The death of D'Avaux, who had formerly been our ambassador in Holland,
occurred in the early part of this year (1709). D'Avaux was one of the
first to hear of the project of William of Orange upon England, when that
project was still only in embryo, and kept profoundly secret. He
apprised the King (Louis XIV.) of it, but was laughed at. Barillon, then
our ambassador in England, was listened to in preference. He, deceived
by Sunderland and the other perfidious ministers of James II.; assured
our Court that D'Avaux's reports were mere chimeras. It was not until it
was impossible any longer to doubt that credit was given to them. The
steps that we then took, instead of disconcerting all the measures of the
conspirators, as we could have done, did not interfere with the working
out of any one of their plans. All liberty was left, in fact, to William
to carry out his scheme. The anecdote which explains how this happened
is so curious, that it deserves to be mentioned here.
Louvois, who was then Minister of War, was also superintendent of the
buildings. The King, who liked building, and who had cast off all his
mistresses, had pulled down the little porcelain Trianon he had made for
Madame de Montespan, and was rebuilding it in the form it still retains.
One day he perceived, for his glance was most searching, that one window
was a trifle narrower than the others. He showed it to Louvois, in order
that it might be altered, which, as it was not then finished, was easy to
do. Louvois sustained that the window was all right. The King insisted
then, and on the morrow also, but Louvois, pigheaded and inflated with
his authority, would not yield.
The next day the King saw Le Notre in the gallery. Although his trade
was gardens rather than houses, the King did not fail to consult him upon
the latter. He asked him if he had been to Trianon. Le Notre replied
that he had not. The King ordered him to go. On the morrow he saw Le
Notre again; same question, same answer. The King comprehended the
reason of this, and a little annoyed, commanded him to be there that
afternoon at a given time. Le Notre did not dare to disobey this time.
The King arrived, and Louvois being present, they returned to the subject
of the window, which Louvois obstinately said was as broad as the rest.
The King wished Le Notre to measure it, for he knew that, upright and
true, he would openly say what he found. Louvois, piqued, grew angry.
The King, who was not less so, allowed him to say his say. Le Notre,
meanwhile, did not stir. At last, the King made him go, Louvois still
grumbling, and maintaining his assertion with audacity and little
measure. Le Notre measured the window, and said that the King was right
by several inches. Louvois still wished to argue, but the King silenced
him, and commanded him to see that the window was altered at once,
contrary to custom abusing him most harshly.
What annoyed Louvois most was, that this scene passed not only before all
the officers of the buildings, but in presence of all who followed the
King in his promenades, nobles, courtiers, officers of the guard, and
others, even all the rolete. The dressing given to Louvois was smart and
long, mixed with reflections upon the fault of this window, which, not
noticed so soon, might have spoiled all the facade, and compelled it to
be re-built.
Louvois, who was not accustomed to be thus treated, returned home in
fury, and like a man in despair. His familiars were frightened, and in
their disquietude angled to learn what had happened. At last he told
them, said he was lost, and that for a few inches the King forgot all his
services, which had led to so many conquests; he declared that henceforth
he would leave the trowel to the King, bring about a war, and so arrange
matters that the King should have good need of him!
He soon kept his word. He caused a war to grow out of the affair of the
double election of Cologne, of the Prince of Bavaria, and of the Cardinal
of Furstenberg; he confirmed it in carrying the flames into the
Palatinate, and in leaving, as I have said, all liberty to the project
upon England; he put the finishing touch to his work by forcing the Duke
of Savoy into the arms of his enemies, and making him become, by the
position of his country, our enemy, the most difficult and the most
ruinous. All that I have here related was clearly brought to light in
due time.
Boisseuil died shortly after D'Avaux. He was a tall, big man, warm and
violent, a great gambler, bad tempered,--who often treated M. le Grand
and Madame d'Armagnac, great people as they were, so that the company
were ashamed,--and who swore in the saloon of Marly as if he had been in
a tap-room. He was feared; and he said to women whatever came uppermost
when the fury of a cut-throat seized him. During a journey the King and
Court made to Nancy, Boisseuil one evening sat down to play in the house
of one of the courtiers. A player happened to be there who played very
high. Boisseuil lost a good deal, and was very angry. He thought he
perceived that this gentleman, who was only permitted on account of his
play, was cheating, and made such good use of his eyes that he soon found
this was the case, and all on a sudden stretched across the table and
seized the gambler's hand, which he held upon the table, with the cards
he was going to deal. The gentleman, very much astonished, wished to
withdraw his hand, and was angry. Boisseuil, stronger than he, said that
he was a rogue, and that the company should see it, and immediately
shaking his hand with fury put in evidence his deceit. The player,
confounded, rose and went away. The game went on, and lasted long into
the night. When finished, Boisseuil went away. As he was leaving the
door he found a man stuck against the wall--it was the player--who called
him to account for the insult he had received. Boisseuil replied that he
should give him no satisfaction, and that he was a rogue.
