It was just at the commencement of the year 1706, that I received a piece
of news which almost took away my breath by its suddenness, and by the
surprise it caused me. I was on very intimate terms with Gualterio, the
nuncio of the Pope. Just about this time we were without an ambassador
at Rome. The nuncio spoke to me about this post; but at my age--I was
but thirty--and knowing the unwillingness of the King to employ young men
in public affairs, I paid no attention to his words. Eight days
afterwards he entered my chamber-one Tuesday, about an hour after mid-
day-his arms open, joy painted upon his face, and embracing me, told me
to shut my door, and even that of my antechamber, so that he should not
be seen. I was to go to Rome as ambassador. I made him repeat this
twice over: it seemed so impossible. If one of the portraits in my
chamber had spoken to me, I could not have been more surprised.
Gualterio begged me to keep the matter secret, saying, that the
appointment would be officially announced to me ere long.
I went immediately and sought out Chamillart, reproaching him for not
having apprised me of this good news. He smiled at my anger, and said
that the King had ordered the news to be kept secret. I admit that I was
flattered at being chosen at my age for an embassy so important. I was
advised on every side to accept it, and this I determined to do. I could
not understand, however, how it was I had been selected. Torcy, years
afterwards, when the King was dead, related to me how it came about. At
this time I had no relations with Torcy; it was not until long afterwards
that friendship grew up between us.
He said, then, that the embassy being vacant, the King wished to fill up
that appointment, and wished also that a Duke should be ambassador. He
took an almanack and began reading the names of the Dukes, commencing
with M. de Uzes. He made no stop until he came to my name. Then he said
(to Torcy), "What do you think of him? He is young, but he is good," &c.
The King, after hearing a few opinions expressed by those around him,
shut up the almanack, and said it was not worth while to go farther,
determined that I should be ambassador, but ordered the appointment to be
kept secret. I learnt this, more than ten years after its occurrence,
from a true man, who had no longer any interest or reason to disguise
anything from me.
Advised on all sides by my friends to accept the post offered to me, I
did not long hesitate to do so. Madame de Saint-Simon gave me the same
advice, although she herself was pained at the idea of quitting her
family. I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of relating here what the
three ministers each said of my wife, a woman then of only twenty-seven
years of age. All three, unknown to each other, and without solicitation
on my part, counselled me to keep none of the affairs of my embassy
secret from her, but to give her a place at the end of the table when I
read or wrote my despatches, and to consult her with deference upon
everything. I have rarely so much relished advice as I did in this case.
Although, as things fell out, I could not follow it at Rome, I had
followed it long before, and continued to do so all my life. I kept
nothing secret from her, and I had good reason to be pleased that I did
not. Her counsel was always wise, judicious, and useful, and oftentimes
she warded off from me many inconveniences.
But to continue the narrative of this embassy. It was soon so generally
known that I was going to Rome, that as we danced at Marly, we heard
people say, "Look! M. l'Ambassadeur and Madame l'Ambassadrice are
dancing." After this I wished the announcement to be made public as soon
as possible, but the King was not to be hurried. Day after day passed
by, and still I was kept in suspense. At last, about the middle of
April, I had an interview with Chamillart one day, just after he came out
of the council at which I knew my fate had been decided. I learnt then
that the King had determined to send no ambassador to Rome. The Abbe de
La Tremoille was already there; he had been made Cardinal, and was to
remain and attend to the affairs of the embassy. I found out afterwards
that I had reason to attribute to Madame de Maintenon and M. du Maine the
change in the King's intention towards me. Madame de Saint-Simon was
delighted. It seemed as though she foresaw the strange discredit in
which the affairs of the King were going to fall in Italy, the
embarrassment and the disorder that public misfortunes would cause the
finances, and the cruel situation to which all things would have reduced
us at Rome. As for me, I had had so much leisure to console myself
beforehand, that I had need of no more. I felt, however, that I had now
lost all favour with the King, and, indeed, he estranged himself from me
more and more each day. By what means I recovered myself it is not yet
time to tell.
