Jeanne Hachette – Defender of Beauvais

by | Mar 27, 2020 | Europe, France, Middle Ages (500 - 1500 AD) | 2 comments

The story I’m telling you today is a relatively short one, but exciting nonetheless! While Jeanne was definitely a real person, the accounts on her life differ from source to source, but one thing is clear, she was a total badass. When her city was attacked, many of the women living there refused to be bystanders and joined the fight – including 18 year old Jeanne, who grabbed a hatchet and played a key role in defending the city from capture. But let’s start at the beginning. 

Born around 1454 in the city of Beauvais, her real last name was either Fourquet or Laisné. She might have been the daughter of a butcher and, after her father’s death, could have been adopted by one of the city guards, which would explain the different names. Whatever the case, she was apparently not unfamiliar with blades. Another story tells that since childhood, she adored her namesake Jeanne d’Arc and dreamt of being like her someday. And she got her chance. 

Fast forward to 1472 when the Duke of Burgundy, who was revolting against the King – long story and not all that important for this article – advanced on Beauvais with an army of 80.000. They had already laid waste to the surrounding villages in an especially brutal fashion, hoping to scare the city into surrender. On June 27, workers on the cathedral roof spotted the approaching army and raised the alarm. The first onslaught was overwhelming. While Beauvais was well fortified, it had no artillery and the Burgundian soldiers were climbing the wall. Swiftly one of the suburbs was taken and there was a huge hole in one of the city gates. But the city didn’t surrender. Instead the citizens took up arms and threw themselves into battle – and not only the men, but women and children as well. Hot water, oil and molten lead were poured on the enemy soldiers storming the gate, men and women were blocking the gate, armed with whatever was available, sometimes only with their fists. But slowly they were losing ground and slowly their courage wavered.

Amidst all this chaos, 18-year-old Jeanne grabbed a hatchet and climbed the city walls with a band of women, all armed for combat. The Burgundians were still scaling the walls and the women got to work, shoving enemies back down and toppling ladders. Some soldiers got through though and one of them was intent on planting the Burgundian flag on top of the wall, a sign of victory. Jeanne swiftly threw him into the moat, holding the flag high over her head. This reignited the bravery of her fellow fighters and the battle waged on. At some point the broken gate was set on fire and kept aflame to make it harder for the enemies to enter. 

For two weeks they kept the flames burning until the Duke decided to attack another portion of town. Cannonballs destroyed big parts of the city, but he couldn’t get through the walls to conquer it. Even though Beauvais didn’t have any artillery, the defenders – many of them women – were valiant and quite inventive, hurling stones, torches and boiling water at the enemy. Wherever the soldiers attacked, a defense system was already in place, keeping them at bay. 

On July 22nd, after almost a month of fighting, the Duke had to retreat. He lost around 3.000 men, including about 20 lords against a city that had no ranged weaponry and an army that mainly consisted of citizens, many of them women – a humiliating defeat.

A defeat that might just have turned the tides of the Duke’s revolt. You see, he might have been able to beat the King… had he not wasted that much time on the city of Beauvais. As things were, he was forced to retreat to his own lands. The revolt had failed. King Louis XI recognized the contribution of the valiant citizens of Beauvais and granted the town certain privileges, like a lower tax rate. He also recognized the important role women had played in this defense and suspended the sumptuary laws which were common at the time. That means women were allowed to wear whatever clothing they liked, regardless of rank or gender norms.

And Jeanne? Jeanne was rewarded as well. Not only did she get money, but she and her descendants would never have to pay taxes, ever. Furthermore she was allowed to marry the man she loved, Collin Pillon, and some even say it was the King himself who held the ceremony.

That year the first Fêtes de l’Assaut (“Celebration of the Assault” – weird name, I know) is held with a procession through the city with Jeanne at the front, carrying the flag she conquered. Behind her the women of the city, honored for their inventiveness in ammunition. Since then this procession is held every year on the last weekend of June and it’s often called Fêtes Jeanne Hachette after our heroine and the name she became known for.

