The Comte de la Marche, a prince of the blood--Madame de
Beauvoir, his mistress--Madame du Barry complains to the
prince de Soubise of the princess de Guémenée--The king
consoles the countess for this--The duc de Choiseul--The
king speaks to him of madame du Barry--Voltaire writes to
her--The opinions of Richelieu and the king concerning
Voltaire
Amongst those personages who came to compliment me on the evening of my
presentation was M. the comte de la Marche, son of the prince du Conti,
and consequently prince of the blood. He had long been devoted to the
will of Louis XV. As soon as his most serene highness had wind of my
favor he hastened to add to the number of my court; and I leave you to
imagine how greatly I was flattered at seeing it augmented by so august
a personage.
This conquest was most valuable in my eyes, for I thus proved to the
world, that by attracting the king to me I did not isolate him from the
whole of his family. It is very true that for some time the comte de
la Marche had been out of favor with the public, by reason of his over
complaisance towards the ministers of the king’s pleasure; but he
was not the less a prince of the blood, and at Versailles this rank
compensated for almost every fault. He was a lively man, moreover, his
society was agreeable, and the title he bore reflected his distinction
amongst a crowd of courtiers. I felt, therefore, that I ought to
consider myself as very fortunate that he deigned to visit me, and
accordingly received him with all the civility I could display; and the
welcome reception which he always experienced drew him frequently to my
abode.
The friendship with which he honored me was not agreeable to my enemies;
and they tried by every possible means to seduce him from me. They got
his near relations to talk to him about it; his intimate friends to
reason with him; the females whom he most admired to dissuade him from
it. There was not one of these latter who did not essay to injure me in
his estimation, by saying that he dishonored himself by an acquaintance
with me. There was amongst others a marquise de Beauvoir, the issue of
a petty nobility, whom he paid with sums of gold, altho’ she was not
his mistress by title. Gained over by the Choiseuls, she made proposals
concerning me to the prince of so ridiculous a nature, that he said to
her impatiently: “I’ faith, my dear, as in the eyes of the world every
woman who lives with a man who is not her husband is a ------, so I
think a man is wise to choose the loveliest he can find; and in this way
the king is at this moment much better off than any of his subjects.”
Only imagine what a rage this put the marquise de Beauvoir in: she
stormed, wept, had a nervous attack. The comte de la Marche contemplated
her with a desperate tranquillity; but this scene continuing beyond the
limits of tolerable patience, he was so tired of it that he left her.
This was not what the marquise wished; and she hastened to write a
submissive letter to him, in which, to justify herself, she confessed
to the prince, that in acting against me she had only yielded to the
instigations of the cabal, and particularly alluded to mesdames de
Grammont and de Guémenée.
The comte de la Marche showed me this letter, which I retained in spite
of his resistance and all the efforts he made to obtain possession of
it again. My intention was to show it to the king; and I did not fail to
give it to him at the next visit he paid me: he read it, and shrugging
up his shoulders, as was his usual custom, he said to me,
“They are devils incarnate, and the worst of the kind. They try to
injure you in every way, but they shall not succeed. I receive also
anonymous letters against you, they are tossed into the post-box in
large packets with feigned names, in the hope that they will reach
me. Such slanders ought not to annoy you: in the days of madame de
Pompadour, the same thing was done. The same schemes were tried to ruin
madame de Chateauroux. Whenever I have been suspected of any tenderness
towards a particular female, every species of intrigue has been
instantly put in requisition. Moreover,” he continued, “madame de
Grammont attacks you with too much obstinacy not to make me believe but
that she would employ all possible means to attain her end.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed, “because she has participated in your friendship you
are ready to support her.”
“Do not say so in a loud tone,” he replied laughingly; “her joy would
know no bounds if she could believe it was in her power to inspire you
with jealousy.”
“But,” I said, “that insolent Guémenée; has she also to plume herself
on your favors as an excuse for overpowering me with her hatred, and for
tearing me to pieces in the way she does?”
“No,” was the king’s answer; “she is wrong, and I will desire her
father-in-law to say so.”
“And I will come to an explanation with the prince de Soubise on this
point; and we will see whether or not I will allow myself to have my
throat cut like an unresisting sheep.”
