MME. DE MAINTENON'S DESCRIPTION OF HER LIFE AT COURT;[21] WITH A FEW
MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS.
"I am," Madame said to me [1705], "in great joy whenever I see the
door closing behind me as I enter here; and I never go out of it
without pain. Often, on returning to Versailles, I think: 'This is the
world, and apparently the world for which Jesus Christ would not pray
on the eve of his death. I know there are good souls at Court, and
that God has saints in all conditions; but it is certain that what is
called the world is centred here; it is here that all passions are in
motion,--self-interest, ambition, envy, pleasure; this is the world
so often cursed by God.' I own to you that these reflections give me
a sense of sadness and horror for that place, where, nevertheless, I
have to live."
[Illustration: _Louis XIV at Marly._]
After speaking with Madame of various afflicting things, I said to her
that at least she would see none in this house, for all was going on
so well it ought to be a place of rest to her, where she could take
comfort for what she suffered elsewhere. "That is just so," replied
Madame, "and what should I do without this house? I could not live. I
think that God has given it to me, not for my salvation only, but for
my rest; it does not serve me only to pray to God and gather myself
together, but it diverts my mind; it makes me forget those other
things. When I am here, and busy, when we hold counsel together or I
talk with the young ladies, I do not even think there is a Court, and
I breathe freely."
"I thought this morning," I said, "when I saw you taking the
communion, that it may have been long since you had such a morning,
when you could pray to God at your ease and collect yourself."
"That is true," replied Madame. "I have told you often that the only
time I can take for my prayers and the mass is when other people
sleep; without it, I could not go on; for when people once begin to
enter my room I am not my own mistress; I have not an instant to
myself." I replied, as to that, that I always imagined her room to
be like the shop of a great merchant, which, once opened, is never
empty and where the shopman must remain. "That is just how it is,"
said Madame. "They begin to come in about half-past seven; first it
is M. Maréchal [the king's surgeon]; he has no sooner gone than M.
Fagon enters; he is followed by M. Bloin [the king's head valet]
or some else sent to inquire how I am. Sometimes I have extremely
pressing letters to write, which I must get in here. Next come
persons of greater consequence: one day, M. Chamillart; another, the
archbishop; to-day, a general of the army on the point of departure;
to-morrow, an audience that I must give, having been demanded under
such circumstances that I cannot defer it. M. le Duc du Maine waited
the other day in my antechamber till M. Chamillart had finished. When
M. Chamillart went out M. du Maine came in and kept me till the king
arrived; for there is a little etiquette in this, that no one leaves
me till some one of higher rank enters and sends them away. When the
king comes, they all have to go. The king stays till he goes to mass.
I do not know if you have observed that all this time I am not yet
dressed; if I were I should not have been able to say my prayers. I
still have my night-cap on; but my room by this time is like a church;
a perpetual procession is going on, everybody passes through it; the
comings and goings are endless.
"When the king has heard mass he returns to me; next comes the
Duchesse de Bourgogne with a number of ladies, and there they stay
while I eat my dinner. You would think that here at least was a time
I could have to myself; but you shall see how it is. I fret lest the
Duchesse de Bourgogne should do something unsuitable; I try to make
her say a word to this one; I look to see if she treats that one
properly, and whether she is behaving well to her husband. I must
entertain the company, and do it in a way to unite them all. If some
one commits an indiscretion I feel it; I am worried by the manner in
which people take what is said to them; in short, it is a tumult of
mind that nothing equals. Around me stand a circle of ladies, so that
I cannot even ask for something to drink. I turn to them sometimes
and say: 'This is a great honour for me, but I would like to have
a footman.' On that, each of them wants to serve me and hastens to
bring me what I want; but that is only another sort of embarrassment
and annoyance to me. At last they go off to dine themselves, for
my dinner is at twelve o'clock with Mme. d'Heudicourt and Mme. de
Dangeau, who are invalids. Here I am at last alone with those two;
every one else has gone. If there were a moment in the day when I
might what is called amuse myself, this is it, either for talk or a
game at backgammon. But usually Monseigneur takes this time to come
and see me, because on some days he does not dine, on other days he
has dined early, and so comes after the others. He is the hardest man
in the world to talk with, for he never says a word. But I must try to
entertain him because I am in my own apartment; if it were elsewhere
I could lean back in a chair and say nothing if I chose. The ladies
who are with me can do that if they like, but I must, as they say,
labour it out, and manage to find something to say; and this is not
very enlivening.
