FAMOUS WOMEN OF THE FRENCH COURT.
From the French of Imbert de Saint-Amand.
_Each with Portrait, 12mo, $1.25._
_THREE VOLUMES ON MARIE ANTOINETTE._
MARIE ANTOINETTE AND THE END OF THE OLD RÉGIME.
MARIE ANTOINETTE AT THE TUILERIES.
MARIE ANTOINETTE AND THE DOWNFALL OF ROYALTY.
_THREE VOLUMES ON THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE._
CITIZENESS BONAPARTE.
THE WIFE OF THE FIRST CONSUL.
THE COURT OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.
_FOUR VOLUMES ON THE EMPRESS MARIE LOUISE._
THE HAPPY DAYS OF MARIE LOUISE.
MARIE LOUISE AND THE DECADENCE OF THE EMPIRE.
MARIE LOUISE AND THE INVASION OF 1814.
MARIE LOUISE, THE RETURN FROM ELBA, AND THE HUNDRED DAYS.
_TWO VOLUMES ON THE DUCHESS OF ANGOULÊME._
THE YOUTH OF THE DUCHESS OF ANGOULÊME.
THE DUCHESS OF ANGOULÊME AND THE TWO RESTORATIONS.
_THREE VOLUMES ON THE DUCHESS OF BERRY._
THE DUCHESS OF BERRY AND THE COURT OF LOUIS XVIII.
THE DUCHESS OF BERRY AND THE COURT OF CHARLES X.
THE DUCHESS OF BERRY AND THE REVOLUTION OF JULY, 1830.
_Four New Volumes._
_WOMEN OF THE VALOIS AND VERSAILLES COURTS._
WOMEN OF THE VALOIS COURT.
WOMEN OF THE COURT OF LOUIS XIV.
WOMEN OF THE COURT OF LOUIS XV. Vol. I.
WOMEN OF THE COURT OF LOUIS XV. Vol. II.
[Illustration: MARIE LECZINSKA.]
_WOMEN OF VERSAILLES_
THE
COURT OF LOUIS XV.
BY
IMBERT DE SAINT-AMAND
_TRANSLATED BY_
ELIZABETH GILBERT MARTIN
_WITH PORTRAITS_
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1893
COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
FIRST PART
[1715–1744]
CHAPTER
I. THE INFANTA MARIE ANNE VICTOIRE, BETROTHED OF LOUIS XV 13
II. THE MARRIAGE OF MARIE LECZINSKA 23
III. THE DISGRACE OF THE MARQUISE DE PRIE 31
IV. THE KING FAITHFUL TO THE QUEEN 39
V. THE FAVOR OF THE COUNTESS DE MAILLY 46
VI. THE COUNTESS DE VINTIMILLE 53
VII. THE DISGRACE OF THE COUNTESS DE MAILLY 59
VIII. THE REIGN OF THE DUCHESS DE CHÂTEAUROUX 68
IX. THE JOURNEY TO METZ 75
X. THE DEATH OF THE DUCHESS DE CHÂTEAUROUX 84
SECOND PART
[1745–1768]
I. LOUIS XV. AND THE ROYAL FAMILY IN 1745 97
II. THE BEGINNINGS OF THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR 116
III. THE NEW MARQUISE 125
IV. MADAME DE POMPADOUR’S THEATRE 133
V. THE GRANDEURS OF THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR 147
VI. THE GRIEFS OF THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR 156
VII. MADAME DE POMPADOUR, LADY OF THE QUEEN’S PALACE 168
VIII. MADAME DE POMPADOUR AND THE ATTEMPT OF DAMIENS 180
IX. MADAME DE POMPADOUR AND DOMESTIC POLITICS 193
X. MADAME DE POMPADOUR AND THE SEVEN YEARS’ WAR 201
XI. MADAME DE POMPADOUR AND THE PHILOSOPHERS 214
XII. THE DEATH OF THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR 225
XIII. THE OLD AGE OF MARIE LECZINSKA 233
XIV. MARIE LECZINSKA AND HER DAUGHTERS 245
XV. THE DAUPHINESS MARIE JOSÈPHE OF SAXONY 258
XVI. THE DEATH OF MARIE LECZINSKA 269
THE COURT OF LOUIS XV.
