The Troublesome Prince of Condé

As for why Queen Mother Anne and Mazarin were so deeply wary of Prince of Condé, Louis understood something of it. Though he had yet to formally take part in state affairs, he could still gather enough intelligence from talkative servants and maids—at least, enough for him now.

As mentioned before, when Prince of Condé was still the twenty-one-year-old Duke of Enghien, the fiercest battle between Spain and France was fought at Rocroi. The Spanish army numbered twenty-six thousand men, led by an old battlefield veteran named Don Francisco de Melo. They had penetrated deep into France and stood at the gates of Paris. Louis XIII had only just gone to meet God, while Richelieu had left this clamorous mortal world a year before him. All that remained in Paris were Mazarin, whose footing was still unsteady, Queen Mother Anne of Austria, the young King Louis XIV, and his even younger brother Philip. The Spaniards even believed they could break Paris and capture the French king, and no one considered that mere wild fancy—Paris was clearly at a disadvantage in troops. Among its forces were the Royal Household Guard controlled by Duke of Orléans, Gaston; Cardinal Richelieu's Red Guards; and the Royal Musketeers. The first two could not be trusted, while the last could not leave the royal palace. Their only commander was the young Duke of Enghien, who had not the slightest experience in war.

Just as every master craftsman had to begin as an apprentice, people of that time believed that a reliable commander had to rise above the rest through battle after battle. Louis had been very young then, but even he knew how grave the situation was. When Duke of Enghien came to bid him farewell, Poitiers, the Queen Mother's private priest, even performed a blessing for him. Though that was what they called it, everyone knew it had been done in case he fell on the battlefield without time to receive the last rites.

The truth proved the opposite of what people had imagined. Duke of Enghien knew the Spaniards looked down on him, and he made use of that contempt. The Spanish general Melo had intended to lure the French army into a trap. Rocroi was surrounded by forests and marshes, with only a narrow road leading through it; once inside, it was difficult to escape. To ensure this, he had even withdrawn his soldiers and had not attacked when Duke of Enghien led his army into Rocroi.

The next day, the two sides began with artillery fire, and the Spanish musketeers suffered considerable losses. Then, that night, Duke of Enghien launched a surprise attack on the Spanish first line, swiftly routed their second line as well, and the Spanish cavalry consequently fell entirely into French hands. Unfortunately, Spain's most prized infantry had suffered no losses, and there were eighteen cannons positioned within their formation. Neither the French infantry nor cavalry could do anything to them. After a full day of tormenting each other, the Spaniards proposed negotiations. Had the talks succeeded, the Spaniards could at least have surrendered with honor, withdrawing without laying down their arms. But how could Duke of Enghien willingly let such an easy and decisive victory slip away? While using false words to stall the Spanish envoys, he sent the main force of his cavalry slowly around through the forest toward the Spanish rear, waiting at the same time for nearly four thousand reinforcements of infantry to arrive. Once everything was ready, he mounted his horse and rode to the place of negotiation—only to be fired upon by the Spanish infantry.

A grieving army would surely triumph; that was not a saying that applied only in the East. Duke of Enghien's soldiers instantly flew into a rage and surged toward the despicable enemy like a tidal wave. At the same time, Duke of Enghien's cavalry attacked the Spaniards from behind, while the French artillery unleashed thunderous roars that shook heaven and earth. Caught utterly unprepared by such swift and savage blows, the Spaniards were immediately thrown into confusion. And the trap General Melo had prepared for his enemy dealt them a blow right across the brow—the dense forest and marshes slowed their flight. In the end, the Spanish officers could only throw themselves at General Enghien's feet and beg for mercy, thereby escaping the ferocious French soldiers.

In that battle, the Spaniards lost eight thousand dead, six thousand captured, twenty-four cannons, and their commander Melo. The French lost two thousand dead and nearly six thousand wounded, and lifted the siege of Paris. It was a glorious victory.

