Mistresses

by Linda Porter

  One who believed that he personally had something to gain by urging Hortense to accept Charles II’s invitation was the man who had played a significant part in its origination, the arch-intriguer, Ralph Montagu, ‘that ingenious gentleman . . . so lucky in remote contrivances’, as he was pithily described. Ralph had a long-standing grudge against Danby, whom he held responsible for his recall from Paris and subsequent attempts to block the brilliant career that Montagu always believed was his due. If Louise could be replaced then Danby’s influence would be reduced, perhaps nullified. Ralph made sure that his sister, the equally interfering Lady Harvey, soon became Hortense’s closest female friend in England. Both were convinced that it would not be long before Louise was totally eclipsed and Hortense became the new maîtresse-en-titre. They had not counted, however, on the volatility of Hortense herself and whether she really wanted such a role.

  Hortense had been drawn to England by more than Ralph Montagu’s machinations and the possibility of a fling with a middle-aged royal womanizer. She had a strong family connection in the young duchess of York, whose mother, Laure Martinozzi, was her first cousin. Mary Beatrice lacked the astonishing beauty of her Mancini cousins but she was a handsome young woman, whose appearance had delighted James, duke of York, when he embraced his fifteen-year-old second wife on the beach at Dover two years earlier. Mary’s youth and appearance were still not enough to contain the sexual urges of a man who could nearly match his brother for the number of his mistresses but he was, nevertheless, very fond of her and she had considerable influence over him. The duchess of York had taken to her new role with a grace and maturity that might not have been expected when she left Italy with her mother as a nervous and unhappy teenager, whose preference had apparently been to enter a convent. Too much may have been read into her reluctance to leave her home for a country she professed never to have heard of. It was not uncommon for girls her age to find a contemplative life of devotion attractive and it is unlikely that, given her marriage prospects, her family would have ultimately agreed to her taking the veil. Still, she had wept unconsolably when told of the marriage that had been arranged for her, her anguish matching that, a few years later, of the stepdaughter who shared her name. Now, at the age of seventeen, she was pregnant for the second time, having suffered a miscarriage the previous year. The birth was imminent when Hortense arrived, and Mary Beatrice looked forward to the arrival of a relative at such an emotional time. In this respect, the stern Victorian moralizing of Agnes Strickland, the pioneering biographer of England’s queens, makes amusing reading, with its criticism of the duke of York having ‘the false complaisance to permit his consort to visit this dangerous intriguante . . . [who]openly defied all restraints, both of religion and morality.’4 At a court renowned for its open embrace of immorality, Mary Beatrice had by then realized that many so-called ladies, not least the duchess of Portsmouth, were not what they seemed. And, in fact, her cousin Hortense’s affair with Charles II would be remarkable for its discretion.

  The likelihood is that Hortense became Charles II’s mistress in the first months of 1676. Her beauty, vivid personality and the extraordinary life she had led were in strong contrast to the milky charms of Louise de Kéroualle, who was said to be mightily put out by the new arrival. Nobody thought that the king could resist Hortense for long. Yet neither party sought to make a great public display of their relationship. The king had never bothered to conceal his womanizing in the past and Hortense was known for her complete disregard for observing what were considered as the norms of appropriate female behaviour at the time. The truth is that there were awkward implications for both of them if they acknowledged that the frenzy of speculation at court was correct. Charles was genuinely fond of Louise and did not want to increase her distress. Hortense was still trying to get a satisfactory financial settlement out of her husband and realized that it would probably not be wise to incense him still further, neither could she risk the displeasure of Louis XIV, whose support she had always sought, though with little success.

  In fact, the king of France and his ambassadors in London were far from sure what to make of this latest episode in Anglo-French relations. When Hortense first arrived in London, the Protestant Ruvigny was ambassador and though he had no personal liking for the duchess of Portsmouth, he had a reasonable working relationship with her. If Charles II was now to be seduced by the volatile Hortense, he was unsure where he stood. Even his rather grudging acknowledgement of the lady’s enduring physical charms revealed the uncertainty of his attitude towards her. ‘For myself, who have not seen her since the first days of her marriage,’ he wrote, ‘and who have retained the recollection of what she was like then, I have observed some alteration, which, however, does not prevent her from being more beautiful than anyone in England. I no longer find in her that air of youth, nor that delicacy of features, which perchance she may regain when she has recovered from the fatigues of so difficult a journey.’5 In recent years, much of Hortense’s life had been a difficult journey and, at twenty-nine (though many thought she looked younger), it is hardly surprising that the air of youth of a fourteen-year-old bride had left the duchess Mazarin. But she still had the power, as Ruvigny so rightly anticipated, to take England and its king by storm.

