Thus we see two events, the crusades and the introduction of civil law, checking the disastrous excesses of duelling and arbitrating all differences by the sword. The future was pregnant with two events of still greater importance towards humanizing Society,—the fall of the Eastern empire, and the discovery of the art of printing: by the one, civilization was thrown back on the West; and by the other gift of Providence man began to learn to think for himself.
We thus perceive the progress of duelling, and its less frequent occurrence, depending in a great measure upon the state of society and the nature of government: by following this progress chronologically in the history of various countries, we shall attain much information, both as regards the prevalence of this barbarous custom, and the success of different governments in their endeavours to suppress, or, at least, restrain its excesses. When, after reading the details of many of these duels, (some of them of perhaps a tedious nature, but all tending to illustrate the manners of the age,) we glance on the civil and religious condition of the people amongst whom they took place, the deductions from these observations may be found to be of more importance than may at first sight appear.
France may be considered the classic ground of duelling, the field of single combat par excellence; whence, from the duchy of Normandy, as we have already seen, it was introduced into the British isles.
If we are indebted to our neighbours for this practice, it is also to them that we owe the various codes and regulations drawn out to equalize, as far as possible, the chances of victory, and to prevent any unfair advantages being obtained to the prejudice of the opposite party. Of these various documents, possibly the rules given by Brantôme may be considered the most curious.
In the first instance, he says:—“On no account whatever let an infidel be brought out as a second or a witness: it is not proper that an unbeliever should witness the shedding of Christian blood, which would delight him; and it is moreover abominable that such a wretch should be allowed such an honourable pastime.
“The combatants must be carefully examined and felt, to ascertain that they have no particular drugs, witchcraft, or charms about them. It is allowed to wear on such occasions some relics of Our Lady of Loretto, and other holy objects; yet it is not clearly decided what is to be done when both parties have not these relics, as no advantage should be allowed to one combatant more than to another.
“It is idle to dwell upon courtesies: the man who steps into the field must have made up his mind to conquer or die, but, above all things, never to surrender; for the conqueror may treat the vanquished as he thinks proper,—drag him round the ground, hang him, burn him, keep him a prisoner, in short, do with him whatever he pleases. The Danes and Lombards, in this, imitated Achilles, who, after his combat with Hector, dragged him three times round the walls at the tail of his triumphant car.
“Every gallant knight must maintain the honour of ladies, whether they may have forfeited it or not,—if it can be said that a gentille dame can have forfeited her honour by kindness to her servant and her lover. A soldier may fight his captain, provided he has been two years upon actual service, and he quits his company.
“If a father accuses a son of any crime that may tend to dishonour him, the son may demand satisfaction of his father; since he has done him more injury by dishonouring him, than he had bestowed advantage by giving him life.”
Notwithstanding Brantôme’s authority, the right of a soldier to call out his captain has been a questionable point; and La Béraudière, and Basnage, and Alciat have discussed the point very minutely. The last author came to the conclusion that such a meeting could only be tolerated when both parties were off duty,—post functionem secus. The same learned writer maintains that you can only refuse to fight a bastard; and he therefore strongly recommends all noblemen to legitimatize their sons, that they may be rendered worthy of the honour of knighthood and of duelling: and he further declares, that all challenges from a roturier, a mere citizen, or a man in business, must be considered as null and void.
There is a passage in Brantôme which singularly applies to modern France, as regards the multiplicity of decorations of honour and their various button-hole badges; distinctions, which, from the facility with which they are obtained, he does not consider as qualifying the wearer to fight a gentleman. “If these people were attended to,” he says, “one could no longer fight a proper duel: such numbers of them pullulate in every direction, that we see nothing but knights of St. Michael and of the Saint Esprit; to such an extent were these orders abused during our civil wars, to win over and retain followers being no longer the meed of valour or of merit.”
To tear off a decoration, or even to touch it, was considered an unpardonable insult; and we have seen in more modern times an example of the respect to which such attributes of distinction are entitled. In August 1833, Colonel Gallois, an officer in the service of Poland, felt himself offended by an article in the Figaro, a paper conducted by Nestor Roqueplan; and, having met him, tore off his riband of the Legion of Honour. The parties met in the wood of Meudon, when Roqueplan received three wounds, and Gallois one in the knee: the two seconds of Gallois at the same time had thrown off their coats, and challenged the seconds of Roqueplan, who very wisely declined any participation in the fight; when one of Gallois’s party insisted upon satisfaction from Mr. Leon Pillet, a friend of Roqueplan, with whom he was on intimate terms, and, to urge his suit, requested that he might be allowed to take the badge of the Legion off his coat, to overcome his apparent repugnance; adding, that he entertained too much friendship and esteem towards him to offend him in any other manner. There was no refusing so polite a request.
The colours of a lady, in a knot of ribands worn by her admirer, and called an emprise, were equally sacred; and, when a brave of those chivalric days was anxious for a combat, he exerted himself to find some daring desperado who would put his finger on the badge of love. In Ireland to this day, in many of its wild districts, a pugnacious ruffian will drag his jacket after him, and fight unto death any spalpeen who ventures to touch it.
Choice of arms was a matter of great importance in these meetings, indeed of a vital nature; since, if a weapon was broken in the hands of one of the parties, he was considered vanquished, and at the discretion of his conqueror,—such an accident being looked upon as a decision of Providence: a miss-fire at the present day is considered a shot, although on a less religious principle. Pistols were introduced in the reign of Henry II; and, being considered as affording a more equal chance to both combatants, this arm has been generally selected in modern duels, more especially in England. On the Continent the small-sword and the sabre were more frequently resorted to; and we shall shortly see the regulations regarding their employment, which in France form a regular code.
Some of the ancient modes of fighting were most singular and whimsical. Brantôme relates a story of two Corsicans who had fixed short sharp-pointed daggers in the front of their helmets, being covered with a suit of mail called a “jacque” over their shirts, although the weather was remarkably cold; such an arrangement having been proposed by the offended, who had the right to select and name the mode of combat, and who was fearful of his antagonist’s renown for his power and dexterity in wrestling. Both were armed with swords, and they fought for some time with such equality of skill that neither was wounded; at length they rushed upon each other, and wrestling commenced. It was during this struggle that the daggers came into play, each butting in his antagonist’s face, and neck, and arms, until blood was streaming in every direction, and in such profusion that they were separated: one of them only lived a month; in consequence of which the survivor was well nigh dying of tristesse and ennui, as they had become friends, and expected that they both should have died.11
Notwithstanding this valorous disposition, it appears that the choice of arms and appointments was frequently made a subterfuge to gain time, or cause much trouble and expense; and Brantôme relates, that, in the fatal duel between Jarnac and Chasteneraye, the former proposed no less than thirty different weapons to be used both on horseback and on foot, and had also specified various horses, Spanish, Turkish, Barbs, with different kinds of saddles: in consequence of which our chronicler adds, that if his uncle had not been a man of some independence, and moreover assisted by his royal master, he could not have maintained the challenge; and he very truly observed, when receiving it, “This man wants to fight both my valour and my purse.”