I did not fail to keep my word. The prince de Soubise came the next
morning; chance on that day induced him to be extraordinarily gallant
towards me; never had he praised me so openly, or with so much
exaggeration. I allowed him to go on; but when at length he had
finished his panegyric, “Monsieur le maréchal,” said I to him, “you are
overflowing with kindness towards me, and I wish that all the members of
your family would treat me with the same indulgence.”
Like a real courtier he pretended not to understand me, and made no
reply, hoping, no doubt, that the warmth of conversation would lead me
to some other subject; but this one occupied me too fully to allow me to
divert my attention from it; and, seeing that he continued silent, I
continued, “madame your daughter-in-law behaves towards me like a
declared enemy; she assails me by all sorts of provocation, and at last
will so act, that I shall find myself compelled to struggle against her
with open force.”
You must be a courtier, you must have been in the presence of a king who
is flattered from morning to night in all his caprices, to appreciate
the frightful state in which my direct attack placed the prince de
Soubise. Neither his political instinct, nor the tone of pleasantry
which he essayed to assume, nor the more dangerous resource of offended
dignity, could extricate him from the embarrassment in which he
was thrown by my words. He could do nothing but stammer out a few
unintelligible phrases; and his confusion was so great and so visible,
that the marquis de Chauvelin, his not over sincere friend, came to his
assistance. The king, equally surprised at what I had just said, hastily
turned and spoke to Chon, who told me afterwards, that the astonishment
of Louis XV had been equal to that of the prince de Soubise, and that
he had evinced it by the absence of mind which he had manifested in his
discourse and manners.
M. de Chauvelin then turning towards me, said, “Well, madame, on what
evil herb have you walked to-day? Can it be possible that you would make
the prince, who is your friend, responsible for the hatred which ought
to be flattering rather than painful to you, since it is a homage
exacted towards your brilliant loveliness?”
“In the first place,” I replied, “I have no intention to cast on
monsieur le maréchal, whom I love with all my heart, the least
responsibility relative to the object of which I complain. I only wished
to evince to him the regret I experienced at not seeing all the members
of his family like him: this is all. I should be in despair if I thought
I had said anything that would wound him; and if I have done so, I most
sincerely ask his pardon.”
On saying these words I presented my hand to the prince, who instantly
kissed it.
“You are,” said he, “at the same time cruel and yet most amiable: but if
you have the painful advantage of growing old at court, you will learn
that my children have not all the deference and respect towards me which
they owe to their father; and I often am pained to see them act in a
manner entirely opposite to my desires, however openly manifested. If
my daughter does not love you, it is to me, most probably, that you must
look for the _why_ and _wherefore_: it is because I love you so much
that she is against you. I have committed an error in praising you
before her, and her jealousy was not proof against it.”
“That is very amiable in you,” said I; “and now whatever may be my
feelings against the princesse de Guémenée, I will endeavor to dissemble
it out of regard for you; and, I assure you, that however little
consideration your daughter-in-law may testify towards me, I will show
her a fair side: endeavor to make peace between us. I only ask to be let
alone, for I do not seek to become the enemy of any person.”
Altho’ M. de Soubise said that he had no influence over the princesse
de Guémenée, I learned, subsequently, that the day after this scene he
testified to the Guémenée some fears as to his future destiny at court.
He begged her not to oppose herself to me; to be silent with respect to
me, and to keep herself somewhat in the shade if she would not make some
advances towards me. His daughter-in-law, whose arrogance equalled her
dissipation and dissolute manners, replied, that she was too much above
a woman of my sort to fear or care for me; that my reign at the château
would be but brief, whilst hers would only terminate with her life: that
she would never consent to an act of weakness that would be derogatory
to her character and rank. In vain did the prince try to soften her,
and make her consider that my influence over the king was immense: he
preached to the desert, and was compelled to abandon his purpose without
getting any thing by his endeavors.
I now return to my conversation with him. During the time it lasted
the king did not cease talking to Chon, all the time listening with
attention to what the prince and I were saying; and he did not approach
us until the intervention of M. de Chauvelin had terminated this kind
of a quarrel. He returned to his seat in front of the fire; and when we
were alone, said to me,
“You have been very spiteful to the poor maréchal, and I suffered for
him.”