On the night between the 3rd and 4th of February, Cardinal Coislin,
Bishop of Orleans, died. He was a little man, very fat, who looked like
a village curate. His purity of manners and his virtues caused him to be
much loved. Two good actions of his life deserve to be remembered.
When, after the revocation of the edict of Nantes, the King determined to
convert the Huguenots by means of dragoons and torture, a regiment was
sent to Orleans, to be spread abroad in the diocese. As soon as it
arrived, M. d'Orleans sent word to the officers that they might make his
house their home; that their horses should be lodged in his stables. He
begged them not to allow a single one of their men to leave the town, to
make the slightest disorder; to say no word to the Huguenots, and not to
lodge in their houses. He resolved to be obeyed, and he was. The
regiment stayed a month; and cost him a good deal. At the end of that
time he so managed matters that the soldiers were sent away, and none
came again. This conduct, so full of charity, so opposed to that of
nearly all the other dioceses, gained as many Huguenots as were gained by
the barbarities they suffered elsewhere. It needed some courage, to say
nothing of generosity, to act thus, and to silently blame, as it were,
the conduct of the King.
The other action of M. d'Orleans was less public and less dangerous,
but was not less good. He secretly gave away many alms to the poor,
in addition to those he gave publicly. Among those whom he succoured
was a poor, broken-down gentleman, without wife or child, to whom he gave
four hundred livres of pension, and a place at his table whenever he was
at Orleans. One morning the servants of M. d'Orleans told their master
that ten pieces of plate were missing, and that suspicion fell upon the
gentleman. M. d'Orleans could not believe him guilty, but as he did not
make his appearance at the house for several days, was forced at last to
imagine he was so. Upon this he sent for the gentleman, who admitted
himself to be the offender.
M. d'Orleans said he must have been strangely pressed to commit an action
of this nature, and reproached him for not having mentioned his wants.
Then, drawing twenty Louis from his pocket, he gave them to the
gentleman, told him to forget what had occurred, and to use his table
as before. M. d'Orleans prohibited his servants to mention their
suspicions, and this anecdote would never have been known, had it not
been told by the gentleman himself, penetrated with confusion and
gratitude.
M. d'Orleans, after he became cardinal, was often pressed by his friends
to give up his bishopric. But this he would not listen to. The King had
for him a respect that was almost devotion. When Madame de Bourgogne was
about to be delivered of her first child, the King sent a courier to M.
d'Orleans requesting him to come to Court immediately, and to remain
there until after the delivery. When the child was born, the King would
not allow it to be sprinkled by any other hand than that of M. d'Orleans.
The poor man, very fat, as I have said, always sweated very much;--on
this occasion, wrapped up in his cloak and his lawn, his body ran with
sweat in such abundance, that in the antechamber the floor was wet all
round where he stood. All the Court was much afflicted at his death; the
King more than anybody spoke his praises. It was known after his death,
from his valet de chambre, that he mortified himself continually with
instruments of penitence, and that he rose every night and passed an hour
on his knees in prayer. He received the sacraments with great piety, and
died the night following as he had lived.
Heudicourt the younger, a species of very mischievous satyr, and much
mixed up in grand intrigues of gallantry, made, about this time, a song
upon the grand 'prevot' and his family. It was so simple, so true to
nature, withal so pleasant, that some one having whispered it in the ear
of the Marechal de Boufflers at chapel, he could not refrain from
bursting into laughter, although he was in attendance at the mass of the
King. The Marechal was the gravest and most serious man in all France;
the greatest slave to decorum. The King turned round therefore, in
surprise, which augmented considerably when he saw the Marechal de
Boufflers nigh to bursting with laughter, and the tears running down his
cheeks. On turning into his cabinet, he called the Marechal, and asked
what had got him in that state at the mass. The Marechal repeated the
song to him. Thereupon the King burst out louder than the Marechal had,
and for a whole fortnight afterwards could not help smiling whenever he
saw the grand 'prevot' or any of his family. The song soon spread about,
and much diverted the Court and the town.
