Yesterday great news arrived about the Princesse des Ursins,--she who
has so long governed Spain, and who had gone to meet the new queen,
whose _camarera-mayor_ she expected to be. Her pride has ruined her;
she had written letters against the young queen, to whom they were
shown. When she went to meet the queen she would only go half-way down
the staircase; then she criticised her dress, and blamed her for being
so long upon the road, and said that if she had been in the king's
place she might have sent her back.[9] Thereupon the queen ordered an
officer of the body-guard to take that crazy woman out of her presence
and arrest her, and at the same time she sent a courier to the king,
making great complaints of the lady. The king answered that she could
do what she liked in the matter. So at eleven o'clock at night the
princess was put into a carriage with a single maid, lacqueys, and
guards, and orders were given to take her to France, which was done.
I cannot pity her, for she has always persecuted my son in a horrible
manner; she persuaded the king and queen (the one that is dead) that
my son wanted to dethrone them and was conspiring against their lives;
which is so false that, do what she could, she was unable to justify
her accusations, no matter how slightly, in the eyes of the world. For
this reason I do not afflict myself at what has happened to her, and
that is natural. I am uneasy lest that malignant devil should come
here, for she would not fail to fling her poison on my son and on me,
from which may God preserve us! I will tell you later whatever happens
in regard to that old woman.
We have just received the sad news of the death of the Archbishop of
Cambrai [Fénelon]. He is much regretted. He was a great friend to my
son. Also the good Maréchal de Chamilly, who was a very brave and
worthy man, died two days ago [The Marquis de Chamilly; to him were
addressed the famous "Portuguese Letters"].
There is nothing new here. Everybody is talking of the Persian
ambassador who made his entry yesterday, February 6, into Paris. He
is the oddest-looking being that was ever seen. He has brought a
soothsayer with him, whom he consults on all occasions to know if
days and hours are lucky or unlucky. If it is proposed to him to do
anything and the day does not prove to be a lucky one, he flies into a
fury, grinds his teeth, draws his sabre and his dagger, and wants to
exterminate everybody. But I am called to go to church and I cannot
tell you more just now.
April, 1715.
To-day I am, as they say in our dear Palatinate, as cross as a
bed-bug; and I will give you one specimen. The king, wishing to reward
the Princesse des Ursins, who has behaved so horribly to my son,
trying to make him out a poisoner, has given her a pension of 40,000
francs. There are two other things that have put me out of temper,
which are not worth more than that. Such injustices disgust one with
life; but we must hold our tongue and never say what we think.
After dinner my grandson, the Duc de Chartres, came to see me, and
I gave him an entertainment suited to his years: it was a triumphal
car drawn by a big cat, in which was a little bitch named Andrienne;
a pigeon served as coachman, two others were the pages, and a dog
was the footman and sat behind. His name is Picard; and when the
lady got out of the carriage Picard let down the steps. The cat is
named Castille. Picard also allows himself to be saddled; we put a
doll on his back and he does all that a circus horse would do. I have
also a bitch, whom I call Badine, who knows the cards and will bring
whichever I tell her--but enough of such nonsense.
England certainly owes much to the Duchess of Portsmouth. She is the
best woman of that class that I ever saw in my life; she is extremely
polite and is very agreeable company. In the days of Monsieur we often
had her at Saint-Cloud; so I know her very well.
You cannot be surprised, my dear Louise, if I often have reason to be
sad; for you must have read the long letter I sent to my aunt, our
dear electress, by the hands of M. de Wersebé. The rancour that the
_vilaine_ has against me will end only with her life; all that she can
imagine to do me harm and grieve me she never omits. She is more angry
with me now than ever because I would not see her great friend whom
the Queen of Spain dismissed. My son had begged me not to see her,
because she has a furious enmity against him and tried to make him
out a poisoner. He has not been contented with proving his innocence;
he has insisted that all the documents of the inquiry should be taken
to Parliament and preserved there. It is therefore very natural that
I should refuse to see such a woman; but the _vilaine_ is angry--for
like meets like, as the devil said to the coal-heaver. So I must take
patience, and not look as if I resented the wrongs done to us.