This privilege of the offended to choose their arms and regulate the nature of the combat, however capriciously, afforded considerable advantages; since the art of fencing taught many secret tricks, the knowledge of which gave great reputation to professors. So secret, indeed, were these instructions, that not only was the pupil solemnly sworn never to reveal the mysterious practice, but instructions were given in private, after having examined every part of the room, the furniture, and the very walls, to ascertain that no third person could have been concealed to witness the deadly lesson. To this day in France such cuts and thrusts are called coups de maître, and by the lower classes coups de malins.
A curious case is recorded of a knight, who, having been taught invariably to strike the region of the heart, insisted upon fighting in a suit of armour, with an opening in each cuirass of the breadth of the hand over the heart: the result, of course, was immediately fatal to his antagonist.
The “cunning” of armourers was also frequently resorted to, to obtain unfair advantages. A skilful workman in Milan had carried his mode of tempering steel to such a point of perfection, that the solidity of the sword and dagger depended entirely on the manner in which they were handled: in the hands of the inexperienced the weapons flew into shivers; whereas in the grasp of a skilful combatant they were as trusty as the most approved Toledan blade.
Nor were these valiant knights very particular as to odds. It is related of two French gentlemen, La Villatte and the Baron de Salligny, who fought a duel with two Gascons of the name of Malecolom and Esparezat, that Malecolom having speedily killed his antagonist Salligny, and perceiving that his companion Esparezat was a long time despatching Villatte, went to his assistance. When Villatte, thus unfairly pressed by two antagonists, remonstrated against the treachery, Malecolom very coolly replied, “I have killed my adversary, and, if you kill yours, there may be a chance that you may also kill me; therefore here goes!”
More punctilious, however, were some of these heroes in points of honour. We read in Brantôme of two Piedmontese officers, intimate friends, who having gone out to fight, one of the parties received a wound that was supposed to be mortal; when his opponent, instead of despatching him, assisted him off the ground, to conduct him to a surgeon. “Ah!” exclaimed the wounded man, “do not be generous by halves!—let it not be said that I fell without inflicting a wound: so, pray wear your arm in a scarf, and say that I hit you ere I succumbed.” His friend generously acceded to the proposal; and, having smeared a bandage in his blood, he wrapped it round his arm, publishing abroad that he had been wounded ere his brave companion received his mortal thrust. The wound however not proving fatal, an everlasting friendship, cemented by gratitude, ever after prevailed between them.
Many instances of these singular rencontres and fatal caprices in deeds of arms will be recorded in the course of this history; all of which may be referred to the character of the times, and the existing government’s weakness or tyrannical influence.
In relating the progress of duelling in France during the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries, I cannot better characterize the state of the country than by quoting a late intelligent writer, M. de Campigneulles:—
“I find between the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries the same difference that is observable between the seventeenth and the eighteenth; neither of these periods being in my opinion in favour of any progress. Louis XI. will be found preferable to Charles IX; and Charles VIII. will be placed in a more distinguished rank than Henry II. Francis I. will not make us forget Louis XII; and the glorious exploits of the French under Charles VII. will console us for a long time for the miseries of the civil wars under Henry III. I do not think it necessary, to justify the second proposition, to draw a parallel between the reigns of Henry IV. and Louis XIV. on one side, with the regency and reign of Louis XV. on the other. What is not less remarkable is, that the first period of a century has frequently been more worthy of estimation than the second; showing that there is an action and a reaction in the progress of civilization, and that the torrent of ages seems to be subject to the same laws that regulate the waters of the deep.
“Under Charles VII. the aristocracy was too deeply engaged in their national contest with England to occupy themselves with personal feuds; the aristocracy, in the enormous sacrifices which this struggle required, was drained both of men and money. The people gained nothing,—the royal authority alone reaped any advantage that might have resulted from this state of affairs; for from this reign we may date the establishment of standing armies and taxations,—the latter being imposed illegally, and without the sanction of the states-general.
“The policy of Louis XI.’s government turned to a profitable account the state of poverty and depression to which the aristocracy had been reduced. The nobility of France was deteriorated by this cruel prince, who founded his despotic power upon executions; and the blood which had been spilled in the field of battle to defend the country, was now wantonly shed upon the scaffold. There was none left to irrigate a field of private battle.
“These combined circumstances had struck a fatal blow to duelling; and the prejudices which had justified the practice, and which at the same time had advocated the cause of aristocracy, became every day more weak, attesting the homogeneity of their character.
“France has always been considered as giving the ton to Europe; but between us and other countries the exchange has not always been to our advantage, and, for what we may have given to our neighbours of any value, we have received in return sad equivalents. It is to Germany that we were first indebted for judicial combats. It was in Italy that we sought the practice of duelling, which succeeded them; and while this moral contagion was widely spread during the expeditions of Charles VII, Louis XII, and Francis I, a sad physical contamination was transmitted to us through Spain. The practice of duelling had scarcely crossed the Alps, when it gradually disappeared amongst the Italians; and the stiletto became a substitute for the sword.
“It is to the reign of Charles VIII. that we must refer these Italian campaigns, so fatal to our arms and our manners. The ardour of our youth inspired this monarch with a desire of foreign expeditions. In 1494 he overran the kingdom of Naples, losing his conquests as rapidly as he had obtained them. Duelling was then in great vogue over Italy,—a tradition of the Goths and Lombards, modified, or rather exaggerated, by the chivalric fancies of the Spaniards.
“A wish to enforce the rights of Valentine on the duchy of Milan induced Louis XII. to undertake fresh Italian expeditions, although he had strenuously opposed similar projects on the part of his predecessor during his latter days. It was during the reign of this monarch, from 1499 to 1515, that incessant duels thinned the ranks of his armies. They were sanctioned by the Duke de Nemours their leader, and the illustrious Bayard himself was obliged to yield to the torrent of fashion.
“The Italian wars continued to be waged under Francis I. He himself, as we have seen, sent a rodomontade challenge to the Emperor Charles; and although neither of the parties entertained a serious intention of putting their boasted threats into execution, yet he had shown an example which was greedily followed by the most distinguished personages of the court.”
It was during his reign that pistols were introduced, and became the fit auxiliaries of the dagger amongst the bandits that infested the realm; and thus does Abbé Villy describe the condition of the country—“Our intercourse with the Italians, amongst whom our armies had lived for more than fifty years, had altered our national character in many respects. Men became less delicate in their means of glutting revenge. Assassinations and premeditated murders became each day more frequent. Already it was not considered sufficient to await an enemy upon the road, or attack him in his dwelling. It was at the corner of a street or in an open square, and in the presence of their fellow-citizens, that public functionaries fell under an assassin’s blow. Relays of horses were ready to enable the criminal to escape, and the crime to remain unpunished.”
“Charles IX. was the last French monarch who allowed a duel, and was present when it took place. He was also the first to prohibit the practice; and his ordonnance of 1566 in this respect was admirable, wherein he commanded that all differences should be submitted to the decision of the constables and marshals of France, more especially in such cases where the lie had been given.
“Henry III. was the last who appeared in a tournament, with his brother Charles IX; and he also issued severe orders concerning murderers and assassins, who, however, from his want of energy, applied with more audacity and impunity than at any other period, converting the country into a cut-throat: and if this prince ended by discouraging duels, it was only when from his affections towards his unworthy favourites he felt their loss, and, without possessing sufficient energy to avenge them, their tragic end only gave rise to fresh scandal in the indecency of his grief. D’Audiguier, the duellist, called him the best prince in the world; and Brantôme says that he was so good, that he never could punish rigorously, he so loved his nobility.
