lady of eighteen—and
his mother-in-law, for a time reside. At the commencement of 1796 they
remove to what the count describes as a charming hermitage, surrounded
by woods and waterfalls and lovely views, and where they farm their
own land, and live a life of country ease. Several years—happy ones
after a fashion, one would suppose—thus glide by, until at length the
count’s mother-in-law, weary of the woods and the waterfalls and the
charming views, urges him to go to Paris. Horses, bullocks, cows, pigs,
poultry, and standing crops are forthwith sold, and to Paris the family
betake themselves. Bonaparte is now first consul; the count obtains an
audience of him, presents a petition, and is told by the great man that
he remembers seeing him years ago at Brienne. Nothing, however, comes of
the petition, and spite of all his efforts the count cannot find the two
officers against whom he has the judgment for fifty thousand francs. For
some years he seems to live in Paris agreeably enough—no doubt on the
resources of his mother-in-law—spending his time between the Palais Royal
and the Boulevards, and ever on the look-out for the two _militaires_
who plundered his house at Bar-sur-Aube. At last, by a lucky chance,
he tracks out one of them, has him arrested, and after various legal
proceedings, is disgusted at seeing him set at liberty on the ground that
the government had granted a general amnesty for all acts done in service
of the state at this period of national trouble.
Year after year rolls by, and the count witnesses the establishment of
the Empire, the fall of Napoleon, and his consignment to the Isle of
Elba, and the return of the Bourbons to France, to bring about which
latter event he took most energetic steps. Beugnot, whom the reader will
remember as the young barrister of Bar-sur-Aube, and who has managed
to keep his head upon his shoulders during the revolutionary whirl,
finds himself appointed minister of police, having already had the
title of count conferred upon him by Napoleon. De la Motte loses not
a moment in appealing to his former rival to serve an old friend and
fellow-townsman, and Beugnot, knowing perfectly well the count’s tastes,
and precisely what he is fitted for, gets the farmer of the gambling
tables in the Palais Royal—the leases of which Beugnot, in his capacity
of police minister, had to renew—to give him some congenial berth. The
count pretends that it was simply a pension of two hundred francs a month
which he received from Bernard, the lessee of the gambling saloons, and
that he accepted this with great repugnance. It is far more probable that
he had to do something for his paltry pittance—act, for example, as decoy
duck, and entice all the game he could to fowler Bernard’s net. Whichever
it may have been, post or pension simply, the count lost it before a year
was over, when Napoleon was again ruler of France.
At the second return of the Bourbons after the battle of Waterloo, Count
Beugnot is named postmaster-general. De la Motte again seeks him out, and
obtains a letter from him to Bernard, who reinstates him in his former
position, and such as it was, the count manages to hold it for a couple
of years or so, when he gets his dismissal. Of course he flies off to
complain to Beugnot, but Beugnot can do nothing for him; he however
promises to see if he can serve the count in some other way. Eventually
he appoints the count’s sister, Madame de la Tour, postmistress at
Bar-sur-Aube, but to the count himself he gives no sort of place.
“At this epoch” (1817), writes the count, in dolorous strain, “I had
just lost successively my sister-in-law (Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi),
my wife, and my mother-in-law. My son, aged fifteen, had determined
upon proceeding to Guadaloupe with the first battalion ordered to that
colony. I was therefore alone in the world, without consolation, without
help, without even the means of existence. Sent away from one hotel
after another through default of payment, humiliated at being obliged to
receive from my acquaintances the smallest pittance, that too frequently
proved insufficient for my most pressing wants, I felt my courage
forsake me, and all I thought of was putting an end to a life of so much
misery.”[459]
Being without the means of procuring a pistol, the count informs
us that he resolved on throwing himself into the Seine. Instead,
however, of doing this from one of the quays, or from the banks of
the river in the immediate suburbs, he makes a long country journey to
Franconville-la-Garenne, several miles away from the Seine at its nearest
point. This gives him opportunity for reflection, and he abandons his
suicidal intentions and returns to Paris determined to present a petition
to the king. It is curious to find the count in his old age returning to
the old De la Motte de Valois practice of memorializing the crown. Times,
however, had changed, and there were too many petitioners with real
grievances pressing their claims upon the Bourbons for any of the De la
Motte de Valois kith or kin to stand a shadow of a chance. As luck would
have it, when the count reached Paris, after a tramp of at least twenty
miles, he encountered a friend who gave him a good breakfast, and made
him some fair promises which put him in spirits again. He now prepares
his petition, and sends it to Marshal Beurnonville with a letter for the
Duke de Chartres. In a few days the count receives a reply. The duke has
forwarded his petition to his majesty, who has remitted it, accompanied
by a recommendation of his own, to the minister of his household. The
count rubs his hands at this good news, and anxiously waits for further
intelligence. At last a friend undertakes to make inquiries for him at
the ministerial bureau, and learns _Sacré Dieu!_ that all petitions
accompanied by special recommendations from the king are stowed away in
pigeonholes on their receipt, and are never seen or heard of more. The
count hastens to the marshal in a frantic state of mind; the marshal
does what he can to pacify him, and, as a matter of course, exhorts him
to be patient. Patient! poor comfort this to a man reduced “to live upon
horse-beans and boiled potatoes without seasoning, and rarely tasting
even bread,”[460] and whose span of life is well-nigh drawn out to the
allotted three score years and ten.
The count, in his depth of misery again resolves upon suicide, and again
sets forth on a long journey before executing his purpose. When night
sets in he is almost twenty miles from Paris. Selecting a favourable
spot, the old man proceeds to put his design into execution. First of
all he ties up his pocket-book, containing the letters of the duke and
the marshal, in his handkerchief, to which he attaches a heavy stone
or two, and then sinks it in the stream. He next flings in his hat and
cane, and prepares to follow them, but his courage forsakes him. Even
at well nigh three score and ten the love of life proves too strong. In
the dark waters before him the count sees, he says, only waves of blood,
and suddenly visions of the hideous night of September 2nd rise vividly
before his eyes. Rushing from the river’s brink he gains a meadow, where
he lays himself down and sleeps. On awaking he walks for upwards of a
couple of hours in the direction of Paris, and eventually finds himself
on the road to Choisy. Seeing a light in one of the houses of the village
he makes for it, and fortunately finds a man stirring, of whom he begs
a draught of water, telling him that he has been attacked and robbed by
thieves. The man, compassionating his miserable appearance, gives him a
glass of wine instead, and a stout stick to help him forward on the road,
and after a brief rest the count resumes his journey. He goes again to
his old friend, the same who gave him the breakfast on his return from
a similar expedition, tells him of his second adventure, and is again
relieved by him.
After having allowed his process against the two _militaires_ to slumber
for some years, the count revives it again, and applies to a matrimonial
agent to take it up, but it being quite out of this man’s line of
business, he, on the tanner’s principle of there being nothing like
leather, suggests matrimony to the count as the best way of surmounting
his misfortunes—informing him that he has an old dowager on his books who
is mad to marry one of the _ancien régime_. The count is nothing loth;
so an interview is arranged, and an invitation to dinner follows; and
the count, got up for the occasion, presents himself at the old lady’s
house, of which he already looks forward to being master. He is shocked,
however, at the number of children and grandchildren he is introduced
to, and still more shocked at the want of manners of the little brats,
and especially at an episode which transpires at the dinner-table, and
which delicacy will not permit us to describe. The dinner, which was of
the noisiest, in due course comes to an end, and with it the count’s
brief courtship of the dowager who was mad to marry a man of the _ancien
régime_.
For a year or two longer the old count drags on a miserable existence.
He succeeds in getting a lawyer to take up his case against the two
officers, and obtains from him an advance of five hundred francs. Five
hundred francs! why the old count must have been as delighted as he was
in the old days when he came over from England with drafts on Perregaux
for between two and three hundred times five hundred francs. This slice
of luck puts him once more in clover for a time, but only for a time, for
although the case prospers at the outset, it is finally decided against
him, and starvation again stares him in the face. At this moment a
dislocated limb forces the wretched old man to take refuge in the Hôpital
de la Charité, and here he remains for many weary months. “It was while I
was in this hospital,” says the count, “that M. Panisset came to see me,
and found me on my bed of suffering, and made me certain proposals on the
part of M. de Lavan, prefect of police.” [461]
When the count was sufficiently recovered to come abroad, his first
visit was to M. de Lavan, at the prefecture. “In 1825,” says M. Feuillet
de Conches, “a man bowed down by age and misery presented himself at
M. de Lavan’s bureau, and was received by the chief of his cabinet,
a person of rare merit and distinguished character, M. Duplessis. It
was Count de la Motte, who came to ask bread. M. Duplessis conversed
with him respecting the Necklace affair, and suggested that he should
write his memoirs, including his reminiscences of this mysterious
incident. La Motte thereupon wrote what was suggested, and with every
appearance of good faith. His notes only confirmed the details which
were already known. The queen’s memory had no need of being cleared by a
poor broken-down wretch who, after having helped to cast dirt upon her
august fame by contributing to the atrocious calumnies of his wife, now
came forward to deny them under the stroke of misery, in presence of a
royalist government. Still it was no less precious to have an authentic
denial written by one of the principal actors in this too famous drama,
an old man, worn down by misfortune, but retaining all his intelligence,
understanding the character of the atonement, and accepting it, according
to the opinion of M. Duplessis, with resignation and good faith. Out of
respect to memories, become almost saint-like; out of respect, above
all, to the daughter of Louis XVI., (to whom the resuscitation of the
name of La Motte, upon which evil-disposed people would have been certain
to comment, would have been the cause of considerable grief,) M. de Lavan
thought it best to envelop in obscurity the few days this unfortunate
being had still to live.”[462]
“The pretensions of M. de la Motte,” remarks M. Campardon, “were
exceedingly modest. All he asked was an annuity of from three hundred
to four hundred francs for life, and his admission into the Hospice de
Chaillot.” During the last years of his existence, the count, who was
commonly known by the nickname of “Valois-Collier,”[463] is said to have
taken his daily stroll beneath the famous “Galeries de Bois” of the
Palais Royal, which stood where the present handsome Galérie d’Orléans
now stands, and from being a favourite resort of the Russian officers
belonging to the army of occupation had come to be derisively styled
the Tartars’ Camp. To the very last, therefore, the Count affected the
neighbourhood of his old haunts, the gambling saloons of the Palais
Royal. Overwhelmed by infirmity and misery, he died in the month of
November, 1831, having almost attained his eightieth year.[464]
XLIV.
1786–1866.
THE CROWN JEWELLERS.—THE END OF THE NECKLACE CASE.—HISTORY AGAIN REPEATS
ITSELF.
To render our narrative complete, it is necessary we should inform the
reader how it fared with the crown jewellers—Böhmer and Bassenge, “Au
Grand Balcon,” Rue Vendôme—and what was the final upshot of the famous
Necklace case. In the first place the jewellers never received a single
_sou_ of the rich revenues of the abbey of Saint Waast—computed to
produce 300,000 livres a year, and really yielding 225,000 livres, which
had been assigned to them. Among their many creditors was M. Nicolas
Deville, the king’s secretary, to whom they owed 900,602 livres, and
to whom they re-assigned the aforesaid revenues for the liquidation
of their debt; but unfortunately the Revolution came, and with it the
sale of the property of the church for the benefit of the nation, so
M. Nicolas Deville in his turn did not receive a _sou_. Meanwhile,
Böhmer and Bassenge became bankrupt. The Cardinal de Rohan at his death
left behind him a will by which he appointed the Princess Charlotte de
Rohan-Rochefort his residuary legatee, and she accepted administration of
the estate on condition that she should not be held responsible to the
creditors for any deficiency that might exist.
At the time of the cardinal’s decease he possessed considerable landed
property in Baden, and personal property to a large amount, consisting in
part of money lent to his relatives, the Prince and Princess de Guéménée,
and the Duke de Montbazon, which the princess neglected to recover,
and which was consequently lost. The princess sold the lands in Baden,
and divided the proceeds among a few favoured creditors, but Deville
obtained little or nothing. After the Restoration—when all the property
remaining unsold was returned to its former owners or their heirs, and an
indemnity was granted for what had been sold—the princess, it is said,
neglected the interests of the creditors by omitting to recover the sums
due to the cardinal’s estate, and especially those owing by the Guéménée
family.
For this evident neglect of her duty as executrix, it was maintained that
the princess was responsible in the persons of her heirs, notwithstanding
the conditions under which she had undertaken to administer the
cardinal’s will. In accordance with this view, so recently as the year
1864 an action was brought before the Civil Tribunal of the Seine by
the heirs of M. Deville against the Princes de Rohan-Rochefort, as
representatives of the Princess Charlotte de Rohan-Rochefort, to recover
the principal sum for which the assignment of the Saint Waast revenues
had been given, together with cumulative interest, amounting in the whole
to upwards of 2,000,000 francs; but it was argued for the defence that
the cardinal’s estate had been properly administered by the princess,
that the plaintiffs had received the same share as the other creditors,
and that they had no legal claim on the defendants. The tribunal took
this view of the case, and accordingly rejected the plaintiff’s demand
with costs. Such was the end, after the lapse of nearly four score years,
of perhaps the most famous _cause célèbre_ of all time, known in the
annals of French jurisprudence as the _Affaire du Collier_.
Just as the Countess de la Motte was, to some extent, the imitator of
certain female swindlers of her own era, so has she found imitators in
this our own time. Almost at the moment we are writing[465] Paris is
talking about an act of swindling which bears a certain resemblance to
the Diamond Necklace fraud. It seems that, in the month of February,
1866, a jeweller in Paris, M. Cramer, received a letter sealed with the
Prussian arms, and signed “Comte de Schaffgotsch,” chamberlain of her
majesty the Queen of Prussia, in which he was asked if he was willing to
undertake the execution of some models, in brilliants, of a new order
which the Queen of Prussia intended to create. The jeweller immediately
accepted the commission, and several days afterwards there arrived some
drawings understood to have been executed by the queen herself. The
jeweller set to work forthwith, and in the course of a few weeks he
transmitted to Berlin a magnificent cross surrounded with diamonds. In
reply, he received a letter of congratulation accompanied by an order
for a dozen more diamond crosses, with a further promise of an order for
the crown of the Prince of Hohenzollern as sovereign of the Danubian
Principalities. The jeweller was the happiest of men. His fortune was
evidently made; but when and how was he to forward the crosses? The count
replied that he was just then charged with a diplomatic mission, and
would be at Cologne on a particular day, when the decorations could be
awaiting him at the chief banker’s in that town.
The jeweller accordingly sends the crosses to the house of Oppenheim and
Co., informing them that they were to be delivered to the chamberlain
of the Queen of Prussia. Some days afterwards the count informed the
bankers by letter that he would pass through the town at a certain hour,
and begged of them to forward to him the jeweller’s parcel by the hands
of one of their clerks. This was accordingly done, and the jeweller is
subsequently informed by letter that the Queen of Prussia is delighted
with the crosses, some more of which her majesty requires.
But nothing was said as to payment, and the jeweller, uneasy in mind, did
at last what he should have done at first. He called upon the Prussian
ambassador at Paris, who informed him that he had been dealing with a
knave, and that the letters were all forged. The jeweller, in a state of
great consternation, sets out, under the advice of the ambassador, for
Baden, where the Queen of Prussia then is, and obtains an audience of
her majesty, by whom he is assured that she is an entire stranger to the
whole story of the diamond crosses.
On his return to Paris M. Cramer receives another letter from the
pretended count, who insinuates this time that he might himself be
decorated with the order of the Red Eagle. The jeweller, however, was
now on his guard. The police were communicated with, and they managed to
draw the fox into the trap. He was found to be a man of good family,
the son of an old general, and holding rank and title at the Prussian
court, but whom a passion for gambling had ruined. The police seized,
at the hotel where he put up in Paris, all the jeweller’s letters, some
diamonds detached from the crosses, with several visiting cards, having
the name of the Count von Schaffgotsch on them, together with a blank
stamp bearing the arms of the Queen of Prussia. Owing possibly to the
high connections of the culprit, the case would appear to have been
compromised, for nothing more was heard of this last Diamond swindle.
XLV.
SUMMING UP OF THE EVIDENCE AGAINST MARIE-ANTOINETTE.
The reader who has accompanied us step by step in our narrative, who has
weighed our statements one by one, and noted the authorities on which
these are based, is perhaps already satisfied of Marie-Antoinette’s
complete innocence of any kind of participation in the great fraud of the
Diamond Necklace, and is convinced of the falsity of the charges brought
against her with regard to her presumed intercourse with the Cardinal
de Rohan. Should any doubt still linger in his mind, this will be
removed, we imagine, on an examination of the annexed summary of facts.
If we prove two things, that the queen was in no degree mixed up in the
Necklace affair, and that she held no kind of intercourse with Madame
de la Motte, then the whole of the countess’s calumnies respecting the
correspondence carried on between the queen and the cardinal, and their
secret meetings at the Little Trianon, necessarily fall to the ground.
Whatever may have been the follies, or say the crimes even, if you
please, of which Marie-Antoinette was guilty, and which she more than
expiated by her cruel death, complicity in any shape in this contemptible
Diamond Necklace fraud is most certainly not one of them.