"After the king's dinner is over, he comes with all the princesses and
the royal family into my room; and they cause it to be intolerably
hot. They talk; the king stays about half an hour; then he goes away,
but no one else; the rest remain, and as the king is no longer there
they come nearer to me; they surround me, and I am forced to listen
to the jokes of Mme. la Maréchale de Clérembault, the satire of this
one, and the tales of that one. They have nothing to do, those good
ladies; and they have done nothing all the morning. It is not so with
me, who have much else to do than to sit there and talk, probably
with a heart full of care, grief, and distress at bad news, like that
from Verrue lately. I have everything on my mind; I am thinking how
a thousand men may be perishing, and others in agony.... After they
have all stayed some time they begin to go away, and then what do you
suppose happens? One or other of these ladies invariably stays behind,
wishing to speak to me in private. She takes me by the hand, leads me
into my little room, and tells me frequently the most unpleasant and
wearisome things, for, as you may well suppose, it is not my affairs
that they talk about; they are those of their own family: one has had
a quarrel with her husband; another wants to obtain something from the
king; an ill turn has been done to this one; a false report has been
spread about that one; domestic troubles have embroiled a third; and
I am forced to listen to all this, and the one among them whom I like
least does not restrain herself more than the others,--she tells me
everything; I must be told all the circumstances and speak about them
to the king. Often the Duchesse de Bourgogne wants to speak to me in
private, like the rest.
"All this makes me think sometimes when I reflect upon it that my
position is so singular it must be God who placed me in it. I behold
myself in the midst of them all; this person, this old person of mine,
the object of all their attention. It is to me they must address
themselves, to me, through whom all passes! God has given me grace
never to look at my position on its splendid side. I feel nothing but
the pains of it; it seems to me that, thank God! I am not dazzled;
He enables me to see it just as it is. I do not allow myself to be
blinded by the grandeur and the favour that surround me; I regard
myself as an instrument which God is using to do good, and I feel that
all the influence He permits me to have should be employed in serving
Him, in comforting whom I can, and in uniting these princes with one
another, if possible. I think sometimes of the hatred that I have
instinctively for the Court; it is nothing new; I have had it always.
God, nevertheless, destined me to be there; why, then, has He given
me this aversion to it? It must be because He wills that I should
live in its midst and find my salvation there. Mme. de Montespan, on
the contrary, loved the Court, not only for the ties that held her
to it, but because she liked Court life. What does God do? He binds
to it the one who hates it, He sends away from it the one who loves
it, apparently for the salvation of both. Ah! how good it is to let
Him act, to abandon ourselves to Him, to live from day to day doing
all the good we can. He knows better what we want than ourselves;
and, assuredly, He is an excellent director; we need only to yield
ourselves to His guidance. But let us go on.
"When the king returns from hunting he comes to me; then my door is
closed and no one enters. Here I am, then, alone with him. I must
bear his troubles, if he has any, his sadness, his nervous dejection;
sometimes he bursts into tears which he cannot control, or else he
complains of illness. He has no conversation. Then a minister comes,
who often brings fatal news; the king works. If they wish me to be
a third in their consultation, they call me; if they do not want me
I retire to a little distance, and it is then that I sometimes make
my afternoon prayers; I pray to God for about half an hour. If they
wish me to hear what is said I cannot do this; I sit there, and hear
perhaps that things are going ill; a courier has arrived with bad
news; and all that wrings my heart and prevents me from sleeping at
night.