“The fever of duelling was not mitigated during the long period of our religious wars. Civil wars differ widely from those that are carried on to defend national honour against a foreign enemy. When these break forth, personal feuds are appeased, and one interest predominates; our blood is reserved for our country, and duels will cease: but when in an impious conflict citizens are armed against each other, every evil passion is unbridled; no law, no check, can restrain them; everything becomes a weapon; men no longer fight, but kill; and what the sword may have spared is doomed to the scaffold. Thus did murders assume every possible form during the convulsions of the sixteenth century; every instrument of destruction was brought to bear; the dagger rivalled the sword; and, as we already were indebted to Italy for duelling, an Italian Queen, one of the Medici, brought in another gift—assassination.”
As we have seen in the preceding chapter, it was during the reign of Francis I. that duels became multiplied, both in the French dominions, and in their armies employed upon foreign service. The influence of the monarch upon his court, and of that court upon the nation, has ever been all-powerful in that country, until the people knew that they were something. We have seen the potato, after being considered by the whole country as only food fit for swine, introduced into fashionable, and thence into general consumption, after Louis XIV. had appeared in court with a nosegay of its flowers at his button-hole.
The gasconading challenge sent by Francis to Charles, although it must have been fully appreciated by reasoning people, acted with electric enthusiasm on the nation; and if a king thought it incumbent on his honour to seek satisfaction for having been accused of asserting a falsehood, how much more urgent did it become for subjects to draw their swords upon the slightest contradiction that could give umbrage to the phantom of chivalric honour? Moreover, it had been currently reported, and of course confirmed by the courtiers, that this monarch, having considered himself offended by the Count of Saxony, then on a visit at his court, had taken him aside in a hunting excursion, without any witness being present to compromise his future safety, and proposed a single combat, which the Count very wisely declined.
Francis, although he not only tolerated, but approved of duelling, was jealous of the right of giving it his sanction, and was much displeased if a challenge was sent without his knowledge. Thus De Cipsière was obliged to absent himself from the Louvre for a considerable time, for having presumed to send his compliments to D’Audoin by Vicomte Gourdon, and to inform him that he was going to hear mass at the church of St. Paul, where if M. D’Audoin would attend at the same time, they would afterwards take a walk into the country by the Porte St. Antoine. Several duels during this reign may almost be considered as judicial combats, since they took place in the presence of the sovereign, who thus constituted himself an arbiter.
The reign of Francis might have been one of gallantry and of pleasure; and there are not wanting even ladies who, in the present day, look upon its profligacies and their ferocious results as noble deeds,12 the effects of chivalric devotion. I must confess that, in looking over its annals, I can find nothing remarkable, except an outrageous breach of all morality and decorum, and a wanton waste of human blood.
The miserable successor of this prince, Henry II, whose reign was ushered in by the disgraceful duel between Jarnac and La Chasteneraye, which I have already related, encouraged duelling by his want of energy; the princes of the blood followed the general example: and we find the Prince Charles, brother to the Duke de Bourbon Montpensier, fighting with D’Andelot, brother of the Admiral Coligny, at a hunting party.
It was during this reign that a singular duel took place between a youth of the name of Châteauneuf, and his guardian Lachesnaye, an old man of eighty. The champions met at the Isle Louviers, the subject of the dispute being a lawsuit concerning the minor’s property. Châteauneuf asked the old gentleman, if there was any truth in the reports circulated, that he had made use of disrespectful language concerning him; which the other positively denied on the word of a gentleman. This assertion satisfied the youth; but the old man would not let the matter rest. “You may be satisfied,” he replied, “but that is more than I am: and, since you have given me the trouble of coming here, we must fight. What would all those folks say, who have done us the honour of collecting to see us on both sides of the river, if they found that we came here to talk instead of acting? Our honour is concerned; let us therefore begin.” Both were armed with swords and daggers; when Lachesnaye exclaimed, “Ah! paillard! tu es cuirassé!” which we might translate into modern phraseology, “You varmint! you have a cuirass on. “Ah! je t’aurai bien autrement!”—“You shall catch it in another manner!” and forthwith made his cut and thrust at the face and throat; an attack which by no means disconcerted the young combatant, who very quietly ran the old gentleman through the body.
The youth of those gallant times were not very punctilious when they were less successful than Châteauneuf, as appears in the following adventure:—
The King, being out at a stag-hunt in the wood of Vincennes, accompanied by the nephew of Marshal St. André, this youth sought a quarrel with an elderly gentleman of the name of Matas, and they repaired to a lonely part of the wood, where Matas gave him a salutary lesson in fencing, by disarming him, whipping his sword out of his hand as soon as he was on guard; adding, “For the future, young man, learn to hold your sword, and do not seek to encounter a man like me! Take up your sword; depart, and I forgive you.” So saying, he was mounting his horse, when his adversary having raised his sword from the ground, thought the best use he could make of it was to rid himself of so troublesome a witness of his shame; he therefore stabbed him in the back, and left the corpse on the ground. The chronicler adds, “No notice of this transaction took place, for the young man was nephew of Marshal St. André; whereas the other was only a relation of Madame de Valentinois (the famed Diana de Poitiers), who, after the death of Henry II, had lost all her influence at court.” Nay, poor Matas was even blamed for having rebuked a fiery and honourable youth! “It is wrong,” says the chronicler, “for old boasting fencers to abuse their good fortune, and taunt a youth who is only in the bud,—car Dieu s’en attriste!”—It grieves God!
Nothing could exceed the sang froid that these desperate men exhibited on such occasions. Brantôme relates the case of a duel between a Norman gentleman and a little chevalier named De Refuge. They had taken a boat to go over to the Isle du Palais, to fight without witnesses; when, perceiving that several other boats were in pursuit of them, they jumped on shore, one of them exclaiming, “Pray, let us make haste, for they are coming to separate us!” and, so saying, they attacked each other. After four lounges, they were both dead. The same writer mentions a Seigneur de Gensac, who was eager to encounter two champions at once; and, when the absurdity of the attempt was alleged, merely replied, “Why, history is full of such deeds! and, mon Dieu! I am determined to have my name recorded.”
The following adventure of an illustrious murderer, called by Brantôme the Paragon of France, may give an idea of those glorious times:—
Duprat, Baron de Vitaux, was son of the Chancellor Duprat, and from early life had displayed symptoms of undaunted “courage.” He commenced his career in arms by killing the young Baron de Soupez, with whom he had quarrelled at dinner, when Soupez threw a candlestick at him and broke his head: he waylaid him on the road to Toulouse; and, having despatched him, effected his escape in female attire. His next exploit was murdering a gentleman of the name of Gounelieu, to avenge the death of one of his brothers, a lad of fifteen, whom Gounelieu had killed; on this expedition he was accompanied by a young nobleman named Boucicaut; their victim was travelling post near St. Denis, when they met with him: after this achievement, he fled to Italy, Gounelieu being a favourite of the King. Vitaux, however, could not remain long in exile and inactivity, but returned to France for the express purpose of revenging the death of another brother, killed by a near relation of his own, the Baron de Mittaud.