In the first place, if the Countess de la Motte had been that intimate
confidant of the queen which she pretended she was, however secret their
relations may have been, she would still have been able to have brought
forward some shadow of proof of their existence, some trifling souvenir,
for instance, the former possession of which might have been traced to
Marie-Antoinette, some little scrap of her handwriting, even though
undated and unsigned, some single witness who had once seen her in the
queen’s presence, or in the queen’s apartments, even though this had been
a discarded servant, such as the “_bonne citoyenne_,” the “_excellente
patriote_,” Reine Millot, who deposed against her royal mistress at her
trial.[466] Evidence directly compromising the queen in the Necklace
affair would perhaps not have been forthcoming at the time of the trial
before the Court of Parliament, even if it had been the interest of
either party to have produced it; but during the long years of the
Revolution, when the name and memory of Marie-Antoinette were objects
of the bitterest hate and scorn, some one among the many individuals
acquainted with the intrigues of the court might have been expected to
have broken this forced silence, if from no other motive than personal
vanity.
And yet not a scintilla of evidence, true or false, against the queen has
come to light. In none of the memoirs or letters of the time, written by
those who had opportunities of knowing something of the facts, do we find
the slightest accusation against the queen with regard to the Diamond
Necklace. No one has stated that she was ever seen either with the
Necklace itself, or any of the loose diamonds composing part of it, in
her possession. No one connected with the court, neither Besenval nor De
Lauzun, both on terms of closest intimacy with, and both, to some extent,
detractors of the queen, has stated that Madame de la Motte was ever
once seen in the queen’s company, but all who have made allusion to her,
like Lacretelle, Besenval, and Madame Campan, have stated precisely the
reverse.[467] If she was in almost daily communication with the queen, as
she pretended was the case, she must have been constantly seen by some of
the inferior servants; her friend the gatekeeper of the Little Trianon,
for instance, or the _valet de chambre_, Desclaux, who, when the queen
had perished by the guillotine, and there was no longer any motive for
preserving silence, would have talked of the affair for talking’s sake.
What, we may ask, could have been the motive that instigated
Marie-Antoinette to obtain possession of the Necklace? It was certainly
not for the purpose of wearing it, for no one ever pretended to have seen
it on her person. It was not with the object of selling it piecemeal, to
stave off some pressing pecuniary difficulty, for the De la Mottes had
the whole of the proceeds; and in none of the contradictory statements
made by them did they ever pretend they were selling the diamonds on the
queen’s behalf. The statement the count made to the jewellers was, that
he inherited the diamonds from his mother; then their joint statement
was, that they sold them on behalf of the cardinal; while their final
statement was, that they were a present to the countess from the queen,
the wage in fact for the dishonourable service which she so unblushingly
asserts she rendered to Marie-Antoinette. Supposing the queen to have
had some motive for possessing the Necklace which we cannot penetrate,
would she have purchased it through such a doubtful pair of agencies as
the Countess de la Motte and the Cardinal de Rohan? The French court’s
resources may have been impoverished, still the royal credit was not yet
at a discount, and even if the queen could not have acquired the Necklace
on her own terms of credit, yet, considering the readiness with which
_fermier-général_ Béranger parted with his two hundred thousand livres,
she would have had no difficulty in raising whatever amount she required
among men of his stamp, such as Baudard de Saint-James and others.
As there is no direct evidence of the queen’s having ever had the
Necklace, or any of the diamonds belonging to it, let us see what
indirect evidence there is that they were never in her possession.
On the 1st of February, 1785, Böhmer and Bassenge deliver the Necklace to
the cardinal, who states that it was handed over the same evening to some
man professing to be the bearer of a note from the queen, by Madame de la
Motte in his presence. The cardinal asserts the man to have been Rétaux
de Villette, and the countess’s maid-servant deposes to having admitted
him to her mistress’s apartment just about the hour named. On the 8th of
February, within the week, the negotiation with Bette d’Étienville is
opened, and he is soon after applied to to go to Holland, and dispose of
a large quantity of diamonds. On February 12, the countess commissions
Villette to sell some of the diamonds which belonged to the Necklace,
and on the 15th he is found offering them for sale. Early in March the
count gives Furet, the clockmaker, two diamonds, on account of some
clocks he purchased of him; and shortly afterwards the countess is found
selling diamonds to both Paris and Regnier, the jewellers, and leaving
other diamonds with the latter to have reset. On the 10th of April the
count goes to London, having with him, according to Gray, _fully half_
of the diamonds belonging to the Necklace, and among them _all the more
valuable ones_. Of this half, Gray states that he bought upwards of
two-thirds.
Count de la Motte, in his narrative, admits having sold to Gray what
he calls the eighteen oval stones, also thirteen stones of the first
quality, six stones forming the two trefoils, four stones between the
rose and tassels, sixteen stones from the tassels, in all fifty-seven
stones. But Gray, in his declaration, states that he bought eight stones
from the _fil autour_ (the row of diamonds that encircled the neck), the
large pendant brilliant suspended to the centre festoon, eighty of the
stones forming the _esclavage_, some (say one-half) of the brilliants
forming the two bands at the sides, namely, forty-eight; also four stones
at the heads of the tassels, twelve stones from the lower part of the
tassels, and thirty smaller stones also belonging to the tassels, in all
one hundred and eighty-three stones (instead of fifty-seven according
to the count’s version), and for which Count de la Motte received in
money and goods about two hundred and sixty thousand livres. The count
admits having given to Gray twenty-eight stones to set as drop earrings,
twenty-two stones from the festoons to make into a necklace, and the
button stone to set as a ring, in all fifty-one stones. Gray however
declared that he received sixty-one stones for these various purposes.
Madame de la Motte admits having sold to Paris first twenty-two and
then sixteen stones, in all thirty-eight stones, for which she received
thirty-one thousand livres. She moreover exchanged one stone with a Jew
for some china pomade pots and gave Regnier a couple of large stones
to mount in rings. The count admits having changed with Furet two of
the festoon stones, for which he was allowed two thousand seven hundred
livres, having sold or given to Regnier to mount sixteen stones from
the tassels, twenty-four very small stones from the sides of the oval
stones at the bottom of the tassels, twenty-eight stones encircling the
oval pendants, two small stones on each side of the button, six small
stones supporting the oval stones between the festoons, and twelve small
stones immediately adjoining the ribbon at the top, in all eighty-eight
stones. The eight stones encircling the button, and the four stones which
supported the tassels, the count admits having in his possession, but
they were not at this time unmounted.[468] In addition to the foregoing
we must not omit to note the forty small stones which were intrusted to
Rétaux de Villette to sell, and for which, no doubt, a market had been
long since found in Paris.
The diamonds, therefore, which the De la Mottes themselves admitted the
possession of, and those which were proved to have been in their hands,
seem to have been as follows:
Sold to Gray 183
Mounted by Gray 61
Sold to Paris 38
Exchanged with Furet 2
Exchanged with a Jew 1
Mounted by Regnier in rings 2
Sold to, and mounted by Regnier 88
Remaining in Count de la Motte’s possession 12
Intrusted to Villette to sell 40
-----
427
=====
As the Necklace contained six hundred and twenty-nine stones, and four
hundred and twenty-seven of these were traceable to the De la Mottes,
leaving simply two hundred and two, or less than one-third to be
accounted for, it follows that Count de la Motte’s statement, to the
effect that the queen, or say anybody else even, had “kept two hundred
and fifty-six diamonds, comprising the most beautiful part of the
Necklace, with ninety-eight small diamonds, and the two finest diamonds
of the first size,”[469] in all three hundred and fifty-six diamonds,
was, like the generality of his statements respecting the Necklace, a
gross lie.
The diamonds parted with seem to have realized the following amounts:
Gray 260,000 livres or francs.
Paris 31,000 ”
Furet 2,700 ”
Regnier 27,000 ”
-------
320,700 livres, or about £12,800.
=======
Madame de la Motte, in her second memorial, puts down the amount
received from Paris at 38,000 livres and from Regnier, in money and
goods, 58,000 livres, equivalent to an increase of 38,000 livres or
upwards of £1,500 to the foregoing amount, bringing up the sum total
to £14,300 sterling. If to this we add the value of what the count
calls the button stone, for which one thousand guineas were offered him
in England, and of the two large brilliants set by Regnier as rings,
and valued by him at twenty-five thousand livres, together with the
value of the necklace and earrings set by Gray, of the diamond-mounted
_bonbonnière_,[470] of the pair of drop earrings set by Regnier, of the
eight diamonds encircling the button, and the four others which supported
the tassels, together with the forty small stones which Villette tried to
sell, we shall arrive at a gross total little short of £20,000.
The Countess de la Motte states that, during one of her confrontations
with the Cardinal de Rohan, she said out loud to him, in presence of the
judges: “Ever since these gentlemen have been putting interrogatories
to us, you know that neither you nor I have told them a word of
truth:”[471] so far as she was concerned, possibly about the truest
thing she ever said. To show how unworthy of credit the generality
of her statements at the trial were, we will run rapidly through
her examinations, and pick out simply such of her assertions as are
contradicted by independent testimony, or which she subsequently
contradicted herself. Of those numerous statements made by her which the
cardinal maintained to be false, we shall say nothing.
Lie 1. That she had never represented she had access to the queen (p.
220).[472] She told Grenier that she had reinstated the cardinal in the
good graces of the queen, who dared refuse her nothing (p. 237).
2. That she had never shown any letters purporting to be from the queen,
for she had never been honoured with any such letters (p. 220). Putting
aside D’Oliva’s evidence on this subject (p. 237), we have that of
Grenier, who expressly states that she showed him a letter which she said
had been written to her by the queen, but would not allow him to read it
(p. 237).
3. That all she knew of D’Oliva was from casually meeting her in the
Palais Royal (p. 220). She never met her in the Palais Royal, as she
herself subsequently admitted.
4. That she had never told D’Oliva she was a lady of the court, on terms
of intimacy with the queen (p. 221).
5. That she had never shown D’Oliva letters purporting to have been
written by the queen (p. 221). If not, why, at the confrontation, did she
wink at D’Oliva, and make signs to her, at this part of her evidence? (p.
237).
6. That the entire story of dressing up D’Oliva to personate the queen,
and of the midnight meeting in the park, was a foolish and incredible
fable, most wretchedly concocted by the cardinal (p. 221). Subsequently
she admits its truth, but pretends the meeting was a mere pleasantry
got up to quiet the cardinal (p. 245). Afterwards, in her “Mémoires
Justificatifs,” she says it was all arranged at the suggestion of the
queen (p. 87).
7. That she never gave one thousand or three thousand livres, or
any money whatever, to D’Oliva (p. 221). Putting aside D’Oliva’s
circumstantial statement, with dates and figures (p. 95), Villette
admitted having taken her three hundred livres on behalf of the countess,
and Father Loth proved having taken another four hundred livres to her
for her upholsterer.
8. That she never received either the fifty thousand or the hundred
thousand livres which the Baron de Planta conveyed to her from the
cardinal (p. 221). The Baron de Planta swore that he handed her both
these amounts (p. 236). If she did not receive them, how else did she
support her extravagant expenditure at this period of her career? Her
stories about the liberal gifts she had received from distinguished
persons were one by one proved to be false.
9. That the contract was never given to her to obtain the queen’s
approval and signature to it (p. 222).
10. That the said approval and signature were not written by any person
she knew (p. 222). Villette confessed to having written them by her
direction (p. 244), and thereby admitted he had been guilty of forgery,
which he would hardly have done had it not been the truth. Although
Madame de la Motte adhered to her denial of these facts at all her
examinations, in her “Life” (vol. i. p. 345) she admits that Villette
forged both signature and _approuvés_ in her presence.
11. That the story about the cardinal bringing the Necklace to her house,
and the casket containing it being handed over to a person who came
with a note professing to be from the queen, was absolutely false from
beginning to end (p. 223). She subsequently admits the truth of all this
in her “Mémoires Justificatifs.” (See p. 127.)
12. That she received two boxes of diamonds from the cardinal in the
presence of Cagliostro (p. 226). Cagliostro denied this, and Villette
emphatically stated that Cagliostro was entirely innocent of any
complicity in the Necklace affair (p. 245).
13. That the Count de la Motte went to England to sell the diamonds on
behalf of the cardinal, and having done so, handed the cardinal on his
return drafts for one hundred and twenty-one thousand livres and various
articles of jewellery received in exchange (pp. 226-7). The countess
in her “Life” says not a word of this, but asserts (vol. i. p. 355 _et
seq._) that she received the diamonds as a present from the queen, and
showed them to the cardinal, by whose advice she sent her husband abroad
to sell them on her own, certainly not on the cardinal’s account.
14. That she neither knew nor suspected that any of the diamonds sold by
her and her husband formed portions of the Necklace (p. 228). She had
previously stated the diamonds sold did belong to the Necklace.
15. That she never gave thirty thousand livres to the cardinal to be
handed to the jewellers (p. 228). For what purpose, then, did she borrow
thirty-five thousand livres from her notary on the very day? It is true
she states that she borrowed this amount to lend to Madame de Crussol,
but why did she not call Madame de Crussol to prove the fact?
16. That she had no such transactions with Regnier as those deposed
to by him (p. 236). When Regnier produces his books in support of his
statement, she admits the whole of them, and attributes her former denial
to her bad memory.
17. That Villette did not write any letters to the cardinal in the name
of the queen (p. 245). Villette himself confessed to having written a
considerable number (p. 244).
18. That she had previously deposed to having seen a letter in the hands
of the cardinal, purporting to be from the queen, and saying, “The jewel
is superb” (p. 259). She had never deposed to anything of the kind.
19. That Laporte deposed she had told him a hundred times she would have
nothing to do with the sale of the Necklace (p. 260). No such assertion
as this is to be found in Laporte’s deposition.
Of recent writers on the subject of the Diamond Necklace whose versions
of the affair are considered damaging to the reputation of the queen, M.
Louis Blanc,[473] is the one to whom the most frequent reference is made.
But M. Louis Blanc, no matter in whatever direction his sympathies may
lie, is too honest a writer to wilfully misrepresent the truth. He does
not assert, therefore, that the queen was a party to the fraud, although
he insinuates that there are certain grounds for believing she was mixed
up with the transaction. We propose, therefore, to examine the arguments
which he brings forward inculpatory of the queen, and to see how far
these are capable of being refuted.
In the arguments which M. Louis Blanc advances to prove that an intimacy
subsisted between Madame de la Motte and the queen, and that the latter
carried on an intrigue with the Cardinal de Rohan, and was a party to
the purchase of the Necklace, although he does not exactly maintain
the genuineness of the letters said to have passed between the queen
and the cardinal, he insinuates as much, and entirely ignores the fact
of Villette’s confession that these letters were written by him. The
same may be said with regard to Madame de la Motte’s presumed intimacy
with Marie-Antoinette. She boasted, observes M. Louis Blanc, of her
relations with the queen, which she would not have done had there been no
foundation for them, for fear of the imposture being discovered; which is
equivalent to saying that people will not tell lies for fear they should
be found out, a proposition which the amount of falsehood current in the
world proves to be untenable.
M. Louis Blanc dwells upon the fact of Madame de la Motte having desired
the jewellers to be very cautious in their dealings with the cardinal,
but he says nothing of the excellent use she put this to in her defence,
and which proves she had an ulterior object in acting as she did. In
like manner she made all she could of the circumstance of her having
declined a commission on the sale of the Necklace. But what did she want
with a commission?—she meant to have the Necklace itself. To receive
a commission from the jewellers for having cheated them out of their
property was a little too much for even the Countess de la Motte.
The box containing the Necklace, says M. Louis Blanc, was given to
Lesclaux [Desclaux], the queen’s _valet de chambre_. The supposition is,
that he was known to the cardinal, who parted with the box without taking
any receipt for it.
The cardinal declared that Villette was the person to whom the box was
given; and Villette was certainly there at the time, for the countess’s
_femme de chambre_ proved having opened the door to him, and admitting
him to Madame de la Motte’s apartment. It is true that a striking
difference existed between the individual described by the cardinal and
Rétaux de Villette; but this proves but little, for if the countess could
trick out a Palais Royal courtesan with sufficient art to palm her off
upon the cardinal as Marie-Antoinette, whom the cardinal did know, she
would certainly have been competent to transform the forger Villette into
the fair-complexioned, light-haired, slim _valet de chambre_ Desclaux,
whom the cardinal did _not_ know.
M. Louis Blanc states Madame de la Motte informed the cardinal that the
queen would acknowledge the receipt of the Necklace the next day by a
secret sign, which was given, an important fact admitted by the Abbé
Georgel himself.
We do not find that Madame de la Motte made any such statement. She says
the queen wrote a note on the following day acknowledging the receipt of
the Necklace.[474] As to the secret sign no one besides the Abbé Georgel,
whose narrative M. Louis Blanc admits is full of grave errors, says a
word about it, not even the cardinal.
As the time approached for the payment for the Necklace, Madame de la
Motte, says M. Louis Blanc, manifests no anxiety.
She manifests every anxiety. She borrows thirty-five thousand livres from
her notary on the security of her jewels, thirty thousand of which she
takes to the cardinal for him to hand to the jewellers as interest on the
purchase money, and thereby induce them to wait. She neither dines, nor
sups, nor sleeps at home on that day, her anxiety is so great.