From then on her traces are lost in time. But her memory lives on forever in the town of Beauvais – their very own Jeanne d’Arc. 

image credits:

1: Jeanne Hachette Transformation cards (c. 1870, image cropped) – Steffen Völkel Rare Books – Link
2: “Beauvais (Oise, France) – Statue de Jeanne Hachette” (2008) by User Markus3 (Marc Roussel) in Wikimedia Commons – Link
3: “The women of Beauvais defending their city under Jeanne Hachette” from page 172 of “The story of the greatest nations, from the dawn of history to the twentieth century” by E.S. Ellis & C.F. Horne, 1900 – page scan uploaded to flickr by Internet Archive Book Images – Link
4: “La statue de Jeanne Hachette” by Béatrice Butstraen on her blog Les petits plats de Béa [French], 2018 – Link

Hortense Mancini – The Runaway Dutchess

by | May 17, 2018 | Early Modern Period (1500 - 1750), Europe, France, UK | 0 comments

This time I’d like to introduce you to one of my biggest history crushes: Her name is mostly mentioned in relation to her famous family and as a famous mistress, but she is so much more than that. Today’s post is about Hortense Mancini, a runaway wife who bedded kings. Are you interested yet? Because it keeps getting better. But let’s start with the beginning.

Hortense was born in Rome as the fourth of the five Mancini sisters, who were to become famous for their beauty and wit. When their mother was widowed in 1650, she sent the girls to Paris to live with their uncle Cardinal Mazarin. She hoped that his position as the king’s minister would allow her daughters to find suitable husbands. And the plan worked. The sisters were superstars at the French court, famed for their olive-skinned beauty which differed from the “standard French girl” and for their scandalous lives; either praised or despised, but definitely talked about. They even had a collective name: “The Mazarinettes” – remind you of anyone? (In the picture, Hortense is the one on the far right.)

Anyways, there were a lot of suitors. And I mean a lot. And they were respectable too. But because Hortense was her uncle’s favourite, no one seemed to be good enough for her. The cardinal had rejected a ton of suitors, among them Charles II, the exiled King of England (who funnily enough was legitimized only a few months later and was quick to reject the cardinal’s offer of Hortense’s hand and a lot of gold – hurt pride and all.) Finally in 1661, on his deathbed, Mazarin signed a marriage contract between Hortense and one of Europe’s wealthiest men: Armand Charles de La Porte de La Meilleraye. Not a good choice as it turned out.

Hortense was a cheerful girl (just look at the flower portrait on the left!), liked by everyone who met her, while Armand was a grumpy and jealous person. Also he was twice her age. Not to mention that he had that weird obsession with sex – and not in a good way. In his vast art collection, every bit of nudity was either painted over or chipped off, the teeth of his female servants were knocked out so they wouldn’t attract suitors and he tried to keep them from milking the cows (because udders are sexual, you know). Hortense was forbidden from meeting with any other men and often woken up at midnight when her husband decided to sweep her room for hidden lovers. Finally he forced her to move to the countryside with him, away from her beloved city.

Sure enough, Hortense was more than unhappy. And she decided to do something against that. And so she took a lover who was her age. Her name was Sidonie de Courcelles. Armand was shook when he found out, oh, the immorality. So he put both girls in a convent. That’ll teach them. Well, that plan kinda backfired – who would have thought? Honestly, I’m a little sorry for the nuns. The two girls were basically the Fred and George of the nunnery: they spiked the Holy Water with ink, flooded the nun’s beds and even tried to escape through the chimney. So in the end Hortense had to reluctantly return to her husband. She stayed for seven years, in which she bore four children. She did not idly take the abuse though. It was around that time when she started on her memoirs – highly unusual for women in the 17th century. Her main reason was to chronicle her husband’s behavior to have a solid case against him in court. It did not do her any good though and her attempt to divorce Armand failed.

But now she truly had enough and bolted, donning men’s clothing and leaving her children behind. A move so unusual at the time, that it attracted a lot of attention – not only from the public, spawning own magazines devoted to the topic, but also from the court. Soon the French King and her former suitor, the Duke of Savoy offered themselves as her protectors. Graciously she accepted the pension offered by the king and moved into the household of the Duke. Unfortunately he died not long after and his wife kicked her out again. Once more she was alone. Her husband had managed to freeze all of her bank accounts, including her pension from the King, which left her penniless – unless she returned to him. But that was out of the question. Enter the English ambassador. To secure his own status and maybe even improve it a little he’d like Hortense to try and replace the current mistress of Charles II. Does that name ring any bells? Right, the guy she’s supposed to seduce is the same King of England who wanted to marry her earlier, which didn’t quite end so well. Still, she was willing to give it a shot. Where else should she go anyways?