_INTRODUCTION_
If you want romance, said M. Guizot one day, why not turn to history?
The great author was right. The historical novel is out of fashion at
present. People are tired of seeing celebrated people misrepresented,
and they agree with Boileau that
“Nothing is so beautiful as the true, the true alone is lovely.”
Are there, in fact, any inventions more striking than reality? Can
any novelist, however ingenious, find more varied combinations or
more interesting scenes than the dramas of history? Could the most
fertile mind imagine any types so curious as, for example, the women
of the court of Louis XV.? The eternal womanly, as Goethe said, is
all there with its vices and virtues, its pettiness and its grandeur,
its weakness and its strength, its egotism and its devotion. What an
instructive gallery! What diverse figures, from such a saint as Madame
Louise of France, the Carmelite, to Madame Dubarry, the courtesan! In
the Countess de Mailly, we have the modest favorite; in the Duchess
de Châteauroux, the haughty favorite; in the Marquise de Pompadour,
the intriguer, the female minister, the statesman; in Queen Marie
Leczinska, the model of conjugal duty and fidelity; in the Dauphiness
Marie Antoinette, the resplendent image of grace and youth, of poesy
and purity; in the six daughters of the King, Madame the Infanta, so
tender toward her father; Madame Henriette, her twin sister, who died
of chagrin at twenty-four because she could not marry according to
her inclination; Madame Adelaide and Madame Victoire, inseparable in
adversity as well as in happier days; Madame Sophie, gentle and timid;
Madame Louise, Amazon and Carmelite by turns, who cried in the delirium
of her last agony: “To Paradise, quick, quick, to Paradise at full
gallop!”
History is the resurrection of the dead, but this resurrection is not
an easy matter. To withdraw one’s self from the present in order to
live in the past, to display characters, to make audible the words of
all these personages who are sleeping their last sleep, to rekindle
so many extinct flames, evoke so many vanished shades, is a work that
would need the wand of a magician. History interests and impassions
only when it penetrates the secret of souls. To make it a painting, in
animated tones and warm colors, and not an insignificant monochrome, it
is necessary that men and things should reappear as in a mirror that
reflects the past.
The preservation of the palace where they passed their existence
facilitates the renascence of the women of the court of Louis XV. It
is something to be able to say: Here such an event was accomplished,
such a remark uttered. Here such a personage rendered her last sigh.
The sight of the rooms where so many dramas were unfolded is in
itself a fruitful lesson. The theatre remains; the decorations are
hardly changed. But this is not all. The dust must be shaken from the
costumes; the actors and actresses must be hunted up; the play must
begin anew.
There is no lack of materials for this work of reconstruction; they
are even rather too abundant: memoirs by Duclos, Marais, Barbier,
the Duke de Luynes, Maurepas, Villars, the Marquis d’Argenson,
President Hénault, Madame du Hausset, Count de Ségur, Weber,
Madame Campan;--histories by Voltaire, M. Henri Martin, Michelet,
Jobez;--works by the brothers Goncourt, Sainte-Beuve, M. de Lescure,
the Countess d’Armaillé, Boutaric, Honoré Bonhomme, Campardon,
Capefigue, Le Roi, Barthélemy;--collections by M. Feuillet de Conches
and M. d’Arneth;--the secret correspondence of Louis XV. with his
secret diplomatic corps, that of Count Mercy-Argenteau with the Empress
Maria Theresa, new editions of ancient books, autographs, recent
publications--one is embarrassed by such a mass of riches. Not days,
but months and years, are needed to become well acquainted with all
these treasures. But life is so short and so preoccupied with affairs
that the public, with few exceptions, has neither time nor inclination
to study so many volumes. Is it not a critic’s business to spare his
readers minute researches, to guide them through the labyrinth, to
condense long works, to bring out saliently the most characteristic
passages; in a word, to facilitate study and popularize history while
scrupulously respecting truth? This is what we shall try to do for
Louis XV. and the women of his court.
