Read Ebook: Ninon de l'Enclos and her century by Rowsell Mary C Mary Catherine

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Ebook has 515 lines and 86422 words, and 11 pages

A few days later, Madame de L'Enclos died, calmly, and tended by her husband and her child, leaving at least affectionate respect for her memory. A year later, Monsieur de L'Enclos died. True to the last to his rule of life, the dying words he addressed to his daughter were these--

"My child, you see that all that remains to me in these last moments, is but the sad memory of pleasures that are past; I have possessed them but for a little while, and that is the one complaint I have to make of Nature. But alas! how useless are my regrets! You, my daughter, who will doubtless survive me for so many years, profit as quickly as you may of the precious time, and be ever less scrupulous in the number of your pleasures, than in your choice of them."

At this time her beauty and accomplishments, united with her fortune, drew many suitors for her hand, and of these there would probably have been many more, but for the certainty she made no secret of, that marriage was not in the picture of the life she had sketched out for herself. Her passion for liberty of thought and action in every aspect, fostered ever by her father, was dominant in her, and not to be sacrificed for the most brilliant matrimonial yoke.

Away beyond the St Antoine Gate at Picpus, Ninon established another dwelling for herself, in which it was her custom to rusticate during the autumn.

And at last, after an interval of six years, Ninon and Marsillac met again. It was in the salon of the H?tel de Rambouillet. Mademoiselle de L'Enclos, beautiful, sought after, already the centre of an admiring circle, the talk of Paris, and Monsieur le Capitaine de la Rochefoucauld, already for two or three years a gallant soldier, chivalrous, romantic, handsome with the beauty of intellect, interesting from his air of gentle, cynical pensiveness, ardent in the cause of the queen so mercilessly persecuted by Richelieu, and therefore lacking the advancement his qualities merited, still, however, finding opportunity to indulge in the gallantries of the society he so adorned. Someone has said that few ever less practically recognised the doctrines of Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld's maxims, than did Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld himself, and the aphorisms have been criticised, and exception has again and again been taken to them, not perhaps altogether unreasonably; but in any case he justified himself of his dictum that "love is the smallest part of gallantry"; for when at last--and it took some time--Marsillac recognised his old scapegrace chum of the Loches ch?teau, homage and admiration he yielded her indeed; but it was far from undivided, and shared in conspicuously by her rival, Marion Delorme, a woman of very different mould from Ninon. Like her, beautiful exceedingly, but more impulsive, softer-natured, more easily apt to give herself away and to regret later on. Intellectually greatly Ninon's inferior, she was yet often a thorn in the side of the jealous Mademoiselle de L'Enclos.

The times, as a great commentator has defined them, were indeed peculiar. The air, full of intrigue, was maintained by Richelieu at fever-heat, and wheel worked fast and furiously within wheel. There was the king's party, though the king was little of it, or in it. The iron hand of the Cardinal Prime-Minister was upon the helm. Richelieu, who never stayed in resistance to the encroaching efforts of Spain--in his policy of crushing the feudal strength of the nobility of the provinces--or in annihilating Huguenot power as a political element in the State--saw in every man and woman not his violent partisan, an enemy to France and to the Crown. How far he was justified, how far he could have demanded "Is there not a cause?" stands an open question; but the effect was terrible. The relentless hounding down of the suspected, forms a page of history stained with the blood of noble and gallant men. Richelieu's crafty playing with his marked victims, chills the soul. They were as ninepins in his hands, lured to their destruction, sprung upon, crushed often when most they believed themselves secure.

Scarcely was acquaintance renewed with her still quite youthful old friend, Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld, than Ninon met for the first time St Evr?mond--Charles de St Denys, born 1613, at St Denys le Guast near Coutances in Normandy--the man with whom her name is so indissolubly connected, traversing nearly all the decades of the seventeenth century into the early years of the eighteenth, his span of life about equalling her own, and though for half of it absent from her and from his country, maintaining the links of their intimacy in their world-famed correspondence.

"... in numbers For the numbers came."

One contemporary editor, withholding his name, content with styling himself merely "A Person of Honour," has, at all events, yielded due homage to St Evr?mond's character and genius. Commenting on the essays which have come within his ken, he writes--

"Their fineness of expression, delicacy of thought are united with the ease of a gentleman, the exactness of a scholar, and the good sense of a man of business. It is certain," he adds, "that the author is thoroughly acquainted with the world, and has conversed with the best sort of men to be found in it."

To this may be added the praise of Dryden--

"There is not only a justness in his conceptions, which is the foundation of good writing, but also a purity of language, and a beautiful turn of words, so little understood by modern writers."

Agreeable, witty, an excellent conversationalist, and of real amiability of character and disposition, St Evr?mond's aim in life was to enjoy it. Indolently inclined, he accepted the ills and contrarieties of existence, finding even in them some soul of good. Always fond of animals, he surrounded himself in later years with cats and dogs, holding them eminently sympathetic and amusing; and he was wont to say that in order to divert the uneasinesses of old age, it was desirable to have before one's eyes something alive and animated.