This Baron was a Seigneur from Auvergne, and had been summoned to court by Charles IX. to act as an interpreter to the ambassadors from Poland, who came to offer the crown of that kingdom to the King’s brother, the Duc d’Anjou. Mittaud, little suspecting that Vitaux was in Paris, was not upon his guard; while Vitaux, who had allowed his beard to grow to a considerable length, and was disguised as a lawyer, was watching every opportunity to surprise him,—having taken an obscure lodging on the Quai des Augustins, in company with his old companion Boucicaut, and a brother of his, both of them brave and valiant men, and called the Lions of the Baron de Vitaux. These worthies, having met the Baron de Mittaud, immediately despatched him; but it so happened, that, in defending himself, he had wounded one of the Boucicauts, who, not being able to keep pace with the two other assassins in their flight, was obliged to stop at a barber’s shop to get his wound dressed: he had been tracked by the traces of the blood he had lost in his flight, and was taken up by the Archers of the Provost twelve leagues from Paris; and, being confined in Fort l’Evêque, expected to have been executed, since both the King and his brother decided that he should forfeit his life.
It so happened, that the Polish ambassadors lodged in the house of the prisoner’s brother, who was Provost of Paris, and who earnestly supplicated them to apply to the King and his brother for the culprit’s pardon. The Polish envoys, backed by President de Thou, made a long harangue in Latin; which, whether the monarch understood them or not, succeeded in ultimately attaining their demand, and Boucicaut shortly after appeared at court as gay and as unconcerned as ever.
This event only encouraged our hero, who shortly after returned to Paris, and killed with “incredible audacity,” says the chronicler, Louis de Guart, the King’s favourite, who had presumed to oppose the grant of his pardon. Vitaux, with seven or eight companions, entered Guart’s house, and killed him in his bed; using for the purpose “a sword very short and very keen, which, upon such occasions, is considered preferable to a long one.” “This act,” adds the historian, “was considered one of great resolution and assurance.” One might have expected that such a ruffian would have died on the gallows; but he sought the protection of the Duc d’Alençon, being under the patronage of Queen Marguerite, of whom he was a special favourite.
At last, the Baron de Mittaud, brother of the one he had assassinated eight years previously, called him out: both parties were duly examined, although it was maintained that Mittaud wore a thin cuirass, painted flesh-colour, under his garments. Howbeit, the point of Vitaux’s sword was bent either upon this protection, or one of his ribs; finding that all his lounges and thrusts were of no avail, he had recourse to hacking and hewing, when in four well-applied cuts his adversary despatched him, without having had the “courtesy of offering him his life.” “Thus,” further says the historian, “died this brave Baron, the Paragon of France, where he was as much esteemed as in Spain, Germany, Poland, and England; and every foreigner who came to court was most anxious to behold him: he was small in stature, but lofty in courage: his enemies pretended that he did not kill people ‘properly’ (il ne tuait pas bien ses gens), but had recourse to various stratagems; wherein,” says Brantôme, “it is the opinion of great captains, even Italians, who were always the best avengers in the world,—that stratagem might be encountered by stratagem, without any breach of honour.” Brantôme adds, “I have spoken enough of him; although I should immortalize him were it in my power, as much for his merits, as for the sincere friendship that existed between us!”
The duel that most grieved the heart of Henry III. was that which occurred between his favourite mignons, Caylus and D’Entragues, who had fallen out about some fair ladies of the court. Riberac and Schomberg, a young German, were seconds to D’Entragues; Maugerin and Livaret were the seconds of Caylus. The parties met near the ramparts of the Porte St. Antoine, no one being present but three or four “poor persons, wretched witnesses of the valour of these worthy men.”
The moment the principals had commenced, Riberac addressed Maugerin, saying, “Methinks that we had better endeavour to reconcile these gentlemen, rather than allow them to kill each other.” To which unworthy proposal the other replied, “Sir, I did not come here to string beads; I came here to fight!” “And with whom?” innocently asked Riberac; “since you are not concerned in this quarrel,—with whom?” “With you, to be sure,” was the laconic reply of Maugerin. “If that be the case,” added Riberac, “let us pray;” and, so saying, he drew his sword and dagger, and placing the hilts cross-ways, fell upon his knees to put up proper orisons: but Maugerin thought his doxology too prolix; and, swearing most irreligiously, told him “that he had prayed long enough.” Upon which they furiously attacked each other, until both fell dead.
Schomberg, the other second, beholding this episode, addressed Livaret very politely, saying, “These gentlemen are fighting; what shall we do?” To which the other replied, “We cannot do better than fight, to maintain our honour.” Schomberg, who was a German, forthwith cut open the cheek of his adversary; a compliment which Livaret politely returned by a thrust in the breast, which stretched him a corpse, to keep company with the body of Maugerin. Riberac was borne from the field, and died of his wounds the next day. D’Entragues, though severely wounded, effected his escape; while Caylus was carried to his death-bed, where he bitterly complained that his adversary had a dagger in addition to his sword. In consequence of being obliged to parry the thrusts of the former with his hand, he had been stabbed in several places. He further stated, that he had said to D’Entragues, “You have a dagger, and I have none!” To which the other replied, “So much the worse for you; you ought not to have been such a fool as to have left it at home.” Brantôme observes, that he does not exactly know whether, from a sense of gentillesse chivalaresque, he ought not to have laid aside his dagger. Livaret, two years after, was killed in a duel; when his servant, on seeing him fall, picked up his sword, and killed his adversary, the son of the Marquis de Pienne. The King was so afflicted at the death of Caylus, that he gave orders to have him buried by the side of another of his mignons, Sainct Megrin, who was assassinated by the Duke de Guise at the Louvre gate.
The custom of the seconds fighting with each other appears to have been introduced by the royal mignons, who, no doubt, vied with each other for the monarch’s favour. In these murderous contests, one of the most celebrated bravoes was Bussy d’Amboise, one of the principal actors in the massacre of St. Barthelemi, during which he assassinated his own near relation, Antoine de Clermont, with whom he was at law. This was undoubtedly a more expedient motive than the one that induced him to call out a gentleman of the name of St. Phal, who having an X embroidered on some part of his apparel, Bussy maintained that it was a Y. A combat forthwith took place, of six against six. One could scarcely believe that the brave Crillon should have risked his life with such a pernicious cut-throat. Yet it is recorded that, having met him one day in the Rue St. Honoré, Bussy asked him the hour; when Crillon, drawing his sword, replied, “It is the hour of thy death!” Fortunately the combatants were separated. The intrigues of Bussy with Marguerite de Valois are well known; and at the same period he boasted of the favour of the Countess de Montsoreau, whose husband was master of the hunt of the Duke d’Alençon; and having written to that prince, that he had caught a deer of the Count’s in his snares, the letter was shown to Henry III, who kindly put it into the husband’s hand. The master of the hunt did not deem it advisable to risk his life in seeking revenge, but compelled his faithless spouse to give a rendez-vous to her paramour; when, instead of his mistress’s embraces, he was received by the daggers of hired bravoes.