“You are an excellent friend; and, no doubt, it is the affection you
bear to M. de Soubise which makes you behave so harshly to me. Can I
not, without displeasing you, defend myself when I am attacked?”
“I did not say so; but is it necessary that he must be responsible for
the follies of his relations?”
“In truth, sire, so much the worse for the father who cannot make his
children respect him. If the maréchal was respected by the public,
believe me he would be so by his family.”
This retort was perhaps too severe. I found this by the silence of the
king; but as, in fact, it imported little, and, by God’s help, I was
never under much constraint with him, I saw him blush, and then he said
to me,
“Now, I undertake to bring madame de Guémenée into proper order. The
favor I ask is, that you would not meddle. I have power enough to
satisfy you, but, for heaven’s sake, do not enter into more quarrels
than you have already. It seems to me that you ought to avoid them
instead of creating such disturbances.”
He had assumed a grave tone in reading me this lecture: but as we were
in a place in which majesty could not be committed, I began to laugh
heartily, and to startle him, I said that henceforward I would pilot
my bark myself, and defend myself by openly assailing all persons who
testified an aversion to me. How laughable it was to see the comic
despair in which this determination threw the king. It seemed to him
that the whole court would be at loggerheads; and he could not restrain
himself from exclaiming, that he would a hundred times rather struggle
against the king of Prussia and the emperor of Germany united, than
against three or four females of the château. In a word, I frightened
him so completely, that he decided on the greatest act of courage he had
ever essayed in my favor: it was, to desire the intervention of the duc
de Choiseul in all these quarrels.
The credit of this minister was immense, and this credit was based on
four powerful auxiliaries; namely the parliament, the philosophers, the
_literati_, and the women. The high magistracy found in him a public and
private protector. The parliaments had themselves a great many clients,
and their voices, given to the duc de Choiseul, gave him great power in
the different provinces. The philosophers, ranged under the banner of
Voltaire, who was their god, and of d’Alembert, their patriarch, knew
all his inclinations for them, and knew how far they might rely on
his support in all attempts which they made to weaken the power of the
clergy, and to diminish the gigantic riches which had been amassed by
prelates and monasteries. The writers were equally devoted to him: they
progressed with the age, and as on all sides they essayed to effect
important reforms, it was natural that they should rally about him in
whose hands was the power of their operations.
The ladies admired his gallantry: in fact, the duc de Choiseul was a
man who understood marvellously well how to combine serious labors with
pleasure. I was, perhaps, the only woman of the court whom he would not
love, and yet I was not the least agreeable nor the most ugly. It
was very natural for them to exalt his merit and take him under their
especial protection. Thus was he supported in every quarter by them;
they boasted of his measures, and by dint of repeating in the ears of
every body that M. de Choiseul was a minister _par excellence_, and the
support of monarchy, they had contrived to persuade themselves of the
truth of their assertion. In fact, if France found herself freed from
the Jesuits, it was to the duc de Choiseul that this was owing, and this
paramount benefit assured to him universal gratitude.
The king was fully aware of this unanimity of public opinion in favor of
his minister. He was, besides, persuaded, that in arranging the _pacte
de famille_, and concluding the alliance with the imperial house, the
duc de Choiseul had evinced admirable diplomatic talents, and rendered
France real, and important, service. His attachment to him was
incumbent, and rested on solid foundations. If, at a subsequent period,
he dismissed him, it was because he was deceived by a shameful intrigue
which it will cost me pain to develop to you, because I took by far too
much a leading part in it, which now causes me the deepest regret.
Now, by the act of my presentation, the duc de Choiseul would be
compelled to meet me often, which would render our mutual situation very
disagreeable. On this account the king sought to reconcile us, and
would have had no difficulty in effecting his wishes had he only had the
resistance of the minister and his wife to encounter. The lady had not
much influence over her husband, and besides she had too much good sense
to struggle against the wishes of the king: but the duchesse de
Grammont was there, and this haughty and imperious dame had so great an
ascendancy with her brother, and behaved with so little caution, that
the most odious reports were in circulation about their intimacy.