"Justice and Charity supply the place Of rigid penance and a formal face. His piety without inflicted pains Flows easy, and austerity disdains. God only is the object of his care, Whose goodness leaves no room for black despair. Within the bosom of His providence He places his repose, his bliss and sure defence."

His writings were voluminous, flowing from his pen as a labour he delighted in. Their themes were varied, brought from the rich stores of his mind, his most enduring and favourite subjects being classical Latin lore, and the drama of his own day, lustrous with great names in France, as in the country of his adoption.

Such, and much more, was St Evr?mond the man of letters, and besides, he was a skilful and gallant soldier, distinguished for his brilliant sword-play, when he entered upon the exercises preparatory for his military career. In that capacity he won the approval and friendship of the Duke d'Enghien, fighting by the prince's side at Rocroi and Nordlingen; though later a breach occurred in their relations, when St Evr?mond indulged in some raillery at his expense. The great man vastly enjoyed persiflage of the sort where the shafts were levelled at others; but he brooked none of them aimed at himself, and St Evr?mond was deprived of his lieutenancy.

Ever zealous for the glory of France, Richelieu founded the Acad?mie Fran?aise; and later the college of the Sorbonne, where now he lies magnificently entombed, was rebuilt by him, and devoted to its old purpose of a centre of learning; and as of old, and as ever, men thronged from near and from afar to Paris for the study of art and learning, and to pay such homage to the modern Muses and enjoy their smiles, as good fortune might allow.

A "Delicious Person"--Voiture's Jealousy--A Tardy Recognition--Coward Conscience--A Protestant Pope--The H?tel de Rambouillet--St Evr?mond--The Duel--Nurse Madeleine--Cloistral Seclusion and Jacques Callot--"Merry Companions Every One"--and One in Particular.

Six years had passed since as girl and boy Ninon and Marsillac had parted at Loches. At sixteen years old he had entered the army, and was now Monsieur le Capitaine de la Rochefoucauld, returned to Paris invalided by a serious wound received in the Valtellina warfare. Handsome, with somewhat pensive, intellectual features, chivalrous and amiable, he was "a very parfite gentle knight," devoted to the service of the queen, which sorely interfered with his military promotion: devotion to Anne of Austria was ever to meet the hatred of the cardinal, and to live therefore in peril of life.

The daring young hoyden of Loches was now a graceful, greatly admired woman of the world, welcomed and courted in the ranks of the society to which her birth entitled her.

Thereupon, linking her arm in Voiture's, Ninon begged him to conduct her to Number 6, rue des Tournelles. The poet, vastly enjoying the excitement his words had evoked, readily complied, and arrived at Marion's apartments where the Capitaine de la Rochefoucauld was duly discovered. Then broke the storm, ending in Marsillac's amazement when Ninon demanded how it was that he had not discovered in her his old friend Ninon de L'Enclos. Then, in the joy and delight of recognition, Marsillac, forgetting the very presence of her rival, sprang to her side, and offering her his arm, sallied forth back to Ninon's abode, spending the rest of the day in recalling old times at Loches, and in transports of happiness. Only late into the night, long after Marsillac had left her presence and she was lost in dreamful sleep, it brought the faces of her mother and of St Vincent de Paul vividly before her, gazing with sad reproachful eyes; and with her facile pen she recorded the memory of that day, fraught with its conflict of spirit and desire.

"O sweet emotions of love! blessed fusion of souls! ineffable joys that descend upon us from Heaven! Why is it that you are united to the troubles of the senses, and that at the bottom of the cup of such delight remorse is found?"

Whether through the silence of the small hours any echoes touched her vivid imagination of the Man in Black's mocking laughter, no record tells; but in any case, with the fading of the visions, the disturbing reflections were quickly lost in the joy of Marsillac's society, as also in that of St Evr?mond--the very soul of gaiety and wit and every delightful characteristic.

"How happy could I be with either, Were t'other dear charmer away,"

says Captain MacHeath, and there were days together that Marsillac did absent himself. The grand passion of his life was not with either of the two women, or with any of the fair dames then immediately around. They were merely the toys of his gallant and amiable nature, and at that time he was deeply absorbed in the duties of his profession, and his ardent devotion to the queen's cause. It was, indeed, one most difficult and dangerous, ever facing, as it did, the opposition of Richelieu, who saw in every friend and partisan of Anne of Austria Spanish aggression and a foe to France.

The right of private judgment, ever one of her strongest characteristics, asserted itself, and she declared herself unconvinced. "Then, mademoiselle," said the ecclesiastic, "until you find conviction, offer Heaven your incredulity."

She soon found balm for the inflicted wounds of Coligny's ingratitude, in the ardent admiration of the son of the Marquise de Rambouillet, seeing in him only the one absurd defect of desiring unchanging constancy, and on this point he was so tiresome that she was driven to promise fidelity for three months--"An eternity," said Ninon, ever mocking at love, which she ranked far below friendship.