"While the king continues to work I sup; but it is not once in two
months that I can do so at my ease. I feel that the king is alone, or
I have left him sad, or that M. Chamillart has almost finished with
him; sometimes he sends and begs me to make haste. Another day he
wants to show me something. So that I am always hurried, and the only
thing I can do is to eat very fast. I have my fruit brought with the
meat to hasten supper; and all this as fast as I can. I leave Mme.
d'Heudicourt and Mme. de Dangeau at table, because they cannot eat as
fast as I do, and often I am oppressed by it.
"After this it is, as you may suppose, getting late. I have been about
since six in the morning; I have not breathed freely the whole day;
I am overcome with weariness and yawning; more than that, I begin to
feel what it is that makes old age; I find myself at last so weary
that I can no more. Sometimes the king perceives it and says: 'You
are very tired, are you not? You ought to go to bed.' So I go to
bed; my women come and undress me; but I feel that the king wants
to talk to me and is waiting till they go; or some minister still
remains and he fears my women will hear what he says. That makes him
uneasy, and me too. What can I do? I hurry; I hurry so that I almost
faint; and you must know that all my life what I have hated most is
to be hurried. At five years of age it had the same effect upon me;
I was faint if I ran too fast, for being naturally very quick and
consequently inclined to haste, I was also very delicate, so that to
run, as I tell you, choked me. Well, at last I am in bed; I send away
my women; the king approaches and sits down by my pillow. What can I
do then? I am in bed, but I have need of many things; mine is not a
glorified body without wants. There is no one there whom I can ask for
what I need; not a single woman. It is not because I could not have
them, for the king is full of kindness, and if he thought I wanted one
woman he would endure ten; but it never comes into his mind that I
am constraining myself. As he is master everywhere, and does exactly
what he wishes, he cannot imagine that any one should do otherwise; he
believes that if I show no wants, I have none. You know that my rule
is to take everything on myself and think for others. Great people, as
a rule, are not like that; they never constrain themselves, they never
think that others are constrained by them, nor do they feel grateful
for it, simply because they are so accustomed to see everything done
in reference only to themselves that they are no longer struck by
it and pay no heed. I have sometimes, during my severe colds, been
on the point of choking with a cough I was unable to check. M. de
Pontchartrain, who saw me one day all crimson with the effort, said to
the king: 'She cannot bear it; some one must be called.'
"The king stays with me till he goes to supper, and about a quarter of
an hour before the supper is served M. le Dauphin, M. le Duc and Mme.
la Duchesse de Bourgogne come to me. At ten o'clock or a quarter past
ten everybody goes away. There is my day. I am now alone, and I take
the relief of which I am in need; but often the anxieties and fatigues
I have gone through keep me from sleeping."
I expressed to Madame how trying all that seemed to me, and said I
should not be surprised if some one should speak of her as the most
unhappy person in the world. "And yet," she added, "could they not
also say, 'She is the happiest. She is with the king from morning
till night?' But they do not remember, in saying that, that kings and
princes are men like other men; they have their griefs and troubles
which we must share with them. Moreover, there are a thousand things
that our princes never think of which fall upon me. For example, Mme.
la Princesse des Ursins is about to return to Spain; I must busy
myself with her; I must repair as best I can by my attentions the
coldness of the Duchesse de Bourgogne, the stiffness of the king,
the indifference of others. I go to see her; I give her time with
me; I listen to a thousand matters I do not care about; and all that
merely that she may go away pleased with others, and say good of
them, especially of the Duchesse de Bourgogne. I see they are all too
negligent to do this for themselves; I must supply the want; and so
with a thousand other things. I have always on my mind Spain nearly
lost to us, peace receding farther than ever, miseries that I hear of
on all sides, thousands of persons suffering before my very eyes and I
not able to help them,--and then, besides these sorrows, the excesses
that reign at Court, drunkenness, gluttony, excessive luxury, and,
worst of all, the visible dangers to religion."