I should particularly avoid soiling this page with an account of the
operation for fistula which Courcillon, only son of Dangeau, had
performed upon him, but for the extreme ridicule with which it was
accompanied. Courcillon was a dashing young fellow, much given to witty
sayings, to mischief, to impiety, and to the filthiest debauchery, of
which latter, indeed, this operation passed publicly as the fruit. His
mother, Madams Dangeau, was in the strictest intimacy with Madame de
Maintenon. They two alone, of all the Court, were ignorant of the life
Courcillon led. Madame was much afflicted; and quitted his bed-side,
even for a moment, with pain. Madame de Maintenon entered into her
sorrow, and went every day to bear her company at the pillow of
Courcillon. Madame d'Heudicourt, another intimate friend of Madame de
Maintenon, was admitted there also, but scarcely anybody else.
Courcillon listened to them, spoke devotionally to them, and uttered the
reflections suggested by his state. They, all admiration, published
everywhere that he was a saint. Madame d'Heudicourt and a few others who
listened to these discourses, and who knew the pilgrim well, and saw him
loll out his tongue at them on the sly, knew not what to do to prevent
their laughter, and as soon as they could get away went and related all
they had heard to their friends. Courcillon, who thought it a mighty
honour to have Madame de Maintenon every day for nurse, but who,
nevertheless, was dying of weariness, used to see his friends in the
evening (when Madame de Maintenon and his mother were gone), and would
relate to them, with burlesque exaggeration, all the miseries he had
suffered during the day, and ridicule the devotional discourses he had
listened to. All the time his illness lasted, Madame de Maintenon came
every day to see him, so that her credulity, which no one dared to
enlighten, was the laughing-stock of the Court. She conceived such a
high opinion of the virtue of Courcillon, that she cited him always as an
example, and the King also formed the same opinion. Courcillon took good
care not to try and cultivate it when he became cured; yet neither the
King nor Madame de Maintenon opened their eyes, or changed their conduct
towards him. Madame de Maintenon, it must be said, except in the sublime
intrigue of her government and with the King, was always the queen of
dupes.
It would seem that there are, at certain times, fashions in crimes as in
clothes. At the period of the Voysins and the Brinvilliers, there were
nothing but poisoners abroad; and against these, a court was expressly
instituted, called ardente, because it condemned them to the flames. At
the time of which I am now speaking, 1703, for I forgot to relate what
follows in its proper place, forgers of writings were in the ascendant,
and became so common, that a chamber was established composed of
councillors of state and others, solely to judge the accusations which
this sort of criminals gave rise to.
The Bouillons wished to be recognised as descended, by male issue, of the
Counts of Auvergne, and to claim all kinds of distinctions and honours in
consequence. They had, however, no proofs of this, but, on the contrary,
their genealogy proved it to be false. All on a sudden, an old document
that had been interred in the obscurity of ages in the church of Brioude,
was presented to Cardinal Bouillon. It had all the marks of antiquity,
and contained a triumphant proof of the descent of the house of La Tour,
to which the Bouillons belonged, from the ancient Counts of Auvergne.
The Cardinal was delighted to have in his hands this precious document.
But to avoid all suspicion, he affected modesty, and hesitated to give
faith to evidence so decisive. He spoke in confidence to all the learned
men he knew, and begged them to examine the document with care, so that
he might not be the dupe of a too easy belief in it.
Whether the examiners were deceived by the document, or whether they
allowed themselves to be seduced into believing it, as is more than
probable, from fear of giving offence to the Cardinal, need not be
discussed. It is enough to say that they pronounced in favour of the
deed, and that Father Mabillon, that Benedictine so well known throughout
all Europe by his sense and his candour, was led by the others to share
their opinion.