"That may be," said the player, "but I don't like to be told so."
They went away directly and fought. Boisseuil received two wounds, from
one of which he was like to die. The other escaped without injury.
I have said, that after the affair of M. de Cambrai, Madame de Maintenon
had taken a rooted dislike to M. de Beauvilliers. She had become
reconciled to him in appearance during the time that Monseigneur de
Bourgogne was a victim to the calumnies of M. de Vendome, because she had
need of him. Now that Monseigneur de Bourgogne was brought back to
favour, and M. de Vendome was disgraced, her antipathy for M, de
Beauvilliers burst out anew, and she set her wits to work to get rid of
him from the Council of State, of which he was a member. The witch
wished to introduce her favourite Harcourt there in his place, and worked
so well to bring about this result that the King promised he should be
received.
His word given, or rather snatched from him, the King was embarrassed as
to how, to keep it, for he did not wish openly to proclaim Harcourt
minister. It was agreed, therefore, that at the next Council Harcourt
should be present, as though by accident, in the King's ante-chamber;
that, Spanish matters being brought up, the King should propose to
consult Harcourt, and immediately after should direct search to be made
far him, to see if, by chance, he was close at hand; that upon finding
him, he should be conducted to the Council, made to enter and seat
himself, and ever afterwards be regarded as a Minister of State.
This arrangement was kept extremely secret, according to the express
commands of the King: I knew it, however, just before it was to be
executed, and I saw at once that the day of Harcourt's entry into the
Council would be the day of M. de Beauvilliers' disgrace. I sent,
therefore, at once for M. de Beauvilliers, begging him to come to my
house immediately, and that I would then tell him why I could not come to
him. Without great precaution everything becomes known at Court.
In less than half an hour M. de Beauvilliers arrived, tolerably disturbed
at my message. I asked him if he knew anything, and I turned him about,
less to pump him than to make him ashamed of his ignorance, and to
persuade him the better afterwards to do what I wished. When I had well
trotted out his ignorance, I apprised him of what I had just learnt. He
was astounded; he so little expected it! I had not much trouble to
persuade him that, although his expulsion might not yet be determined on,
the intrusion of Harcourt must pave the way for it. He admitted to me
that for some days he had found, the King cold and embarrassed with him,
but that he had paid little attention to the circumstance, the reason of
which was now clear. There was no time to lose. In twenty-four hours
all would be over. I therefore took the liberty in the first instance of
scolding him for his profound ignorance of what passed at the Court, and
was bold enough to say to him that he had only to thank himself for the
situation he found himself in. He let me say to the end without growing
angry, then smiled, and said, "Well! what do you think I ought to do?"
That was just what I wanted. I replied that there was only one course
open to him, and that was to have an interview with the King early the
next morning; to say to him, that he had been informed Harcourt was about
to enter the Council; that he thought the affairs of State would suffer
rather than otherwise if Harcourt did so; and finally, to allude to the
change that had taken place in the King's manner towards him lately, and
to say, with all respect, affection, and submission, that he was equally
ready to continue serving the King or to give up his appointments, as his
Majesty might desire.
M. de Beauvilliers took pleasure in listening to me. He embraced me
closely, and promised to follow the course I had marked out.
The next morning I went straight to him, and learned that he had
perfectly succeeded. He had spoken exactly as I had suggested. The King
appeared astonished and piqued that the secret of Harcourt's entry into
the Council was discovered. He would not hear a word as to resignation
of office on the part of M. de Beauvilliers, and appeared more satisfied
with him than ever. Whether, without this interview, he would have been
lost, I know not, but by the coldness and embarrassment of the King
before that interview, and during the first part of it, I am nearly
persuaded that he would. M. de Beauvilliers embraced me again very
tenderly--more than once.
As for Harcourt, sure of his good fortune, and scarcely able to contain
his joy, he arrived at the meeting place. Time ran on. During the
Council there are only the most subaltern people in the antechambers and
a few courtiers who pass that way to go from one wing to another. Each
of these subalterns eagerly asked M. d'Harcourt what he wanted, if he
wished for anything, and importuned him strongly. He was obliged to
remain there, although he had no pretext. He went and came, limping with
his stick, not knowing what to reply to the passers-by, or the attendants
by whom he was remarked. At last, after waiting long, he returned as he
came, much disturbed at not having been called. He sent word so to
Madame de Maintenon, who, in her turn, was as much disturbed, the King
not having said a word to her, and she not having dared to say a word to
him. She consoled Harcourt, hoping that at the next Council he would be
called. At her wish he waited again, as before, during another Council,
but with as little success. He was very much annoyed, comprehending that
the affair had fallen through.