This much-decried monarch is one of those wavering, inconsequent,
bizarre types of whom so many are found in our world of contradictions
and miseries. Alas! who has not something of Louis XV. in his
own soul? To see the good and do the evil; to believe and not to
practise; to vainly seek a remedy for ennui in sensual pleasure; to
act against conscience and know self-condemnation, but not amendment;
to be dissatisfied with one’s actions and lack strength for true
repentance,--is not this the common lot? How many honest citizens are
mere repetitions of Louis XV., lacking his crown! They show respect for
their wives and affection for their children. They blame free thinkers
severely. They speak respectfully of religion. And at the same time
they do not observe the maxims of morality which they preach; they
keep mistresses, they are guilty of shameful debaucheries. Their life
is a series of incongruities; they know neither what they are nor what
they desire. Such was Louis XV. His religion was not hypocrisy. His
attempts at conversion came to nothing, but they issued from the depths
of his troubled conscience. He remained in the mire, but he dreamed of
the light. Let us not be pitiless then. Is it graceful in demagogues to
display such severity toward kings? Is there more morality under the
red liberty caps than above the red-heeled slippers? Louis XV. was not
a faithful husband, but he had a great veneration for his wife and a
profound affection for his children. In spite of unpardonable scandals
he was not so odious a character as he has been painted. Weakness is
the word that best characterizes him, not malignity.
Take his favorites from the sovereign, and he might be not simply a
worthy man, but a great king. He is intelligent and kindly. His people
adore him. Fortune has crowned him. Voltaire goes into ecstasies over
the glories of this reign, which the advocate Barbier declares to be
the finest epoch in the entire history of France. What compromises,
what ruins all this? The great enemy, voluptuousness.
Oh! how swift, how slippery, is the descent into vice! How one fault
entails another! During several years (1725–1733) Louis XV. is a model
husband. Then he mysteriously commits a first infidelity; afterwards
he stops at nothing. He is timid at first; he hides himself, but by
degrees he becomes bolder. He declares himself at first with the
Countess de Mailly; afterwards with her sister, the Countess de
Vintimille; however, he still maintains some restraint. Louis XV.
is stingy with the State funds; his old preceptor, Cardinal Fleury,
retains some influence over him. But Fleury dies (1743); the King
has a mentor no longer; he emancipates himself; the scandal gains
strength and is triumphant in the person of a third sister, the Duchess
of Châteauroux. Heaven, nevertheless, sends the monarch some severe
lessons; Madame de Vintimille had died in childbirth (1741); the King
himself came near dying at Metz; the Duchess of Châteauroux dies of
chagrin and other emotions at the close of 1744. People think Louis XV.
is about to change his ways. ’Tis an error: here comes the minister in
petticoats, the Marquise de Pompadour, a queen of the left hand. She,
to use Voltaire’s expression, is a sort of grisette made for the opera
or the seraglio, who tries to amuse this bored monarch by diversions
still more preposterous than his dulness. She dies at the task, and
Louis XV. has not even a tear for her. As Rochefoucauld has said: “If a
man thinks he loves his mistress for love of her, he is much mistaken.”
Louis XV. is growing old. The Queen dies in 1768. He regrets her, and
people fancy that at last he is going to follow the wise advice of his
surgeon, and not merely rein his horses up, but take them out of the
traces. They are reckoning without the woman who is about to bring
the slang of Billingsgate to Versailles. After great ladies the great
citizeness; after her the woman of the people; the De Nesle sisters
are followed by Madame de Pompadour; Madame de Pompadour by Dubarry;
Dubarry, the “portiere of the Revolution.”
One thing strikes me in this series of royal mistresses; I see
debauchery everywhere, but nowhere love. Love with its refinements,
its disinterestedness, its spirit of sacrifice, its mysticism, its
poetry--where is it? I perceive not even the least shadow of it. Ah!