After this, Cardinal de Bouillon no longer affected any doubt about the
authenticity of the discovery. All his friends complimented him upon it,
the majority to see how he would receive their congratulations. It was a
chaos rather than a mixture, of vanity the most outrageous, modesty the
most affected, and joy the most immoderate which he could not restrain.
Unfortunately, De Bar, who had found the precious document, and who had
presented it to Cardinal de Bouillon, was arrested and put in prison a
short time after this, charged with many forgeries. This event made some
stir, and caused suspicion to fall upon the document, which was now
attentively examined through many new spectacles. Learned men
unacquainted with the Bouillons contested it, and De Bar was so pushed
upon this point, that he made many delicate admissions. Alarm at once
spread among the Bouillons. They did all in their power to ward off the
blow that was about to fall. Seeing the tribunal firm, and fully
resolved to follow the affair to the end, they openly solicited for De
Bar, and employed all their credit to gain his liberation. At last,
finding the tribunal inflexible, they were reduced to take an extreme
resolution. M. de Bouillon admitted to the King, that his brother,
Cardinal de Bouillon, might, unknown to all of them, have brought forward
facts he could not prove. He added, that putting himself in the King's
hands, he begged that the affair might be stopped at once, out of
consideration for those whose only guilt was too great credulity, and too
much confidence in a brother who had deceived them. The King, with more
of friendship for M. de Bouillon than of reflection as to what he owed by
way of reparation for a public offence, agreed to this course.
De Bar, convicted of having fabricated this document, by his own
admission before the public tribunal, was not condemned to death, but to
perpetual imprisonment. As may be believed, this adventure made a great
stir; but what cannot be believed so easily is, the conduct of the
Messieurs Bouillon about fifteen months afterwards.
At the time when the false document above referred to was discovered,
Cardinal de Bouillon had commissioned Baluze, a man much given to
genealogical studies, to write the history of the house of Auvergne.
In this history, the descent, by male issue; of the Bouillons from the
Counts of Auvergne, was established upon the evidence supplied by this
document. At least, nobody doubted that such was the case, and the world
was strangely scandalised to see the work appear after that document had
been pronounced to be a forgery. Many learned men and friends of Baluze
considered him so dishonoured by it, that they broke off all relations
with him, and this put the finishing touch to the confusion of this
affair.
On Thursday, the 7th of March, 1707, a strange event troubled the King,
and filled the Court and the town with rumours. Beringhen, first master
of the horse, left Versailles at seven o'clock in the evening of that
day, to go to Paris, alone in one of the King's coaches, two of the royal
footmen behind, and a groom carrying a torch before him on the seventh
horse. The carriage had reached the plain of Bissancourt, and was
passing between a farm on the road near Sevres bridge and a cabaret,
called the "Dawn of Day," when it was stopped by fifteen or sixteen men
on horseback, who seized on Beringhen, hurried him into a post-chaise in
waiting, and drove off with him. The King's carriage, with the coachman,
footmen, and groom, was allowed to go back to Versailles. As soon as it
reached Versailles the King was informed of what had taken place. He
sent immediately to his four Secretaries of State, ordering them to send
couriers everywhere to the frontiers, with instructions to the governors
to guard all the passages, so that if these horsemen were foreign
enemies, as was suspected, they would be caught in attempting to pass out
of the kingdom. It was known that a party of the enemy had entered
Artois, that they had committed no disorders, but that they were there
still. Although people found it difficult, at first, to believe that
Beringhen had been carried off by a party such as this, yet as it was
known that he had no enemies, that he was not reputed sufficiently rich
to afford hope of a large ransom, and that not one of our wealthiest
financiers had been seized in this manner, this explanation was at last
accepted as the right one.