I asked Madame if she were not sometimes impatient; she answered:
"Ah! indeed yes, I am; I am often, as they say, up to my throat in
it; but it must be borne; and besides, God has arranged it. When I
reflect on my condition, and how burdened I am with cares and griefs,
I think: 'How would it be with my soul if this were not so? If, with
this magnificence, wealth, and luxury, I had nothing to pain me, would
anything on this earth be so likely to ruin me? A grandeur like this,
if combined with ease of life, would soon lead me to forget God. I am
lodged like the king; my furniture is magnificent; I am in luxury; but
God shows his mercy throughout all that by mingling with it pains and
distresses which serve as a counterpoise and make me turn to Him.'"
_To M. le Duc de Noailles._
SAINT-CYR, September 5, 1706.
Our dear princess [Duchesse de Bourgogne] is fairly well; she is too
anxious about the war for a person of her age. M. le Duc de Bourgogne
is always pious, amorous, and scrupulous; but he is becoming every
day more reasonable. I have no one to speak with, and I think that
spares me many sins; for my confidences would be neither favourable to
nor honourable for my neighbours. The men are all on bad terms with
me, and the women I pay no heed to. Adieu, my dear duke. It is not
necessary to urge you to zeal for the king and State; you act from
principles that cannot change; and if you do not meet with all the
gratitude you deserve, you will receive a more solid reward hereafter.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
SAINT-CYR, October 17, 1706.
I can only add that our princess is taking great care to carry her
child to the end. She is fairly well, but extremely sad. She has an
affection for her father, but feels a great resentment to him; she
loves her mother tenderly, and takes as great an interest in the
affairs of Spain as in those of France. She loves the king, and never
sees him more serious than usual without the tears coming into her
eyes; and with her excessive kindness she interests herself also in my
pains and woes. I should like to comfort her, but, on the contrary, I
distress her. This is a terrible state for a person of her age, and
one who has, I think, without speaking of it, much uneasiness about
her approaching confinement, and many fears lest she should have a
girl.
_To Mme. de Glapion._
SAINT-CYR, February, 1707.
I have just been witness of a conversation between the king and M.
le Dauphin which has caused me great pain. I spend my life in trying
to unite them and in warding off everything that is likely to cause
misunderstandings between them, and yet here they are on the verge of
quarrelling about a trifle. Monseigneur wanted to give a public ball
to which society in general should be admitted; he was absolutely
determined about it, and with him the Duchesse de Bourgogne. The king,
with charming gentleness, opposed it, and told Monseigneur it was not
proper, if he wished the Duchesse de Bourgogne to be present, that all
sorts of men and women should be present also. The princess, on her
side, could see no harm in it, for she is just as ready to dance with
a comedian as with a prince of the blood. I cannot tell you how this
little squabble has made me suffer, and what a night I have passed. I
blame myself for my too great sensibility, and yet, on the other hand,
it seems to me I am right to desire peace in the royal family and to
dread, between a king of seventy and a dauphin of forty-six, whatever
may set them against each other and add to our general war a civil
one.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
SAINT-CYR, April 10, 1707.
Our king is tranquil, gentle, and equable in temper, such as you left
him. His health is very good; his occupations the same as ever; it
would really seem as though nothing had happened to give him pain
[reference to disasters in war]. This is something surprising, which
amazes me constantly.
Our princess makes great efforts to amuse herself, and only succeeds
in making herself giddy with fatigue. She went yesterday to dine at
Meudon followed by twenty-four ladies; after that they were to go to
the fair and see some famous rope-dancers, return to sup at Meudon,
and play cards, no doubt, till daybreak. She must have come home this
morning,--ill perhaps, certainly serious, for that is the usual result
of all her pleasures.
VERSAILLES, later.
Mme. la Duchesse de Bourgogne has a severe headache. M. Fagon has
fever and must be bled. Wherever I turn I find subjects for distress
and anxiety. How can you, madame, wish for my letters?
_To Mme. la Marquise de Dangeau._
SAINT-CYR, Saturday, July 16, 1707.