It could scarcely be hoped that we could tame this towering spirit,
which saw in me an odious rival. Louis XV did not flatter himself that
he could effect this prodigy, but he hoped to have a greater ascendancy
over his minister. It was to the duc de Choiseul, therefore, that he
first addressed himself, desirous of securing the husband and wife
before he attacked the redoubtable sister. The next morning, after my
warm assault on the prince de Soubise, he profited by an audience which
the duke requested at an unusual hour to introduce this negotiation of
a new kind, and the details I give you of this scene are the more
faithful, as the king gave them to me still warm immediately after the
conversation had terminated.
The state affairs having been concluded, the king, seeking to disguise
his voluntary embarrassment, said to the duke, smiling,
“Duc de Choiseul, I have formed for my private hours a most delightful
society: the most attached of my subjects consider themselves highly
favored when I invite them to these evening parties so necessary for my
amusement. I see with pain that you have never yet asked me to admit you
there.”
“Sire,” replied the duke, “the multiplicity of the labors with which
your majesty has charged me, scarcely allows me time for my pleasures.”
“Oh, you are not so fully occupied but that you have still some time to
spend with the ladies, and I think that I used to meet you frequently at
the marquise de Pompadour’s.”
“Sire, she was my friend.”
“Well, and why, is not the comtesse du Barry? Who has put it into
your head that she was opposed to you? You do not know her: she is an
excellent woman: not only has she no dislike to you, but even desires
nothing more than to be on good terms with you.”
“I must believe so since your majesty assures me of it; but, sire, the
vast business with which I am overwhelmed--”
“Is not a sufficing plea; I do not allow that without a special motive,
you should declare yourself against a person whom I honor with my
protection. As you do not know her, and cannot have any thing to urge
against her but prejudices founded on false rumors and scandalous
fabrications, I engage you to sup with me at her apartments this
evening, and I flatter myself that when I wish it you will not coin a
parcel of reasons in opposition to my desire.”
“I know the obedience that is due to your majesty,” said de Choiseul,
bowing low.
“Well, then, do first from duty what I flatter myself you will
afterwards do from inclination. Duc de Choiseul, do not allow yourself
to be influenced by advice that will prove injurious to you. What I ask
cannot compromise you; but I should wish that with you all should be
quiet, that no one should struggle against me, and that too with the
air of contending against a person’s station. Do not reply, you know
perfectly what I would say, and I know what belongs to myself.”
Here the conversation terminated. The duc de Choiseul did not become my
friend any the more, but behaved towards me with all due consideration.
He used grace and _finesse_ in his proceedings, without mingling with it
anything approaching to nonsense. He never allowed himself, whatever
has been said, to dart out in my face any of those epigrams which public
malignity has attributed to him. Perhaps like many other persons in the
world, he has said many pleasantries of me which have been reported as
said in my presence, but I repeat that he never uttered in my society a
single word with which I had cause to be offended.
At this juncture I received a letter of which I had the folly to be
proud, altho’ a little reflection should have made me think that my
situation alone inspired it: it was from M. de Voltaire. This great
genius was born a courtier. Whether he loved the protection of the
great, or whether he thought it necessary to him, he was constantly
aiming, from his youth upwards, at obtaining the countenance of persons
belonging to a high rank, which made him servile and adulatory whilst
they were in power, and full of grimace towards them when the wind
favor ceased to swell their sails. It was in this way that mesdames
de Chateauroux and de Pompadour had had his homage. He had sung their
praises, and, of course, he could not forget me. You will recall to mind
the letter which he wrote to the duc d’Aiguillon, on occasion of the
piece of poetry entitled “_La Cour du Roi Petaud_.” He had denied having
composed it, but this denial had not been addressed directly to me.
Having learnt, no doubt, that my credit was increasing, he thought
himself obliged to write to me, that he might rank me with his party. He
might have availed himself of the intermediation of the duc d’Aiguillon,
but preferred putting the duc de Richelieu into his confidence, and
begged him to fulfil the delicate function of literary Mercury. I was
alone when the maréchal came to me with an assumed air of mystery. His
first care was to look around him without saying a word; and it was not
until after he had shaken the curtains, and peeped into every corner of
the apartment, that he approached me, who was somewhat surprised at his
monkey tricks.