The cardinal declared to M. Baudard de Saint-James, says M. Louis Blanc,
that he had seen in the queen’s hands the seven hundred thousand livres
destined for the first payment on account of the Necklace. Böhmer, too,
informs Madame Campan that the cardinal had told him he had seen the
queen take the money from a portfolio in a Sèvres porcelain secretary.
Presuming the cardinal to have said what is stated, it proves nothing
against Marie-Antoinette. It was an exaggeration on his part of something
which Madame de la Motte had told him; in plain language a lie, told by
him to reassure the jewellers and Baudard de Saint-James, who was one of
their largest creditors.
M. Louis Blanc tells us that the cardinal hides Madame de la Motte, for
fear she should let out the secret of the correspondence, and presses her
to fly beyond the Rhine.
All this is denied by the cardinal, and his word is equally worthy of
credit with that of the Countess de la Motte, whose statement M. Louis
Blanc has adopted.
M. Louis Blanc mentions as a point in the Countess’s favour, that after
the arrest of the cardinal she refuses to fly.
It was three o’clock in the morning when, worn out by excitement and
fatigue, she had great need of rest, and when she did not believe the
danger so imminent as it proved to be, that she refused to fly. What
she would have done a few hours later, had she not been arrested in the
meanwhile, is another question.
According to M. Louis Blanc the authorities refused to arrest Count de la
Motte.
The police agents who arrested the countess had no instructions to arrest
her husband, whose complicity in the fraud was not then suspected. The
count, however, took good care not to allow them a second opportunity,
for in a very few hours he made for the coast as fast as post horses
could convey him. M. Louis Blanc complains that Madame de la Motte’s
explanations of the confessions of D’Oliva and Villette, and of the
deposition of Gray the jeweller, are not allowed to figure in the report
of the trial.
M. Louis Blanc has fallen into a grave error here. The countess’s
explanations of these different matters figure at full length in the
verbatim reports of her two examinations, preserved in the National
Archives.[475] Gray’s declaration, too, published in the cardinal’s
“Pièces Justificatives,” was, we should imagine, filed by the registrar
of the Court.
The silence of the queen on receiving the jeweller’s letter of July 12th
is regarded by M. Louis Blanc as evidence of her guilt.
Marie-Antoinette read this letter with no particular attention, and burnt
it, says Madame Campan, the moment afterwards in her presence. There was
a certain mystery in the language—the Necklace itself not being even
mentioned—which, though it might have been clear enough to the queen had
she been the purchaser of the jewel, was otherwise full of ambiguity.
Besides, she had a firm conviction that Böhmer was somewhat touched in
his head—a conviction, by the way, very generally entertained by persons
about the court, and openly alluded to during the discussion on the
sentence in the Court of Parliament (p. 268).
The cardinal’s well-known diplomatic skill, says M. Louis Blanc, made it
impossible for him to have been deceived.
Diplomatic skill counts for little against the arts and wiles of an
intriguing woman, and one with whom, it must be remembered, her dupe was
madly infatuated; for does not Beugnot tell us that, whilst glancing over
some of the hundreds of letters from the Cardinal de Rohan to Madame de
la Motte, he saw with pity “the ravages which the delirium of love, aided
by that of ambition, had wrought on the mind of this unhappy man?”[476]
This is the keynote to much that may seem inexplicable in the cardinal’s
conduct in the latter stages of the Necklace affair.
According to M. Louis Blanc Madame de la Motte endeavours to screen the
queen.
Whatever she may have done at her preliminary examination, she did not
screen the queen before the Court of Parliament, but pretended she had
seen in the cardinal’s possession two hundred letters written to him by
Marie-Antoinette. All the countess’s aim was to screen herself, no matter
whom she sacrificed to attain this object.
M. Louis Blanc says that the Count de la Motte proclaims his intention
of speaking the truth, but M. de Vergennes will not consent to his being
brought to Paris.
When the trial was over, the count made a great parade of the evidence
he could have given. He was too good a judge, however, to come forward
at the trial. M. de Vergennes, moreover, could hardly have refused his
consent to the count’s coming to Paris out of consideration for the
queen, as he had long been her secret enemy, and was an admitted partisan
of the cardinal’s.
It is asserted by M. Louis Blanc that the Princess de Lamballe visits the
Salpêtrière, and gives alms to the superior for the countess.
M. Louis Blanc does not state whence he derived this information,
which we find repeated by another writer on the dubious authority of
an anonymous journal written prior to March, 1801.[477] The countess
herself, however, makes no allusion to this circumstance either in her
“Mémoires Justificatifs” or in her “Life.”
Finally, M. Louis Blanc asserts that the Count de la Motte is paid two
hundred thousand livres to suppress the publication of the countess’s
“Mémoires Justificatifs.”
No authority is given for this statement, and we doubt if any such
large amount, or indeed anything approaching to it, was ever paid.
Still, whatever may have been the sum paid for the suppression of these
“Mémoires,” even if the queen were a party to the transaction, it proves
really nothing against her. Our own criminal records abound in instances
of victims submitting to extortion for a long series of years, to save
themselves from threatened exposure—to escape being accused of some
degrading crime of which they are known to have been perfectly innocent.
It is no part of our plan to enter upon a defence of Marie-Antoinette
against those other accusations which the bitter hatred of individuals
and the fierce passions of the time laid to her charge. One of her ablest
defenders has said, that “all of youth, all of the woman, all of humanity
in the unfortunate Queen of France, is explained by these words of the
Prince de Ligne: ‘The queen’s pretended gallantry was nothing more than
a sentiment of profound friendship for a few individuals and a queen’s
womanly coquetry, that aimed at pleasing every one.’” Time, which rights
all things, is at last doing Marie-Antoinette justice, and “she whom
patriotism accused, and demagogism condemned, humanity has well nigh
absolved.”
APPENDIX.
DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE, WITH ITS “ESCLAVAGE” AND
TASSELS;
Based on the description given in the “Pièces Justificatives pour le
Cardinal de Rohan,” corrected by careful comparison with a _facsimile_ of
the drawing of the Necklace prepared by the crown jewellers.
1. The _fil autour_ (the row of diamonds encircling the neck), composed
of seventeen brilliants, weighing from 18 to 33 grains each.
Count de la Motte says thirteen of these stones were bought by
Gray (see _ante_, p. 146), but the latter states that he only
purchased eight. Two were set by Regnier as rings (see _ante_,
p. 140).
2. Forty-one brilliants, forming the three festoons suspended from the
_fil autour_ above, weighing from 12 to 20 grains each, estimating one
with another.
Twenty-two of these were set by Gray, as a necklace for the
countess (see _ante_, p. 147); two were exchanged with Furet;
one was set as a ring for the count; the remainder were sold to
Paris (see _ante_, p. 148).
3. Two pendant brilliants hanging within the side festoons, each weighing
50 grains.
The count says these were bought by Gray. Together with the
other pendant brilliants, they formed part of the eighteen oval
stones (see _ante_, p. 144).
4. Two pendant brilliants hanging between the large and smaller festoons.
The count says these were also bought by Gray (see _ante_, p.
144).
5. Six small stones supporting the above.
These were among the diamonds delivered by the count to Regnier
(see _ante_, p. 148).
6. A pendant brilliant, suspended from the _fil autour_ above by a
trefoil, and weighing 34 grains. A stone of superb quality.
The count says this was bought by Gray (see _ante_, p. 144).
7. Fourteen brilliants surrounding the above, weighing 7⅝ carats.
Delivered by the count to Regnier (see _ante_, p. 148).
8. Three brilliants, forming the trefoil, each weighing 13 grains.
These with the stones of the second trefoil, must have been the
six diamonds which the count speaks of as forming the rose of
two oval ones, and which he says he exchanged with Gray (see
_ante_, p. 146).
9. A pendant brilliant, at the lower part of the centre festoon, hanging
from a trefoil, and weighing 45 grains.
Bought by Gray (see _ante_, p. 144).
10. Fourteen brilliants, surrounding the above, weighing 10 carats.
Delivered by the count to Regnier (see _ante_, p. 148).
11. Three brilliants, forming the trefoil, weighing from 17 to 20 grains.
Stones of extreme beauty.
Exchanged by the count with Gray (see _ante_, p. 146).
12. One hundred and twenty-eight fine brilliants, forming the _esclavage_
from the _fil_ above to the knots of the two centre tassels; the stones
all matching, and weighing 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12 grains each.
Gray bought eighty of these.
13. Sixty-two small brilliants, inserted in the _esclavage_, weighing 3
and 4 grains each.
14. A brilliant, forming the centre of the rose in the middle of the
_esclavage_. A very handsome stone, without the slightest flaw, weighing
45 grains.
This was the button stone valued at one thousand guineas, which
Gray set for the count as a ring (see _ante_, p. 147).
15. Eight brilliants surrounding the above, weighing 12 and 13 grains
each.
Retained by the count.
16. Ninety-six brilliants, forming the two side bands: the stones
assorted, and weighing 6, 7, 8, and 9 grains each.
Half, or thereabouts, of these stones, were bought by Gray;
twelve were delivered by the count to Regnier (see _ante_, p.
148).
17. Forty-six small brilliants, inserted in the said bands, weighing 2
and 3 grains each.
These must have been the stones intrusted to Villette to
dispose of.
18. Eight brilliants, at the heads of the tassels. Superb stones matching
with each other, and weighing 14 and 15 grains each.
Four of these were bought by Gray.
19. Twelve pendant brilliants, hanging at the bottom of the tassels,
remarkable for their whiteness, and weighing from 16 to 26 grains each.
Bought by Gray. They formed part of the eighteen oval stones
(see _ante_, p. 144).
20. Twenty-four very small stones at the sides of the above.
Delivered by the count to Regnier (see _ante_, p. 148).
21. Sixteen round-shaped brilliants in the tassels, weighing from 11 to
14 grains each.
Delivered by the count to Regnier (see _ante_, p. 148).
22. Twelve round-shaped brilliants in the tassels, weighing from 8 to 10
grains each.
23. Thirty round-shaped brilliants in the tassels, weighing from 6 to 8
grains each.
Gray states that he bought the whole of these. The count says
he only parted with sixteen (see _ante_, p. 147).
24. Thirty round-shaped brilliants in the tassels, weighing from 4 to 6
grains each.
Twenty-eight of these were given to Gray, to mount as drop
earrings (see _ante_, p. 147).
25. Fifty-two small round-shaped brilliants in the tassels.
Twenty-two of the largest of these were sold to Paris; others
the count had mounted for a watch-chain (see _ante_, p. 148).
A SELECTION FROM THE LETTERS WHICH THE COUNTESS DE LA MOTTE PRETENDED HAD
PASSED BETWEEN THE QUEEN AND THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.
FROM THE QUEEN TO THE CARDINAL.
_April 28, 1784._
“I read with indignation the manner in which you have been
deceived by your niece. I never had any knowledge of the
letters you mention to me, and I question whether they
ever existed. The persons you complain of have in reality
contributed to your disgrace, but the methods they used to
effect it were very different from those you suppose. I have
forgotten all, and require of you never to speak to me of
anything that has reference to what is past. The account which
the countess has given me of your behaviour towards her has
made a stronger impression on me than all you have written to
me. I hope you will never forget that it is to her you are
indebted for your pardon, as also for the letter I write to you.
“I have always looked upon you as a very inconsistent and
indiscreet man, which opinion necessarily obliges me to
great reservedness; and I own to you, that nothing but a
conduct quite the reverse of that you have held can regain my
confidence and merit my esteem.”
FROM THE CARDINAL TO THE QUEEN.
_May 6, 1784._
“Yes; I am the happiest mortal breathing! My _master_ pardons
me: he grants me his confidence; and, to complete my happiness,
he has the goodness to smile upon his _slave_, and to give
him public signals of a right understanding. Such unexpected
favours caused in me so great an emotion, that I for a moment
was apprehensive lest the motive should be suspected by the
extraordinary answers which I made. But I soon recovered when
I saw my absence of mind was attributed to quite another
motive; upon which, I assumed an air of approbation, in order
to divert observation from the real object. This circumstance
is a warning to me, to direct henceforth my words and actions
in a more prudential manner.
“I know how to appreciate all the obligations I am under to
the charming countess. In whatever situation I may chance to
be, I shall be gratefully mindful of all that she has done in
my behalf. So much for that. All depends on my _master_. The
facility he has of making beings happy, makes his _slave_ wish
for the means of following his footsteps and being the echo of
his good pleasure.”
FROM THE QUEEN TO THE CARDINAL.
_May 15, 1784._
“I cannot disapprove of the desire you have of seeing me. I
could wish, in order to facilitate you the means, to remove
all obstacles that oppose it; but you would not have me act
imprudently, to bring about more compendiously a thing which
you must be persuaded you will shortly obtain.
“You have enemies who have done you much disservice with the
_minister_[478] (the countess will tell you the meaning of
that word, which you must use for the future). The turning of
them out cannot but be advantageous to you. I know the changes
and revolutions that are to happen, and have calculated all
the circumstances which will infallibly bring forward the
opportunities which I desire. In the interim be very cautious,
above all, discreet; and, as there is no foreseeing what
may happen, be reserved, and greatly perplexed in what you
hereafter write to me.”
FROM THE CARDINAL TO THE QUEEN.
_July 29, 1784._
“My adorable _master_, permit your _slave_ to express his joy
for the favours you have conferred upon him. That charming
_rose_ lies upon my heart. I will preserve it to my latest
breath. It will incessantly recall to me the first instant of
my happiness.
“In parting from the countess, I was so transported, that I
found myself imperceptibly brought to the charming spot which
you had made choice of. After having crossed the shrubbery,
I almost despaired of knowing again the place where your
beloved _slave_ threw himself at your feet. Destined, no doubt,
to experience during that delightful night none but happy
sensations, I found again the pleasing turf, gently pressed by
those pretty little feet. I rushed upon it as if you had still
been there, and kissed with as much ardour your grassy seat,
as that fair hand which was yielded to me with a grace and
kindness that belong to none but my dear _master_. Enchanted,
as it were, to that bewitching spot, I found the greatest
difficulty in quitting it; and I should certainly have spent
the night there, had I not been apprehensive of making my
attendants uneasy, who knew of my being out.
“Soon after my return home, I went to bed, but pressed for a
considerable time a restless pillow. My imagination, struck
with your adorable person, was filled during my slumbers with
the most delightful sensations. Happy night! that proved the
brightest day in my life! Adorable _master_, your _slave_
cannot find expressions to describe his felicity! You yesterday
witnessed his embarrassment, his bashfulness, his silence,
the natural effects of the most genuine love! You alone in
the universe could produce what he never before experienced.
Enveloped in these pleasing sensations, I sometimes imagine
it to be only a visionary felicity, and that I am still under
the influence of a dream; but, combining all the circumstances
of my happiness, recalling to mind the enchanting sound of
that voice which pronounced my pardon, I give way to an excess
of joy, accompanied with exclamations, which, if they were
overheard, would argue distraction. Such is my condition,
which I deem supremely happy, and wish for its continuance the
remainder of my life.
“I shall not depart till I have heard from you.”
FROM THE QUEEN TO THE CARDINAL.
_August 16, 1784._
“An observation made to me yesterday, with an air of curiosity
and suspicion, will prevent my going to-day to T—— (Trianon),
but will not, for all that, deprive me of seeing my amiable
_slave_. The _minister_ sets out at eleven, to go a-hunting at
R—— (Rambouillet): his return will be very late, or, to speak
more properly, next morning. I hope, during his absence, to
make myself amends for the tediousness and contradiction I
have experienced for these two days past. Imprudent conduct has
brought me to that pass, that I cannot, without danger, remove
objects that are displeasing to me, and who haunt me. They
have so thoroughly studied me, and know so little how to feign
and dissemble, that they attribute my change to nothing but a
discretion, which to them appears blameworthy; it is therefore
very essential to be on one’s guard, to avoid all surprise.
“The daring question put to me, persuades me that my confidence
has been abused, as well as my good-nature, and that advantage
has been taken of circumstances to fetter my will. I have a
way of coming at information concerning it, but I will first
consult thee. As thou wilt play the principal part in the
scheme I have devised, we must needs agree as well on this
point as we did last Friday on the S——. This comparison will
make thee laugh, no doubt; but, as it is a just one, and I
desire to give thee a proof of it to-night, before we talk of
serious matters, observe exactly what follows: Do thou assume
the garb of a messenger, and, with a parcel in thy hand, be
walking about at half-past eleven under the porch of the
chapel: I will send the countess, who shall serve thee for
a guide, and conduct thee up a little back staircase to an
apartment, where thou wilt find the object of thy desires.”
FROM THE QUEEN TO THE CARDINAL.
_January 15, 1785._
“If it had not been my intention there should be a mystery in
the purchase of the jewel, I certainly should not have employed
you to procure it for me. I am not accustomed to enter thus
into treaty with my jewellers, and this way of proceeding is so
much the more contrary to what I owe to myself, as two words
were sufficient to put me in possession of that object. I am
surprised that you dare to propose to me such an arrangement;
but let there be no more said about it. It is a trifle that has
occasioned me to make a few reflections, which I will impart to
you when opportunity offers. The countess will deliver to you
your paper. I am sorry you have given yourself so much trouble
to no purpose.”
