Chapter XXVIII: Marion De L'orme

After putting my costume in proper order, I placed a new plume in my hat, pointed up my moustache, perfumed my hair like a court gallant, and sent little Poquelin about dusk for a fiacre, in which I was driven to the house of Marion de l'Orme, for whom I had no less than six billets, one of which was from my friend the Marquis de Toneins, son of the Marechal Duke de la Force.

I felt confused and anxious while I was driven through the streets; and amid the clatter of wooden shoes and the cries of dealers in nicotina, perfumed wash-balls, walking canes, and bonbons, I thought only of the loss of the miniature, and its probable results if it fell into evil hands. Mademoiselle de l'Orme's residence was in the Rue St. Jacques, and adjoined an old house which was one of the sights of Paris, for therein Alexander II. of Scotland, when on a visit to Queen Blanche, the mother of Louis IX., visited St. Dominique, the confessor, in 1219, so it was old enough, you may be assured.

As I rang the bell at the gate of the Hôtel de l'Orme--for so was her handsome mansion styled--and gazed upward at its row of illuminated windows, I felt a glow of interest at the anticipation of being tête-à-tête with this remarkable woman, who had become so celebrated throughout all France for her gallantries, the number of her lovers, the lustre of her beauty, and the reckless manner in which she broke through and trampled under her pretty foot all the rules by which the women of the Christian world have hitherto been guided.

I gave my name to a porter in the court; he, in turn, gave it to a valet in the vestibule, who repeated to a third on the staircase, and in due time I was ushered into a magnificent saloon, where waxlights, perfume, persons in glittering dresses, gorgeous furniture, and rich hangings appeared on all sides, like a brilliant scene at the Opera Française, and forming a strange contrast to those which I had seen for some time past--the trenches of La Mothe and the tents of Hepburn's army.

On three sides of this saloon, the tapestry of silk represented an allegory of Fame proclaiming by trumpet-sound the happiness of France; while Justice, sword in hand, drove away whole legions of Sedition, Discord, and Envy. The fourth side portrayed the proudest scene in the military history of 'Scotland's ancient enemies'--the brave Black Prince waiting at supper upon the King of France, on the same day he had conquered and taken him prisoner. The furniture was all of walnut (each piece a miracle of carving), or of buhl, and beautifully inlaid with shell and mother-of-pearl. Statues, bronzes, pictures, and countless objects of virtù and bijouterie were strewed around the tables of this long saloon, the carpets of which were of the softest Persian manufacture. As I perceived all these details at a glance, a gentleman, clad almost entirely in blue velvet and cloth of silver, started forward from amid the splendid group that were lounging around the low fauteuil, on which Marion de l'Orme was seated like a princess. He was my new acquaintance, M. de Brissac, then her most favoured lover; and, taking me by the hand, he at once presented me as 'a gentleman of the Guard, just arrived from the camp of the Chevalier Hepburn.' She received me with the most enchanting grace; and, giving me her perfumed hand to kiss, placed the six billets in a casket, to be read or burned when she was more at leisure.

She made me sit beside her on the fauteuil, for she had a hundred questions to ask--about the charge at Bitche; the storming of La Mothe; who were killed, who were wounded, and who had escaped; and whether I thought the ladies of Lorraine as charming as those of Paris. Then, in her inquiries, she strung together the names of counts, marquises, and chevaliers, captains, lieutenants, and musketeers, without giving me time to reply; and among the names of her friends she enumerated nearly all the cuirassiers of the Garde du Corps Ecossais. The brilliance of her manner, her wit and vivacity, dazzled and charmed, while it silenced and at times almost stunned me.

Her face was perfect in feature and regal in contour; her eyes were dark, but full of light, and a hundred varying expressions passed through them; her teeth and lips were as those of a child; her jet-black hair was gathered in braids and folds, which displayed to perfection the form and pure whiteness of her temples, her slender neck, and little ears, from each of which hung a diamond pendant worth six thousand francs, the gift, as I was afterwards informed, of the young marquis, our captain. She was attired in rose-coloured satin, trimmed with four flounces of black lace; her long peaked stomacher was golden cloth; her necklace, bracelets, rings, and the jewels among her hair, were sparkling with diamonds, which enhanced the splendour and the delicacy of her beauty.

The passionate light that filled the eyes of this dangerous woman made my heart flutter when she smiled on me, and caused me to dream of the joy of being loved by her as she twice gave me her hand to kiss--the loveliest hand in Paris.