The assassination of this monarch himself (Henry III.) afforded a singular instance of the manners of the time, and the reckless character of the courtiers. A young man in the royal household, of the name of Isle Marivaux, determined not to survive his royal master; and begged to know if any one would do him the favour of fighting with him, to give him a fair chance of being killed. Fortunately for him, another courtier, of the name of Marolles, took him at his word; and, after a few lounges, gratified his best wishes.
Such were what historians called “the good old times,” when, as a late writer asserts, the lasciviousness of Messalina was combined with the ferocity of Nero and the gluttony of Heliogabalus; and when wit and ribaldry were the associates of assassination. Thus, when Catherine de Medicis was informed upon her death-bed of the murder of the Duke and Cardinal de Guise, she replied, “’Tis well cut out, my son; but now your work must be stitched!”
We now come to a reign which was considered the most glorious in the annals of French history—that of Henry IV. Yet France showed that the private character of a monarch can exert but little influence over the manners of a people previously demoralized by capricious tyranny and by civil war. It has been truly said, that “Henry, surnamed the Great, did not illustrate the character of his times, but Ravaillac;” it is also a singular fact, that the name of Henry seemed to be fatal to the French monarchy, and five assassins were found to raise their murderous hands against a sovereign said to be beloved.
In vain did Henry IV. issue the most positive edicts against duelling; his commands were unheeded, and his humane intentions invariably set at nought. From his accession to the throne in 1589, until 1607, it was calculated that no less than four thousand gentlemen were killed in affairs of honour; and we find that, in a journal of the 8th of August 1606, was to be read the following paragraph:—“Last week we had in Paris four assassinations and three duels, no notice having been taken of these events.” The desperate nature of these bloody feuds was such, that whole families were destroyed. This was instanced in the case of two persons of the name of Joeilles and Devese, the former having seduced the wife of the latter. Devese only accepted the challenge to draw his enemy into an ambush, with the intention of murdering him; but he fortunately escaped with a wound in the back. Having joined the army in Savoy some time after, he again sought his adversary, who fired a pistol at him, and ran away. The King, on hearing of this offence, dismissed Devese from his regiment, granting a permission to Joeilles “to attack him in whatever manner he thought proper, to seize upon his property and houses, and his person wherever he found him.” However, a reconciliation was attempted to be brought about, and the hand of a sister of Devese was to be the pledge of peace; but Joeilles, bent upon revenge, so managed it, that he seduced the young lady, and then refused to marry her. Her brother soon avenged her wrongs by waylaying and killing him, when a relation of Joeilles got him shot with a musket by a person of the name of D’Aubignac, In fine, one girl was the only survivor of the two families; illustrating, during the far-famed reign of this sovereign, the vendeta of the Corsicans.
This evil may have been justly attributed to the chivalrous ideas of the monarch, who acted in defiance of his own wise decrees; since we find him writing to his friend, Duplessis Mornay, who complained of having been insulted, “I feel much hurt upon hearing of the insult you have received, and in which I sympathise both as your sovereign and your friend. In the first capacity, I shall see justice done, both for your sake and mine; and if I only bore the second quality, you should find me most ready to draw my sword, and most cheerfully to expose my life.” Can it be surprising that such a monarch should have fallen under an assassin’s blow? In November 1594, the eldest son of the Duc de Guise, having sought a quarrel with the Comte de St. Pol, ran him through the body in the streets of Rheims; yet, two years after, the King appointed that very person to the government of Provence.
Ruffians of the most sanguinary disposition became noted and respected under this popular Henry IV. One of them named Lagarde Valois, was celebrated for his brutal deeds; another quarrelsome ruffian, named Bazanez, was determined to have a trial of skill with him, and for this purpose sent him a hat, ornamented with feathers, and accompanied with a message, stating that he would wear it at the peril of his life. Lagarde immediately put the hat upon his head, and set out in quest of Bazanez, who was also looking for him in every direction. Having at last met, after an exchange of mutual civilities the combat began. Lagarde inflicted a wound on the forehead of his antagonist; but, the head being harder than his steel, his sword was bent on the skull: he was more fortunate in his next lounge, which penetrated his antagonist’s body, when he exclaimed, “This is for the hat!” Another thrust was equally successful, when he added, “And here is for the feathers!” This purchase he did not deem sufficient, and he therefore gave him a third wound, exclaiming, “And this is for the loop!” During this polite conversation, seeing the blood of his opponent streaming from his several wounds, he complimented him on the elegant fit of his hat, when Bazanez infuriated, rushed upon him, breaking through his guard, and, throwing him down, stabbed him in the throat with his dagger, and repeated his desperate blows fourteen times in his neck, chest, and stomach; while at each stab, as the wretched man roared out for mercy, the other replied at every reiterated thrust, “No! no! no!” However, during this conflict, the prostrate Lagarde was not altogether idle; he bit off a portion of his adversary’s chin, fractured his skull with the pommel of his sword, and “only lost his courage with his life.” During this scene, the seconds were amusing themselves also in fencing, until one of them was laid dead on the field of honour. This Lagarde, it appears, was as concise in his epistolary style as in his colloquial eloquence during a fight: the following is a copy of one of his letters to a man whom he was determined to despatch. “I have reduced your home to ashes; I have dishonoured your wife, and hanged your children; and I now have the honour to be your mortal enemy,—Lagarde.”
It has already been stated, that during the reign of Henry IV. four thousand gentlemen lost their lives in single combat; and, by the statement of Daudiguier, this monarch granted fourteen thousand pardons for duelling. It was in vain that the wise Sully exerted his influence to check this execrable practice; the following extract from his Memoirs affords a striking illustration of the times:—
It was in consequence of the constant remonstrance of this minister that Henry issued various prohibitory edicts, which criminated duellists as guilty of lèse-majesté, and punished the offence with death. The edict of Blois, in 1602, not only condemned both the challenger and the challenged, with their seconds, to death, and confiscation of their goods; but further ordered that all offended parties should submit their complaints to the governor of their province, to be laid before the constable and marshals of France. This was the origin of the jurisdiction of the “point of honour,” which may, however, be partly referred to an edict of Charles IX. of 1566, but which was only embodied as a code under Louis XIV.
Bellieme, then chancellor of France, maintained that duels would not cease until the King ceased to intermeddle with them; but, if left to him, he would soon put a stop to the practice by refusing a pardon to all offenders; observing, that the most forward to fight would draw back, if, whatever were to be the issue of the duel, they saw that death was inevitable. Such was the course adopted by the Prince de Melfi, who commanded the army in Piedmont, and who obliged both the challengers and the offenders to fight upon a narrow bridge without rails or parapet, and guarded at both extremities, so that there was no escaping from drowning, or being run through the body.
It appears that all these edicts, notwithstanding the severity of their formulary, were unheeded, and seldom or never carried into execution; indeed, there were as many saving clauses and loop-holes in these decrees as in any of our modern acts of parliament, through which it has been truly observed, one could drive a coach and four: for instance, while duels were denounced as impious and infamous, it was provided that the offended parties should have the power of applying to the sovereign through the marshals of France for permission to fight; another clause specified that “a person who demanded a battle without sufficient reason, should be dismissed with shame:” but there is not a single instance of the application of this law upon record; and D’Audiguier observes, “that as the King never granted permission to fight to any applicant, and had frequently refused it, it was evident that there was no use in making an application, therefore the parties came to blows without any reference to authority, and were, with very few exceptions, pardoned by the royal clemency.” Sully observes on this subject, “that the facility with which the King forgave duels tended to multiply them, and hence these fatal examples pervaded the court, the town, and the kingdom.”