Madame de Maintenon did not, however, like to be defeated in this way.
After waiting some time she spoke to the King, reminding him what he had
promised to do. The King replied in confusion that he had thought better
of it; that Harcourt was on bad terms with all the Ministers, and might,
if admitted to the Council, cause them much embarrassment; he preferred,
therefore, things to remain as they were. This was said in a manner that
admitted of no reply.
Madame de Maintenon felt herself beaten; Harcourt was in despair. M. de
Beauvilliers was quite reestablished in the favour of the King. I
pretended to have known nothing of this affair, and innocent asked many
questions about it when all was over. I was happy to the last degree
that everything had turned out so well.
M. le Prince, who for more than two years had not appeared at the Court,
died at Paris a little after midnight on the night between Easter Sunday
and Monday, the last of March and first of April, and in his seventy-
sixth year. No man had ever more ability of all kinds, extending even to
the arts and mechanics more valour, and, when it pleased him, more
discernment, grace, politeness, and nobility. But then no man had ever
before so many useless talents, so much genius of no avail, or an
imagination so calculated to be a bugbear to itself and a plague to
others. Abjectly and vilely servile even to lackeys, he scrupled not to
use the lowest and paltriest means to gain his ends. Unnatural son,
cruel father, terrible husband, detestable master, pernicious neighbour;
without friendship, without friends--incapable of having any jealous,
suspicious, ever restless, full of slyness and artifices to discover and
to scrutinise all, (in which he was unceasingly occupied, aided by an
extreme vivacity and a surprising penetration,) choleric and headstrong
to excess even for trifles, difficult of access, never in accord with
himself, and keeping all around him in a tremble; to conclude,
impetuosity and avarice were his masters, which monopolised him always.
With all this he was a man difficult to be proof against when he put in
play the pleasing qualities he possessed.
Madame la Princesse, his wife, was his continual victim. She was
disgustingly ugly, virtuous, and foolish, a little humpbacked, and stunk
like a skunk, even from a distance. All these things did not hinder M.
le Prince from being jealous of her even to fury up to the very last.
The piety, the indefatigable attention of Madame la Princesse, her
sweetness, her novice-like submission, could not guarantee her from
frequent injuries, or from kicks, and blows with the fist, which were not
rare. She was not mistress even of the most trifling things; she did not
dare to propose or ask anything. He made her set out from one place to
another the moment the fancy took him. Often when seated in their coach
he made her descend, or return from the end of the street, then
recommence the journey after dinner, or the next day. This see-sawing
lasted once fifteen days running, before a trip to Fontainebleau. At
other times he sent for her from church, made her quit high mass, and
sometimes sent for her the moment she was going to receive the sacrament;
she was obliged to return at once and put off her communion to another
occasion. It was not that he wanted her, but it was merely to gratify
his whim that he thus troubled her.
He was always of, uncertain habits, and had four dinners ready for him
every day; one at Paris, one at Ecouen, one at Chantilly, and one where
the Court was. But the expense of this arrangement was not great; he
dined on soup, and the half of a fowl roasted upon a crust of bread; the
other half serving for the next day. He rarely invited anybody to
dinner, but when he did, no man could be more polite or attentive to his
guests.
Formerly he had been in love with several ladies of the Court; then,
nothing cost too much. He was grace, magnificence, gallantry in person--
a Jupiter transformed into a shower of gold. Now he disguised himself as
a lackey, another time as a female broker in articles for the toilette;
and now in another fashion. He was the most ingenious man in the world.
He once gave a grand fete solely for the purpose of retarding the journey
into Italy of a lady with whom he was enamoured, with whom he was on good
terms, and whose husband he amused by making verses. He hired all the
houses on one side of a street near Saint Sulpice, furnished them, and
pierced the connecting walls, in order to be able thus to reach the place
of rendezvous without being suspected.
Jealous and cruel to his mistresses, he had, amongst others, the Marquise
de Richelieu; whom I name, because she is not worth the trouble of being
silent upon. He was hopelessly smitten and spent millions upon her and
to learn her movements. He knew that the Comte de Roucy shared her
favours (it was for her that sagacious Count proposed to put straw before
the house in order to guarantee her against the sound of the church
bells, of which she complained). M. le Prince reproached her for
favouring the Count. She defended herself; but he watched her so
closely, that he brought home the offence to her without her being able
to deny it. The fear of losing a lover so rich as was M. le Prince
furnished her on the spot with an excellent suggestion for putting him at
ease. She proposed to make an appointment at her own house with the
Comte de Roucy, M. le Prince's people to lie in wait, and when the Count
appeared, to make away with him. Instead of the success she expected
from a proposition so humane and ingenious, M. le Prince was so horror-
struck, that he warned the Comte de Roucy, and never saw the Marquise de
Richelieu again all his life.