Marion de l'Orme was then in her twenty-fourth year, having been born at Chalons sur Marne, in Champagne. Her father was a gentleman of property, who could have given her about sixty thousand francs as a marriage portion; but she preferred a life of gallantry and freedom, such as the reigns of Henry IV. and his successors had made fashionable, and thus she wickedly despised a reputable settlement.

Lovers taught her soon--too soon--that she was beautiful, that she was witty, and that there was a divine grace in all she did. She sang well, excelled in the guitar, and was wont to admit that she had loved passionately--at least while the love lasted--eight or nine consecutive lovers. The first was Des Barreaux, the next was Rouville, of whom she soon wearied, as he was not handsome enough; but the poor fellow fought a duel about her with his successor, La Ferte Senecterre, and left this valley of tears with three feet of a rapier in his body. Then came Miossens, to whom she took a fancy as he caracoled his horse along the Boulevardes, and to whom she bluntly sent a little pink note, inviting him to come and sup with her. Then followed Arnauld, the unfortunate Cinq Mars, who was beheaded by Richelieu; M. de Chatillon; the Marquis de Gordon, who was forgotten as soon as our drums died away on the road to Lorraine; and lastly, my new friend, M. de Brissac, whom I should have found little difficulty in supplanting had I been so disposed. Cardinal Richelieu himself was among her lovers. He gave her a cane worth six hundred francs, and she used to visit his Eminence dressed as a page; for her whims were ever rash, fantastic, and unaccountable.

Love excepted, Marion had no frailty, and she had many virtues. She chatted away of her past amours with a coolness which surprised me. Perceiving that M. de Brissac was admiring Cupid and Psyche, a beautiful group in bronze--

'Ah!' said she, 'that was a gift from poor Senecterre; and the buhl pedestal on which it stands, was given to me by that wretch Miossens, whose moustache had always such a horrid odour of nicotina.'

'And this beautiful casket,' said I, 'excels that of the Duchess d'Ancre.'

'Scarcely, in size at least,' said Marion; 'for the Duchess, in her famous casket, carried all her jewels, together with her best locks and bosom. The buhl table that it stands on was a present from dear Cinq Mars, who thought himself so handsome. There was a time when I thought him so too, but then he was such a self-willed toad that he bored me. And so, M. Blane, my gay friend, the little Marquis de Toneins was actually wounded at your terrible La Mothe?'

'Yes, mademoiselle, in ascending the breach.'

'Ah! he sought the bubble reputation even at the cannon's mouth, but in lieu of the bubble got the ball, which M. Shakespeare forgot to consider. I doubt not, my dear M. Blane, your despatches will cause many a tear to be shed in France.'

'True, mademoiselle,' said De Brissac, with a sentimental air; 'many an eye, lovely as your own, that God made only for smiling, now is compelled to weep.'

'But their tears will only render brighter the laurels which bedeck the brows of the survivors. The number who have fallen saddens, doubtless, our glory and triumph, but,' she added, with her fine eyes flashing, 'they fell for France, bequeathing victory to her and to their comrades. Is it not so, my dear M. Blane?'

A burst of applause from her admirers prevented me from replying; and then she asked, in a low voice--

'Is the wound of De Toneins severe?'

'Rather, mademoiselle; yet I know of a pain greater than even a musket-shot can inflict.'

'Indeed; what is it, pray?'

'To feign indifference where we feel but--love,' said I, with an air so gallant and tender that it won me an approving smile from Marion and a frown from M. de Brissac, of which mark of displeasure I was resolved to be quite oblivious; for what the deuce was M. de Brissac to me?

'And you feel this often, M. Blane?' she asked, with an inexplicable glance, in which drollery predominated.

'Nay, mademoiselle, I never felt it until now,' I replied, sinking my voice, as an irresistible spirit of gallantry urged me on; 'I am unused to the society of one so beautiful; so pray, mademoiselle, excuse my diffidence.'

'Gentlemen are ever telling me that I am beautiful,' said Marion, pettishly; 'I would rather be beloved.'