Montaigne says on this subject, that he verily believes, “if three Frenchmen were put into the Libyan desert, they would not be a month there without quarrelling and fighting;” and Hardouin de Perefix, Bishop of Rhodes, observes, in his Life of Henry IV, “that the madness of duels did seize the spirits of the nobility and gentry so much, that they lost more blood by each other’s hands in time of peace, than had been shed by their enemies in battle.” Chevalier, in his work called “Les Ombres des Defunts,” asserts that, in the province of Limousin alone, in the space of six or seven months, there were killed one hundred and twenty gentlemen.
But such is the empire of prejudice, and the contagion of fashion, that Sully frankly avows that he was nigh quarrelling with his royal master for having had the imprudence to consent to be present at a duel, when Henry IV. briefly told him that he deserved to lose his head for having dared to assume a regal power in the precincts of his court; and most probably the minister would have been disgraced, but for the interference of the ladies of the court.
In fact, these edicts, like many other criminal laws, defeated their own intention by their severity, which would have rendered their application as ferocious as the offences which they were to punish; they were thus rendered illusive in practice, however praiseworthy they might have been in theory,—the one neutralizing the operation of the other. Sully justly observed on this subject, “that the excessive severity of the means would be the source whence would arise the principal obstacles to their execution; and frequently the penalties which produce the greatest impression are such, that one cannot apply for forgiveness.” Sully, however, failed in his laudable exertions to check this practice; and we shall find that Richelieu, whose power was much more formidable, did not meet with much greater success while endeavouring to crush the proud and unmanageable aristocracy of France.
In the midst of these scenes of blood, it affords some relief to find that there were individuals who dared the prejudice of public opinion, and, respecting the laws both of God and man, firmly resisted the practice. History records the instance of Monsieur de Reuly, a young officer, who could not be induced to fight a duel under any circumstances. Having once been grievously offended, he submitted the case to the decision of his generals, who determined it in his favour; but his opponent insisted upon a personal meeting, and sent him a challenge. De Reuly told the servant who brought it, that the person who had sent him was much in the wrong, and that he had received all the satisfaction which in justice or reason could be demanded. But the other still pressing and repeating his challenge, and that too with some insolent and provoking language, Reuly stated “that he could not accept the challenge, since God and the King had forbidden it; that he had no fear of the person who had insulted him, but feared God, and dreaded offending him; that he would go every day abroad, as he was wont, wherever his affairs should call him; and that, if any attack was made upon him, he would make his aggressor repent it.”
His adversary, unable to draw him into a duel, sought him with his second; and, having met him when only attended by his servant, attacked him, when both the principal and his second were severely wounded by him; and, assisted by his servant, he carried them both to his quarters, where he got their wounds dressed, and refreshed them with some wine: then, restoring to them their swords, he dismissed them, assuring them that no boasting of his should ever compromise their character; nor did he ever after speak of the transaction, even to the servant who had been present at the affair.
During the reign of this monarch, or rather the sovereignty of his minister, private rencontres were carried on with as much ferocity as ever, and some of these meetings were attended with circumstances which rendered them as absurd as they were atrocious. In one instance we see two champions getting into a puncheon and fighting with knives; and in another two noblemen fought with daggers, holding each other by the left hand; while the 16th of January 1613 was rendered remarkable by the tragic end of Baron de Luz and his son, who were killed by the Chevalier de Guise.
The baron had met De Guise in the Rue St. Honoré, and some words arose between them relative to the death of the late De Guise, who had been assassinated at Blois by order of Henry III. The baron was on foot, De Guise on horseback; he immediately alighted, and requested the baron to draw: the old man could scarcely believe that the chevalier was in earnest, yet drew his sword in self-defence. He was aged, and for years had been out of practice; whereas his antagonist was a young man, in the prime of life, and famed for his swordsmanship. His first thrust proved fatal, his sword passing through the body of his adversary, who staggered to a shoemaker’s shop hard by, and fell down dead. His antagonist quietly remounted his horse, and rode off in the most unconcerned manner.
The deceased had a son about the same age as the chevalier, who upon hearing of his father’s death, was determined to avenge him. From the high rank and station of De Guise, he well knew that, if he fell, no part of Europe could afford him an asylum from prosecution; yet was he determined in so just a cause to run every risk, and, as he did not dare approach the hotel of the proud nobleman, he sent him a challenge by his squire, couched in the following respectful language.
“No one, my lord, can bear witness to the just reason of my sorrow more forcibly than your lordship; I therefore entreat your lordship to forgive my resentment when expressing my desire that you will do me the honour of meeting me sword in hand, to give me satisfaction for my father’s death. The esteem which I entertain for your well-known courage induces me to hope that your lordship will not plead your high rank to avoid a meeting in which your honour is so deeply compromised, The gentleman who bears this, will conduct you to the place where I am waiting for your lordship with a good horse and two swords, of which you will have the choice; or, should your lordship prefer it, I shall attend you at any place you may command.”
The meeting took place on horseback; and, after a desperate conflict, the murderer of the father gave the son the satisfaction of taking his life also: while they were fighting, their seconds wounded each other. D’Audiguier, who gives the particulars of this duel, adds, that “this victory would have been more gratifying to God if he had fought for the same cause that led his ancestors into Palestine!”
This De Guise was grandson of Henri de Lorraine, Duc de Guise, surnamed the Great, and who was killed at the siege of Orleans; his father, surnamed the Balafré, from a deep scar on the face, was assassinated at Blois: they were both looked upon as Doctors in the science of duelling, and their opinion and decision considered law.
This De Guise was banished to Italy by Richelieu, where he died in 1640. His son, Henri de Lorraine, was equally celebrated for his amorous adventures and chivalric achievements, and was brought to trial by Richelieu as an accomplice in the conspiracy of the Count de Soissons, and sentenced to death, par contumace, as he had fled to Italy; but he returned afterwards to France, and we find him one of the champions in the celebrated carousel of 1662, having previously killed in a duel the Count de Coligny, grandson of the admiral, who was assassinated in the massacre of St. Barthelemi: with him ended the turbulent and bloodthirsty family of De Guise, as society was rid of him in 1664.
The Balafré had a third son, Louis, who was a cardinal, and archbishop of Rheims. This prelate was a worthy scion of the desperate stock. He was often seen doffing his canonical vestments to don the cuirass and helm; he fought in the ranks of his sovereign during his expedition in Poitou, and died after the attack on Saint Jean d’Angely. This worthy member of the church militant, having a lawsuit with the Duke de Nevers, wanted to decide the cause at the point of the sword.