how right was Rochefoucauld in saying: “It is the same thing with true
love as with the apparition of ghosts; everybody talks about, but very
few have seen it.” Voluptuousness, on the other hand, is shameless
in its cynicism, and when I contemplate this wretched King whom it
degrades and corrupts and weakens, who is wearied and complains and
is sad unto death, I recall a page from one of the most eloquent of
men: “The intoxication once past, there remains in the soul a doleful
astonishment, a bitterly experienced void. It may be filled by new
agitations; but it is reproduced again vaster than before, and this
painful alternation between extreme joys and profound depression,
between flashes of happiness and the impossibility of being happy,
begets at last a state of continual sadness.... Say no longer to the
man attacked by it: See what a fine day! Say no more: Listen to this
sweet music! Do not even say: I love you! Light, harmony, love, all
that is good and charming can do no more than irritate his secret
wound. He is doomed to the _Manes_, and everything appears to him
as if he were in a sepulchre, stifling for want of air and crushed
by the weight of marble.... There comes a moment when all the man’s
satiated powers give him an invincible certainty of the nothingness
of the universe. Once a fleeting smile was all the despairing man
needed to open limitless perspectives before him; now the adoration
of the world would not affect him. He estimates it at its true value:
nothing.”[1]
Is not the profound sadness of Louis XV. a moral lesson as striking
as any instruction from the preachers? Here is a sovereign privileged
by destiny, handsome, powerful, victorious, surrounded by general
admiration, possessor of the first throne of the universe, loved almost
to idolatry by his people, having a tender and devoted wife, good and
respectful children, soldiers who long to die bravely in his service
to the cry of, “Long live the King!” He dwells in splendid palaces;
when he pleases, he shakes off the yoke of etiquette and lives like a
private gentleman in little residences which are masterpieces of grace
and good taste; every one seeks to divine his wishes, his caprices;
all the arts are pressed into the service of making life agreeable to
him; all pleasures, all elegancies, conspire to charm and entertain
him. His health is robust; boon-companion, bold horseman, indefatigable
huntsman and lover, he enjoys every pleasure at his will. Well, he is
plunged into the depths of ill-humor, the most dismal melancholy, and
the sentiment he inspires in those who observe him closely--as every
memoir of the time attests--is not envy, but pity.
What conclusion can one draw from this except that neither the dazzle
of riches, the prestige of pride, the fumes of incense, the caresses
of flattery, the false joys of sensual pleasure, nor the intoxications
of power can make man happy! He thirsts in the middle of the fountain;
he finds thorns in the crown of roses that encircles his forehead, and
a gnawing worm creeps, like Cleopatra’s asp, into the odorous flowers
whose perfume he inhales. The lamps of the festival grow dim, the
boudoirs look like tombs, and suddenly the _Manes, Tekel, Phares_,
appears in flaming letters on the portals of gold and marble. O King,
expect neither truce to thy woes nor distraction from thine ennui, that
implacable companion of thy grandeur! Thou art thine own enemy, and all
will betray thee, because thou art not reconciled with thyself. Most
Christian King, son of Saint Louis, thou dost suffer, and oughtest to
suffer, for thou canst neither seat thyself tranquilly upon the throne
nor kneel before the altar!
The end of this existence was dismal. Count de Ségur relates that as
Louis XV. was going to the chase he met a funeral and approached the
coffin. As he liked to ask questions, he inquired who was to be buried.
They told him it was a young girl who had died of small-pox. Seized
with sudden terror, he returned to his palace of Versailles and was
almost instantly attacked by the cruel malady whose very name had
turned him pale. Gangrene invaded the body of the voluptuous monarch.
People fled from him with terror as if he were plague-stricken. His
daughters alone, his daughters, models of courage and devotion, braved
the contagion and would not leave his death-bed.
Study history seriously. You fancy you will encounter scandal, but
you will find edification. Corrupt epochs are perhaps more fruitful
in great lessons than austere ones. It is not virtue, but vice, which
cries to us: Vanity, all is vanity. It is the guilty women, the royal
mistresses, who issue from their tombs and, striking their breasts,
accuse themselves in presence of posterity. These beauties who appear
for an instant on the scene and then vanish like shadows, these unhappy
favorites who wither in a day like the grass of the field, these
wretched victims of caprice and voluptuousness, all speak to us like
the sinful woman of the Gospel, and history is thus morality in action.
FIRST PART
[1715–1744]
I
THE INFANTA MARIE ANNE VICTOIRE, BETROTHED OF LOUIS XV.