This morning, as I was washing my hands, my son came into my room and
made me a very fine present. He gave me seventeen antique gold coins,
as fresh as if they had just come out of the mint. They were found
near Modena, as you may have read in the Holland Gazette; he had them
secretly carried to Rome. This attention on his part has given me the
greatest pleasure,--not so much for the value of the present as for
the attention.
As soon as I return to Versailles I will have a copy made of my
portrait by Rigaud, who has seized my likeness in a wonderful manner;
you will then see, my dear Louise, how old I have grown.
VERSAILLES, August 15th, 1715.
Our king is not well, and that worries me to the point of being half
ill myself; I have lost both sleep and appetite. God grant I be
mistaken, for if what I fear should happen it would be the greatest
misfortune I could meet with. Were I to explain to you all that, you
would see; it is so abominable that I cannot think of it without
becoming goose-flesh. Say nothing to any one in England of what I have
now said to you, but I am very anxious about it.
Mme. de Maintenon has not been ill; she is fresh and in good health;
would to God that our king were as well, and then I should be less
troubled than I am.
August 27th.
MY DEAR LOUISE,--I am so troubled that I do not know any longer what
I do or what I say; and yet I must answer your kind letter as best
I can. I must first tell you we had yesterday the saddest and most
touching scene that can be imagined. The king, after preparing himself
for death, after having received the sacraments, had the dauphin
brought to him, gave him his benediction, and talked to him. He sent
for me next, also for the Duchesse de Berry and all his daughters and
grandchildren. He bade me farewell in words so tender that I wonder I
did not fall down senseless. He assured me that he had always loved
me and more than I knew, and that he regretted to have sometimes
caused me grief. He asked me to remember him sometimes, adding that
he thought I should do so willingly, for he was certain I had always
loved him. He said also that he gave me his blessing and offered
prayers for the happiness of my whole life. I threw myself on my knees
and, taking his hand, I kissed it. He embraced me and then he spoke to
the others. He told them that he urged harmony among them. I thought
he said that to me, and I answered that for that object as for all
else I would obey him as long as I lived. He smiled and said: "It is
not for you that I said that; I know you do not need such urging; I
said it for the other princesses."
You can believe in what a state all this has put me. The king has
shown a firmness beyond all expression; he gave his orders as if about
to start on a journey. He said farewell to all his servants, and
recommended them to my son, and made him regent, with a tenderness
that penetrated the soul through and through. I think I shall be the
next person in the royal family to follow the king if he dies; in the
first place, on account of my advanced age, and next because as soon
as the king is dead they are going to take the young king to Vincennes
and we shall all go to Paris, where the air is so very bad for me.
I shall have to stay there in mourning, deprived of fresh air and
exercise, and, according to all appearance, I shall fall ill. It is
not true that Mme. de Maintenon is dead. She is in perfect health in
the king's chamber, which she never leaves either day or night.
If the king dies, and there is no means of doubting it, it will be
to me a misfortune of which you can form no just idea; and that
because of certain reasons which must not be written down. I see
nothing before me but misery and wretchedness. Residence in Paris is
intolerable to me.
September 6th.
It is long since I have written to you, but it was impossible I should
do so. The king died Sunday last, at nine o'clock in the morning. You
can believe that I have had many visits to make and receive, and that
I have received and written many letters. I am extremely troubled
both by the loss of the king and by the fact that I must go and live
in that cursèd Paris. If I spend a year there I shall be horribly
ill; for that reason I want to quit it as soon as I can and go to
Saint-Cloud. All this worries me much, but complaining does no good.
I am very frank and very natural, and I say out all that I have in my
heart. I must tell you that it is a great consolation to me to see
the whole people, the troops and parliament rallying to my son and
publicly proclaiming him regent. His enemies, who plotted round the
death-bed of the king, are now disconcerted, and their cabal has lost
ground. But my son takes these matters so much to heart that he has no
rest either day or night; I fear he may fall ill, and many sad ideas
come into my head, but I must not tell them.