Fortunately--for there was a malevolent gleam in the eyes of De Brissac--the servants appeared with a cold collation, served up in silver and Bohemian crystal of crimson flowered with gold. We had wines of the most expensive description to overflowing, and a hundred gay anecdotes and witty remarks were given on all sides; for the boudoir of Marion de l'Orme was not a place to repress the liveliest sallies of the wits and sparks who hovered about her, and who courted her smiles. I remember that De Brissac made us all laugh by the pointed and satirical manner in which he related a droll story of the Bishop of Auvergne, who was sorely tried and tempted by the devil, who met him in his cathedral church at night in the form of a handsome woman with very scanty garments. Then Marion assumed her guitar, and sang to us first an old ballad of the Palatines of Champagne; and then a Spanish romance, in which a lover declared that once when thinking of his mistress he fell into a pond, where _the heat of his passion_ had such an effect on the water, that it bubbled up and boiled all the fish--the trout, perch, and carp--so that his friends who came to hook him out, forgot all about him in the delicious repast afforded them by the ready-cooked spoil of the waters.

These songs, stories, and the generous wine put us all in excellent humour.

'Everything here is princely,' said I to a grave-looking cavalier, who wore the Grand Cross of Malta.

'Yes,' he replied with a sardonic grin; 'for the love of Mademoiselle is a commodity that rises in value according to the season in Paris, and the rank of her adorers.'

This was evidently a disappointed man; but Marion gave more to the poor than any ten Priors of his order.

'Fill your glasses, gentlemen,' exclaimed De Brissac, standing on one of the rich tapestry chairs; 'fill them to the brim. I mean to parody old Martial for the occasion, thus:--

'Let six full cups to Nævia's health go round,
And _fair de l'Orme's_ with _seven_ full cups be crowned.'

'Vivat, messieurs! off with them!' and the mad cavaliers drained seven in succession; but after this it pleased M. de Brissac to become very cross, jealous, and suspicious; and, assuming his plumed hat and long sword, he proposed to leave.

'Well, if you are determined to be unpleasant, assuredly I shall not detain you,' said Marion, with a tone of pique; 'but,' she added in a kinder whisper, 'when am I to have that diamond necklace from the queen's jeweller?'

'I know not,' he answered, gloomily; 'and I care not.'

'Indeed!'

'Yes,' he replied, twisting his right moustache.

'It is only six hundred paltry crowns.'

'Crowns of the sun--mordieu! my wife's cost but two hundred.'

'What is Madame to me?'

'More than I am, apparently,' retorted de Brissac, as he thrust his broad beaver on his head, and retired in a gust of wine and passion; but not without levelling a dark glance at me.

In an hour after, I tired of this witty and brilliant but loose company, and bade Marion adieu. As I kissed her hand, she gave me a glance so bright and tender, that I would not have given a brass bodle for the chances of M. de Brissac, had I deemed it worth my while to attempt supplanting him in her favour; for the silver saltire of the Scottish Guard bore all before it in Paris; but, save once in her coach on the Boulevards, I never saw Marion again.

This wild and remarkable girl, whose beauty turned the heads of all the gallants in Paris, died at the early age of thirty-nine, after four days' illness, when she was still lovely as ever. Of the cause of her death, I dare not trust myself to write; and but for the reckless life she led, she might have preserved her wondrous beauty longer. She had divine hands, and never wore a pair of gloves for more than three hours. She left sixty thousand francs' worth of dresses and ornaments. She never accepted a denier from a lover; but yet had presents of dresses, jewellery, plate, and furniture sufficient to stock the Louvre.

During her last illness, which made a great sensation in Paris and in the French camp, she confessed ten times to a priest, having always something new, some little forgotten sin to communicate. The gallants of Paris, and all her former admirers, laid her body in state for twenty-four hours, with a maiden crown on her head; but the austere curé of St. Gervais very properly denounced this proceeding as a ridiculous scandal, and tore it from the corpse; yet Marion looked so beautiful in her pure white shroud, that the 'Gazette Historique de Loret,' of the 30th June, 1650, has the following epigram upon her:--

'Le pauvre Marion de l'Orme,
De si rare et plaisante forme;
A saissi ravis au tombeau,
Son corps si charmant et si beau!'

Marion had three sisters, all very attractive girls. The eldest, Madame de la Montague, a beautiful blonde, was wont somewhat rashly to boast--'we have no riches, but we have honour;' yet my friend Viscount Dundrennan, like M. de Moret, nearly broke his neck when descending one night from her chamber window.

The youngest and least artful was married, to M. Maugiron, Treasurer of the Artillery du Roi, who served with me in the campaign of Alsace. As they lived in the arsenal, old Marechal de la Meilleraye, though he had not a tooth in his head, fell in love with her; but finding that she was carrying on an intrigue with the Cardinal de Retz, he revengefully deprived her poor husband of his commission; and this is all that I know of the family of the gayest woman that ever influenced the scandalous, joyous, and immoral city of Paris.