  Ruvigny’s first thought was that Hortense should be encouraged to return to France with all possible speed. He did not like the involvement of Ralph Montagu in all this. But he did not have to deal with Hortense for long. In April 1676, he was recalled and replaced by Courtin. The new ambassador carried instructions from his monarch that show how well apprised Louis XIV was of the situation regarding Hortense and reveal an underlying concern that she could cause mischief. Louis had declined a recent request from Charles II and the duke of York that he should ‘compel the duc Mazarin to increase to twenty thousand crowns the pension of eight thousand crowns which his majesty desired should be given her, and to restore to her the jewels she left in Paris.’ He had told the Stuart brothers that he considered Hortense’s pension to be sufficient, ‘until such time as she is willing to return to her husband.’ By now, everyone involved, with the exception of Hortense’s husband himself, knew that such a rapprochement was never going to happen. Piqued by his French cousin’s refusal to help such a lovely damsel in distress, Charles II had given Hortense a pension himself. Since Louis XIV was well aware that a substantial part of Charles’s finances came from French coffers, he might have reasoned that he was, in any case, paying for the duchess Mazarin to bewitch the English king. He noted that ‘the affair has been conducted so far with some secrecy’, but believed that ‘this growing passion will take the first place in the heart of that prince.’ Louis feared that, in refusing Hortense’s requests for more pecuniary assistance, she might try to turn Charles II against him. He comforted himself with the belief that she knew that ‘her greatest interests are in France and that she has a very real interest in procuring herself the honour of the King’s favour.’ And he concluded with just the kind of warm but vague assurances he had always given Louise de Kéroualle, ‘of His Majesty’s good will towards her’, instructing Courtin to ‘let her hope, though in general terms, that later on she may expect the benefit by his protection and kindness.’6

  Louis and his advisers displayed a shrewd understanding of the effect that Hortense had on men, but in one crucial respect they were mistaken. Hortense’s affair with Charles II lasted no more than a year. She was too tempted by other men and he had not really deserted either his little brown-haired Bretonne or his forthright and vulgar actress. The duchess Mazarin, meanwhile, had found both a home in England and an unlikely admirer. She was content to remain and to enjoy life in London.

  *

  FOR THE REST of her life, Hortense was dependent on the support and admiration of a much older man. Charles Marguetel de Saint-Denis, seigneur de Saint-Évremond, was born in 1616 near the cathedral town of Coutances in Normandy. His family on both sides were well connected locally and though he was
a younger son their income enabled them to give him a good education, intended to prepare him for a career as a lawyer. He studied philosophy at the University of Caen and at the College of Harcourt in Paris. He was well read, intelligent and clearly highly suitable for the life his parents anticipated for him, but to everyone’s surprise, he decided to deviate from what looked like a comfortable and predictable future. Perhaps it was his passion for fencing that made him forsake the robe for the sword. In his mid-teens, he abandoned his studies and entered the army. By 1637, he was in command of a company, as the Thirty Years War dragged on, apparently without any impending resolution. His promotion was a sign of his ability and also his capacity to impress. But already he was known for his exceptional manners and his wit, rather than physical bravery on the field. Neither was it uncommon for younger sons to become soldiers. The army gave them an opportunity to make contacts that would be useful later in life and, during the winters, when campaigning ceased, Saint-Évremond, who by then had become fluent in Italian and Spanish, slipped effortlessly into the salon life of Paris. It was in this milieu of intellectual stimulation and heady romance that the early convictions of his Jesuit teachers during his schooldays were replaced by a more open attitude to philosophy. He began to write essays and satirical pieces, none of them intended for publication, but mostly to amuse the many friends with whom he corresponded frequently.

  We know little of Saint-Évremond’s private life at this time. There were rumours that the female philosopher, Ninon de Lanclos, as well as the countess d’Olonne were his mistresses, but firm evidence of the reality of such relationships is lacking. It may be that Saint-Évremond was one of those men for whom the company of strong and beautiful women is a vital aspect of their lives, but who need their minds and society rather than their bodies. And while his support of the court during the period of the Fronde was noted, so was his cutting wit and propensity for satire that offended. He lost the support of the Prince de Condé by unwisely ridiculing a man who was known for ridiculing others. The French court, with Anne of Austria and Mazarin in control, viewed Saint-Évremond as entertaining but not entirely reliable, though he was sent on brief diplomatic missions to England and Holland. However, with the fall of Fouquet, Louis XIV’s capable but unpopular finance minister, in 1661, Saint-Évremond was to find that his commentary on the Treaty of the Pyrenees, which ended years of conflict between France and Spain, had fallen into the wrong hands. It was discovered among Fouquet’s papers. Perhaps not in itself sufficient to warrant anything other than a reprimand, it seems to have been the final straw for the young king who had so recently assumed the reins of power for himself. The order was given to arrest Saint-Évremond and imprison him in the Bastille. Friends advised a hasty and judicious retreat to his estates in Normandy. He complied, but by the end of 1661, he realized that life anywhere in France had become too dangerous for him. He fled to Holland and thence to England for several years, returning back across the North Sea in 1665. He had good friends and important contacts there, not least William of Orange himself, the English king’s nephew. Yet he found life somewhat dull, and when an invitation to reside permanently in London was issued by Charles II in 1670, Saint-Évremond took it eagerly. He amused himself as best he could with parties and bright conversation but, speaking no English, was never entirely at home. He always missed France. Even the arrival of Hortense Mancini could not fully erase his homesickness, though the two soon became inseparable.