Soon she was on her way to London, pretending to be visiting her cousin there and once again dressed as a man. She travelled through Germany, having her memoirs basically published on the way. In January 1675 she arrived at the English court and by August she had been given an apartment and a generous pension by King Charles II. Less than one year later, she fully took the place of his chief mistress. It was the perfect match. They both loved lavish parties, riding and fencing. The King didn’t even mind her refusal to address him as “majesty” or her numerous affairs (playwright Aphra Behn even dedicated the introduction of one of her novellas to Hortense, turning it into a full-blown love poem.) And he liked her penchant for cross-dressing. Life could have been great.

And it was, until Hortense decided to start a relationship with Anne of Sussex. You see, generally the king didn’t care which beds she hopped into, but Anne was his daughter – an illegitimate daughter, but still. It didn’t really help that the two girls were caught in the midst of a friendly fencing match. In their nightgowns. Right in the middle of a public park. Watched (and presumably cheered on) by a group of onlookers. Immediately Anne was sent to an estate in the country, where she reportedly refused to leave her bed and just lay there, kissing a small painting of her beloved Hortense. That alone would not have tipped the King over the edge, but then Horense took the Prince of Monaco as her lover. Another royal was just too much for poor Charles II and he refused to pay her pension for a few days, but quickly relented. Hortense however had to give up her position as the King’s favourite to her predecessor in 1677. They did however remain friends until his death in 1685.

With both of her protectors dead however, Armand came back. Yep, I had hoped to never hear of him again as well. And so in 1689, he went to court, demanding his wife to return to Italy with him. But Hortense fought – and won. She was allowed to stay in England. And while her pension was reduced by the new King she kept her estate, which she turned into a salon for intellectuals and artists. In 1699, Hortense too died. It isn’t entirely sure how, but her drinking problem is mostly assumed to have been her downfall, but there are also rumors of a suicide.

One might think the story of Hortense Mancini ends here. But did you forget that Armand is still alive? Yes, even after her death, he couldn’t just let her be. He literally took her dead body with him while he travelled the country, visiting all the estates she had despised so much. It took four months until he finally allowed her to find a resting place in her uncle’s tomb. I hope she whoops his ass in the afterlife.

You can still buy her autobiography (and that of her sister)!
It’s on amazon but if you can, please support your local bookshop!

image credits:

1: “Three Nieces of Cardinal Mazarin” (detail; fltr: Marie, Olympia, and Hortense) by an unknown French artist, ca. 1660 – Link
2: presumed portait of Hortense Mancini by Jacob Ferdinand Voet, 1671 – © Hermitage Museum (ГЭ-5743) – Link
3: “Hortense Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin, as Cleopatra” by Jacob Ferdinand Voet, 17th century – © Bonhams (Lot 17) – Link
4: “Portrait of Ortensia Mancini, as Aphrodite” by Jacob Ferdinand Voet, ca. 1675 – © Christie’s (Lot 202) – Link

Julie d’Aubigny – The Most Badass Lady Ever

by | Apr 4, 2018 | Early Modern Period (1500 - 1750), Europe, France | 0 comments

This total badass won at least ten duels, performed on the world’s biggest opera stage, burned down a convent and had to be pardoned by the king twice. May I present to you: Julie d’Aubigny, better known by her stage name La Maupin.

It’s actually not even 100% certain that her name was Julie, but oh well. (And the girl in the picture isn’t her either, it’s “The Fencer” by Jean Béraud (ca. 1890s) – but I think it captures her spirit very well)

Born into a quite wealthy family in 17th century France, she could have just spent her life idly enjoying the country and not moving a single finger. But that wasn’t really her thing. Or her father’s. His name was Gaston (heh) and he was the Master of the Horse for King Louis XIV (the Sun King), responsible for the training of the pages. The sword-training, mainly. So from early on she learned all the important things: fencing, riding, reading and, thanks to her mostly male environment (I couldn’t find out where her mother was – or who for that matter), also the even more important things like drinking, gambling, fistfighting and more stabbing. All of which she did in men’s clothing, a habit she would continue throughout her life.

So, her dad was a pretty hot headed guy and usually disposed of her would-be suitors by cutting them up with his sword. Julie found a loophole though, getting it on with the one guy her father couldn’t duel: his boss (not the king though). She was however far too much for him and he married her off to some calm, dull guy to calm her down a bit. That’s how she became La Maupin for short. It was her husband’s name. But oh boy, did she do the opposite of calming down.