FROM THE QUEEN TO THE CARDINAL.
_January 29, 1785._
“How is this? Affectation with me? Why, my friend, ought people
in our predicament to act under restraint, to seek for shifts,
and deal with insincerity? Dost thou know that thy reserve, and
thy false pride, drew upon thee the letter thou hast received;
and that but for the countess, who has told me all, I should
have attributed that pretended arrangement to quite a different
motive. Fortunately, all is cleared up. The countess will
deliver thee the writing, and explain the motives by which I
have been actuated in this matter. As I am supposed ignorant
of the confidence thou hast shewn her, as also of the token
of trust that thou wilt give her, by laying before her our
particular engagements, that is a more than sufficient reason
to make thee secure, and remove all difficulties. Thou wilt
keep the writing, and deliver it to none but me.
“I hope, notwithstanding my disorder, to see thee before the
holiday. I expect the countess to-morrow. I will tell her
whether I shall be able to receive from my _slave_ the object
which had nearly set us at variance.”
FROM THE QUEEN TO THE CARDINAL.
_July 19, 1785._
“I believe I have informed you of the disposal of the sum
which I destined for the object in question, and that probably
I should not fulfil the engagements till my return from
Fontainebleau. The countess will remit to you thirty thousand
livres, to pay the interest. The privation of the capital is to
be taken into consideration, and this compensation will make
them easy.
“You complain, and I say not a word: a very extraordinary
circumstance; time will, perhaps, acquaint you with the motive
of my silence. I do not love suspicious people, especially
when there is so little reason for it. I possess a principle I
never will recede from. Your last conversation is very opposite
to what you related to me at a preceding period. Reflect upon
it, and if your memory serves you faithfully, by comparing
the eras, you will judge what I am to think of your pressing
solicitations.”
AN EPITOME OF THE “FIRST PROCÈS-VERBAL DESCRIPTIVE OF THE DOCUMENTS
TENDING TO ESTABLISH CRIMINALITY. SEP. 9, 10, 11, 1785.”[479]
(_Preserved in the National Archives—Section, Procès du Collier, Series
X², No. 18,576._)
The _procès verbal_ in question is drawn up in the quaint legal
phraseology of the _ancien régime_, and abounds not only in the
tautological repetition and iteration in which lawyers have ever
delighted, but in queer sounding scraps of the obsolete jargon of
eighteenth century procedure.
It commences by setting forth that in the year 1785 on Friday the 9th
September at three in the afternoon, Jean Baptiste Maximilien Pierre
Titon, king’s councillor in his High Court of Parliament, commissioner
in the present case, assisted by Maître Etienne Fremyn, barrister of
the court, and one of the chief clerks of the criminal registry of the
said court, was applied to by Maître Pierre de Laurencel, one of the
deputies of the king’s procureur-général. The latter stated, with the
customary prolixity of gentlemen of the long robe, that by virtue of
royal letters patent, issued at St. Cloud on September 5th, empowering
the High Court to take cognizance of the facts therein set forth and all
matters appertaining thereto, and in accordance with a decree pronounced
by the said High Court on September 7th, empowering the procureur-général
to proceed “against the authors, abettors, participators, accomplices
and adherents as well of the transaction itself as of the forgery of
the queen’s handwriting and signature,” it had been ordered that the
documents tending to prove criminality or to throw light on the case
which should be produced by the king’s procureur-général, should be
deposited at the criminal registry of the court, and should there remain,
and that a _procès-verbal_ descriptive of the said documents should be
drawn up in presence of the deputies of the king’s procureur-général.
Both classes of documents had been duly deposited by the king’s
procureur-général at the criminal registry of the court on the 7th
September. Consequently he (Maître de Laurencel) now appeared to assist
in drawing up the descriptive _procès-verbal_ of the documents tending to
prove criminality _only_.
Titon, having duly certified this application, gives orders to Maître
Fremyn to at once produce the said documents tending to prove criminality.
Here follows a minute description of each of the bundle of fifteen
documents produced. The size of the paper, the number of pages written
on, the number of lines on each page, the words with which each page
begins and finishes, the style of the signatures, the fact whether or not
there were any interlineations, or words struck out or underlined; all
these particulars are minutely recorded in every instance.
The first document, entitled “Mémoire instructif,” written on two sheets
of paper _à la Tellière_, contains four full pages and three lines and
three words on the fifth page, all apparently written by the same hand,
and is signed “Bohmer, Bassenge, le Card. de Rhoan,” (_sic_). It is noted
that there is nothing scratched out or written over, but that on the
twenty-eighth line of the second page, are added in parentheses and in a
smaller hand the words “which was the 1st February.”
The second document is “a declaration made to the king by Mgr. the
Cardinal de Rohan” consisting of fifteen lines written on one side of
a large sheet of letter paper, beginning with the words, “A woman whom
I have believed” and terminating “Md. la Mothe d. Vallois.” This must
be the statement written by the cardinal at the suggestion of the king
immediately prior to his arrest.
The third is a receipt dated the 30th July 1785, for the sum of 30,000
livres, written on half a sheet of letter paper folded in two, and signed
Bôhmer & Company.
The fourth is an envelope, consisting of a large sheet of letter paper,
outside of which is written “This paper, in case of my death, belongs and
must be handed to M. Bôhmer, jeweller to the Queen ... this 18th February
1785.”
The next document which is worthy of a more detailed notice is described
in the following minute terms in the _procès-verbal_.
“The fifth document, inclosed in the said envelope and headed
‘_Propositions and conditions of price and payment_,’ is written half
way across the front and the back of the first leaf of a sheet of letter
paper. The first page on the front side containing eighteen lines, the
first of which consists of the word ‘_Proposals_’ and the eighteenth of
the words ‘_4th, one might facilitate_,’ remarking that below the third
line of the said first front page, is a flourish and that at the margin
of the said page, which is left blank, is written three times the word
‘_approved_’ in a very fine handwriting, differing from that filling the
page; namely, the first time in front of the sixth line, the second time
in front of the eleventh line, and the third and last time in front of
the sixteenth line. The second page on the back containing twelve lines,
the first of which consists of these words ‘_calm in the matter_,’ and
the twelfth line of these ‘_later on_,’ remarking likewise that on the
marginal half of the said back page is written twice in a very fine
handwriting the word ‘_approved_,’ the first time in front of the third
line, and the second in front of the tenth: remarking likewise that at
the side of the said writing, written in three lines on half the right
hand margin, are these words, ‘_Accepted the above arrangements, the
29th January 1785_,’ and below the signature, ‘Böhmer & Company,’ and
still lower down a flourish: remarking besides that on the half margin
to the left in front of the word ‘_accepted_’ are written these words,
‘_Approved, Marie-Antoinette de France_,’ in a very fine handwriting,
apparently similar to the other words ‘_approved_’ contained in the said
document, and below a dash of the pen, and still lower down a flourish;
that besides there is no erasure, interlineation, or word written above
another in the said document.”
The sixth is a short letter of three lines and two words, apparently from
the cardinal to Böhmer, as it commences, “I should like, M. Bohmer,” and
bears a memorandum in another hand, beginning, “Received this letter
from monseigneur.” It is addressed to “Monsieur, Monsieur Bemer (_sic_),
jeweller to the Queen, Rue de Vendosme, near the Tennis Court at Paris,”
and is countersigned “Card. de Rohan,” and to it is attached a seal
unbroken, and apparently bearing the arms of a cardinal.
The seventh is a letter of ten lines dated Paris the 1st February, 1785,
commencing, “Monsieur Bôhmer, her Majesty,” and signed by the cardinal.
The eighth is a more lengthy document, filling three and a half pages of
paper _à la Tellière_. It is a memorandum dated Paris, August 17th, 1785,
signed Ste. James (who thus spells his name), and appears to explain his
financial transactions with Böhmer. It is carefully noted with regard to
this document that although there are neither erasures, interlineations,
nor words written over others, that certain specified portions are
underlined.
The ninth, enclosed in the former, is a copy of Böhmer’s acknowledgment
of his debt to Saint James, and is dated the 16th March, 1785.
It being now nine in the evening, the completion of the _procès-verbal_
was adjourned to the following day, when, with the same formality and a
due amount of signing and countersigning Maître de Laurencel renewed his
application, and Councillor Commissioner Titon ordered that Maître Fremyn
should comply with it. Whereupon the last named at once produced
The tenth document, filling four full pages of paper _à la Tellière_,
containing a statement of the cardinal’s examination in the Bastille,
dated the 18th August, and conjointly signed “Le Card. de Rohan, Thiroux
de Crosne, Delauney and Delachapelle.” The _procès-verbal_, which gives
as usual the words at the beginning and end of every page and the number
of lines, notes that the two first words of the sixth line of the first
page and sixth word of the seventh line of the third page are struck out,
and that the sixth word of the thirteenth line of the fourth page is
underlined.
The eleventh “is a document on a sheet of large letter paper containing
three pages, the first of which of twenty-three lines begins with these
words ‘_Confidential Declaration of Monseigneur the Cardinal de Rohan_,’
and finishes at the twenty-third line by these, ‘_in the month of July
1784, I._’ The second page is of twenty-five lines, the first beginning
with these words, ‘_met in effect at the hour appointed_,’ and the
twenty-fifth ending with these, ‘_that they have even wished_.’ We have
remarked that the seventh word which seems to be the word ‘_woman_,’
is struck out, and there has been substituted for it above, the word
‘_person_.’ We have also remarked in the fourth line, between the word
‘_this_’ and the word ‘_person_,’ is written by way of insertion and
above, the word ‘_same_.’ We have further remarked that between the
eighteenth and the nineteenth line are written as an interlineation the
words, ‘_my absurd_,’ and that in the nineteenth line the fifth word is
struck out. The third and last page is of twenty-one lines, the first
beginning with these words ‘_to refuse and that I have forced them to
accept_,’ and the twenty-first line ending with these, the ‘_Sieurs
Bôhmer_.’ We have remarked that in the tenth line, the ninth word is
written over, that in the eleventh (line) the third and fourth words
are likewise written over, that the last word of the sixteenth line is
also written over, that in the seventeenth line the first and the third
words are also written over. We have further remarked that under the
twenty-first line of the said third page are three lines, and the date
of the year 1785, forming the fourth line, in a different handwriting
from that comprising the above written document, the first of which lines
begins by these words, ‘_I approve the writing_,’ and the third line ends
with these, ‘_done at the Bastille this 20th August_,’ and below the
signature ‘Le Card. de Rohan,’ with flourish.”
The twelfth consists of fourteen lines written on the first page of a
sheet of paper _à la Tellière_ beginning “I the undersigned confess,”
and ending “of diamonds,” beneath which is the signature, “Louis Jean
Marie Desclaux.” This is the Lesclos or Desclos, belonging to the queen’s
household, to whom Madame de la Motte pretended she handed the casket
containing the Necklace.
The thirteenth, filling two and a half pages of paper _à la Tellière_ and
commencing, “To-day the seventeenth August,” appears from words referring
to drawers and articles of furniture, quoted as commencing and ending the
second page, as those of “_procès-verbal_,” with which it concludes to
have been a _procès-verbal_ of the search made at the Palais-Cardinal,
for the grand almoner’s papers. It bears the signature of the Cardinal
de Rohan, the Marshal de Castries, the Count de Vergennes, the Baron de
Breteuil, and the lieutenant of police, Thiroux de Crosne.
The fourteenth, closed and fastened to the preceding with a blue ribbon,
fills two pages of a small sheet of letter paper, and commences, “Send
for B. this morning,” but the few words quoted afford no clue as to what
it refers to. It is merely signed with a flourish, and headed on the
first page “No. 1.”
The fifteenth, also closed and fastened to the two preceding ones with
blue ribbons, is likewise written on a small sheet of letter paper. It
is headed “No. 2,” and the words quoted—“The last price shall be fixed,”
“in six months,” “shall be carried to,” and “in the afternoon,”—seem
to indicate some note referring to the purchase and delivery of the
Necklace, found in all probability amongst the cardinal’s papers.
These documents being thus described were numbered in succession,
initialled and deposited in the criminal registry at nine in the evening,
the _procès-verbal_ being again signed by Titon, De Laurencel and Fremyn.
On the following day, the 11th, the commissioners again met to examine
three documents which Titon had previously weeded out from a bundle of
papers already classed as merely tending to throw light on the case, in
order that they might be added to those tending to prove criminality.
“The first,” written on two sheets of paper _à la Tellière_, which we
have fastened together with red thread, contains six pages and six lines.
It commences with the words, “Observations to the Court by M. de la Csse
de Valois,” and the sentences preserved are “to go into Champagne,”
“the Prince raised alarms,” “to calm his agents,” “like madmen and that
he would take us as far as the gate of Meaux,” “they do not serve to
make the king believe all that I wish,” “and have begged the Prince to
tell him,” “I have never shown any one,” “my pension,” “and perhaps my
unhappy husband despairing at having wedded,” “if I have wrongs, his
Majesty.” Every word altered, struck out or inserted, is noted by the
commissioners, and attention is called to the fact, “that in the date of
the year, 1776, the second 7 seems to have been written over the figure
6,” and that at the bottom of the seventh page are written the following
words, “Jeanne Marie De Valois de St. Remy, ensuite de Caze Csse de la
Motte, de la pénicière,” and lower down, “at the Bastille, Saturday, 29th
August, 1785.”
The second, written on a sheet of paper _à la Tellière_, and containing a
page and a half, is the letter which we have quoted on page 187 _et seq._
The third and last “is a note which seems to us to have been written by
the hand of the said De la Motte, at the back of the list of linen given
by her to her washerwoman, the twenty-fifth August, which note has been
initialled and signed by the said De la Motte, and by the Commissioner
Chénon, and runs as follows, ‘M. Filliau of Bar sur Aube, being at my
house four months ago, sold for me to a large jeweller, his cousin, to
the amount of 30 thousand livres, which I also handed to Monseigneur.
There were 22 small ones at 500 livres a-piece, ... then 52 at 400
livres a-piece, which I begged M. Filliau to sell for me, unknown to my
husband.’ To which last document we have pasted a piece of white paper to
inscribe the number of the said document, and to append our signature and
that of the said Maître de Laurencel, as well as those that may have to
be appended in course of the instruction.”
The _procès-verbal_ is then formally wound up and signed by Titon, De
Laurencel, and Fremyn.
SOME SATIRICAL VERSES, TO WHICH THE NECKLACE AFFAIR GAVE RISE.
(From “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,
la Cour et la Ville.”)
I.
Voici venir le temps pascal,
Que pensez-vous du cardinal?
Opinez-vous qu’il chantera
Alleluia?
Le Saint-Père l’avait rougi,
La cour de France l’a noirci,
Le Parlement le blanchira:
Alleluia!
Que Cagliostro ne soit rien,
Qu’il soit Maltais, Juif ou Chrétien,
A l’affaire que fait cela?
Alleluia!
De Versailles comme à Paris,
Tous les grands et tous les petits
Veulent élargir Oliva:
Alleluia!
Planta, du fond de sa prison,
Demande grâce au bon Baron,
Qui lui dit qu’il y restera:
Alleluia!
De Valois le conte insensé,
Par un Collier fut commencé,
Un Collier le finira:
Alleluia!
Survient Villette l’écrivain,
Confus d’avoir prêté sa main
Comme La Motte l’exigea:
Alleluia!
Pour d’Étienville au teint vermeil,
A la Grève un coup de soleil
Sur l’épaule le frappera:
Alleluia!
Voilà l’histoire du procès
Qui de Paris cause l’accès;
Nous dirons, quand il finira:
Alleluia!
II.
Illustre prisonnier, tirez-nous d’embarras:
Êtes-vous cardinal, ou ne l’êtes-vous pas?
Hélas! serait-ce vrai, que la cruelle Rome
Ait pu dans sa fureur dégrader un saint homme?
Un Rohan! Répondez. Vous détournez les yeux;
Ah! vous pleurez le sort de vos tristes cheveux.
Vous voilà donc réduit à la simple calotte!
Ce n’est pas le seul mal que vous ait fait La Motte.
III.
Target, dans un gros mémoire,
A traité tant bien que mal
La sotte et fâcheuse histoire
De ce pauvre cardinal,
Où sa verbeuse éloquence
Et son froid raisonnement
Prouvent jusqu’à l’indécence
Que c’est un grand innocent.
J’entends le sénat de France
Lui dire un de ces matins:
Ayez un peu de décence,
Et laissez là vos catins.
Mais le Pape, moins honnête;
Pourra dire à ce nigaud:
Prince, à qui n’a pas de tête,
Il ne faut pas de chapeau.
IV.
Cagliostro, homme savant,
Enseigne au Prince la magie.
Ils n’étaient que deux seulement,
Mais par tour de sorcellerie,
Les voilà trois: Qui l’eût prédit?
De surprise ôtant sa calotte,
Le bon cardinal vit La Motte,
Et La Motte le vit.
V.
Malgré ce gros factum si souvent refondu,
Et l’arrêt de la cour si lestement rendu,
L’innocente candeur du prélat de Saverne
Brille comme un étr... au fond d’une lanterne.
VI.
Des Valois La Motte est la fille,
On n’en peut douter:
Car un arrêt va lui faire porter
Les armes de sa famille.