“I am the bearer,” he said, in a low voice, “of a secret and important
communication, which I have been entreated to deliver after five or six
hundred cautions at least: it is a defection from the enemy’s camp, and
not the least in value.”
Fully occupied by my quarrel with the ladies of the court, I imagined
that he had brought me a message of peace from some great lady; and,
full of this idea, I asked him in haste the name of her whose friendship
I had acquired.
“Good,” said he, “it is about a lady, is it? It is from a personage
fully as important, a giant in power, whose words resound from one
extremity of Europe to another, and whom the Choiseuls believe their own
entirely.”
“It is M. de Voltaire,” I said.
“Exactly so: your perspicacity has made you guess it.”
“But what does he want with me?”
“To be at peace with you; to range himself under your banner, secretly
at first, but afterwards openly.”
“Is he then afraid openly to evince himself my friend?” I replied, in a
tone of some pique.
“Rather so, and yet you must not feel offended at that. The situation
of this sarcastic and talented old man is very peculiar; his unquiet
petulance incessantly gives birth to fresh perils. He, of necessity,
must make friends in every quarter, left and right, in France and
foreign countries. The necessary consequence is, that he cannot follow
a straight path. The Choiseuls have served him with perfect zeal: do not
be astonished if he abandon them when they can no longer serve him. If
they fall, he will bid them good evening, and will sport your cockade
openly.”
“But,” I replied, “this is a villainous character.”
“Ah, I do not pretend to introduce to you an Aristides or an
Epaminondas, or any other soul of similar stamp. He is a man of letters,
full of wit, a deep thinker, a superior genius, and our reputations are
in his hands. If he flatters us, posterity will know it; if he laugh at
us, it will know it also. I counsel you therefore to use him well, if
you would have him behave so towards you.”
“I will act conformably to your advice,” said I to the maréchal; “at the
same time I own to you that I fear him like a firebrand.”
“I, like you, think that there is in him something of the infernal
stone: he burns you on the slightest touch. But now, to this letter; you
will see what he says to you. He begs me most particularly to conceal
from every body the step he has taken with you. What he most dreads is,
lest you should proclaim from the housetops that he is in correspondence
with you. I conjure you, on his behalf, to exercise the greatest
discretion, and I think that you are interested in doing so; for, if
what he has done should be made public, he will not fail to exercise
upon you the virulence of his biting wit.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a stir which we heard in the
château, and which announced to us the king. The maréchal hastily
desired me not to show Voltaire’s letter to the king until I had read
it previously to myself. “He does not like this extraordinary man,” he
added, “and accuses him of having failed in respect, and perhaps you
will find in this paper some expression which may displease him.”
Scarcely had I put the epistle in my pocket, when the king entered.
“What are you talking about,” said he, “you seem agitated?”
“Of M. de Voltaire, sire,” I replied, with so much presence of mind as
to please the duc de Richelieu.
“What, is he at his tricks again? Have you any cause of complaint
against him?”
“Quite the reverse; he has charged M. d’Argental to say to M. de
Richelieu, that he was sorry that he could not come and prostrate
himself at my feet.”
“Ah,” said the king, remembering the letter to the duc d’Aiguillon,
“he persists in his coquetries towards you: that is better than being
lampooned by him. But do not place too much confidence in this gentleman
of the chamber: he weighs every thing in two scales; and I doubt much
whether he will spare you when he evinces but little consideration for
me.”
Certainly Richelieu had a good opportunity of undertaking the defence of
his illustrious friend. He did no such thing; and I have always thought
that Voltaire was the person whom the duke detested more heartily than
any other person in the world. He did, in fact, dread him too much to
esteem him as a real friend.
“M. d’Argental,” said the king, “unites then at my court the double
function of minister of Parma and steward of Ferney.* Are these two
offices compatible?”
* The name of Voltaire’s residence--TRANS
“Yes, sire,” replied the duke, laughing, “since he has not presented
officially to your majesty the letters of his creation as comte de
Tournay.”
The king began to laugh. This was the name of an estate which Voltaire
had, and which he sometimes assumed.