It is in order that I may speak to you, madame, of the Duchesse de
Bourgogne, that I have asked you to put off your visit to Paris till
to-morrow. The king said to me last evening that he had been much
surprised to hear of the card-playing at Bretesch [a village between
Marly and Versailles]. I saw by that that the Duchesse de Bourgogne
had deceived me. She told me that Mme. la Duchesse had invited herself
to supper, but I see now it was a prearranged party, for the king
tells me that the princess herself invited Mme. la Duchesse, and that
M. de Lorges was the first to arrive. I answered that it was quite
natural that Mme. la Duchesse should sup at her brother's house, but
that as for the cards, I was more sorry than any one.
The king said, "Is not a dinner, a cavalcade, a hunt, a collation
enough for one day?" Then he added after a while, "I should do well to
tell those gentlemen they are not paying their court well in gambling
with the Duchesse de Bourgogne." I said that _lansquenet_ had always
troubled me, for fear she might make some trip that would do her harm
and put her on a bad footing. We talked of other things and then the
king returned to the subject and said to me, "Should I not do better
to speak to those gentlemen?" I replied that I thought that manner
of acting might be injurious to the Duchesse de Bourgogne, and that
he had better speak to her herself, so that the matter might remain
secret. He said he should do so to-day; and I have begged you to
remain in order that you may warn her. We have now come sooner than I
expected to the alienation I have all along apprehended. The king will
think he has vexed her by stopping her _lansquenet_ and will be more
stiff with her; she will certainly be vexed and be cold with him; I
shall feel the same and return to the formal respect I owe to her; but
I am not yet detached enough from the esteem of the world to consent
to let it think I approve such conduct. [We know already how the sweet
temper of the princess took these rebukes and turned away wrath.]
The Duchesse de Bourgogne will be compassionated by Mme. la Duchesse;
which makes me remember the traps that her mother [Mme. de Montespan]
used to lay for the queen and Mme. de la Vallière, in order to make
the king notice later what their behaviour had been. If after
speaking to the princess you could come out to Saint-Cyr I should
be glad; but I doubt whether, after so painful a conversation, you
will be in a state to appear. If you find it possible to approach the
Duchesse de Bourgogne you might give her this letter to prepare her
for answering the king, and then you can speak to her in the evening
more at length. You can imagine, madame, what a night I have passed.
Let us pray God for our princess, who is drowning herself in a glass
of water.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
FONTAINEBLEAU, July 23, 1708.
You know now, madame, that our happiness has not lasted long. The
reduction of Ghent to the power of his Catholic Majesty had placed us
in a situation of great advantage, which ought to have been maintained
through the rest of the campaign; the enemy were on the retreat and
quite disheartened. M. de Vendôme, who believes what he wishes, chose
to give battle and lost it [Oudenarde], and we are worse off now than
we were before, as much from fear of consequences and the air of
superiority assumed by the enemy as from the loss of our troops.
In this condition we have felt the joy of the taking of Tortosa much
less [taken by the Duc d'Orléans, July 11], though we see all the
value of it. Madame is delighted, and with good reason; she sees M. le
Duc d'Orléans covered with glory, and out of the danger to which he
was exposed.
You know, madame, the levity of Frenchmen, and it seems to me that
their talk is reaching you. Ghent, they are now saying, put us in a
condition to make peace on any terms we chose; now all is lost, and we
have to ask it with a cord round our necks. And yet, madame, neither
statement is true. The enemy had great resources though we had Ghent;
we should have had more if M. de Vendôme had chosen to act with more
precaution. Our army is still very fine and very good, the troops
have done their duty, they are in nowise discouraged, and are now
asking only to redeem themselves; but that they must not be allowed
to attempt except with the order and caution to be observed on such
occasions. The Duc de Bourgogne has held the wisest opinions, but
he was ordered to yield to M. de Vendôme as being more experienced.