The most surprising thing was, that with so much ability, penetration,
activity, and valour, as had M. le Prince, with the desire to be as great
a warrior as the Great Conde, his father, he could never succeed in
understanding even the first elements of the military art. Instructed as
he was by his father, he never acquired the least aptitude in war. It
was a profession was not born for, and for which he could not qualify
himself by study. During the last fifteen or twenty years of his life,
he was accused of something more than fierceness and ferocity.
Wanderings were noticed in his conduct, which were not exhibited in his
own house alone. Entering one morning into the apartment of the
Marechale de Noailles (she herself has related this to me) as her bed was
being made, and there being only the counterpane to put on, he stopped
short at the door, crying with transport, "Oh, the nice bed, the nice
bed!" took a spring, leaped upon the bed, rolled himself upon it seven
or eight times, then descended and made his excuses to the Marechale,
saying that her bed was so clean and so well-made, that he could not
hinder himself from jumping upon it; and this, although there had never
been anything between them; and when the Marechale, who all her life had
been above suspicion, was at an age at which she could not give birth to
any. Her servants remained stupefied, and she as much as they. She got
out of the difficulty by laughing and treating it as a joke. It was
whispered that there were times when M. le Prince believed himself a dog,
or some other beast, whose manners he imitated; and I have known people
very worthy of faith who have assured me they have seen him at the going
to bed of the King suddenly throw his head into the air several times
running, and open his mouth quite wide, like a dog while barking, yet
without making a noise. It is certain, that for a long time nobody saw
him except a single valet, who had control over him, and who did not
annoy him.
In the latter part of his life he attended in a ridiculously minute
manner to his diet and its results, and entered into discussions which
drove his doctors to despair. Fever and gout at last attacked him, and
he augmented them by the course he pursued. Finot, our physician and
his, at times knew not what to do with him. What embarrassed Finot most,
as he related to us more than once, was that M. le Prince would eat
nothing, for the simple reason, as he alleged, that he was dead, and that
dead men did not eat! It was necessary, however, that he should take
something, or he would have really died. Finot, and another doctor who
attended him, determined to agree with him that he was dead, but to
maintain that dead men sometimes eat. They offered to produce dead men
of this kind; and, in point of fact, led to M. le Prince some persons
unknown to him, who pretended to be dead, but who ate nevertheless. This
trick succeeded, but he would never eat except with these men and Finot.
On that condition he ate well, and this jealousy lasted a long time, and
drove Finot to despair by its duration; who, nevertheless, sometimes
nearly died of laughter in relating to us what passed at these repasts,
and the conversation from the other world heard there.
M. le Prince's malady augmenting, Madame la Princesse grew bold enough to
ask him if he did not wish to think of his conscience, and to see a
confessor. He amused himself tolerably long in refusing to do so. Some
months before he had seen in secret Pere de la Tour. He had sent to the
reverend father asking him to, come by night and disguised. Pere de la
Tour, surprised to the last degree at so wild a proposition, replied that
the respect he owed to the cloth would prevent him visiting M. le Prince
in disguise; but that he would come in his ordinary attire. M. le Prince
agreed to this last imposed condition. He made the Pere de la Tour enter
at night by a little back door, at which an attendant was in waiting to
receive him. He was led by this attendant, who had a lantern in one hand
and a key in the other, through many long and obscure passages; and
through many doors, which were opened and closed upon him as he passed.
Having arrived at last at the sick-chamber, he confessed M. le Prince,
and was conducted out of the house in the same manner and by the same way
as before. These visits were repeated during several months.
The Prince's malady rapidly increased and became extreme. The doctors
found him so ill on the night of Easter Sunday that they proposed to him
the sacrament for the next day. He disputed with them, and said that if
he was so very bad it would be better to take the sacraments at once, and
have done with them. They in their turn opposed this, saying there was
no need of so much hurry. At last, for fear of incensing him, they
consented, and he received all hurriedly the last sacraments. A little
while after he called M. le Duc to him, and spoke of the honours he
wished at his funeral, mentioning those which had been omitted at the
funeral of his father, but which he did not wish to be omitted from his.
He talked of nothing but this and of the sums he had spent at Chantilly,
until his reason began to wander.
Not a soul regretted him; neither servants, nor friends, neither child
nor wife. Indeed the Princess was so ashamed of her tears that she made
excuses for them. This was scarcely to be wondered at.