Quite soon after the marriage she had taken a sword master as her lover. It just so happened that he was on the run for murdering his opponent in an illegal duel and she decided to leave the city with him. They made their living with fencing shows and he further trained her in the art, but soon she had surpassed him and ditched his ass, continuing her travels without him. Now her fencing shows looked somewhat like this: Julie brandishes her sword and starts singing a few songs, then challenges anyone in the audience for a duel. Whoever steps up gets to hear a humiliating song about his very person and beaten like he had never held a sword before. Sometimes the audience would even question her womanhood (as she wore men’s clothing like she had always done and of course because “a woman can’t fight like that”). To this she usually responded by tearing her shirt off. It worked.

So, after she had ditched her swordmaster lover, she became involved with a merchant’s daughter. Well, the girl’s father was not too happy about that, so he sent her off to a convent, hoping to separate the two. Yeah, right. Julie took the holy orders and joined the convent – to continue her love affair there. Soon after an elderly nun happened to die (no, Julie didn’t kill her …it seems) and La Maupin did the only logical thing: putting the body into her lover’s room, setting fire to the building, grabbing her girl and getting the fuck out of there. Three months later our heroine delivered the girl back to her parents’ doorstep – she had gotten bored again. In these three months she was charged for this lovely little adventure of convent-arson and kidnapping and actually sentenced to burn at the stake. But smart as she was, she rang up (not literally, mind you) her old paramour, her father’s boss (remember him?) who used his influence to have King Louis XIV pardon her.

(There is actually a book about her adventures and that’s where the picture on the left is from: “Mademoiselle de Maupin” by Theophile Gautier, from 1898, illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley)

With her newfound freedom, she made for Paris, singing to earn her living. Once in a tavern after one of her songs, she was insulted by a drunkard and challenged him to a duel outside. Do I need to say it? She cut him up pretty good, but they survived. The next day she felt kinda bad about it, so she visited the poor chap to see how he was doing and ended up becoming involved with him. You gotta hand it to her, getting a guy you stabbed to be your lover is not a small feat. And remarkably the two remained lifelong friends even after their romance subsided.

And all this before she was 20! What a lady! And it’s not like her wild life ended then. Nooo.

Julie made it to Paris and after being initially rejected, she became a member of the Paris Opéra, the world’s most respected opera at that time. And damn, did she cause a stir. After all, opera singers were the rock stars of the time. Her beautiful voice and androgynous beauty captivated the audience and her passionate character brought with it many admirers. That character did mean of course that she either slept or fought with most of her colleagues at one point. At one point for example, another actor was making disrespectful remarks about his female colleagues. After he had dismissed her complaint – rudely – she awaited him in a dark alley on his way home, challenging him to a duel. When he refused (on the grounds of being a coward), she beat him up with a wooden cane and stole his pocket watch and snuffbox. The next day at work she caught him complaining about a gang of thieves assaulting him and swiftly pulled out his watch and box, proving him to be a liar and a coward in front of all his coworkers.

Her opera career was interrupted when she fled to Brussels for a while, following an incident at a royal ball. She had attended dressed in her men’s attire and spent the evening courting a young woman and finally French kissing her (hehe) right there in front of everyone. Three gentlemen were particularly unhappy about that and challenged her to discuss matters outside. In the following duel she defeated all of them and returned to the party, leaving her opponents bleeding. At that time however, anti-duelling laws grew increasingly harsh, and although King Louis XIV was so amused by the whole situation that he pardoned her (for the second time), she decided to spend some time abroad until the heat had calmed down.

She did return to Paris and the opera though and for the first time entertained a lover for some longer time: the Madame la Marquise de Florensac (see picture: An anonymous print from ca. 1700 called “Mademoiselle Maupin de l’Opéra”). After her beloved’s death, Julie’s trail gets a little fuzzy. It is known that she died around 1707 from unknown causes aged about 37. As far as I could find out about her later life, her husband and her were reunited and lived together fairly peacefully in Paris. Yes, she was technically still married throughout this whole tale. Did you forget about this too? From what it seems, she sure did.

image credits:

1: “L’Escrimeuse” (The Swordswoman) by Jean Béraud, date unknown – via Wikimedia Commons
2: from “A Second Book of Fifty Drawings” by Aubrey Beardsley – via Wikimedia Commons
3: Bibliothèque nationale de France (FOL-QB-201 | FRBNF41505463)