Our princes have been in a position to be captured; imagine, madame,
where we should then have been. That is a comfort I try to give to
the Duchesse de Bourgogne in the extreme distress she feels. She
shows throughout these sad events the feelings of a true Frenchwoman,
such as I have always known her to feel; but I own I did not think
that she loved M. le Duc de Bourgogne to the point we now see. Her
tenderness goes even to delicate sentiment; she keenly feels that his
first battle has proved disastrous; she would like him to have been
as much exposed as a grenadier, and then to have come back to her
without a scratch. She feels, too, _his_ pain for the troubles that
have happened; she shares the uneasiness that his present position
must give him; she would like a battle, in order to have him win,
and yet she fears it. Nothing escapes her; she is worse than I. This
affliction which, in one aspect, gives me some pleasure because it
proves her merit, gives me also great uneasiness about her health,
which seems to have changed. Milk had done her some good and her fine
colour was returning; but all these troubles distress her; and she is
capable of prolonged grief; we saw after the death of Monsieur how
long she felt it; and she is still feeling it.
_To M. le Duc de Noailles._
SAINT-CYR, June 13, 1710.
We are awaiting the dispensation from Rome to marry the Duc de Berry;
there would be many things to write you about that if prudence did not
restrain me; but it is time to have a little of that virtue. There
will be no fêtes, rejoicings, or expense; all will be done with regard
to the present condition of affairs....
Our tall Princesse de Conti is greatly afflicted by the death of the
Duchesse de la Vallière. She is hurt that the king has not been to
see her; but he thought he ought not to renew a matter of which he
repents daily. The princess no longer conceals her piety, and she sets
a great example to the Court with much sense and courage. We shall go
to Marly immediately after the wedding; I have some impatience to see
two little rooms next the chapel, which the king has given me that I
may go and rest sometimes, and get away from the annoyance of visitors
in the morning.
The Duchesse de Bourgogne becomes more sensible every day. She is to
be trusted with the feeding and education of the Duchesse de Berry,
who for some time to come is not to have an establishment of her own.
People are beginning to say, however, that a contract of marriage
cannot be made without giving an appanage; and the king may give them
that which Mme. de Guise once had. No one has ever seen a better
household than that of the Duc and Duchesse d'Orléans; they are never
apart, and they take all their pleasures together. It is thought that
Mme. de Saint-Simon will be lady of honour.
The whole talk now is of the new chapel [the present chapel at
Versailles]; every one is rushing from all parts to see it; it is
magnificent; I have not enough good taste to judge as to the rest.
In addition to my other woes I have a toothache, which does not make
me gay. Let us all take courage and hope in the vicissitudes of this
world. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
VERSAILLES, December 15, 1710.
I consulted M. Fagon this morning to know if he approved of your
taking back with you to Madrid the waters of Barège; he tells me that
he has written in favour of it to your physicians, and told them of
the experiments made by Gervais in that matter.
Though I know that your queen is above all other women, I cannot
help feeling for what disfigures her. [The Queen of Spain, Louise de
Savoie, had glandular swellings, which increased terribly and finally
killed her February, 1714, just two years after her sister's death.] I
entreat you, madame, to send me news of her condition.
You must allow me, madame, to pour out to you my feelings about the
Duchesse de Bourgogne. After having borne with much discussion as to
the bad system I had pursued in her education; after being blamed by
all the world for the liberties she has taken in running about from
morning till night; after seeing her hated by some for never saying
a word, and accused of horrible dissimulation in the attachment she
has shown to the king and the goodness with which she honoured me, I
see her to-day with all the world chanting her praises, believing in
her good heart, also in her great mind, and agreeing that she knows
well how to hold a large Court to respect; I see her adored by the Duc
de Bourgogne, tenderly beloved by the king, who has just placed her
household in her own hands to manage as she likes, saying publicly
that she is capable of governing much greater things. I tell you of my
joy about all this, madame, convinced that you will be glad of it,
for you were the first to discover, sooner than others, the merits of
our princess.
Mme. la Duchesse de Berry is still a child; her husband loves her
passionately. M. le Dauphin said last night that he himself was the
man in the world who had made the most good husbands. May God preserve
them all.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
SAINT-CYR, November 30, 1711.
We have no courier to-day, madame; perhaps he is delayed by the floods
that surround us on all sides. For a month it has rained every day and
all night too; but no matter, we are soon apparently to have peace.