When Louis XIV. gave up the ghost, Versailles also seemed to die. No
one ventured to dwell in the palace of the Sun King. During seven years
it was abandoned. September 9, 1715, at the very moment when Louis
XV., then five and a half years old, was returning to Vincennes, the
body of him who had been Louis XIV. was carried to its last abode, at
Saint-Denis. The people danced, sang, drank, and gave themselves up to
a scandalous joy. The following epigram got into circulation:--
“Non, Louis n’était pas si dur qu’il le parut,
Et son trépas le justifie,
Puisque, aussi bien que le Messie,
Il est mort pour notre salut.”[2]
Such is the gratitude of peoples! This is what remains of so many
flatteries, so much incense! _Sic transit gloria mundi._
France, which insulted the memory of the heroic old man, was on its
knees before a child. September 12, an enormous crowd was surging
around the palace of the Parliament in Paris. Little Louis XV. alighted
from his carriage amidst acclamations, and formally entered the
palace. He took off his hat, and then, replacing it on his head, said
graciously: “Gentlemen, I have come here to assure you of my affection.
Monsieur the Chancellor will acquaint you with my will.” And the first
president responded: “We are all eager to contemplate you upon your bed
of justice like the image of God on earth.”
“Princes are badly brought up,” says the Marquis d’Argenson. “Nothing
flatters and nothing corrects them.” Ought not one to be indulgent
toward a prince to whom his governor, Marshal Villeray, kept repeating
on the balcony of the Tuileries: “Look, master, look at these people;
well! they are all yours, they all belong to you.” The regent said to
the little monarch: “I am here only to render you my accounts, to offer
matters for your consideration, to receive and execute your orders.”
The child thought himself a man already.
In 1721 they affianced him to the Infanta Marie Anne Victoire,
daughter of Philip V., King of Spain. Louis XV. was not yet eleven
years old; the Infanta was only three. They had all the difficulty in
the world to induce the monarch to say the necessary yes. His little
betrothed arrived in Paris the following year (March 22, 1722). Louis
XV. went to meet her at Montrouge. All along the route the houses
were decked with hangings and adorned with flowers and foliage. The
next day the gazettes informed the public that the Queen--so they
called the Infanta--had received from the King a doll worth twenty
thousand livres. Three months later (June, 1722), Louis XV. and his
betrothed established themselves at Versailles, which again became
the political capital of France. The King took possession of the
bedchamber of Louis XIV.,[3] which he used until 1738. The Infanta
was lodged in the apartment of the Queen, and slept in the chamber[4]
that had been occupied by Marie Thérèse, the Bavarian dauphiness,
and the Duchess of Burgundy. She made the two youngest daughters of
the regent her inseparable companions, treating them as if they were
younger than herself, although they were twice her age. She kept them
in leading-strings under pretext of preventing them from falling,
and as she embraced them on their departure, she would say: “Little
princesses, go home now and come to see me every day.”
Louis XV. was crowned at Rheims, October 25, 1722. “People remember,”
says the Marquis d’Argenson, “how much he resembled Love that morning,
with his long coat and silver cap, in the costume of a neophyte or
candidate for kingship. I have never seen anything so affecting as
his figure at that time. All eyes grew moist with tenderness for
this poor little prince, sole scion of a numerous family, all other
members of which had perished, not without a suspicion of having been
poisoned.” France idolized this little King whose beauty, of a supreme
distinction, had somewhat ideal in it; the Emperor of Germany said he
was the child of Europe. Having completed his thirteenth year, he was,
as usual, proclaimed of age (February, 1723), and that same year, the
Duke of Orleans, who had most loyally fulfilled his duties toward his
pupil, assumed the functions of prime minister on the death of Cardinal
Dubois. He showed profound deference toward the young sovereign, and
carried his portfolio to him at five o’clock every afternoon. The King
enjoyed this occupation, and always looked forward impatiently to the
hour.
When the Duke of Orleans died suddenly at Versailles (December 2,
1723), Louis XV. regretted him sincerely. It was a woman who reigned
under cover of the new prime minister, the Duke of Bourbon. She was
one of those ambitious creatures to whom the moral sense is lacking,
but who possess wit, grace, and charm; one of those enchantresses
who, by dint of intrigues, end by falling into their own snares and
cruelly expiate their short-lived triumphs. The Marquise de Prie, the
all-powerful mistress of the Duke, was twenty-five years old. The
daughter of the rich financier Berthelot de Pléneuf, she had married
a nobleman whom she managed to have appointed ambassador to Turin.