Of course, no one knew how Duke of Enghien had so keenly sensed someone firing at him, or how he had escaped that shot without so much as a scratch. Though people at court later criticized him endlessly for behaving without grace or proper decorum, to a France that was becoming more and more incapable of standing up in war, a talent with such a gift for battle was more endearing than an angel.

For a hundred years, France had seen no victory like this. Francis I had been better at negotiation than war; Henry IV had been too tolerant—the Edict of Nantes had come from his hand. During Louis XIII's reign, even the most flamboyant tabloids had been too lazy to report the French victories—not because they meant to slight them, but because defeat had always followed close on the heels of those victories.

Later, Duke of Enghien won Philippsburg and Mainz for France in battles against the Germans. After Duke of Orléans, Gaston, withdrew from Flanders, he also captured Dunkirk. This greatly heartened the French, and people endlessly sang of his legends—from how he could sleep soundly on the battlefield and had to be awakened, proving his unshakable composure, to how he had thrown his marshal's baton into the enemy trenches, then drawn his sword to command the attack and retrieve it, proving his bold courage... For a time, his name shone brilliantly, beyond all comparison. No commander could match him, while the cardinal and the king seemed already forgotten.

As beloved as he was on the battlefield, he was equally detested at court.

Prince of Condé knew this well. Yet he was still a young man, a young man who had never suffered a setback. He had brought the skin of a Serbian werewolf; it was hard to say whether he truly meant to curry favor with the king or merely intended a prank. But it was an obvious fact that he kept making excuses and delaying, unwilling to face those rioters for the Queen Mother and the king.

Mazarin and Queen Mother Anne could only yield again and again. They allowed Prince of Condé to sit beside the king, and even had the Finance Minister replace the servants in dressing him, among other things. They also fulfilled every demand Prince of Condé made. As mentioned in the previous chapter, to replenish military supplies, the Queen Mother had removed the diamonds from her crown and dismissed many servants. Princess Henrietta of England had fallen ill with a fever, yet there had not even been a good enough doctor to treat her. Louis could only order the servants to cool her down with cloths soaked in river water.

As for the werewolf skin Prince of Condé had presented to the king, the king placed it beneath his seat, where everyone granted an audience with the king could see it—though most of them did not know it was not a wolfskin.

After delaying for several weeks, Prince of Condé had no choice but to set out with those eight hundred soldiers.

It was laughable, really. Though the Parlement that had stirred up the rebellion had always proclaimed itself incorruptible and honorable, impartial in its affairs, loving nothing but the interests of the state, when faced with the royal army, it had without hesitation extorted a "forgiveness fee" of one hundred and fifty thousand livres from each of the twenty judges appointed by Cardinal Richelieu. It had also seized royal property worth one million two hundred thousand livres—one livre was equivalent to a pound of silver—and recruited an army of twelve thousand men. It further ordered every wealthy household whose gate could admit a carriage to provide one man and one horse; this force was known as the Carriage-Gate Cavalry. Archbishop Collins's private troops, around eight hundred men known as the Collins Regiment, were also requisitioned by the Parlement.

Then there were the citizens of Paris. Holding crude muskets, long sabers, clubs, and pitchforks taken from their homes, wearing the ribbons distributed by the Parlement and feathers in their hats, they happily joined the army opposing the king. That was why Prince of Condé believed he would be facing a hundred thousand enemies.

But whether they were the soldiers recruited by the Parlement, the Carriage-Gate Cavalry, the Collins Regiment, or the citizens of Paris, none of them had any desire to fight Prince of Condé and a real army. Every day, they walked from the city of Paris to its outer suburbs, then turned around and returned. Their clothes bore not the slightest trace of blood, only dust. As Prince of Condé's eight hundred soldiers gradually drew nearer to Paris, during the final day or two even these ceremonial expeditions ceased.

Prince of Condé took over Paris with remarkable calm.