D’Audiguier, who has related many of the duels of his time, was a gentleman belonging to the court of Louis XIII, and made a supplication to that monarch not only to cancel all edicts against duelling, but to allow the practice, in the following terms: “A great trial, Sire, is carried on between the nobility and the law in your Majesty’s dominions, in which you alone can decide: your nobility maintain that a gentleman whose honour is impeached should either vindicate it with his sword, or forfeit his life; whereas law asserts that a gentleman who draws his sword shall lose his life: and surely your Majesty, who is the chief of the most generous nobility in existence, cannot feel it your interest thus to blunt their valour; or, under the vain pretence of preserving their honour, behold them reduced to the necessity of losing sight of its dictates, or seek to maintain it with their pen, like the low-bred, disputing the right of arms before menial clerks.” Our advocate of the rights of honour concludes by imploring the King to render duels less frequent by permitting them to take place on certain occasions when the King himself should be present; and when the public, he adds, “instead of being involved in differences and lawsuits, which consume both blood and fortune, would be delivered of the two monsters, and would feel proud of displaying their courage in your service, and their valour in your royal presence.”
Despite these arguments, various prohibitory edicts were issued during this reign: one in particular, dated 1626, forbade all applications for pardon or solicitation in favour of the criminals; and, like his predecessor Henri IV, Louis even denounced as criminal all such applications from the Queen, whom he called his très chère et aymée compagne; he further protested and declared before Heaven, that he would never grant any exemption from this ordonnance. Notwithstanding the sanctity of these protestations, we find Louis XIII. granting a free pardon to duellists, “on account of the earnest entreaties made by his much-loved and dear sister, the Queen of Great Britain, upon the occasion of her marriage.”
Duels must have been of frequent occurrence during this reign, since Lord Herbert of Cherbury, then our ambassador at the French court, asserts that there was scarcely a Frenchman deemed worth looking on who had not killed his man in a duel.
This chivalric nobleman, to show the prevalence of duelling in France, and the respect in which duellists were held, relates the case of a M. Mennon, who being desirous to marry a niece of M. Disancour, who it was thought would be his heiress, was thus answered by him; “Friend, it is not time yet to marry: I will tell you what you must do if you will be a brave man. You must first kill in single combat two or three men; then marry, and engender two or three children; and the world will neither have gained nor lost by you.” Of which strange counsel, Disancour was no otherwise the author than inasmuch as he had been an example, at least of the former part, it being his fortune to have fought three or four gallant duels in his time.
Another anecdote of Lord Herbert shows in what consideration duellists were held by the fair sex. “All things being ready for the ball, and every one being in their place, and I myself next to the Queen, expecting when the dancers would come in, one knocked at the door somewhat louder than became, I thought, a very civil person; when he came in, I remember there was a sudden whisper amongst the ladies, saying, ‘C’est Monsieur Balaguy!’ Whereupon I also saw the ladies and gentlemen, one after another, invite him to sit near them; and, what is more, when one lady had his company a while, another would say, ‘You have enjoyed him long enough, I must have him now.’ At which bold civility of them, though I was astonished, yet it added to my wonder that his person could not be thought at most but ordinary handsome; his hair, which was cut very short, half grey; his doublet, but of sackcloth, cut to his skin; and his breeches only of plain grey cloth. Informing myself by some standers-by who he was, I was told that he was one of the gallantest men in the world, as having killed eight or nine men in single fight, and that for this reason the ladies made so much of him; it being the manner of all French women to cherish gallant men, as thinking they could not make so much of any else with the safety of their honour.”
It appears, however, that, notwithstanding this reckless spirit of duelling that prevailed in France, Lord Herbert had found some difficulty in bringing various noblemen to the field; and the following account gives a fair picture of the times.
“It happened one day that a daughter of the Duchess de Ventadour, of about ten or eleven years of age, going one evening from the castle to walk in the meadows, myself, with divers French gentlemen, attended her and some gentlewomen that were with her. This young lady wearing a knot of riband on her head, a French cavalier took it suddenly and fastened it to his hatband: the young lady, offended, herewith demands her riband; but he refusing to restore it, the young lady, addressing herself to me, said, ‘Monsieur, I pray, get my riband from that gentleman.’ Hereupon, going towards him, I courteously, with my hat in my hand, desired him to do me the honour that I might deliver the lady her riband or bouquet again; but he roughly answering me, ‘Do you think I will give it to you, when I have refused it to her?’ I replied, ‘Nay, then, sir, I will make you restore it by force!’ Whereupon, also, putting on my hat, and reaching at his, he to save himself ran away; and after a long course in the meadow, finding that I had almost overtook him, he turned short, and, running to the young lady, was about to put the riband in her hand, when I, seizing upon his arm, said to the young lady, ‘It was I that gave it.’ ‘Pardon me,’ quoth she, ‘it is he that gives it me.’ I said then, ‘Madam, I will not contradict you; but, if he dare say that I did not constrain him to give it, I will fight with him.’ The French gentleman answered nothing thereunto for the present, and we conducted the lady again to the castle. The next day I desired Mr. Aurelian Townshend to tell the French cavalier that he must confess that I constrained him to restore the riband, or fight with me. But the gentleman, seeing him unwilling to accept of this challenge, went out from the place; whereupon, I following him, some of the gentlemen that belonged to the Constable, taking notice hereof, acquainted him therewith, who, sending for the French cavalier, checked him well for his sauciness in taking the riband away from his grandchild, and afterwards bid him depart his house: and this was all I ever heard of the gentleman, with whom I proceeded in that manner, because I thought myself obliged thereunto by the oath taken when I was made Knight of the Bath.”
It seems that our hero was a very pugnacious defender of ladies’ top-knots and ribands, for he relates another quarrel of a similar nature, in the case of a Scotch gentleman, “who, taking a riband in the like manner from Mrs. Middleton, a maid of honour, in a back-room behind Queen Anne’s lodging in Greenwich, she likewise desired me to get her the said riband. I repaired, as formerly, to him in a courteous manner to demand it; but he refusing, as the French cavalier did, I caught him by the neck, and had almost thrown him down, when company came in and parted us. I offered, likewise, to fight with this gentleman, and came to the place appointed, by Hyde Park; but this also was interrupted, by order of the Lords of the Council, and I never heard more of it.”
His lordship, notwithstanding his constant quarrels, which he most decidedly sought for, by his own account, asserts “that, although I lived in the armies and courts of the greatest princes in Christendom, yet I never had a quarrel with man for mine own sake; so that, although in mine own nature I was ever choleric and hasty, yet I never, without occasion given, quarrelled with anybody: for my friends often have I hazarded myself, but never yet drew my sword for my own sake singly.”
It is difficult to reconcile this assertion with a quarrel he picked with the same Balaguy, so much renowned amongst the ladies, of whom he had already spoken. “I remembered myself,” he says, “of the bravado of M. Balaguy, and, coming to him, told him that I knew how brave a man he was, and that, as he had put me to one trial of daring when I was last with him in the trenches, I would put him to another; and saying that I had heard he had a fair mistress, and that the scarf he wore was her gift, I would maintain I had a worthier mistress than he, and that I would do as much for her sake as he, or any one else, durst do for his.”
Balaguy very wisely declined the meeting, with a joke of somewhat an indelicate nature: to which Lord Herbert replied, “that he spoke more like a paillard than a cavalier!” And here, strange to say, the matter ended. To doubt the courage of Balaguy, is out of the question; and it is but reasonable to infer that Lord Herbert was looked upon in the court of France as a crackbrained knight-errant. In the case of the young lady’s top-knot, there is little doubt but that the French cavalier was her favourite, whom in a pettish moment she sought to embroil with our hero; and the Frenchman very wisely considered the whole business a childish joke.