My son has pronounced a speech in Parliament and they tell me he did
not speak badly. The young king is very delicate; the ministers who
governed under the late king keep their places, and as there is no
doubt that they are quite as curious as they ever were, letters will
continue to be opened. It is quite impossible that I should keep my
health in Paris, for what preserved it was fresh air and exercise,
hunting, and walking. But I ought to learn to resign myself to the
will of God; the frightful wickedness and falseness of this world
disgust me with life; I cannot hope to make the people love me--I am
called to sit down to table, so I cannot read over my letter; excuse
its faults.
PARIS, September 10th, 1715.
Here we are in this sad town. Last night I spent in weeping, and have
given myself a bad headache. My son has given me a new apartment which
is, beyond comparison, much superior to the old one; but I am always
uncomfortable here. This morning I began to write, but could only
accomplish a few lines, I have such a fearful crowd of people about
me, and my head aches so that I know not what I write or what I do.
Yesterday they took the late king to Saint-Denis. The royal household
is dispersed; the young king was taken yesterday to Vincennes; Mme. de
Berry went to Saint-Cloud; my son's wife and I came here; and my son
came too, after accompanying the king to Vincennes; I don't know where
the others have gone.
I am not surprised, my dear Louise, that the king's death touched your
heart; but what I wrote you was nothing to what we saw and heard.
The king, of himself, was kind and just. But the old woman ruled him
so completely that he did nothing except by her will and that of the
ministers; he had no confidence in any but her and his confessor; and
as the good king was very little educated, the Jesuits and the old
woman on one side, and the ministers on the other, made him, between
them, do exactly as they pleased,--the ministers being, for the most
part, creatures of the old _vilaine_. So I can say with truth that all
the evil that was done was not the king's own act; he was misled and
imposed upon.
Yesterday they took the young king to parliament for his first _lit de
justice_. The regency of my son was enregistered; so now it is a sure
and certain thing.
I know that my son wants me to find pleasure in living here; but it
is not in his power to make it so. I wish I could have a fever; for I
have promised not to leave Paris unless I am ill, and headaches, which
I am sure to have as long as I am here, will not count; but as soon as
I have a fever I can return to my dear Saint-Cloud. My son has many
other things to do than to think of my pleasures and conveniences.
He greatly needs that we should pray to God for him; he seems to me
resolved to follow the king's last orders and live in amity with his
relations. I think that anything he directs himself will go well; but
many things must, necessarily, escape his direction. To show that he
does not wish to govern without other law than his own caprice, he
has already created various councils,--one for civil affairs, one for
ecclesiastical matters; there is also a council for foreign affairs,
and for war. He can do nothing but what has already been decided
upon in those councils; it is difficult to believe that the council
on ecclesiastical matters, which is composed of priests, will be
favourable to the Reformers. I am quite determined not to meddle in
anything. France has too long, to its sorrow, been governed by women;
I will not, so far as concerns me, give a handle to any one to lay
that blame on my son; and I hope that my example may open his eyes,
and that he will not allow himself to be ruled by any woman.
Saint-Cloud is to me a spot of enchantment; and with good reason, for
there is not in the world a more delightful residence. But if I had
gone there, as I wished, all Paris would have detested me, and out
of consideration for my son, I was bound to abstain from going. Do
not think, dear Louise, that the king's death has rendered me, as I
desired, freer in my actions; we are forced to live according to the
customs of the country, and are in no wise masters of our own conduct.
In my situation, one is truly the victim of greatness, and one must
be resigned to do that for which we have no inclination. Do not be
grateful to me for writing to you in the midst of my troubles; nothing
soothes the heart so much as to tell our griefs to those we love, who
give to our afflictions a real sympathy.