MEMORIAL
CONCERNING THE HOUSE OF SAINT-REMI DE VALOIS, SPRUNG FROM THE NATURAL
SON WHOM HENRI II., KING OF FRANCE, HAD BY NICOLE DE SAVIGNY, LADY AND
BARONESS DE SAINT-REMI.
ARMS OF THE HOUSE DE SAINT-REMI DE VALOIS.
_Argent, a fess azure charged with three fleurs-de-luce or._
Henri the Second, King of France, had by Nicole de Savigny,[480] Henri
de Saint-Remi, who follows. The said Nicole de Savigny, styled High and
Puissant Lady, Lady of Saint-Remi, Fontette, du Chatellier and Noez,
married Jean de Ville, Knight of the King’s Order, and made her last will
on the 12th of January, 1590, in which she declared, “That the late King
Henri the Second had made a donation to Henri Monsieur, his son, the sum
of 30,000 crowns sol. which she had received in 1558.”
II. DEGREE. _Fourth Progenitor._] Henri de Saint-Remi, called Henri
Monsieur, is styled High and Puissant Lord, Knight, Lord of the Manors
and Baron du Chatellier, Fontette, Noez and Beauvoir, Knight of the
King’s Order, Gentleman of the Bedchamber in Ordinary, Colonel of a
regiment of horse, and of foot, and Governor of Château-Villain; married
by contract October 31, 1592, articled at Essoyes, in Champagne, Dame
Christiana de Luz, styled High and Puissant Lady, relict of Claude de
Fresnay, Lord of Loupy, Knight of the King’s Order, and daughter of
the Hon. Jacques de Luz, also Knight of the King’s Order, and of Lady
Michelle du Fay, Lord and Lady of Bazoilles; died at Paris on the 14th
of February, 1621, and had of his marriage the son who follows:
III. DEGREE. _Third Progenitor._] Renatus de Saint-Remi, styled High and
Puissant Lord, Knight, Lord and Baron de Fontette, Gentleman in Ordinary
to the King’s Bedchamber, Captain of a hundred men-at-arms, died March
11, 1663, and had married, by articles entered into April 25, 1646, at
Essoyes, Jacquette Brevau, by whom, amongst others, he had the following
son:
IV. DEGREE. _Great Grandfather._] Pierre Jean de Saint-Remi de Valois,
styled High and Puissant Lord, Knight, Lord of Fontette, Major of the
regiment of Bachevilliers’ horse, was born September 9, 1649, and
baptized at Fontette, October 12, 1653; married first to Demoiselle Reine
Marguerite de Courtois, and a second time by articles passed on January
18, 1673, at St. Aubin, in the Bishopric of Toul, to Demoiselle Marie
de Mullot, daughter of Messire Paul de Mullot, and of Dame Charlotte de
Chaslus, died before the 14th of March, 1714; and of his second marriage
had a son, who follows:
V. DEGREE. _Grandfather._] Nicolas Renatus de Saint-Remi de Valois,
styled Knight, Baron de Saint-Remi, and Lord of Luz, was baptized at
Saint Aubin-aux-Auges, in the Bishopric of Toul, the 12th of April,
1678, served the King during ten years, as _garde-du-corps_ to his
majesty, in the Duke de Charost’s company, quitted the service to marry
by articles of the 14th of March, 1714, Demoiselle Marie Elisabeth
de Vienne, daughter of Nicolas François de Vienne, Knight, Lord and
Baron de Fontette, Noez, &c., counsellor to the King, president,
Lieutenant-general in matters both civil and criminal, in the royal
Bailiwick of Bar-sur-Seine, and of Dame Elisabeth de Merille, died at
Fontette, on the 3rd of October, 1759; and of his marriage had two
sons: first, Pierre Nicolas Renatus de Saint-Remi de Fontette, born
at Fontette, June 3, 1716, received in 1744, a Gentleman cadet in the
regiment of Grassin, where it is assured he was killed in an engagement
against the king’s enemies; and second, Jacques, who follows:
VI. DEGREE. _Father._] Jacques de Saint-Remi de Valois, first called
de Luz, and afterwards de Valois, styled Knight, Baron de Saint-Remi,
was born at Fontette, December 22, 1717, and baptized January 1, 1718.
In his baptismal attestation which contains his name and condition, his
father, thereat present, is called and styled, “Messire Nicolas Renatus
de Saint-Remi de Valois, Baron de Saint-Remi;” and his aunt, who was one
of the sponsors, is therein called “Demoiselle Barbe Thérèse, daughter
of the late Messire Pierre Jean de Saint-Remi de Valois.” Both of them
signed their names to it, Saint-Remi de Valois. He espoused, in the
parish church of St. Martin, at Langres, on the 14th of August, 1755,
Marie Jossel, by whom he already had a son, who follows: and died at the
Hôtel Dieu, in Paris, February 16, 1762, according to the register of
his death, in which he is called and styled, “Jacques de Valois, Knight,
Baron de Saint-Remi.”
VII. DEGREE. _Procreating._] Jacques de Saint-Remi de Valois, born
February 25, 1755, and baptized the same day in the parochial church of
St. Peter and St. Paul, in the city of Langres; acknowledged and baptized
by his father and mother in the act of their espousals of the 14th of
August, of the same year.[481]
Jeanne de Saint-Remi de Valois, born at Fontette, July 22, 1756.
Marianne de Saint-Remi de Valois, born also at Fontette, October 2, 1757.
We, Antoine Marie d’Hozier de Sérigny, Knight, Judge at Arms of the
Nobility of France, Knight Honorary Grand Cross of the Royal Order of St.
Maurice of Sardinia, do certify unto the King, the truth of the facts
certified in the above Memorial drawn up by us from authentic records.
In witness thereof we have signed the present certificate, and caused it
to be countersigned by our Secretary, who has put to it the seal of our
arms.
Done at Paris, on Monday, the 6th day of the month of May, in the year
1776:
_Signed_ D’HOZIER DE SÉRIGNY:
By Monsieur the Judge at Arms of the Nobility of France.
_Signed_ DUPLESIS.
We, the undersigned Judge at Arms of the Nobility of France, &c., do
certify that this copy of the present Memorial is conformable to the
record preserved in our repository of Nobility; in witness whereof we
have signed it, and caused it to be countersigned by our secretary, who
has affixed to it the seal of our arms.
Done at Paris, on Thursday, the 13th day of the month of October, in the
year 1785,
_Signed_ D’HOZIER DE SÉRIGNY:
By Monsieur the Judge at Arms of the Nobility of France.
_Signed_ DUPLESIS.
ABSTRACT OF THE DECLARATION MADE BY BETTE D’ÉTIENVILLE IN THE NECKLACE
AFFAIR.
When the examination of the parties accused of being concerned in the
Necklace fraud had terminated, an individual calling himself Bette
d’Étienville, detained for debt in the prison of the Châtelet, wrote to
the Procureur-Général to announce that he had revelations to make in
connection with the affair whereby a new inquiry on the part of this
official became necessary.
Jean-Charles-Vincent de Bette d’Étienville, bourgeois of Saint-Omer,
living nobly and on his own resources, as he described himself as
doing, was an adventurer of the worst kind; his name was only Bette,
and it was from pure fancy that he had made the fantastic addition of
‘d’Étienville;’ he was not a bourgeois of Saint-Omer, but simply a
surgical _student_ of Lille; neither did he live nobly and on his own
resources, since his father was only a workman, a stone-quarrier, in
fact; and with regard to himself, he had espoused at Lille, against the
wish of his family, an old maid sixty years of age, whose property he
wasted in a very short space of time, when he abandoned her, and repaired
to Paris to solicit the privilege _des almanachs chantants_. Such were
the antecedents of this individual, who made before the examining
magistrates a declaration of which the following is the substance; and
which gave an entirely new interest to the Necklace affair, producing, as
it did, almost a score of declarations in reply, and numerous memorials
drawn up with the view of confuting it. On a very slight substratum of
fact Bette d’Étienville managed to raise a pile of falsehood which served
to complicate for a time in the eyes of the bewildered public the already
sufficiently intricate affair of the Necklace.
About the 8th of February, 1785, Bette made the acquaintance, at the
café de Valois, of a Sieur Augeard, who called himself the steward of a
Dame de Courville. This Augeard proposed to him to mix himself up with
a marriage; he spoke to him of a lady who had formerly had a child by a
very great lord, and who desired to give a position to her offspring. The
lady wished to marry a gentleman of title. Bette refused at first to have
anything to do with the business, but the steward having promised him
numerous advantages, he eventually consented, and set forth in search of
a husband. He first addressed himself to the Count Xavier de Vinesacq,
captain of infantry, and chevalier of the order of Saint-Louis, to whom
he was in the habit of selling _eau de Cologne_; but this individual,
distrusting the morality of the intermediary, gave an absolute refusal to
the proposition made to him.
On the Monday in Holy Week of the same year, a certain Baron de Fages,
belonging to the body-guard of the Count de Provence, sought out Bette,
and proposed himself for the marriage in question; he added that he
was a real gentleman, and that his titles to that rank had been left
by him with the Abbé Mulot, Grand Prior of Saint-Victor. D’Étienville
went to the abbé, received from him the titles in question, and gave
them to Augeard, that he might show them to the lady of quality; she was
satisfied with them, and some days afterwards intimated that she accepted
the Baron de Fages for her future husband, and that the union should take
place after Quasimodo (the Sunday after Easter).
When this epoch had arrived, Augeard told Bette that, owing to various
circumstances, the marriage must be delayed; but as Bette did not appear
to believe what he said, Augeard proposed to take him to the lady,
exacting from him, however, a promise of the most profound secrecy.
Three days before Quasimodo, Augeard conducted him to a house, where he
saw a lady about thirty-four years old, of a fine figure, but inclined
to embonpoint, and having black eyes. This lady confirmed what Augeard
had said, and after having required secrecy from him, confided to him
that the child’s father was, after the princes of the blood, one of the
greatest lords in the kingdom, and that this affair would be the means
of making Bette’s fortune. The next day Bette went again to the lady’s,
accompanied by Augeard, and found there a person, whom he did not know,
who was sometimes called Marsilly, and sometimes Councillor, and who
had directed the affair throughout its entire course. Marsilly made
inquiries of him respecting the Baron de Fages, his conduct, manners,
&c., and then went out. The lady now showed d’Étienville her jewels and
unmounted diamonds, which belonged, she told him, to a _rivière_ of
diamonds which she used formerly to wear, and which had been valued at
432,000 livres (francs). She added that she wished to sell them before
her marriage, but had reasons for not disposing of them in Paris, and
proposed to him to go to Holland with some one she would name, and to
sell them there; from the proceeds of this sale 100,000 livres were to be
given as a bridal present to the Baron de Fages. But Bette, fearful of
arrest for being found in possession of such valuable property, refused,
and communicated all these details to the Baron de Fages, on the part of
Madame Méla de Courville, as the lady styled herself. Bette, who felt
disquieted at the mystery which seemed to overhang these interviews, took
particular notice of the house and street to which Augeard conducted
him, and on going there alone, discovered that the house was Madame de
la Motte’s, and that the Cardinal de Rohan was in the frequent habit of
going there. Feeling at that time persuaded that Madame de la Motte and
the Dame de Courville were one and the same person, and being unaware
that Madame de la Motte was married, he remained quiet; but events soon
undeceived him, since the public prints apprised him of Madame de la
Motte’s arrest at Bar-sur-Aube, on the very day that he was at Arras with
the Dame de Courville.
The day of Quasimodo having passed, the marriage was fixed for the 10th
or 12th of April. At this period Augeard told Bette that the Cardinal de
Rohan wished to see him. Bette betook himself to the Dame de Courville’s
where he found Marsilly and the Cardinal; the latter attired in a grey
frock-coat, and a round hat with gold tassels. The Cardinal expressed
to him his satisfaction at the zeal he had shown, and assured him that
he would charge himself with his future fortune. After having spoken
to Marsilly and the Dame de Courville in private, he came back to him
and told him that, for reasons of the highest importance, the marriage
could only take place from the 1st to the 15th of July. He charged Bette
to inform the Baron de Fages of this; whereupon a letter was written
immediately, according to Marsilly’s dictation. The Baron de Fages
accepted the delay, and it was agreed that, in order to compensate him,
in case the marriage should not take place, the Dame de Courville should
bind herself to pay him 30,000 livres, in three separate sums: the first
on the 15th of August; the second on the 15th of October; and the third
on the 15th of December. The bond was given to Bette, sealed with the
Dame de Courville’s seal; he, afraid of losing it, gave it to the Abbé
Mulot, who was perfectly willing to take charge of it. It was at this
period that the Dame de Courville told him in confidence that she was a
baroness, and of high birth, and ex-canoness of a chapter in Germany,
where she first became acquainted with the Cardinal, who had seduced her;
that she had afterwards lived with him, and had a child by him; that
she had followed the Grand Almoner to Paris, Strasbourg, into Germany,
to Vienna, and elsewhere; and lastly, that she was the Baroness de
Sollebercg, or Salleberg. The Baroness spoke German, Italian, and French
well. In the month of May, 1785, she made fresh proposals to Bette to
go and sell her diamonds in Holland; but on his refusing, she no longer
insisted. Some time after she told him she had sold a part of them, and
had had the others mounted; she also showed him a snuff-box, with her
portrait surrounded with brilliants, a watch and chain set with diamonds,
a ring, and a solitaire, begging him to speak of them to the Baron de
Fages, for whom they were intended. On the 1st of July, Bette asked
Madame de Courville if she thought the marriage would take place on the
15th; she replied in the affirmative, and added that the Cardinal would
remain in Paris for the purpose. Nevertheless, the 15th went by, and
Madame de Courville, observing Bette’s inquietude, promised to procure
him a new interview with the Cardinal. On the 18th or 20th of July, about
eleven o’clock at night, he met the Cardinal at Madame de Courville’s,
dressed this time in a short violet frock-coat. He told Bette not to
blame him if the marriage did not take place, since it would be entirely
Madame de Courville’s fault. Then this lady assured him that the Cardinal
had promised her 500,000 livres (francs) on her marriage, and that until
the 500,000 livres were counted down, she would proceed no further in
the matter. Bette took care to inform the Baron de Fages of all that
transpired at this interview.
About this time, Madame de Courville went to pass a few days in the
country, and invited Bette, as well as the Abbé Mulot and the Baron de
Fages, to visit her. The marriage ought to have taken place on the 12th
of August, the day appointed for the payment of the 500,000 livres.
On the 7th, Bette returned from Chantilly, where the Baron de Fages
then was, when he received a note requesting him to go to Madame de
Courville’s. Arrived there, he found her in tears, when she asked him to
return the bond for 30,000 livres signed by her. Bette thereupon withdrew
it from the Abbé Mulot’s possession, and returned it to her. Madame de
Courville immediately tore it up and burnt it, adding, that if she did
not leave Paris she was lost; she begged him to go with her, promising
that her absence should not be long. Overcome by her entreaties, he
agreed. Madame de Courville then sent him to engage a place in the
diligence for Saint-Omer, in the name of Wanin, this being the name he
passed under in her house. She observed to him that it would not be
prudent for them to leave together; that she would travel in her chaise,
and would stop at Arras, where she would await him. Arrived there, she
told him that she was going to leave France, and that, if he was prudent,
he would do the same, because he was mixed up in a grave business, the
Cardinal having been arrested the previous evening and conducted to the
Bastille; she even offered to take him with her to London. Bette then
inquired the causes of the Cardinal’s detention, and learnt from Madame
de Courville that he had bought a Diamond Necklace, and had introduced
into the negotiation for the purchase the name of the Queen, and that his
aim was to procure the 500,000 livres necessary for her marriage portion,
and to put himself in funds, and that the diamonds she had shown him,
and was showing then at that very moment in a box, formed part of the
Necklace in question.
Bette refused to accompany Madame de Courville to London, for fear lest
this journey might compromise him. He asked her for payment of the 30,000
livres; she replied that the demand was a just one, and that she would
satisfy it at Saint-Omer, if he did not consent to follow her. But one
time when they had stopped to change horses, he all at once saw Madame
de Courville returning towards Paris, in company of a man clad in a
blue frock-coat. He believed she was arrested, and on his arrival at
Saint-Omer the truth of the Cardinal’s misadventure was confirmed to
him. He, for his part, betook himself to Dunkerque, where he remained
till the 16th of September, 1785.
The bourgeois of Saint-Omer, living nobly and on his own resources,
having made the aforesaid deposition, estimated it at the price of three
livres, and was re-conducted to the prison of the Châtelet.[482]
FOOTNOTES
[1] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot, ancien Ministre,” (Paris, 1866,) vol. i.
p. 7.
[2] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” (London, 1791,) vol.
i. p. 7.
[3] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 41.
[4] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 47.
[5] See Appendix.
[6] Roman Catholic ecclesiastics not being permitted to marry, the title
of course could not have been transmitted by descent.
[7] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 87.
[8] Now the Messageries in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires.
