A tragical bit of romance colored the mature life of the Grande Mademoiselle. She had always professed a great aversion to love, regarding it as "unworthy of a well-ordered soul." She even went so far as to say that it was better to marry from reason or any other thing imaginable, dislike included, than from passion that was, in any case, short-lived. But this princess of intrepid spirit, versatile gifts, ideal fancies, and platonic theories, who had aimed at an emperor and missed a throne; this amazon, with her penchant for glory and contempt for love, forgot all her sage precepts, and at forty-two fell a victim to a violent passion for the Comte de Lauzun. She has traced its course to the finest shades of sentiment. Her pride, her infatuation, her scruples, her new-born humility--we are made familiar with them all, even to the finesse of her respectful adorer, and the reluctant confession of love which his discreet silence wrings from her at last.. Her royal cousin, after much persuasion, consented to the unequal union. The impression this affair made upon the world is vividly shown in a letter written by Mme. de Sevigne to her daughter:
I am going to tell you a thing the most astonishing, the most surprising, the most marvelous, the most miraculous, the most triumphant, the most astounding, the most unheard of, the most singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unexpected, the grandest, the smallest, the rarest, the most common, the most dazzling, the most secret even until today, the most brilliant, the most worthy of envy . . . . a thing in fine which is to be done Sunday, when those who see it will believe themselves dazed; a thing which is to be done Sunday and which will not perhaps have been done Monday . . . M. de Lauzun marries Sunday, at the Louvre--guess whom? . . . He marries Sunday at the Louvre, with the permission of the King, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de, Mademoiselle; guess the name; he marries Mademoiselle, MA FOI, PAR MA FOI, MA FOI JUREE, Mademoiselle, la grande Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, daughter of the late Monsieur, Mademoiselle, grand-daughter of Henry IV, Mademoiselle d'Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orleans, Mademoiselle, cousin of the king, Mademoiselle, destined to the throne, Mademoiselle, the only parti in France worthy of Monsieur. VOILA a fine subject for conversation. If you cry out, if you are beside yourself, if you say that we have deceived you, that it is false, that one trifles with you, that it is a fine bit of raillery, that it is very stupid to imagine, if, in fine, you abuse us, we shall find that you are right; we have done as much ourselves.
In spite of the prudent warnings of her friends, the happy princess could not forego the eclat of a grand wedding, and before the hasty arrangements were concluded, the permission was withdrawn. Her tears, her entreaties, her cries, her rage, and her despair, were of no avail. Louis XIV took her in his arms, and mingled his tears with hers, even reproaching her for the two or three days of delay; but he was inexorable. Ten years of loyal devotion to her lover, shortly afterward imprisoned at Pignerol, and of untiring efforts for his release which was at last secured at the cost of half her vast estates, ended in a brief reunion. A secret marriage, a swift discovery that her idol was of very common clay, abuse so violent that she was obliged to forbid him forever her presence, and the disenchantment was complete. The sad remnant of her existence was devoted to literature and to conversation; the latter she regarded as "the greatest pleasure in life, and almost the only one." When she died, the Count de Lauzun wore the deepest mourning, had portraits of her everywhere, and adopted permanently the subdued colors that would fitly express the inconsolable nature of his grief.
Without tact or fine discrimination, the Grande Mademoiselle was a woman of generous though undisciplined impulses, loyal disposition, and pure character; but her egotism was colossal.
Under different conditions, one might readily imagine her a second Joan of Arc, or a heroine of the Revolution. She says of herself: "I know not what it is to be a heroine; I am of a birth to do nothing that is not grand or elevated. One may call that what one likes. As for myself, I call it to follow my own inclination and to go my own way. I am not born to take that of others." She lacked the measure, the form, the delicacy of the typical precieuse; but her quick, restless intellect and ardent imagination were swift to catch the spirit of the Hotel de Rambouillet, and to apply it in an original fashion. Though many subjects were interdicted in her salon, and many people were excluded, it gives us interesting glimpses into the life of the literary noblesse, and furnishes a complete gallery of pen- portraits of more or less noted men and women. With all the brilliant possibilities of her life, it was through the diversion of her idle hours that this princess, author, amazon, prospective queen, and disappointed woman has left the most permanent trace upon the world.