It is true that everybody thought the king dead when Mme. de
Maintenon left him; but he had only lost consciousness for a time,
and afterwards recovered it. I do not want to say anything more about
these sad matters, which affect me cruelly. The king showed the
greatest firmness up to his last moment. He said to Mme. de Maintenon,
smiling: "I have always heard it said that it was difficult to die; I
assure you that I find it very easy." He remained twenty-four hours
without speaking to any one; but during that time he prayed and
repeated constantly: "My God, have pity upon me; Lord, I am waiting to
appear before you; why do you not take me, my God?" He then repeated
with much fervour the Lord's prayer and the Creed, and he died
recommending his soul to God.
September 17th, 1715.
Parliament has recognized my son's rights to the regency, rights which
his birth bestowed upon him indisputably. The king had told him he had
made a will in which he would find nothing to complain of; and yet
that will is found to be wholly in favour of the Duc du Maine; it is
not therefore difficult to divine who dictated it--but do not let us
talk of it.
My son has too often heard me speak of you not to know you and
appreciate you, and he bids me offer you his affectionate compliments.
The duties with which he is charged are far from easy; he finds
everything left in a very miserable state; time is necessary to
repair the situation; nothing presents itself that is not care and
trouble, and for my son, as for me, the future does not appear under
flattering colours. More than forty placards attacking him have been
posted in Paris, and the dukes and peers are caballing against him in
Parliament; but my son is so beloved by the people and the troops that
his enemies are having their trouble for their pains, and all they get
is the shame of it. I admit, however, that I am very uneasy in seeing
him the target of so much animosity.
Ah! my dear Louise, you do not know this country. They laud my son to
the skies, but only for the purpose, each man for himself, of getting
some profit from it; fifty persons want the same office, and as it
can only be given to one, forty-nine malcontents are made, who become
rabid enemies. My son works so hard from six in the morning till
midnight that I fear his health will suffer.
October, 1715.
I have been to Saint-Cloud while the Duchesse de Berry came here.
Between ourselves, I wish to have nothing to do with her; we do not
sympathize. I live politely with her, as I would with a stranger, but
I do not see her often, and I will not concern myself with anything
that she does, or that her mother and her sisters do; I busy myself
about my own affairs. The Court is not what it is in Germany, and no
longer what it was in the days of Monsieur, when we dined together,
and all of us met every evening in the state salons. In these days we
live apart; my son takes his meals alone; I the same; his wife the
same; she is so lazy she is never able to resolve at a given moment to
do the slightest thing; she lies on a sofa all day, and Mme. de Berry
follows that example at the Luxembourg; so you see, my dear Louise,
that there cannot be any Court. Ah! you do not know the French; as
long as they hope to obtain what they want they are charming; but out
of fifty aspirants, forty-nine enemies are made, who cabal and play
the devil. I know the Court and State too well to rejoice for a moment
that my son is regent.
I have kept the word I gave you, and have earnestly entreated for the
poor Reformers who are at the galleys; I have obtained a promise--but
just now _No_ is said to none. I do not know what my son may have said
to Lord Stair about the Reformers, but I can assure you that when I
spoke to him he gave me good hope, saying at the same time that there
were very strong reasons which prevented him from doing the thing
promptly.
In the days of Cardinal Mazarin they wrote horrible books against
him. He appeared much irritated, and sent for all the copies as if
he intended to burn them up. When he had got them all he sold them
secretly and made ten thousand crowns out of them. Then he laughed and
said: "The French are pretty fellows; as long as I let them sing and
write, they will let me do just as I choose."
Mme. de Maintenon is at Saint-Cyr, in the institution which she
founded herself. She was never the king's mistress, but something much
higher. She was governess to Mme. de Montespan's children, and from
that she got a footing in salons, but she went much farther. The devil
in hell cannot be worse than she has been; her ambition has flung all
France into wretchedness. La Fontanges was a good girl; I knew her
well; she was one of my maids-of-honour, handsome from head to foot,
but she had no judgment.