The passports have been sent; the Dutch are beginning to change their
ideas; Philippe V. and his amiable descendants will reign securely on
the throne of Spain; I have always hoped for a miracle in his favour:
and _we_ shall profit by what is now to happen to him--which he has
deserved far more than we. I still hope, old as I am, to see the King
of England return to his kingdom.
What glory for our king, madame, to have sustained a ten years' war
against all Europe, endured the misfortunes which arose, experienced
famine and a species of pestilence that carried off millions of souls,
and now to see it end in a peace which places the monarchy of Spain
in his family, and re-establishes a Catholic king in his kingdom--for
I will not doubt that that will follow upon peace. The king is blest
with a health which makes me hope he will long enjoy the rest he is
now to have. I think you sufficiently a Frenchwoman (in spite of all
my insults) to rejoice with us.
Mme. la Dauphine takes eagerly to this subject of joy; she revels in
it to its fullest extent; she imagines the happiness of her mother,
and often talks to me of that of your queen. She intends to do
something on the day peace is concluded that she has never done before
in her life and never will do again; but she has not yet found out
what it shall be. Meantime she is going to the Te Deum at Notre-Dame,
to dinner with the Duchesse du Lude in a beautiful new house, after
that to the opera, and to sup with the Prince de Rohan in that
magnificent hôtel de Guise, then cards and a ball all night, and as
the hour of her return will be that of my waking, she will probably
come and ask me for some breakfast on arriving. I think, madame, that
you would find such a day rather long in spite of its pleasures.
M. le Comte de Toulouse was extremely well until the twenty-first day
after the operation, when the king went to see him, and the whole
Court, with French indiscretion, went also, which threw him into a
fever.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
VERSAILLES, January 11, 1712.
I do not know, madame, if the courier of to-day will bring me letters
from you; but I have one by M. de Torcy's courier and another by the
last courier to answer.
It is true, madame, that Madame la Dauphine does greatly regret her
youth; there is, however, ground to hope that she will always amuse
herself, for she has within her a fund of inexhaustible joy; and
if we are fortunate enough to have peace, it is probable that she
will always be very happy. Her great gayety does not prevent great
sympathy in trouble; she has keenly felt the uncertainty which the
King and Queen of Spain have borne; she suffers much on account of
her father; but there is no Frenchwoman more attached to the welfare
of this country than she; so that I think she never can be held in
when all these subjects of distress are lifted from her. She has
reason to be happy; she is well married, much beloved by the king
and dauphin, and she truly makes the enjoyment of the whole Court.
There are days when she has attacks of fever, and then the courtiers
are in consternation, and cry out about the irreparable loss she
would be to them. The people love her much because she lets herself
be seen very readily; she has the most pleasing children she could
possibly desire, less handsome than yours, but very vigorous, and
perfect pictures,--graceful like herself, and showing already much
intelligence.
If we may judge of the king's life by the present state of his
health we may hope that it will last as long as that of the Marquis
de Mancera, for their _régime_ is about the same; there is no
retrenchment in the meals that you know of; no diminution in the fine
appearance, the habit of walking, in fact the whole figure, which you
know, madame, is superior to that of all others. M. le Grand, who
eats as much as the king and is much younger, is broken down with
rheumatism, and can hardly drag himself about. M. de Villeroy always
looks finely, but his sobriety does not save him from gout; M. le Duc
de Grammont never has a day's health. These are the contemporaries and
the strongest men of his time.
You will probably hear of a little scene with the Duchesse de Berry,
who gives much anxiety to Madame, and to the Duchesse d'Orléans. We
must hope for some change in a young person only sixteen years old.
Why, madame, do you speak to me of respectful attachment? Are you not,
as it were, making game of me? You owe me, madame, merely a little
friendship in return for the sentiments I have for you. I beg you to
place me at the feet of the king and queen; and to believe that I
shall esteem and love you all my life; I do not think that in saying
that I am wanting in respect.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
February 7, 1712.
I do not know, madame, how I shall have strength to write you of the
horrors that surround us. Measles are making great ravages in Paris.
