THE LADIES' WAR.

WHEN the citizens of Paris find that the Court had left the Palais Royal, instead of coming to their senses, they were furious. The Coadjutor, who had broken with the Regent, ruled supreme. He skilfully availed himself of the crisis, and caused the parliament to pass the act against aliens. This measure outlawed Mazarin as an enemy of the King and of the State, a conspirator, a perjurer, and a thief; confiscated his possessions, and enjoined all faithful subjects to shoot him without trial.

Civil war breaks out. The troops of the Queen-Regent were but feebly attacked. It was the hearts of her generals that were vigorously assailed by the lady commandants of the Fronde, whose artillery was blandishments and enticements.

Every soul in Paris armed himself, and took the field in whatever costume he usually wore. The nobles led the way in feathered hats, satin doublets, silk stockings, and high-heeled boots. No one knew what they were fighting for. The cry was, "Vive la Fronde!" "Mort À Mazarin!"

The Duchesse de Longueville, supported by her brother, the great CondÉ, took possession of the executive government at the HÔtel de Ville. She was quickly joined by the Duchesses de Chevreuse and de Montbazon. The Duc de Beaufort was set at liberty. But as it was quite a "Ladies' War," he acted only as subordinate. The Duchesses distributed all the military posts and honours among themselves—they created themselves generals, lieutenants, and colonels, like so many Bellonas. War was waged on quite new principles: MarÉchal d'Hocquincourt, defending Peronne for the Queen-Regent, assured the Duchesse de Montbazon, who invested it for the Fronde, "That Peronne was at the service of the fairest of the fair."

Not so la Grande Mademoiselle. She ranged herself on the popular side against the Court, and commanded at the Bastille. She fought in good earnest, and pointed the well-loaded guns of that fortress against her King and cousin, who, with his army, lay encamped without the walls of Paris. Louis retreated precipitately to Saint-Denis.

We are in the HÔtel de Ville, within the apartment of one of the very prettiest aides-de-camp attached to the Duchesse de Longueville. This fair lady, Mademoiselle de Rosny, has just finished a most elaborate toilette, and having arranged the innumerable little curls (then so much in vogue) round her face, and fastened the proper quantity of ribbon in her dark locks, takes a last fond look in the glass, and then seats herself in the happiest possible state of expectation. Now there is a certain all-conquering beau—Monsieur d'Aumale by name—who has more than half achieved the conquest of her heart; and she has a kind of presentiment that the morning will not pass without a visit from this pearl of cavaliers. Nor is she mistaken: a soft knock at her door announces the approach of some one. How her heart beats! It must be M. d'Aumale! So she says "Entrez!" in a trembling voice, and D'Aumale stands before her.

"Mademoiselle de Rosny," he exclaims, "I am in the utmost haste, I am come to beg you to be present at the most singular spectacle you ever beheld!"

"What may it be?" replies she, rather chagrined that instead of a tender love-scene, such as she anticipated, M. d'Aumale seems so preoccupied.

"It is but a review, mademoiselle, ordered by the council; but, ha! ha! such a review! Morbleu, you will never guess of whom—the oddest idea! It is no other than a review of priests, monks, and seminarists, all sword in hand, and ready to charge the enemy. It is the strangest idea of defence that ever was conceived; but as we have lady-generals, and the Grande Mademoiselle for commander-in-chief, we are now to have an army of priests for them to lead to battle. Those tonsured recruits are actually now all assembling on the bridge near Notre-Dame. You must be quick."

"Was ever anything so ridiculous!" and Mademoiselle de Rosny laughs. "But I shall be terrified at their awkwardness; they will be sure to fire too low and hit us."

"Oh, but you must come. I will be your guard; I pledge myself that you shall return uninjured," and D'Aumale gives the lady a tender glance. "Besides, to reassure you, I believe that these monk-warriors are not even to be trusted with matches; the arquebuses and cannon are as empty and as innocent as when in the arsenal; so there is nothing to fear. If you will come, I will conduct you in my new coach—the very model of elegance—I will answer for it there is not such another in all Paris."

"That will be delightful!" cries the lady. "I do admire those new coaches so much, if it were not for this abominable war, I suppose they would become universal. Well, Monsieur d'Aumale, I am ready! let us see these monks; it will be a good story with which to entertain Madame la Duchesse de Longueville this evening at her reception. How the Duc de Beaufort will laugh!"