Some half-dozen years before Ninon was born, a man named C?sar and another Ruggieri, probably taking the old magician for sponsor, had been notorious as potent masters of the "Black Art." That they were credited with possessing unlimited command over the elements, and to produce thunder and lightning at will, was but a small part of his power. He could manufacture love-potions to render the indifferent one enamoured of the wooer, and insidious poisons to destroy a hated human obstacle, and perform many services of the like nature for a price, but the fees were startlingly high.

An indiscretion, only in a measure connected with his profession, brought C?sar inside the walls of the Bastille. He had, it appeared, been accustomed to attend the Witches' Sabbath, and meeting there a great Court lady, he had, he said, induced her to listen too graciously to his soft speeches. The boasts, after his release from the old fortress, brought him condign punishment at the hands, it was said, of his Satanic chief, furious with jealousy it might be. It was on a wild March night that he came and went again with hideous din and clatter, leaving C?sar strangled in his bed; and then making his way to the abode of Ruggieri, he despatched him in the same manner. There were some ready to contend that less supernatural agency might be answerable for these acts. On the other hand it was well known that the devil was no stranger in Paris, having once resided in a street on the left bank of the Seine, which was named after him, the rue d'Enfer. From here he was at last ejected, thanks to a happy thought on the part of the city authorities, who handed the ground over to the Capucin brothers, and the foul fiend was heard of no more in that quarter. C?sar extenuated his offence of magic by the assertion that he "was pestered to death by young courtiers and other young Parisians to show him the devil," and not seeing why he should have the trouble of doing so for nothing, he set his price at forty and fifty pistoles, leaving it a matter of choice whether they would face the terrible ordeal to its ending, or take flight, leaving the pistoles of course behind them. It was this latter course which had been mostly adopted.

And now, at Gentilly, dwelt one magician named Perditor, whose power was reported to be greater than that of any of his predecessors; since he possessed the secret of concocting a philtre capable of maintaining a woman's beauty and freshness to extreme age. It was the idea of obtaining this inestimable thing, which determined Ninon to pay a visit to the mighty Perditor. The chronicles of the time confirm the facts related by Ninon of her adventure, which are best told in the fashion of her own experiences:

"On entering the village, we inquired for the dwelling of the celebrated necromancer, and a guide presented himself to conduct us thither. We soon arrived in front of a yawning cavern which was surrounded by large deep ditches. Our guide made a signal, and immediately a man dressed in red appeared on the opposite side of the ditches, and asked us what we wanted.

"'I wish for a philtre,' I replied, 'which will make my beauty last the length of my life.'

"'And I,' said the count, 'wish to see the devil.'

"'You shall both be satisfied,' replied the red man, as calmly as if we had asked the most natural thing in the world. Then he lowered a sort of drawbridge across the ditch, and, this crossed, he admitted us into the cavern, where we soon found ourselves in complete darkness. I felt not a little nervous.

"'Do not be afraid,' said the count to me; 'I have my sword with me, a dagger, and two pistols; with them I think I can defy all the sorcerers in the world.'

"After proceeding for quite five minutes along underground galleries and passages, we found ourselves in a sort of large circular chamber hewn out of the solid rock. Some resin torches cast a fitful and gloomy glare up into its vaulted roof. At one end of this hall, upon a platform draped entirely in black, was seated a personage in the garb of a magician, who appeared to be waiting for us.

"'That is the Master!' solemnly said the man in red to us.

"And he left us alone in the presence of the great sorcerer himself.

"'Approach!' cried Perditor, addressing us in a terrible voice. 'What do you wish?'

"'I wish,' murmured I, in a trembling voice, 'a philtre to preserve to me my youth and beauty all my life.'

"'Forty crowns. Pay first.'

"Taking out my purse, I laid down five louis, appalled by the defiant fierceness of his tones. The count did not wait for the questioning of the man on the platform.

"'For my part, Sir Necromancer,' he said, 'I feel greatly curious to see the devil. How much do you want for showing him to me?'

"'One hundred livres.'

"'Peste! At that price what fine benefices you must be able to bestow.'

"The lord of the cavern vouchsafed no reply. He took the money from the count, which he put into a big purse hanging at his side, along with my louis. That done, he laid his hand upon a huge bell, which sounded as loud as the bourdon strokes of Notre-Dame tower-bell. At this signal, which nearly deafened us, two nymph-like young women, fairly pretty, dressed in white and crowned with flowers, rose from the ground near. Perditor pointed me out to them, handed them an empty crystal phial, and then again struck his fearful bell. The nymphs disappeared. I gathered that they had gone to mix my philtre.

"'And now,' continued the necromancer, turning to us, 'you are both decided that you will see the devil?'

"'Very decided,' said the count.

"'Your name?'

"'It is indispensable.'

"'It is Anne de L'Enclos.'

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