So in fact it proved. A certain Guetem, a fiddler of the Elector of
Bavaria, had entered the service of Holland, had taken part in her war
against France, and had become a colonel. Chatting one evening with his
comrades, he laid a wager that he would carry off some one of mark
between Paris and Versailles. He obtained a passport, and thirty chosen
men, nearly all of whom were officers. They passed the rivers disguised
as traders, by which means they were enabled to post their relays [of
horses]. Several of them had remained seven or eight days at Sevres,
Saint Cloud, and Boulogne, from which they had the hardihood to go to
Versailles and see the King sup. One of these was caught on the day
after the disappearance of Beringhen, and when interrogated by
Chamillart, replied with a tolerable amount of impudence. Another was
caught in the forest of Chantilly by one of the servants of M. le Prince.
From him it became known that relays of horses and a post-chaise had been
provided at Morliere for the prisoner when he should arrive there, and
that he had already passed the Oise.
As I have said, couriers were despatched to the governors of the
frontiers; in addition to this, information of what had taken place was
sent to all the intendants of the frontier, to all the troops in quarters
there. Several of the King's guards, too, and the grooms of the stable,
went in pursuit of the captors of Beringhen. Notwithstanding the
diligence used, the horsemen had traversed the Somme and had gone four
leagues beyond Ham-Beringhen, guarded by the officers, and pledged to
offer no resistance--when the party was stopped by a quartermaster and
two detachments of the Livry regiment. Beringhen was at once set at
liberty. Guetem and his companion were made prisoners.
The grand fault they had committed was to allow the King's carriage and
the footmen to go back to Versailles so soon after the abduction. Had
they led away the coach under cover of the night, and so kept the King in
ignorance of their doings until the next day, they would have had more
time for their retreat. Instead of doing this they fatigued themselves
by too much haste. They had grown tired of waiting for a carriage that
seemed likely to contain somebody of mark. The Chancellor had passed,
but in broad daylight, and they were afraid in consequence to stop him.
M. le Duc d'Orleans had passed, but in a post-chaise, which they
mistrusted. At last Beringhen appeared in one of the King's coaches,
attended by servants in the King's livery, and wearing his cordon Neu, as
was his custom. They thought they had found a prize indeed. They soon
learnt with whom they had to deal, and told him also who they were.
Guetem bestowed upon Beringhen all kinds of attention, and testified a
great desire to spare him as much as possible all fatigue. He pushed his
attentions so far that they caused his failure. He allowed Beringhen to
stop and rest on two occasions. The party missed one of their relays,
and that delayed them very much.
Beringhen, delighted with his rescue, and very grateful for the good
treatment he had received, changed places with Guetem and his companions,
led them to Ham, and in his turn treated them well. He wrote to his wife
and to Charnillart announcing his release, and these letters were read
with much satisfaction by the King.
On Tuesday, the 29th of March, Beringhen arrived at Versailles, about
eight o'clock in the evening, and went at once to the King, who was in
the apartments of Madame de Maintenon, and who received him well, and
made him relate all his adventures. But the King was not pleased when he
found the officers of the stable in a state of great delight, and
preparing fireworks to welcome Beringhen back. He prohibited all these
marks of rejoicing, and would not allow the fireworks to be let off. He
had these little jealousies. He wished that all should be devoted to him
alone, without reserve and without division. All the Court, however,
showed interest in this return, and Beringhen was consoled by the public
welcome he received for his fatigue.