The Quixotic character of Lord Herbert was fully illustrated after the siege of Rees, when a trumpeter came from the Spanish army with a challenge from a Spanish cavalier, purporting, that if any cavalier would fight a single combat for the sake of his mistress, the said Spaniard would meet him upon the assurance of a field. His lordship was the only madman found to accept the defiance; and on this occasion received from the Prince of Orange a very salutary piece of advice. “His Excellency thereupon,” he says, “looking earnestly upon me, told me he was an old soldier, and that he had observed two sorts of men who used to send challenges of this kind: one of them, who, having lost perchance some part of their honour in the field before the enemy, would recover it again by a single fight; the other was of those who sent it only to discover whether our army had in it men affected to give trial of themselves in this kind. Howbeit, if this man was a person without exception to be taken against him, he said, there was none he knew upon whom he would sooner venture the honour of his army than myself. Hereupon, by his Excellency’s permission, I sent a trumpet to the Spanish army, when another trumpet came to me from Spinola, saying, the challenge was made without his consent, and that therefore he would not permit it.” This did not satisfy our knight; but he forthwith repaired to the Spanish camp to seek out the challenger. There he was received with great cordiality by Spinola; and, instead of a battle, the visit ended in a festive dinner, during which a conversation took place between his lordship and the Spanish general, descriptive of the times. “Di che moriva Signor Francesco Vere?” To which Lord Herbert replied, “Per aver niente a fare.” When Spinola observed, “E basta per un generale.” Lord Herbert adds, “Indeed, that brave commander, Sir Francis Vere, died, not in time of war, but in peace.” He then parted from his noble host, with a particular request to be allowed to fight the infidels if ever he undertook a crusade, when he would be the first man who died in the quarrel.
It appears, however, that on one occasion a Frenchman, the favourite Luynes, showed less of spirit than our countryman. Through some misrepresentations Lord Herbert was recalled, and Luynes procured his brother the Duke of Chaun, with a train of officers, “each of whom had killed his man,” to go to England as ambassador extraordinary to complain of the conduct of Lord Herbert. The inquiry terminated in his favour, when he fell upon his knees before King James, in presence of the Duke of Buckingham, to request that a trumpeter, if not a herald, might be sent to Luynes to tell him that he had made a false relation of the whole affair, and that he demanded satisfaction sword in hand. The King answered, “that he would take it into consideration.” But Luynes soon after died, and Herbert was again sent to France.
It may be easily imagined that Richelieu would not allow these edicts, apparently humane, to put an end to a practice which was both directly and indirectly of material service to his lofty ambition; and when he could not bring to the scaffold illustrious victims, such as the Cinque-Mars, De Thous, and Montmorency, he sought for guilt, real or supposed, amongst those nobles who had infringed these useless laws. Thus we find, in 1626, the young Prince de Chalais, of the house of Talleyrand, killing in a duel the Count of Pont Gibaut, grandson of Schomberg. He was immediately apprehended; but being a favourite of Gaston d’Orleans the King’s brother, and moreover the lover of the famous Duchess de Chevreuse, the cardinal was for the time deprived of his victim, until the year 1626, when he was accused of a conspiracy against his sovereign, sentenced to death, and executed the same day. This judicial murder was attended with circumstances of a most cruel nature. No executioner could be found to carry the sentence into effect, when two malefactors were pardoned on condition that they would perform the hateful duty; which they executed in so fearful a manner, that the unfortunate young nobleman received thirty blows of the axe ere his head was severed from the body.
The following year, history records another merciless act of the cardinal. François de Montmorency, better known under the name of Boutteville, was one of the most renowned duellists of the day. This nobleman, whenever he heard that a person bore the reputation of a courageous man, was in the practice of walking up to him, and quietly saying, “I understand, sir, that you are courageous; I wish to enable you to prove it,—what are your weapons?” Every morning the hall of his hotel was crowded with what was called the “golden youth of France,” where fencing and trials of skill at all arms were practised, and a sumptuous collation laid out for the company. The excesses of these desperadoes were so reckless, that a special edict appeared to keep them within limits. Such was the audacity of Boutteville, that he actually compelled the Count of Pont Gibaut on an Easter Sunday to quit his devotions and fight him: he was also denounced for having killed the Marquis de Portes and the Count de Thorigny. Shortly after, fighting the Baron de la Frette, in which duel his second was killed, he was obliged to absent himself from Paris: he fixed upon Brussels to meet another adversary, the Marquis de Beuvron, a relation of Thorigny, whose death he was anxious to avenge. The King, upon hearing of this determination, wrote immediately to the Archduchess, who then governed the Low Countries, to prevent this meeting; and directed the Marquis de Spinola to settle their differences. For this purpose, this nobleman invited them both to a splendid repast, and made them embrace each other, with vows of everlasting friendship, and a total forgiveness of all past injuries, in the presence of a numerous company. Notwithstanding these solemn protestations, De Beuvron, on quitting the house, whispered to Boutteville, “that he never would rest satisfied until he had met him sword in hand.” Boutteville however refused to meet him, on the plea of the solemn promise he had made the Archduchess to abstain from any hostile act while on her territory; but he entreated that princess to write to Louis XIII, to obtain the King’s permission to return to France: to which application the monarch replied, “that all that he could do, for the love he bore her, was to allow him to remain in France without further prosecution, but he could not permit him to make his appearance at court.”
Beuvron returned to Paris, wrote no less than eight letters to Boutteville to request him to meet him there, and on his arrival proposed a duel without seconds: to which Boutteville replied, “that he would have had no objection to this arrangement, had not two of his friends expressed a wish to join the party; and that he should have to give them satisfaction if they were, disappointed.” The following day, the 12th of May, was fixed for the meeting, at three in the afternoon, on the Place Royale, one of the most public places in the capital; Boutteville declaring that “he would fight under sunshine,” and following, in this remark, the example of the celebrated duellist De Bussy, who, being challenged to fight by night, replied, “that he would not condescend to display his valour to the stars, or even to the moon, since they were not able to contemplate him properly, or appreciate his skill; the obscurity of night being only fit to screen deeds of darkness:” he further advised the parties to bring two pioneers with them to dig their graves. It appears that strange notions prevailed on such occasions; and Brantôme relates the case of a gentleman who invited another to fight him on a winter’s night in their shirts; to which he sent answer, “that he would not expose himself to catch a cold, or a purging, which he dreaded more than his antagonist’s valour.”
Howbeit, our champions met, with their four seconds; one of whom left his sick bed for the purpose. The combat began with sword and dagger, when, casting the former weapon away, the principals collared each other, and fought with their daggers; which both holding at each other’s throat, they mutually asked for quarter. In the mean time, one of the seconds, the celebrated Bussy D’Amboise, had been run through the throat by a mortal thrust; and another second, La Berthe, was also put hors de combat. The principals very quietly went to lunch at a barber’s shop; and, after seeing La Berthe’s wounds dressed, rode out of Paris. Bussy had just time to cross himself, and die in the arms of a worthy friar.