[9] “Never was there a more aristocratic, or, if the _chronique
scandaleuse_ is to be believed, a naughtier nunnery than that of
Longchamp. It was Rabelais’ Abbey of Thélèma, with additions and
emendations, and ‘Fay ce que vouldras’ might have been written over the
conventual gates. The excellent St. Vincent de Paul was in a terrible
way about the ‘goings-on’ among these exceptionally vivacious nuns, and
in a letter to Cardinal Mazarin indignantly denounced the irregularities
which had become habitual in the establishment. The Archbishop of Paris
remonstrated with the naughty nuns; but they snapped their fingers
metaphorically in the archiepiscopal face, and continued their fandangos.
But they were eventually punished for their peccadillos. The pious world
ceased in disgust to make pilgrimages to the tomb of Ste. Isabelle de
Longchamp, and to deposit rich offerings on her shrine. At the beginning
of the eighteenth century the convent had grown comparatively poor,
when, in 1727, a renowned opera singer, Mademoiselle le Maure, having
taken the veil at Longchamp, the happy thought occurred to the abbess of
giving concerts of sacred music on the three last days of Lent. These
concerts were a prodigious success. The Parisian world, fashionable and
frivolous as well as devout, flocked, as fast as their coaches-and-six
could carry them, to hear the Longchamp oratorios; and these concerts
remained in vogue for nearly fifty years. It came at last to the ears of
another Archbishop of Paris, Monsigneur Christophe de Beaumont—a prelate
celebrated for his enmity to theatrical entertainments, and his quarrel
with Jean Jacques Rousseau—that the attractions of the choir at the Abbey
of Longchamp were enhanced by the voices of a number of artistes from
the opera who had _not_ taken the veil. So the church was closed to the
public. There was an end of the cause, but the effect remained.
“Out of the fashionable pilgrimages grew the world-famous Promenade de
Longchamp, which began in the Champs Élysées, and wound its course right
athwart the Bois de Boulogne to the gates of the Abbey itself. It was
found that the setting-in of the spring fashions might be fitly made
to coincide with the eve of Easter; and every year during three days
in Passion-week there was an incessant cavalcade of princes, nobles,
bankers, _fermiers-généraux_, strangers of distinction, and the ladies
then known as _ruineuses_, to Longchamp. It became not a Ladies’ Mile,
but a Ladies’ League. The equipages of the grandest dames of the Court of
Versailles locked wheels with the chariots of La Duthé and La Guimard;
and the legends whisper that the _ruineuses_ made, as a rule, a much more
splendid appearance than the _grandes dames_ did.”—“Paris Herself Again,”
by George Augustus Sala, vol. ii. p. 253, _et seq._
[10] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 9.
[11] See Extract from the Countess’s Life on page xvi. of the present
volume.
[12] Carlyle’s “Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 9.
See also Appendix to the present work for a more minute and technical
description of the famous Necklace.
[13] “Histoire de la Décadence de la Monarchie Française,” par l’Abbé
Soulavie, vol. iii. p 330.
[14] “Mémoires Historiques et Politiques du règne de Louis XVI.” par
l’Abbé Soulavie, vol. iii. p. 71.
[15] Misspelt “Bassange” in all the Mémoires both written and printed,
and in most of the official records of the “Affaire du Collier.” Such,
however, of the latter, as were signed by the individual in question, are
invariably signed “Bassenge.” There is some doubt as to whether Böhmer
and Bassenge were crown jewellers at this period. One or two contemporary
writers who are regarded as authorities say they were; but the writer of
the letters published under the title of “Correspondance Secrète Inédite
sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette, la Cour et la Ville,” says (vol. i.
p. 548) that Böhmer was jeweller to Stanislaus, king of Poland, Louis
XV.’s, father-in-law, and also to Madame Dubarry, and that it was owing
to his holding this latter appointment that the order for the Diamond
Necklace was confided to him. The same writer asserts that it was not
until early in the year 1785, shortly after the perpetration of the
Necklace fraud, that Böhmer was appointed, through the instrumentality of
Marie-Antoinette, jeweller to the French crown. Although Böhmer may not
have been officially appointed until this date, it is quite certain he
had been employed by the queen almost from the very moment she ascended
the throne of France.
[16] Carlyle’s “Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 8.
[17] Carlyle’s “Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 6.
[18] In the _livre rouge_ of Louis XVI., under the date December, 1776,
there is an entry, in the king’s own hand, “Given to the queen 25,000
livres, the first payment of a sum of 300,000 livres which I have engaged
to pay with interest to Böhmer in six years.”—See Archives of the
Republic.
[19] “Correspondance Secrète de la Cour de Louis XVI.”
[20] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 9.
[21] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 146, _et
seq._
[22] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 10, _et seq._
[23] M. Beugnot says Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi was a fat, handsome girl,
extremely fair, and very dull and stupid, with just sufficient instinct
to divine that she was a great lady.
[24] Acquired it rather by the accident of being born bastard offspring
of a king.
[25] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 151, _et
seq._ The reader must take this glowing description of the wedding and
what transpired subsequently at Fontette, subject to large allowances for
Madame de la Motte’s habitual exaggeration, to make use of no stronger
term.
[26] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 16.
[27] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 11-14.
[28] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 13. Rétaux de Villette,
one of the countess’s many lovers, and of whom we shall by-and-by have
occasion to speak, professes to have heard the story of the countess’s
numerous _liaisons_ from her own lips. He says that the reprobate
Marquis de Boulainvilliers succeeded in seducing both the countess and
her sister, and that the former was moreover _enceinte_ by the Bishop
of Langres at the time of her marriage with M. de la Motte, which is
the reason why this “worthy prelate,” as the countess styles him,
interested himself in hastening forward the ceremony. This may seem a
startling statement, but those who are aware of the extreme immorality
which pervaded the upper classes of French society at this period,
and especially the clerical section of it, will have no difficulty in
believing it. If such things were done in the green wood, what might we
not look for in the dry?—See “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la
Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de Villette, p. 4, _et seq._, also _post_, p. 35.
[29] “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de
Villette, p. 5. Villette was in the same corps as Count de la Motte, and
on duty at Lunéville at the time we are speaking of.
[30] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[31] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 17, 19.
[32] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 18.
[33] Ibid, vol. i. p. 20.
[34] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. pp. 189,
191, 204.
[35] “Mémoire pour Bette d’Étienville.”
[36] “Mémoires de la Baronne d’Oberkirche,” vol. i. p. 127.
[37] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 21, 22.
[38] “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de
Villette, p. 10.
[39] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 25, 26.
[40] “Histoire anecdotique des Rues de Versailles,” par J. A. Le Roi.
[41] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[42] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 9.
[43] Ibid., p. 10.
[44] “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.”
[45] Unpublished Autograph Letter of the Countess de la Motte in the
collection of M. Feuillet de Conches. This letter is endorsed “M.
Lenoir. The concession asked is impossible. Can they obtain other help?
18th May, 1783.” M. Lenoir was lieutenant-general of police at this
period, but—owing, it is said, to the despotic way in which he acted
while occupying this position, coupled with his abject devotion to the
resentments of the great, which induced the Duke de Nivernois to style
him the first slave in the kingdom—he was subsequently rewarded with the
post of president of the administration of finances, and eventually with
the more lucrative one of librarian to the king, a position for which it
may be supposed his antecedents had hardly qualified him.
[46] “Confrontations du Cardinal avec Madame de la Motte.”
[47] “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de
Villette, p. 8, and “Anecdotes du Règne de Louis XVI.” vol. i. p. 367.
[48] “Confrontations du Cardinal avec Madame de la Motte.”
[49] See _post_, p. 47.
[50] “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.”
[51] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 21.
[52] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 17.
[53] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 261.
[54] Déposition de la Comtesse du Barry.
[55] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 265, _et
seq._
[56] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 275.
[57] Carlyle’s “Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 11.
[58] “Mémoires de Mdlle. Bertin,” p. 92.
[59] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. pp. 5, 6.
[60] “Mémoires de Mdlle. Bertin,” p. 99, _et seq._ Certain French
bibliographers have pronounced these memoirs to be forged. In quoting
from them, however, we are only following in the steps of M. Louis Blanc,
who we presume considers them authentic. From the “Mémoire” forwarded
to the queen by the crown jewellers on August 12, 1785, it would appear
that negotiations for the sale of the Necklace had been opened with the
Court of Spain and not the Court of Portugal, as stated in the Bertin
“Mémoires,” which circumstance certainly goes a good way to impugn the
authenticity of the latter.
This celebrated milliner, whose name and fame have become historic,
was, it seems, employed by the Spanish court, and went to Madrid in
performance of her duties as milliner to the Spanish crown. When,
preparatory to her return to France, she presented her account to the
Minister of Finance for settlement, that functionary, who had not the
slightest knowledge of the details of her important art, strongly
objected to the amount which she claimed—some 8000_l._ The king, equally
astonished with his minister, proceeded to settle with the indignant
milliner, by giving orders to his _chargé-d’affaires_ in Paris to have
the account taxed. Mdlle. Bertin protested that her account would
not admit of reduction, and said that Spain was very far from being
civilized, since there was all this cavilling about such an essential
matter as articles of feminine attire. Marie-Antoinette, it seems,
interfered in her milliner’s favour, and eventually the account was
settled without abatement.—See “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis
XVI., Marie-Antoinette,” etc. vol. ii. p. 21.
[61] “Louis XVI.” par Alexandre Dumas, vol. iii. p. 1, _et seq._
[62] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 11; and Déposition de
Grenier.
[63] Déposition du Père Loth.
[64] “Marie-Antoinette et le Procès du Collier,” par E. Campardon, p. 44.
[65] _Vide_ “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot” and Villette’s “Mémoire
Historique.”
[66] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” pp. 11, 13.
[67] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 291.
[68] “L’Histoire de France pendant le XVIIIᵉ siècle,” par C. Lacretelle,
vol. vi. pp. 114, 120.
[69] “Mémoires du Baron de Besenval,” vol. iii. p. 122.
[70] His depositions are signed “Desclaux.”
[71] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. pp. 17,
19, 291.
[72] “Correspondance Inédite de Marie-Antoinette,” par Comte P. Vogt
d’Hunolstein, p. 141.
[73] “Procès de Marie-Antoinette,” Paris, 1865, pp. 40, 64, 65.
[74] “Mémoires pour servir à l’Histoire des Événements de la fin du
XVIIIᵉ siècle,” par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 220.
[75] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 42.
[76] “Mémoires Historiques et Politiques du règne de Louis XVI.,” par
l’Abbé Soulavie, vol. iii. p. 277, _et seq._
[77] “Mémoires pour servir à l’Histoire des Événements de la fin du
XVIIIᵉ siècle,” par l’Abbé Georgel, vol i. p. 269, _et seq._
[78] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. i. p. 65.
[79] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. i. pp. 229, 591.
[80] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 294.
[81] She had informed the cardinal that the queen had deigned to accept
of a white Spanish dog which the cardinal had offered to her through the
princess. Of course Marie-Antoinette had done nothing of the kind.
[82] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 12,
Appendix.
[83] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 17,
Appendix.
[84] A few of these letters are given in the Appendix to the present work.
[85] “Confrontation du Cardinal avec le Père Loth.” The latter described
the paper on which Villette wrote as being bordered with “_vignettes
bleues_,” and in M. Feuillet de Conches’ unique collection of autographs
of Marie-Antoinette are several notes written by the queen on paper with
coloured borders.
[86] “Mémoires de la Baronne d’Oberkirche,” vol. i.
[87] “Saverne et ses environs,” par C. G. Klein.
[88] This refers to the year 1866. What changes the former palace may
have undergone since Saverne has been under German domination I am unable
to say.
[89] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 24.
[90] The Rue du Jour is a narrow street close to the “Halles Centrales,”
and at the western end of the church of St. Eustache. It contains at the
present day several _Hôtels meublés_ of a seedy kind, but the “petit
hôtel Lambesc,” where Mdlle. Leguay Designy had her small apartment on
the _premier étage_, no longer exists under its original name.
[91] The count being, according to Rétaux de Villette, a notorious
gambler, the Palais Royal, where the _salons de jeu_ most abounded, would
naturally have been one of his accustomed haunts.
[92] More probably towards the end of July.
[93] “Mémoire pour la Demoiselle Leguay d’Oliva,” p. 8, _et seq._
[94] “Histoire anecdotique des Rues de Versailles,” par J. A. Le Roi.
[95] “Deuxième Mémoire pour le Sieur Bette d’Étienville,” p. 17.
[96] “Mémoire pour la Demoiselle Leguay d’Oliva,” p. 16.
[97] “Mémoire pour la Demoiselle Leguay d’Oliva,” p. 16, _et seq._
[98] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 52, _et seq._
[99] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan.”
[100] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i p. 67, _et seq._
[101] In the cardinal’s first “Mémoire” he states the sum to have been
sixty thousand livres, but at his examination he fixed it at fifty
thousand.
[102] “Histoire de Marie-Antoinette,” par E. et J. de Goncourt, p. 202.
[103] “Mémoire pour la Demoiselle Leguay d’Oliva,” p. 34.
[104] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 33, 34.
[105] “Essais Historiques sur la Ville de Bar-sur-Aube,” etc., par J. F.
G., and “Histoire de Bar-sur-Aube,” par L. Chevalier.
[106] An evident allusion to the ancient Roman triumphs.
[107] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 35, _et seq._
[108] A pun upon _La Motte_.
[109] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 41, _et seq._
[110] There were twenty-four livres or francs in the louis of those days.
[111] This letter of Mademoiselle de Saint-Remi’s has obtained the honour
of being preserved among the historical autographs in the National
Archives.
[112] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 45, _et seq._, 259, 260,
262.
[113] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 92.
[114] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 75, _et
seq._
[115] This and similar allusions to localities connected with our
narrative refer to the year 1866.
[116] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[117] Déposition de Bassenge.
[118] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. pp. 340,
341.
[119] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 93, _et
seq._, and “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol i. p. 344
_et seq._
[120] Madame Campan states that “_Vu bon.—Marie-Antoinette_” was the form
in which the queen certified the accuracy of an account.
[121] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 47,
_et seq._
[122] See _post_, p. 120.
[123] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 50.
[124] “Cagliostro’s Stammbaum” von Wolfgang von Goethe.
[125] “Louis XVI.,” par Alexandre Dumas, vol. iii. p. 154.
[126] “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.”
[127] “Mémoires de la Baronne d’Oberkirche,” vol. i. pp. 129, 144.
[128] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 59.
[129] See _post_, p. 230.
[130] It is the corner house looking on to the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
[131] “Histoire de la Révolution Française,” par Louis Blanc, vol. ii. p.
82.
[132] “Réponse pour la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 27.
[133] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 59, _et seq._
Cagliostro laid claim to being possessed of the power not only of
transmuting metals and curing all diseases, but of calling up spirits
from the other world. His evocations were certainly not without an
element of art. On one occasion the spirit the company desired to commune
with was that of D’Alembert, and from notes furnished by an eye-witness,
Lady Mantz, the actor Fleury gives the following account of the ceremony
in his _Mémoires_:—
“The spectators or, as Cagliostro preferred to call them, guests sat
in arm-chairs along the wall on the east side of the apartment. Before
these chairs was drawn an iron chain,” lest some foolish person should
be impelled by curiosity to rush upon destruction. “On the other side
was placed the chair intended for the reception of the apparition. The
Grand Koptha—the name assumed by Cagliostro on such occasions—chose the
unusual hour of 3 a.m. for his evocations. Shortly before that time
a voice was heard to order the removal from the scene of cats, dogs,
horses, birds, and all reptiles, should any be near. Then came a command
that none but free men should remain in the apartment; the servants were
accordingly dismissed. A deep silence followed, and the lights were
suddenly extinguished. The same voice, now assuming a louder and more
authoritative tone, requested the guests to shake the iron chain; they
obeyed, and an indescribable thrill ran through their frames. The clock
at length struck three—slowly, and with a prolonged vibration of the
bell. At each stroke a flash, as sudden and transitory as lightning,
illumined the apartment, and the words ‘Philosophy,’ ‘Nature,’ and
‘Truth’ successively appeared in legible characters above the empty arm
chair. The last word was more brilliant than the others. The lustres were
suddenly relighted, how no one could tell. Stifled cries were heard as
from a man whose mouth was gagged—a noise like that of a man struggling
to break loose from persons detaining him;—and Cagliostro appeared.
“The Grand Koptha wore a costume to which it would be difficult to find
anything analogous. Flowing drapery set off his figure to advantage,
and the glow of enthusiasm in his face made him look really handsome.
He delivered a short but comprehensive address, commenting on the words
just seen over the chair. Then, turning successively to the four cardinal
points, he uttered some cabalistic words, which returned as if from a
distant echo. The lights having been extinguished, he commanded the
guests again to shake the chain, and as they did so the strange feeling
previously alluded to was renewed. The outline of the arm-chair now
became gradually perceptible in the darkness, as though the lines had
been traced on a black ground with phosphorus. The next moment, and as if
by the same process, a winding sheet could be seen, with two fleshless
hands resting upon the arm of the chair. The winding sheet, slowly
opening, discovered an emaciated form; a short breathing was heard, and
two brilliant piercing eyes were fixed upon the spectators.”
The illustrious philosopher, the author of the Preface to the
“_Encyclopédie_,” had been called from the dead. He would answer
questions put to him, but Cagliostro alone was privileged to hear him
speak. “And what questions were put to him?” asked Fleury of Lady Mantz.
