of Paul de Gondi, the Coadjuteur of Paris; she had encouraged her friends to laugh at him because he was something of a dandy, and that accorded ill with the
soutane
he wore as a man of the Church. Paul de Gondi was a strong man; he had declared he would be master of Paris and he had prepared himself to bring about that state of affairs.
It was last July, in the heat of summer, when, below that apartment in which the Queen of England and her daughter now shivered, Parisians had barricaded the streets. Great barrels, filled with earth and held in place by chains, were placed at the entrances of narrow streets. Citizens were detailed to guard these streets. This was reminiscent, and indeed inspired by the “Night of the Barricades” of the previous century.
The War of the Fronde had started. It was typical of Parisian humor that the war should be so named. A law had recently been passed prohibiting young boys from gathering in the streets of Paris and attacking each other with the
fronde
(a sling for stones) then so popular. These games of stone-slinging had on more than one occasion proved fatal and there had been public concern. So it was that, during the heated discussions in the Parliament concerning the taxes about to be imposed by the hated Cardinal Mazarin, the favorite of the Queen-Regent, the President of the Parliament had begged the assembly to consider the terms which Mazarin was proposing. The President’s son—he was de Bachaumont and known throughout Paris as a
bel esprit
—had said that when his turn came to speak he would
“frondera bien l’opinions de son père.”
This
bon mot
was taken up and repeated; and
Frondeur
was adopted as the name of those who would criticize and “sling” rebellion against the Court party.
So, during those months, Paris was in danger; and the French throne seemed about to topple as had that of England. Henrietta Maria’s pension had not been paid since the war started; she had run short of food and wood, and now that the winter was upon her suffered acute discomfort; yet, soothing her little daughter, putting her arms about her and cuddling her in an attempt to keep her warm, she was not thinking of what was happening immediately outside her windows but of her husband who was about to face his trial in London.
“Mam,” said the little Princess, “I’m cold.”
“Yes, little one, it is cold, but perhaps we shall soon be warm.”
“Cannot we have a fire?”
“My love, we lack the means to light one.”
“I’m hungry, Mam.”
“Yes, we are all hungry, dearest.”
The Princess began to whimper. She could not understand.
“Holy Mother of God,” murmured the Queen, “what is happening to Charles?”
Anne, who was now Lady Morton as her husband’s father had recently died, came into the room. Her lips were blue, her beautiful hands mottled with the cold.
“What is it, Anne?” asked the Queen.
“Madame, Monsieur le Coadjuteur is here to see you.”
“What does he want of me?”
“He asks to be brought into your presence.”
The Coadjuteur was at the door; this was not a time when Queens should be allowed to stand on ceremony, and he was master of Paris.
Henrietta Maria did not rise; she looked at him haughtily.
But Paul de Gondi had not come as an enemy.
He bowed before the Queen, and she looked into the face of the man who was temporarily king of Paris. It was a dissolute face though a strong one. Paul de Gondi, who from childhood had wished to be a great power in the land, had been destined for the Church. His uncle had been Archbishop of Paris, and it was intended that Paul should succeed him. But Paul, having no vocation for the Church, had tried to prove himself unsuitable for the office by riotous living and frequent dueling. Finding himself unable to avoid acceptance of the archbishopric he decided to become a learned man and rule France as Richelieu had done. First he had set about winning the people of Paris, and having done this with
soutane
he wore as a man of the Church. Paul de Gondi was a strong man; he had declared he would be master of Paris and he had prepared himself to bring about that state of affairs.
It was last July, in the heat of summer, when, below that apartment in which the Queen of England and her daughter now shivered, Parisians had barricaded the streets. Great barrels, filled with earth and held in place by chains, were placed at the entrances of narrow streets. Citizens were detailed to guard these streets. This was reminiscent, and indeed inspired by the “Night of the Barricades” of the previous century.
The War of the Fronde had started. It was typical of Parisian humor that the war should be so named. A law had recently been passed prohibiting young boys from gathering in the streets of Paris and attacking each other with the
fronde
(a sling for stones) then so popular. These games of stone-slinging had on more than one occasion proved fatal and there had been public concern. So it was that, during the heated discussions in the Parliament concerning the taxes about to be imposed by the hated Cardinal Mazarin, the favorite of the Queen-Regent, the President of the Parliament had begged the assembly to consider the terms which Mazarin was proposing. The President’s son—he was de Bachaumont and known throughout Paris as a
bel esprit
—had said that when his turn came to speak he would
“frondera bien l’opinions de son père.”
This
bon mot
was taken up and repeated; and
Frondeur
was adopted as the name of those who would criticize and “sling” rebellion against the Court party.
So, during those months, Paris was in danger; and the French throne seemed about to topple as had that of England. Henrietta Maria’s pension had not been paid since the war started; she had run short of food and wood, and now that the winter was upon her suffered acute discomfort; yet, soothing her little daughter, putting her arms about her and cuddling her in an attempt to keep her warm, she was not thinking of what was happening immediately outside her windows but of her husband who was about to face his trial in London.
“Mam,” said the little Princess, “I’m cold.”
“Yes, little one, it is cold, but perhaps we shall soon be warm.”
“Cannot we have a fire?”
“My love, we lack the means to light one.”
“I’m hungry, Mam.”
“Yes, we are all hungry, dearest.”
The Princess began to whimper. She could not understand.
“Holy Mother of God,” murmured the Queen, “what is happening to Charles?”
Anne, who was now Lady Morton as her husband’s father had recently died, came into the room. Her lips were blue, her beautiful hands mottled with the cold.
“What is it, Anne?” asked the Queen.
“Madame, Monsieur le Coadjuteur is here to see you.”
“What does he want of me?”
“He asks to be brought into your presence.”
The Coadjuteur was at the door; this was not a time when Queens should be allowed to stand on ceremony, and he was master of Paris.
Henrietta Maria did not rise; she looked at him haughtily.
But Paul de Gondi had not come as an enemy.
He bowed before the Queen, and she looked into the face of the man who was temporarily king of Paris. It was a dissolute face though a strong one. Paul de Gondi, who from childhood had wished to be a great power in the land, had been destined for the Church. His uncle had been Archbishop of Paris, and it was intended that Paul should succeed him. But Paul, having no vocation for the Church, had tried to prove himself unsuitable for the office by riotous living and frequent dueling. Finding himself unable to avoid acceptance of the archbishopric he decided to become a learned man and rule France as Richelieu had done. First he had set about winning the people of Paris, and having done this with