In high glee Mademoiselle de Rosny departed, accompanied by her admirer, her pleasure not a little heightened by the idea of appearing in a coach, then by no means common in Paris, and reserved generally for royalty, or for grand occasions, or state processions—heavy lumbering vehicles, such as figure in the old prints of that period, with a sloping roof like a house, and drawn by Flemish horses of huge dimensions. On arriving near the bridge, they stop under the shadow of the Cathedral, and there behold the most extraordinary spectacle. All the young monks in Paris are crowded near Notre-Dame, with the exception of the Benedictines and some other orders, who refused to take any part in this mummery. At least fifteen hundred ecclesiastics, drawn up in excellent order, are executing the various manoeuvres of march, halt, right-about face, etc., with tolerable precision. The greater number have fastened up their black robes, and invested their lower limbs with most uncanonical garments. The reverend fathers, with their hoods hanging over their shoulders, are booted and spurred, many wear helmets and cuirasses, and all carry such halberts, lances, swords, and bucklers as they had been able to lay hands on. Others grasp a crucifix in one hand, and in the other a pistol, a scythe, an old dagger or a knife, with which each intends to perform prodigies of valour against the enemies of the Fronde. As they advance and retreat on the dusty soil in lines and columns, they present the appearance of an immense flight of crows hovering over a field of newly cut wheat.

To this martial array is added the clamour of drums, trumpets, and warlike instruments, accompanied with no end of benedictions, Oremus, and chanted psalms. At the head of the troops is a bishop, metamorphosed into a commander. He moves very slowly, by reason of his corpulence, and the weight of the armour he wears, and looks like a dilapidated St. George, minus the dragon. Then come Carthusians, Begging Friars, Capuchins, and Seminarists, each different order led by their abbot or prior. They all advance gravely with the orthodox goose-step. Cries of "Down with the Regent!" "Death to Mazarin!" "A bas the Italian beggar!" "Long live the Union!" "Vive la Duchesse!" "Vive la Fronde!" add to the clamour of the martial music and the psalms. Mademoiselle de Rosny is fain to hold both her ears, notwithstanding all the sweet things her companion is whispering. The mob of Paris en masse is assembled to witness this extraordinary review, and to rejoice in the unexpected aid contributed by the Church in the general emergency. Nor is M. d'Aumale's the only coach on the Quai Notre-Dame that day; many other possessors of such vehicles have been attracted by the scene. The Legate is among the number. The crowd is immense, the applause enthusiastic.

"Ciel!" calls out Mademoiselle de Rosny, on a sudden. "Look—Oh, look! Monsieur d'Aumale, you have deceived me, I am sure. They are going to fire!"

"No, no," replies D'Aumale, "believe me, you are mistaken. 'Give the monk his rosary, the soldier his sword,' says the motto. Messieurs les moines will not venture to burn their hands in attempting to handle firearms."

"But I tell you," cries the lady, "they are going to fire! Good heavens, the guns are all turned this way! Oh, D'Aumale, we shall be murdered. Help! help! I implore you!" And she catches hold of him, and begins to scream after the most approved fashion preparatory to a fit of hysterics.

D'Aumale looks out of the window. "In the name of Heaven, beware—beware!" he shouts to the priests. But in the confusion his voice is inaudible. The ecclesiastical artillerymen, awkward and inexperienced, have already lighted the matches, and the cannon, which were loaded, explode right and left in the crowd. A fearful cry arises from the Legate's coach.

"Thank Heaven, D'Aumale, we have escaped,—this time at least," gasps Mademoiselle de Rosny in a low voice, for she is now calmed by excessive fear.

"Yes, but I fancy some one else has been seriously wounded. I will alight and see," says D'Aumale, unfastening the door.

A dense crowd surrounds the coach belonging to the Legate. The secretary of his eminence had been shot dead by a bullet through the chest, the Legate's confessor is wounded in the head, and his two valets also much injured. Never was there such confusion. M. d'Aumale hastens back to secure the safe retreat of the fair De Rosny. They are soon disengaged from the crowd, and rolling back over the muddy ground to the HÔtel de Ville. Here we must bid them farewell, assuming that mademoiselle soon secured the possession of the much-admired coach by a speedy marriage with its handsome owner.