“He was asked whether he had seen the other world.” “And what did he
say?” “Ah, Monsieur Fleury, it was a terrible reply, especially to one
who, like me, looks forward to a better future. He said, ‘There is no
other world.’” “And did no one reply?” “Reply! who could venture to
reply to the ghost of M. d’Alembert, returned from—ah, whence?” “That is
precisely the thing. You should have said, ‘M. d’Alembert, if there is no
other world, where may you happen to come from now?’”
[134] According to the official documents relating to the “Affaire du
Collier” the correct name of this individual was Desclaux.
[135] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 99.
[136] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 39. All the persons
concerned in the famous nocturnal meeting differed with regard to the
date at which it took place. Madame de la Motte, as we have already
stated, fixes it on the 28th of July.
[137] Miswritten “Regnier” in the official records. Regnier was another
goldsmith with whom the De la Mottes had considerable dealings, bought
their service of plate of, etc.
[138] “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.”
[139] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[140] “Histoire du Bois de Boulogne,” par J. Lobet, p. 141.
[141] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[142] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 350, and
“Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[143] Déposition de Bassenge.
[144] Madame Campan’s memory appears to have been at fault here.
[145] The reader will have observed that specific mention is not made in
the jewellers’ letter of the Necklace itself, which Marie-Antoinette,
in common with everybody else, had no doubt heard had been sold to the
Sultan. Besides, only some two months previously the queen had purchased
of Böhmer a magnificent pair of diamond earrings at the cost, it was
reported, of 800,000 livres, and why might not this letter in the queen’s
mind have borne reference to these rather than to the Diamond Necklace?
See “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. i. p. 562.
[146] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 227.
[147] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 92.
[148] See Appendix to the present work, p. 394.
[149] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[150] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 80.
[151] This, if true, was a piece of vain boasting on the cardinal’s part,
for it is quite certain that he received the thirty thousand livres from
Madame de la Motte, who professed to have brought them from the queen.
[152] “Deuxième Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[153] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii pp. 9, 12,
279.
[154] It is important that this date should be noted; for the
circumstances which transpired on it, and which are chronicled in the
police records, effectually dispose of the theory advanced by certain
writers—such as M. Alexandre Dumas, in his “Louis XVI.” (vol. iii. p.
194, _et seq._)—who maintain that Marie-Antoinette really purchased
the Necklace, through the instrumentality of the Cardinal de Rohan,
and, after keeping it something like three months, returned it to the
jewellers by the hands of Madame de la Motte, on finding that she was
unable to raise the money to meet the first instalment. While asserting
that Madame de la Motte was really the queen’s confidant, the writers
referred to are forced to admit that she betrayed her trust, and
converted the Necklace to her own use.
[155] See _ante_, p. 44.
[156] Déposition de Vidal, and Déposition de Brugnières, inspecteur de
police. Brugnières was the police agent who arrested Mirabeau and Madame
de Monnier in Holland, after their elopement from France.
[157] “Mémoire pour Bette d’Étienville,” and Déposition de Bette
d’Étienville. See also Appendix, p. 409.
[158] Déposition de Furet.
[159] Déposition de Regnier.
[160] “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.” Also _post_, p. 148.
[161] Déposition de Perregaux, banquier.
[162] Gray’s shop was No. 13, and the largest in New Bond Street. The
house, which is within two doors of Long’s hotel, must have been quite
a new building at the time the Count de la Motte had dealings with the
crack London jeweller of that day.
[163] See _ante_, p. 140.
[164] Which in fact was _not_ a falsehood. See Jefferys’ deposition,
given in the “Pièces Justificatives pour le Cardinal de Rohan.”
[165] Déposition de McDermott.
[166] There is evidently some blunder here. This must be the aigrette in
the form of a rose, for which Gray charged £60. See _post_, p. 151.
[167] See _ante_, p. 147. The Count there says twenty-eight.
[168] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 194, _et
seq._
[169] “Pièces Justificatives pour le Cardinal de Rohan.”
[170] “Confrontation du Cardinal de Rohan avec le Père Loth.”
[171] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[172] Déposition de Perregaux.
[173] See _ante_, p. 148.
[174] Déposition de Regnier.
[175] “Marie-Antoinette et le Procès du Collier,” par E. Campardon.
Paris, 1858, p. 98.
[176] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 49.
[177] “Premier Interrogatoire du Cardinal de Rohan.”
[178] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 72.
[179] Déposition de Bassenge.
[180] See _ante_, p. 135.
[181] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. pp.
283-4. Madame Campan is the single authority for this reputed interview
between Böhmer and the queen. Other accounts agree in stating that the
queen invariably refused to see the crown jeweller, under the pretence
that his threats of suicide alarmed her. Still, as Madame Campan was so
intimately mixed up with the affair at this particular juncture, she
could hardly be mistaken on so important a point as this interview. If it
really did take place, Böhmer must have kept the cardinal in ignorance of
it, for had he known of it he would hardly have counselled the jeweller
to attempt to throw dust in the eyes of the astute De Breteuil. See the
next page.
[182] “Memoirs of Marie Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. pp. 284.
[183] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 74.
[184] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 375, _et
seq._, and “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.”
[185] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 83. Villette evidently
lingered for some time on French soil, for his passport for Italy was not
dated until August 20, two days after the countess’s arrest.
[186] Déposition de Bassenge.
[187] Déposition du Père Loth.
[188] “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de
Villette, p. 59.
[189] “Some of the De la Mottes’ fine furniture may still be seen at
Bar-sur-Aube, in the _salon_ of the son of a former postmaster of the
place, who subsequently bought the house itself of the count. To-day,
improvements in the town of Bar-sur-Aube have necessitated the partial
destruction of the De la Motte abode, fragments of which exist in no less
than three separate streets.”—_Letter from the Curé of Bar-sur-Aube to
the author_, 1866.
[190] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 70, 71.
[191] “Authentic Adventures of the Countess de la Motte,” p. 119.
[192] Ibid. p. 120. The author of this work states that he was at
Bar-sur-Aube at this particular period, and saw the count riding about
in the balloon-shaped carriage above mentioned. Balloons, it should be
remembered, were then a recent invention, Montgolfier having made his
first ascent in December, 1783, some twenty months previously.
[193] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol i. p. 71.
[194] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 71, _et seq._
[195] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 76-77.
[196] “Mémoires de la Baronne d’Oberkirche,” vol i. p. 127.
[197] See Georgel, who attributed this movement of the cardinal’s to his
firm belief at the time that the queen had really employed Madame de la
Motte as her intermediary in the Necklace affair.
[198] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. pp. 13,
14, 15, 286-7. Madame Campan has extracted the foregoing narrative,
nearly word for word, from a newspaper of the time—the _Journal des
Débats_. See the Abbé Soulavie’s “Mémoires Historiques et Politiques du
règne de Louis XVI.,” vol. vi. p. 81, _et seq._, where the same account
will be found quoted.
[199] “Mémoires du Baron de Besenval,” vol. iii. p. 127. The baron adds
that he heard the whole of this detail told to the queen, but nothing was
said of the contents of the paper written by the cardinal.
[200] It is No. 6 in the Rue des Réservoirs. _Vide_ “Histoire Anecdotique
des Rues de Versailles,” par J. A. Le Roi.
[201] There are other versions of this incident: we have, however,
preferred to follow the Abbé Georgel’s. See “Mémoires pour servir,”
etc., vol. ii. pp. 103-4. Madame Campan says that the cardinal borrowed
the pencil which he used from the sub-lieutenant into whose custody he
was given, and who, when reprimanded for having permitted the cardinal
to write, excused himself by saying that the orders he received did not
forbid his doing so; and that, moreover, being himself in great pecuniary
difficulties, he thought the unaccustomed summons, “In the king’s name,
follow me,” addressed to him by the Baron de Breteuil, concerned him
personally, which for the moment so unnerved him that he hardly knew what
he was doing. See “Madame Campan’s Memoirs,” vol. ii. pp. 15, 16, 284.
[202] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 79.
[203] “Essais Historiques sur la ville de Bar-sur-Aube,” par J. G. F.
[204] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 79, 80.
[205] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol i. p. 80, _et seq._
[206] “Anecdotes du règne de Louis XVI.,” vol. i. p. 385.
[207] “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.”
[208] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. pp. 85, 86.
[209] “Mémoire pour le Comte de Cagliostro contre Maître Chesnon fils et
le Sieur de Launay,” p. 4, _et seq._ In several of the earlier documents
filed in the “Affaire du Collier,” the prefix “Count” has been marked
through with a pen, both where it occurs in the body of the instrument
and also as part of Cagliostro’s signature. After a time, the registrar
or reporter seems to have grown tired of making this excision, and to
have allowed the disputed title to pass unobliterated.
[210] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. pp. 49,
108.
[211] M. Feuillet de Conches has, among his curious collection of
autographs relating to the affair of the Diamond Necklace, a series of
reports from the Marquis de Launay to the Baron de Breteuil, which give,
day by day, a list of the persons who visited the cardinal during his
confinement in the Bastille.
[212] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. i. pp. 600, 616.
[213] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 389, _et
seq._
[214] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 408.
[215] Ibid. vol. i. p. 416.
[216] Autograph letter of Madame de la Motte’s in the National Archives.
[217] Anonymous autograph letter of Madame de la Motte’s in the
collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[218] M. F. Barrière.
[219] “Histoire de Marie-Antoinette,” par E. et J. de Goncourt, pp. 39,
102.
[220] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol i.
[221] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. i. p. 233.
[222] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. i. p. 339.
[223] “Les derniers jours de Trianon,” par M. Capefigue, p. 25.
[224] See _ante_, p. 50.
[225] “Weber’s Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” vol. ii. p. 263.
[226] “Lettres et Documenta Inédits de Louis XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,”
par M. Feuillet de Conches, vol. iii. p. 318.
[227] “Souvenirs de la Marquise de Créqui,” par le Comte de Courchamps.
[228] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc. vol. i. p. 355.
[229] “Louis XVI.,” par Alexandre Dumas, vol. iii. p. 167.
[230] “Histoire de Marie-Antoinette,” par E. et J. de Goncourt. Most of
the foregoing particulars respecting the queen’s society at the Little
Trianon have been derived from this work.
[231] “Mémoires Posthumes du Feld-Maréchal Comte de Stedingk,” vol. iii.
pp. 17, 74.
[232] “Life of the Countess de la Motte,” by herself, vol. i. p. 312, _et
seq._
[233] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. i. p. 242.
[234] “Histoire de Marie-Antoinette,” par E. et J. de Goncourt, to which
interesting work we are indebted for the larger portion of the present
chapter.
[235] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. i. pp. 238, 330.
[236] Ibid. vol. i. p. 315.
[237] “Les derniers jours de Trianon,” par M. Capefigue p. 84.
[238] M. de Lescure, in his “La Vraie Marie-Antoinette,” brings forward
evidence of the existence of a private printing press in the cellars of
the Palais Royal, at which these foul libels were struck off.
[239] “Carlyle’s Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 36,
_note_.
[240] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,
la Cour et la Ville,” vol. i. p. 587.
[241] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol, i. pp. 97-8.
[242] Unpublished autograph letter of Louis XVI. in the collection of M.
Feuillet de Conches.
[243] “Souvenirs de M. Berryer, doyen des avocats de Paris, de 1774 à
1838,” vol. ii. p. 51.
[244] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 49.
[245] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 127.
[246] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 138,
_et seq._
[247] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 143.
[248] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 145.
[249] “Correspondance Inédite de Marie-Antoinette,” par Comte P. Vogt
d’Hunolstein, p. 133. It should be mentioned that the majority of the
letters in this collection are considered to be of doubtful authenticity.
[250] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 426.
[251] In the French State paper office a minute description is preserved
of the documents, put in on behalf of the prosecution in the “Procès du
Collier.” An epitome of this will be found in the appendix to the present
volume.
[252] This name occurs as Filliau in the written record of the
proceedings, preserved in the National Archives.
[253] “Premier Interrogatoire de Madame de la Motte.”
[254] Cagliostro’s wife was known by this designation.
[255] This was an alias of Rétaux de Villette’s. See _post_, p. 243.
[256] “Interrogatoire du Sieur de Cagliostro.”
[257] “Correspondence Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,
la Cour et la Ville,” vol. i. p. 592.
[258] As an example of Cagliostro’s audacity in this respect, it may
be mentioned that, when first questioned by the lieutenant of police,
who, in allusion to the Necklace affair, inquired if he had nothing to
reproach himself with—he coolly replied, Nothing but the death of Pompey,
and that even with regard to this he acted under the orders of Ptolemy.
The lieutenant of police, not taken in the least aback, quietly observed
they would refrain from going into any matters that occurred under his
predecessors in office. See “Correspondance Secrète Inédite,” etc., vol.
ii. p. 18.
[259] We have been unable to fathom the meaning of this allusion. All we
have succeeded in discovering about Madame Böhmer is, that she was the
“famous Demoiselle Renaud,” but whence she derived her celebrity we are
left in the dark.
[260] “Premier Mémoire pour la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 27, _et seq._
[261] Autograph Report of the Marquis de Launay, governor of the
Bastille, in the collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[262] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp. 19, 20.
[263] Confrontations du Cardinal de Rohan avec Madame de la Motte.
[264] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 30.
[265] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 41.
[266] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 40.
[267] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 55.
[268] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 185.
[269] Confrontations de la Dame de la Motte avec les témoins.
[270] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 47.
[271] Confrontations de la Dame de la Motte avec les témoins.
[272] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., pp. 75-6.
[273] Confrontations de la Dame de la Motte et du Cardinal.
[274] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 235.
[275] “Mémoire pour la Demoiselle Leguay d’Oliva,” p. 34.
[276] “Mémoire pour le Comte de Cagliostro,” p. 46.
[277] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 238.
[278] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 241.
[279] “Mémoire pour le Cardinal de Rohan,” p. 50.
[280] Autograph Letter of the Abbé Georgel, in the collection of M.
Feuillet de Conches.
[281] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 31.
[282] “Carlyle’s Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 57.
[283] “Requête pour le Sieur Marc-Antoine Rétaux de Villette,” p. 5. See
also “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 26.
[284] “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de
Villette, p. 60.
[285] Premier Interrogatoire de Rétaux de Villette.
[286] If this statement was true it is difficult to conceive how the
cardinal and the jewellers could have been deceived by the signature
affixed to the contract, for there is not the slightest resemblance
between Villette’s bold upright style of penmanship as it appears in the
numerous signatures appended to his depositions, etc., and the cramped,
slanting, handwriting of Marie-Antoinette. Even if the cardinal was
unacquainted with the precise character of the queen’s handwriting at
this epoch, it is most improbable that Böhmer was in a like state of
ignorance.
[287] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 103.
[288] Deuxième Interrogatoire de Rétaux de Villette.
[289] “Mémoire Historique,” etc., par Rétaux de Villette, pp. 65-72.
[290] Confrontations de Madame de la Motte avec Rétaux de Villette.
[291] “Sommaire pour la Comtesse de la Motte,” pp. 17, 18.
[292] See note, p. 164, vol. i. of “Lettres et Documents Inédits de Louis
XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,” par M. Feuillet de Conches.
[293] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 330.
[294] Ibid. vol. ii. p. 329, _et seq._
[295] “Requête pour le Sieur Marc-Antoine Rétaux de Villette,” p. 10.
[296] Confrontations du Cardinal de Rohan avec Madame de la Motte.
[297] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 97.
[298] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 85.
[299] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp. 31, 71.
[300] Ibid. vol. i. p. 408.
[301] Ibid. vol. i. p. 449.
[302] Ibid. vol. ii. pp. 18, 51, 77; and “Mémoires Justificatifs.”
[303] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp. 24,
27, 29.
[304] “Mémoires Justificatifs,” p. 237. To have tampered with the
records, would have been exceedingly difficult, as the reader will
perceive by referring to the extract from the National Archives, given at
p. 395 _et seq._ of the Appendix to this volume.
[305] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 90.
[306] Ibid. vol. ii. p. 109.
[307] Ibid. vol. ii. pp. 66, 67.
[308] Arrêt du Parlement. “Collection complète de tous les Mémoires qui
ont paru dans la fameuse Affaire du Collier,” etc., p. 24.
[309] This refers to its condition in the year 1867. It has since been
renovated.
[310] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 93, _et
seq._
[311] The “Tournelle” was the Chamber that had the judging of criminal
matters.
[312] “Mémoires de Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 290.
[313] Correspondance Inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran et du Chevalier de
Boufflers (Paris 1875), p. 121.
[314] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. pp. 179,
196.
[315] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 96.
[316] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 114.
[317] “To-day,” writes M. Berryer, in 1837, “when my fancy carries
itself back to fifty years or so ago”—the very date of the Necklace
trial—“towards the Palais de Justice, I recognize neither the same
antique structure, nor the same internal divisions, nor those innumerable
jurisdictions of which it was the seat, nor that inconceivable flood of
persons interested, whose tumultuous waves were agitated every day for
hours together, and more especially from noon until two o’clock.