  It was an intense friendship based on mutual need. Hortense craved admiration and Saint-Évremond needed a focus for his life. At more than sixty years old, disdaining the fashion for wigs beneath a clerical skullcap, and with a huge swelling, or wen, on his neck, Saint-Évremond had no hope and, more probably, no interest in becoming the lover of the beautiful Hortense. She was mistress of his heart rather than his body. Though they met almost daily for many years at the residence in St James’s Park that had been provided for Hortense by the duke of York, they also carried on a lively, sometimes intense, correspondence. None of hers survive, which is a pity, as we have no way of knowing if her letters matched the intellectual vigour and range of Saint-Évremond’s, though her earlier writings suggest a woman who would have been able to hold her own in discussion. The two exiles, cut adrift from the lands of their upbringing (doubly, in Hortense’s case), could relish a debate on Greek and Latin literature while still acknowledging that the refuge they had found in England was far from perfect: ‘Tis a great misfortune,’ wrote Saint-Évremond in 1676 to Hortense, ‘for a man to pass away his life at a distance from his Empire: but then if fortune had not banished me from it, I should not have the happiness to live in yours. You inspire passion in everything that is capable of it; and Reason yields to you even those that are past any sense of passion.’7 By which, presumably, he meant himself.

  There were men – and, indeed, women – besides the elderly man of letters who were by no means past such passion and with whom the duchess Mazarin indulged her sensuality to the full. Saint-Évremond, who saw the advantages of security offered by his muse’s affair with Charles II, was disquieted by her liaison with the young and handsome Prince of Monaco, whom she had known in Savoy, within a year of her arrival. Hortense may have been unusually circumspect in her meetings with Charles II, but she abandoned such caution with this new lover. The king was not amused and temporarily halted her pension. The prince’s denials – ‘Upon my sword, M. Saint-Évremond, I looked another way’ – were not believed by anyone who knew the couple. Sidonie de Courcelles, who was making a habit of following Hortense around Europe, had not lost any of her vituperation when she described Charles II’s vexation with Hortense: ‘The king was yesterday making loud jokes about it, saying that the service of Madame Mazarin was too difficult . . . it was killing her husband as well as all of her noble lovers; Monaco is having dizzy spells like Mazarin did.’8

  Ambassador Courtin, who was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up with the king’s love life and trying to balance the conflicting possibilities of the two duchesses, Portsmouth and Mazarin, from a French perspective, was even more disgusted by the arrival of the marquise de Courcelles, acidly observing that England was becoming a refuge for any woman who had fallen out with her husband. He was relieved to be passing the baton to Paul de Barrillon.

  And then there was Hortense’s scandalous friendship with the king’s elder daughter by Lady Castlemaine, Anne Fitzroy, countess of Sussex. Even before she was seduced by Ralph Montagu in Paris, Anne’s reputation had suffered seriously from accusations that she was conducting a lesbian affair with Duchess Mazarin. Anne had been married to Thomas Lennard, baron Dacre, at the age of thirteen at Hampton Court, and her husband was promptly made an earl. The couple were, however, unsuited, he being basically a country squire and she preferring the pleasures of the court. Despite her youth and her mother’s desire to curb her behaviour – something that Barbara herself was not noted for – Anne was entranced by Hortense. They were never out of one another’s company for a while, in the summer of 1676, and having taken fencing lessons together, raised eyebrows when they went out one night, clad only in their nightdresses and carrying their swords, to practise. The king might have allowed them some leeway initially, but he intervened when Anne refused to live with her husband on his country estates. She was forcibly removed and sent to the convent in Paris where Montagu’s blandishments would soon make her forget Hortense.

  The duchess survived Titus Oates’s spewing of hatred against all Catholics and foreigners amid the maelstrom of the Popish Plot, but though her salon was famous for its literary, musical and political prestige, as well as its gaming tables, Hortense was never as financially secure as she would have liked and her fondness for the bottle (spirits as well as wine) increased with the passing years. It is tempting to view her as ‘empowered’, to use an overworked and anachronistic phrase much beloved by women writers commentating on the past, but was she really happy? The answer is that she had made the b
est of a difficult situation but in refusing to bow down to male authority she had, of course, implicitly acknowledged its potency. Cut off from her children and the inheritance that was rightfully hers, removed at a young age from her home and familiar surroundings to satisfy the ego of a powerful uncle, Hortense was as much a victim as a heroine. She fought against her situation for all of her adult life, taking refuge in her beauty and a hedonism that served her well but did not, ultimately, change the fact that she had been cruelly used.

  In January 1685, the diarist John Evelyn found her at court, gambling away the evening with the king and two of his other mistresses, the duchesses of Portsmouth and Cleveland. He found the spectacle of the king with Louise, Barbara and Hortense (his concubines, as Evelyn called them) profoundly distasteful. Presumably he was either not near enough or too decorous to report any conversation which passed between these ladies, which is a shame. The king seemed much as he had always been, a self-indulgent monarch who had modelled his court, his private life and, in the four years since he had sent his eternally obstructive Parliament packing at Oxford, even his government on that of his absolutist cousin, Louis XIV. But the sands of time were running out for the great Stuart survivor.