M. de Gondrin was buried yesterday; his wife has measles and continued
fever with a dead child in her body; she wants to rise at every moment
and go to her husband, who they dare not tell her is dead. Mme. la
Dauphine has an inflammation in the head, which gives her a fixed pain
between the ear and the upper end of the jaw; the place of the pain is
so small that it could be covered by a thumb-nail. She has convulsions
and screams like a woman in childbirth, and with the same intervals.
She was bled twice yesterday and has taken opium three times, and
seems a little more quiet at this moment. I am now going to her; and
will close this at the last moment to give you the latest news.
Seven o'clock at night.
Mme. la Dauphine, having taken a fourth dose of opium and chewed and
smoked tobacco, feels a little easier. They have just come to tell me
that she has slept an hour, and hopes to sleep a long time.
[The dauphine died February 12, the dauphin February 18; and their
eldest son, the Duc de Bretagne, March 8, leaving the infant Duc
d'Anjou (Louis XV.) as the sole direct descendant of Louis XIV.]
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
VERSAILLES, February 22, 1712.
You will have heard the unhappy news; it is such that I cannot tell it
to you in detail. The grief of the king is too great. All France is in
consternation. My own state must not hinder me from thinking often of
their Catholic Majesties; I beg you, madame, to assure them of this.
The King of Spain loses a saint in losing his brother; the queen is
fortunate in never having known our dauphine [she was a little child
when Marie-Adélaïde left Savoie]. Adieu, madame; I am quite unable to
write you any details.
_To M. le Duc de Beauvilliers._
SAINT-CYR, March 15, 1712.
To put your mind at ease, monsieur, I have taken copies of all
your writings [found among the dauphin's papers], and I send them
all to you, without exception. Secrecy would have been kept, but
circumstances might arise to reveal everything. We have just passed
through a sad experience. I should have liked to return to you all the
letters from yourself, and from M. de Cambrai [Fénelon], but the king
desired to burn them himself. I own to you that I regret this much,
for nothing was ever written so beautiful and so good. If the prince
we mourn had a few defects it was not because the counsel given him
was too timid, nor yet that he was too much flattered. It may be said
that those who walk straight can never be confounded.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
SAINT-CYR, September 11, 1715.
You are very good, madame, to think of me in the great event that has
just happened [death of Louis XIV., September 1, 1715]. We can but bow
our heads beneath the hand that strikes us.
I would with all my heart, madame, that your condition were as happy
as mine. I have seen the king die like a saint and a hero; I am in the
most pleasing retreat I could desire; and wherever I am, madame, I
shall be, all my life, your very humble and very obedient servant.
_To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins._
SAINT-CYR, December 27, 1715.
It is true, madame, that I have withdrawn from the world as much
as possible, and that if my friends were a little less kind to me,
I should henceforth see no one. But it is true also that I do not
forget those I have esteemed, loved, and honoured, and that I think
very often of you, wishing for you that which I believe to be the
best of all things. I supposed, madame, that you would go to Rome,
and I am very glad that you have done so for the sake of your eyes.
Mine have had a different fate. I have left off the spectacles I
began thirty-five years ago to wear, and I now work tapestry day
and night--for I sleep but little. My retreat is peaceful and most
complete. As for society, one can have none with persons who have no
knowledge of all that I have seen and who have been brought up in this
house and know absolutely nothing but its rules.
There is no state on earth, madame, that does not have its troubles;
your good mind, your courage, and your blood have always diminished
yours. Our Maréchal de Villeroy scarcely ever sees me now; but he
does me kindnesses every day of his life. He is the refuge of the
miserable. You would be satisfied with the public opinion of his
merit; I know men who do not like him who, nevertheless, cannot help
admitting that he makes a noble personage.
Believe me, madame, that I can never forget the marks of your goodness
to me, and that I shall die with the same attachment as ever to you.
* * * * *
[Mme. de Maintenon died at Saint-Cyr, April 15, 1719, in the
eighty-fifth year of her age.]