“Outside the edifice was a large staircase, crowded with shops piled
one above the other, flanked by the offices of writers, starting from
the angle of the handsome railings, on the side of the Pont-au-Change,
extending to the circle of the old Cour du Mai, and serving as a girdle
to the Sainte-Chapelle, a confused mass of steps and stalls pictured
with such animation in the Lutrin of Boileau. Who does not recollect
the inquiry made by the countryman of an _avocat_, laden with several
bags of briefs, on catching sight of this grotesque staircase, ‘Sir,’
said he, ‘will you be kind enough to tell me what that building is?’ ‘It
is a mill,’ replied the over-worked _avocat_. ‘Ah! I guessed as much,’
remarked the countryman, ‘from seeing so many donkeys carrying their
sacks to it.’
“Under the immense vaulted galleries, and also surrounding all the
columns of the great hall, were more rows of shops filled with
merchandise of all kinds, which had caused the name _Palais Marchand_
to be given to this temple of justice. The Parliament alone occupied
seven large halls—the grand chamber, the _tournelle_, the three halls
of inquests, and the halls of requests. The grand chamber, with its
arched roof springing from gilded brackets, was an austere-looking place.
Perched above were two galleries reserved for the accommodation of great
personages, and which I have seen occupied, among others, by the Emperor
Joseph II., the unfortunate Gustavus, king of Sweden, and by the Count
and Countess du Nord, since Emperor and Empress of Russia.”—_Souvenirs de
M. Berryer_, vol. ii. p. 25, _et seq._
[318] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp. 96-9.
[319] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 115.
[320] Nothing of the kind is to be found in the records of the countess’s
examinations.
[321] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 115.
[322] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 100,
_et seq._
[323] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 118.
[324] “Anecdotes du règne de Louis XVI.,” vol. i. p. 410.
[325] “Mémoires pour servir,” etc., par l’Abbé Georgel, vol. ii. p. 197.
[326] “Anecdotes du règne de Louis XVI.,” vol. i. p. 400.
[327] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 118.
[328] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. i. p. 615.
[329] “Correspondance Inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran et du Chevalier de
Boufflers” (Paris 1875).
[330] “Memoirs of Marie Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p.
295. In the doubtful Memoirs of the Princess de Lamballe, we find that
Princess asserting she had had in her possession documentary evidence of
the immense sums spent by the Princess de Condé in corrupting the judges
and other persons. More than a million francs were expended, she says, by
the families of Rohan and Condé in this way. See “Mémoires relatifs à la
Famille Royale de France,” etc., vol. i. pp. 306-7.
[331] “Anecdotes du règne de Louis XVI.,” vol. i. p. 412.
[332] Extract from the Imperial Archives given in M. Campardon’s
“Marie-Antoinette et le procès du Collier,” p. 149.
[333] “Mémoires du Baron de Besenval,” vol. iii. p. 135.
[334] “Correspondance Inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran,” etc., p. 123.
[335] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” p. 123.
[336] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 293.
[337] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 121.
[338] “Anecdotes du règne de Louis XVI.,” vol. i. p. 412.
[339] Spite of this express order the document is not to be found among
the other papers relating to the “Affaire du Collier,” preserved in the
National Archives.
[340] The letters G A L, with which Count de la Motte was sentenced
to be branded, were doubtless intended as an abbreviation of the word
_Galérien_, or galley slave.
[341] This branding of the Countess with the letter V, was designed to
signify _Voleuse_, or thief.
[342] “Arrêt du Parlement,” preserved in the National Archives, X² 2576.
[343] “Mémoires Historiques et Politiques du règne de Louis XVI.,” par
l’Abbé Soulavie, vol. vi. p. 73.
[344] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp. 120-1.
[345] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 63.
[346] “Memorial for the Count de Cagliostro.”
[347] “Correspondance Inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran,” etc., p. 125.
[348] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 153,
_et seq._
[349] “Memorial for the Count de Cagliostro,” p. 27.
[350] “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de
Villette, p. 70.
[351] “Memorial for the Count de Cagliostro,” p. 27.
[352] Hon. W. Eden to Mr. Pitt, in “Lord Auckland’s Journals and
Correspondence,” vol. i. p. 132.
[353] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 293.
[354] Autograph letter from Marie-Antoinette to the Duchess de Polignac,
in the collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[355] An inadvertent mistake has been here made by the queen. It was the
cardinal who received the rose. This incidental error of the queen’s
furnishes a convincing proof, if any were needed, that she played no part
in the midnight interview with the cardinal.
[356] “Lettres et Documents Inédits de Louis XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,”
par M. Feuillet de Conches, vol. i. p. 161.
[357] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 23.
[358] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 291.
[359] “Correspondance Inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran et du Chevalier de
Boufflers,” p. 125.
[360] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., p. 157.
[361] “Journals and Correspondence of Lord Auckland,” vol. i. p. 126.
[362] “Memorial for the Count de Cagliostro.”
[363] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp.
139-142.
[364] “Journals and Correspondence of Lord Auckland,” vol. i p. 132. A
wit of the time observed, in allusion to the countess’s descent from
an illegitimate branch of the Valois, “that she ought not to have been
marked on the left shoulder, as it was on this side that she hung on
to the Bourbons.”—See “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI.,
Marie-Antoinette,” etc., vol. ii. p. 52.
[365] “Correspondance Inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran et du Chevalier de
Boufflers,” pp. 142-3.
[366] “Anecdotes du règne de Louis XVI.” vol. i. p. 415, _et seq._
[367] “Mémoire Historique des Intrigues de la Cour,” etc., par Rétaux de
Villette, p. 69.
[368] “Mémoires du Baron de Besenval,” vol. iii. p. 140.
[369] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 134.
[370] Autograph letter from the officer of the marshalsea at Boulogne to
the Baron de Breteuil, in the collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[371] See the Countess’s “Mémoires Justificatifs,” and “Mémoires Inédits
du Comte de la Motte.”
[372] Report dated September, 1785, in the archives of the French
Police, quoted by Louis Blanc in his “History of the French Revolution.”
Brussels, vol. ii. p. 129.
[373] “Compte rendu de ce qui s’est passé au Parlement,” etc., pp. 65, 66.
[374] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” pp. 103, _et
seq._
[375] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 33.
[376] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp. 393-4.
[377] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” pp. 152, _et
seq._
[378] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 143,
_et seq._ The Salpêtrière at the present day is a refuge for aged and
infirm women, and accommodates no less than 4369 inmates. Madame de la
Motte’s cell is one of the lions of the place shown to visitors.
[379] “Journals and Correspondence of Lord Auckland,” vol. i. p. 397.
[380] _Morning Chronicle_ newspaper, December 29, 1786.
[381] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp.
143-197. We suspect the whole of this key business to be fudge.
[382] “Lettres et Documents Inédits de Louis XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,”
par M. Feuillet de Conches, vol. i. p. 171.
[383] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp. 205,
212.
[384] “Journals and Correspondence of Lord Auckland,” vol. i. p. 420.
There are certain discrepancies with respect to the date of the duchess’s
visit. Mr. Storer, writing to the Hon. Mr. Eden, on May 11, 1787, says,
“the Polignacs have arrived; on Tuesday they went to the opera,” etc.
In contradiction to this we have a letter written by Marie-Antoinette,
and dated April 11, exactly a month previous, evidently addressed to the
duchess while she was in England, and inquiring whether she had found
any benefit from the Bath waters. It is possible that a wrong date has
been affixed to the last-mentioned letter subsequently to its having
been written, for Marie-Antoinette left most of her letters undated. See
“Lettres et Documents Inédits de Louis XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,” vol. i.
[385] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 157.
[386] It was commonly believed at the time, that the authorities not only
connived at the countess’s escape, but abetted it. It is said that at the
moment of her departure from the Salpêtrière, the superior jokingly said
to her, “Farewell, Madame, take great care you are not remarked” (meaning
also re-marked with the branding-iron).
[387] Nogent-sur-Seine in the department of the Aube.
[388] It will be noticed that the countess makes no mention of how she
obtained the necessary funds to undertake this journey.
[389] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. pp.
219-230.
[390] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol. i. p. 43.
[391] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 230,
_et seq._
[392] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 210.
[393] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 26.
[394] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself” (see title-page).
[395] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 155.
[396] See _ante_, p. 303.
[397] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. pp. 157, 166.
[398] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 412.
[399] See “Julie Philosophe, ou le Bon Patriote,” vol. ii. p. 17.
[400] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 237.
[401] “Journals and Correspondence of Lord Auckland,” vol. i. p. 304.
[402] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” par L. Lacour.
[403] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. pp. 107-8.
[404] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI. Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol. ii. p. 163.
[405] “La Princesse de Lamballe: Sa Vie—Sa Mort,” p. 246.
[406] “Mémoires relatifs à la Famille Royale de France,” vol. i. p. 315,
_et seq._
[407] Husband and wife here contradict each other point blank. The count
in his posthumous “Mémoires” maintains that the MS. was not surrendered
to Calonne; the countess says it was—in all probability another
falsehood, concocted by her, to induce the public to believe that the MS.
had not been already sold to the French court.
[408] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte-Valois,” Paris, 1858. This
work, edited by M. Louis Lacour, is stated by him to have been printed
from a duplicate copy of the manuscript Mémoires written by M. de la
Motte in 1825, at the instigation of the French minister of police.
Everything referring to the Necklace affair had been abstracted from
these manuscripts while they were in possession of the authorities. See
_post_, p. 366.
[409] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI., Marie-Antoinette,”
etc., vol ii. p. 481.
[410] “Histoire de Marie-Antoinette,” par E. et J. de Goncourt, p. 293.
[411] See _ante_, p. 45.
[412] Autograph letter from Count de la Motte to Louis XVI., in the
collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[413] See the judgment of the first tribunal, _post_, p. 356.
[414] “Vie de Jeanne de St.-Remi de Valois, Comtesse de la Motte, écrite
par elle-même.”
[415] Extract from an autograph letter from Count de la Motte to Louis
XVI., in the collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[416] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” pp. 237-9.
[417] The work was really printed in London, and, with the exception of
its supplement, before the death of the countess in August, 1792.
[418] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 194,
_et seq._
[419] “Mémoires Secrets pour servir à l’Histoire de la dernière année du
règne de Louis XVI.,” par A. F. Bertrand de Moleville, vol. ii. p. 218,
_et seq._
[420] “Memoirs of Marie-Antoinette,” by Madame Campan, vol. ii. p. 194.
[421] “Procès de Marie-Antoinette,” p. 117.
[422] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol i. p. 221.
[423] “Carlyle’s Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 37.
[424] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” Supplement, vol.
ii. p. 58. The Princess de Lamballe was in England in June 1791, and not
improbably set on foot the negotiations here referred to.
[425] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” par L. Lacour, p. 190, _et
seq._
[426] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii.
Supplement, p. 61.
[427] “Gentleman’s Magazine,” vol. lxi. p. 783.
[428] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 442.
“Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” p. 322.
[429] Autograph letter from Madame de Bracque, Abbess of Jarcy, in the
collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[430] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. ii. p. 377.
[431] “Mémoire Historique,” etc., par Rétaux de Villette, p. 3.
[432] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI.,” etc., vol. ii. p.
346.
[433] “Lettres et Documents Inédits de Louis XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,”
vol. i. p. 171.
[434] “Marie-Antoinette et le Procès du Collier,” p. 23.
[435] “Mémoires du Comte Beugnot,” vol, i. p. 6.
[436] See _post_, p. 363.
[437] Though it bears the imprint of Venice on the title-page, this
“Mémoire” was possibly a production of the unlicensed Paris press of the
period.
[438] So stated by Carlyle in the rhapsodical prophecy which he puts into
the mouth of Cagliostro, and which he subsequently says all turned out
“literally true.” See vol. iv. pp. 57, 60, of his Essays.
[439] “Lettres et Documents Inédits de Louis XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,”
par M. Feuillet de Conches, vol. i. p. 165.
[440] “Mémoires sur les Prisons de Paris sous Robespierre,” vol. ii. p.
88.
[441] Carlyle’s French Revolution, Leipzig, vol. iii. p. 341.
[442] “Mémoires sur les Prisons de Paris,” etc., vol. ii. p. 78.
[443] “Carlyle’s Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. p. 58.
[444] Autograph letters of the Abbess of St. Bénoît to the Baron de
Breteuil, in the collection of M. Feuillet de Conches.
[445] “Marie-Antoinette et le Procès du Collier,” par E. Campardon, p.
156, _note_.
[446] “Correspondance Secrète Inédite sur Louis XVI.,” etc., vol. ii. p.
463.
[447] Biographie Universelle; art. de Rohan.
[448] Ibid., art. Cagliostro.
[449] “Procès de la Reine” (Deux Amis), vol xi. pp. 251, 381.
[450] “Villate, Causes Secrètes de la Révolution de Thermidor,” p. 179.
[451] Weber’s “Mémoires concernant Marie-Antoinette,” vol. i. p. 6.
[452] “Deux Amis,” vol. xi. p. 301. Carlyle’s “French Revolution,”
Leipzig, vol. iii. pp. 244-7.
[453] “Maria-Theresia und Marie-Antoinette,” von A. Ritter von Arneth, p.
107.
[454] Carlyle’s “Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,” vol. iv. pp. 30, 31.
[455] _Moniteur_ for 1792, No. 220.
[456] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” pp. 254-282.
[457] “Les Crimes de Marat et des autres égorgeurs, ou, ma Résurrection,”
par P. A. L. Maton de la Varenne, pp. 67-8.
[458] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” pp. 286-302.
[459] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” pp. 303-362.
[460] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” p. 365.
[461] “Mémoires Inédits du Comte de la Motte,” p. 375.
[462] “Lettres et Documents Inédits de Louis XVI. et Marie-Antoinette,”
vol. i. p. 176.
[463] “Journal de Paris,” Nov. 12, 1831.
[464] “Marie-Antoinette et le Procès du Collier,” par E. Campardon, p.
200.
[465] This refers to the year 1866.
[466] See _ante_, p. 64.
[467] See _ante_, p. 61 _et seq._
[468] See _ante_, p. 148 for particulars of the stones which the Count
brought back with him to France.
[469] See _ante_, p. 150.
[470] Beugnot in his “Mémoires” furnishes us with a description of this
_bonbonnière_, to which, it will be remembered, both the Count and
Countess make allusion. (See _ante_, pp. 153, 223-4.) It would appear,
from what Beugnot says, that it was never in the cardinal’s possession,
though it had been got up to play a part in the fraud which was being
practised upon him. Beugnot insinuates that had the officers of justice
been more expeditious in their movements, they would have found in Madame
de la Motte’s jewel-box this _bonbonnière_, which he tells us he had
admired there a dozen times. “It was,” remarks he, “a black tortoiseshell
box, surrounded by large diamonds, exactly alike, and of the finest
water; the subject on the top of the box was a rising sun which dispersed
the mists on the horizon; you touched a spring, and under this first
subject was found a portrait of the queen, clothed in a simple white robe
(without any other ornament on her head than her hair, raised up in the
fashion of the period, and two earrings falling on her neck one on either
side), and holding a rose in her hand, precisely in the same attitude
and costume as the character played by Mdlle. d’Oliva in the park of
Versailles. They would, moreover, have found in this box two of the
cardinal’s letters, from which they would have seen that the De la Mottes
had made him hope for it, as a token of reconciliation with the queen,
and would have seen, too, that they had given him all the details of this
magnificent jewel.”—Mémoires du Comte Beugnot, vol. i. p. 89.
Beugnot is apparently wrong in supposing that this _bonbonnière_ escaped
the vigilance of the officers of justice, as among the documents relating
to the “Affaire du Collier,” preserved in the National Archives (X²
2576), is a memorandum without heading, date, or signature, which sets
forth, that “among the effects found at Bar-sur-Aube in the house of
Madame de la Motte, was a box with a portrait of the queen holding a
rose,” which portrait, it goes on to say, the Sieur Malus, treasurer
of finance, pretended he had orders to withdraw, but having been
challenged by the Sieur Guichard, the procureur-général’s substitute,
to produce his orders, he could only bring forward a letter addressed
to him by the contrôleur-général; whereupon the Sieur Guichard notifies
that on the morrow he will render an account of the above facts to the
procureur-général, who there is every reason to believe will bring them
to the notice of his majesty’s keeper of the seals and the Baron de
Breteuil.
[471] “Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de la Motte,” p. 39.
[472] These references are to the present volume.
[473] See his “Histoire de la Révolution Française,” vol. ii.
[474] “Life of the Countess de la Motte, by herself,” vol. i. p. 349.
[475] No. X² 2576. See also the Appendix to Campardon’s “Marie-Antoinette
et le Procès du Collier,” pp. 271-389.
[476] See _ante_, p. 179.
[477] M. de Lescure in “La Princesse de Lamballe, Sa Vie—Sa Mort,” pp.
189-190.
[478] The King.
[479] It should be mentioned that with a single exception—a letter of
Madame de la Motte’s, which is given on page 187 _et seq._ of this
work—none of the documents herein referred to are now in existence. They
are believed to have been destroyed during the Revolution.
[480] “Genealogical History of the House of France,” by Father Anselme,
vol. i. p. 136; “History of France,” by the President Henault, third
edition, in quarto, p. 315.
[481] In accordance with French law this proceeding rendered him
legitimate.
[482] “Marie-Antoinette et le procès du Collier,” p. 109, _et seq._
THE END.
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