Guetem and his officers, while waiting the pleasure of the King, were
lodged in Beringhen's house in Paris, where they were treated above their
deserts. Beringhen obtained permission for Guetem to see the King. He
did more; he presented Guetem to the King, who praised him for having so
well treated his prisoner, and said that war always ought to be conducted
properly. Guetem, who was not without wit, replied, that he was so
astonished to find himself before the greatest King in the world, and to
find that King doing him the honour of speaking to him, that he had not
power enough to answer. He remained ten or twelve days in Beringhen's
house to see Paris, the Opera and the Comedy, and became the talk of the
town. People ran after him everywhere, and the most distinguished were
not ashamed to do likewise. On all sides he was applauded for an act of
temerity, which might have passed for insolence. Beringhen regaled him,
furnished him with carriages and servants to accompany him, and, at
parting, with money and considerable presents. Guetem went on his parole
to Rheims to rejoin his comrades until exchanged, and had the town for
prison. Nearly all the others had escaped. The project was nothing less
than to carry off Monseigneur, or one of the princes, his sons.
This ridiculous adventure gave rise to precautions, excessive in the
first place, and which caused sad obstructions of bridges and gates. It
caused, too, a number of people to be arrested. The hunting parties of
the princes were for some time interfered with, until matters resumed
their usual course. But it was not bad fun to see, during some time, the
terror of ladies, and even of men, of the Court, who no longer dared go
abroad except in broad daylight, even then with little assurance, and
imagining themselves everywhere in marvellous danger of capture.
I have related in its proper place the adventure of Madame la Princesse
de Conti with Mademoiselle Choin and the attachment of Monseigneur for
the latter. This attachment was only augmented by the difficulty of
seeing each other.
Mademoiselle Choin retired to the house of Lacroix, one of her relatives
at Paris, where she lived quite hidden. She was informed of the rare
days when Monseigneur dined alone at Meudon, without sleeping there. She
went there the day before in a fiacre, passed through the courts on foot,
ill clad, like a common sort of woman going to see some officer at
Meudon, and, by a back staircase, was admitted to Monseigneur who passed
some hours with her in a little apartment on the first floor. In time
she came there with a lady's-maid, her parcel in her pocket, on the
evenings of the days that Monseigneur slept there.
She remained in this apartment without seeing anybody, attended by her
lady's-maid, and waited upon by a servant who alone was in the secret.
Little by little the friends of Monseigneur were allowed to see her;
and amongst these were M. le Prince de Conti, Monseigneur le Duc de
Bourgogne, Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne, and M. le Duc de Berry.
There was always, however, an air of mystery about the matter. The
parties that took place were kept secret, although frequent, and were
called parvulos.
Mademoiselle Choin remained in her little apartment only for the
convenience of Monseigneur. She slept in the bed and in the grand
apartment where Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne lodged when the King was
at Meudon. She always sat in an arm-chair before Monseigneur; Madame de
Bourgogne sat on a stool. Mademoiselle Choin never rose for her; in
speaking of her, even before Monseigneur and the company, she used to say
"the Duchesse de Bourgogne," and lived with her as Madame de Maintenon
did excepting that "darling" and "my aunt," were terms not exchanged
between them, and that Madame de Bourgogne was not nearly so free, or so
much at her ease, as with the King and Madame de Maintenon. Monsieur de
Bourgogne was much in restraint. His manners did not agree with those of
that world. Monseigneur le Duc de Berry, who was more free, was quite at
home.
Mademoiselle Choin went on fete-days to hear mass in the chapel at six
o'clock in the morning, well wrapped up, and took her meals alone, when
Monseigneur did not eat with her. When he was alone with her, the doors
were all guarded and barricaded to keep out intruders. People regarded
her as being to Monseigneur, what Madame de Maintenon was to the King.
All the batteries for the future were directed and pointed towards her.
People schemed to gain permission to visit her at Paris; people paid
court to her friends and acquaintances, Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne
sought to please her, was respectful to her, attentive to her friends,
not always with success. She acted towards Monseigneur le Duc de
Bourgogne like a mother-in-law, and sometimes spoke with such authority
and bluntness to Madame de Bourgogne as to make her cry.
The King and Madame de Maintenon were in no way ignorant of all this, but
they held their tongues, and all the Court who knew it, spoke only in
whispers of it. This is enough for the present; it will serve to explain
many things, of which I shall speak anon.