I think that many people will declare themselves against King George,
for the Chevalier de Saint-George has gone to Scotland. They told me
to-night the details of his departure. He was at Commercy with the
Prince de Vaudemont and was hunting a stag. After the hunt they sat at
supper till midnight. On retiring to his chamber he said he was tired,
and told his servants to let him sleep till he called them. Two hours
after noon, as he gave no sign of life, his servants were frightened;
entering his apartment and not finding him in his bed, they ran in
terror with the news to the Prince de Vaudemont. The latter behaved as
if he knew nothing, and said that a search must be made immediately.
At the end of an hour the prince ordered all the portcullises
raised, so that no one was able to leave the château for three days.
During this time the chevalier reached Bretagne, and jumped into a
fishing-boat which took him out to a Scotch vessel in which there were
several lords, with whom he went to Scotland. If to-morrow I hear
anything new about this, and do not die in the course of the night, I
will tell you more.
No one knows what will be the result of the affair, but I am pained
for both rivals. King George is the son of my dear aunt, the
electress, which makes him as dear to me as if he were my own child.
On the other hand the Pretender is also my relation; he is the best
man in the world; on all occasions he and the queen, his mother, have
shown me the greatest friendship. I cannot wish harm to either the one
or the other.
I ought to tell you that it would be sovereignly unjust on the part
of Lord Stair to accuse my son of conniving in the flight of the
Chevalier. How could he know what happened at Commercy, or guess that
the Pretender was going incognito to Bretagne? My son did not know
it for a week; when he heard it the affair was over. The Chevalier
de Saint-George is the best and most polite man in the world. He
asked Lord Douglas: "What can I do to win the sympathy of my people?"
Douglas answered: "Embark, take a dozen Jesuits with you, and as soon
as you arrive, hang them publicly; nothing will please the people like
that."
M. Leibnitz, to whom I sometimes write, assures me that I do not write
German badly; this has given me great pleasure, for I should not like
to forget my mother tongue.
The third daughter of Mme. d'Orléans, Louise-Adélaïde, is well
brought up and is not ugly. She firmly persists in being a nun; but I
think she has no vocation for it. I do my best to turn her from the
notion; but she has always had this folly in her head. She has very
pretty hands and a skin that is naturally white and pink.
Mme. d'Orléans has had six daughters. The first died when she was
two years old; the second is the Duchesse de Berry; the third is
seventeen, they call her Mlle. de Chartres, and it is she who wants to
be a nun; she is the prettiest of them all both in face and figure;
the fourth is Charlotte-Aglaé, Mlle. de Valois; she will be fifteen
in October. Then comes the Duc de Chartres, who is twelve in August.
The fifth girl, Louise-Élisabeth, Mlle. de Montpensier, who is in a
convent at Beauvais, was six on the eleventh of this month;[10] and
finally Mlle. de Beaujolais, who is only a year old; Mme. d'Orléans is
again pregnant. No one ever thought of marrying Mlle. de Chartres to
the Chevalier de Saint-George; it is true that it was rumoured about,
but the persons whom it concerned never thought of it.
Mme. d'Orléans is not of my opinion as regards her daughters; she
would like to have them all nuns. She is not stupid enough to fancy
that that would take them to heaven; but she desires it from pure
laziness; for she is the laziest woman in the world, and she is
afraid, if she has them near her, of the trouble of bringing them up.
So she does not trouble herself about them; she lets them quarrel
and do what they like. All that is without my approbation; and they
must get out of it as they can. I am convinced that Mme. d'Orléans'
ailments and weaknesses come from the fact that she is always in bed
or on a sofa; she eats and drinks lying down. It is pure indolence in
her. That is why we cannot take our meals together. She has not spoken
to me since the death of the king.
Mme. de Berry is red. When she wishes to please she ought to talk, for
she has natural eloquence. She keeps around her those who constantly
deceive her. I say nothing to her now; she has intelligence, but
has been very ill brought up. I no longer consider her as one of my
grandchildren; she goes her way, and I go mine; I do not concern
myself with her, nor she with me.