She led a very fast life in that city, and got herself into debt.
Her father being unable to maintain her any longer, she was obliged
to escape from the courts of justice, and the Marquis de Prie was
recalled from his embassy. The young Marquise was not the woman to be
discouraged by such reverses. She had only to show herself in order to
subjugate the Duke of Bourbon, and assume a princely luxury. “She had a
charming face,” says the Marquis d’Argenson, “a sharp and crafty wit,
a touch of genius, ambition, and recklessness.... The Duke was madly
in love with her. I knew their habits, their visits to the opera ball,
their little house in the rue Sainte Apolline, their gray-looking hack,
which had the appearance of a public conveyance on the outside, but was
extremely magnificent within.... She played the queen just as I would
make a valet-de-chambre of my lackey.”
When they were carrying the reliquary of Sainte Geneviève in procession
in 1725, because the rains had spoilt the crops, she said: “The people
are crazy; don’t they know that it is I who make rain and fine
weather?”
Violent under an air of gentleness, insatiable for money and power
beneath an exterior of careless disinterestedness, a libertine through
habit rather than from passion, running after pleasure without seeking
love, betraying with impunity her lover who believed what she said
against the evidence of his own eyes, Madame de Prie despotically
ruled both the Duke of Bourbon and France. But one thing disquieted
her: the young King’s health was delicate. If he should die suddenly,
the crown would revert to the Orleans branch, between which family
and the Duke of Bourbon there existed a thoroughgoing enmity. In
1725 the Infanta, the betrothed of Louis XV., was only seven years
old. Several years must elapse, therefore, before the marriage could
be consummated. Now, there was no repose possible for the Duke and
his favorite so long as the King had no direct heir. The Duke slept
at Versailles in an apartment directly under that of the King. One
night he thought he heard more noise and movement than usual. He rose
precipitately and went up stairs in a great fright and his dressing
gown. The first surgeon, Maréchal, astonished to see him appear in this
guise, asked the cause of his alarm. The Duke, beside himself, could
only stammer: “I heard some noise--the King is sick--what will become
of me?” Somewhat reassured by Maréchal, he consented to go down again
to his apartment, but he was overheard muttering to himself: “I would
never get back here again. If he recovers, we must marry him.” It was
resolved to send back the Infanta on account of her youth. Her father,
Philip V., was indignant at such an outrage. “There is not blood
enough in all Spain to avenge such an insult,” said he. At Madrid the
shouting populace were allowed to drag an effigy of Louis XV. through
the streets, and the shepherds of the Spanish Pyrenees came into the
pasture lands of French valleys to hamstring the cattle.
Two Princesses of Orleans were then in Spain. They were both daughters
of the regent, and had been sent to Madrid at the time when Marie Anne
Victoire, the betrothed of Louis XV., had come to France.[5] One of
them, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, born in 1709, married the Prince
of the Asturias, eldest son of Philip V. The other, Mademoiselle de
Beaujolais, born in 1714, was affianced to Don Carlos, brother to the
Prince of the Asturias. The first was sad, cross, and whimsical; the
second, on the contrary, was a delightful child, as pretty as she was
intelligent. When she arrived in Spain, she was seven years old, the
same age as Don Carlos, and Queen Elizabeth Farnese wrote to the Duke
of Orleans: “Her little husband is in transports of joy over her, and
is only too happy to have such a charming Princess.”
When Philip V. abdicated in 1724, in favor of the Prince of the
Asturias (Louis I.), Mademoiselle de Montpensier became Queen. But the
new King died at the end of eight months. Philip V. resumed the crown,
and the widow remained without any influence at court. As soon as it
was known at Madrid that Louis XV. was not to marry the Infanta, Marie
Anne Victoire, it was determined by way of reprisals that the widow of
King Louis and Mademoiselle de Beaujolais, the betrothed of Don Carlos,
should be immediately sent back to Versailles. Spain saw the Queen,
who was not at all sympathetic, depart without regret; but people were
grieved at the departure of Mademoiselle de Beaujolais, who at the age
of nine years was already charming, and who, appearing like a ray of
light in the sombre Escurial, had made herself beloved by her little
betrothed.
In France, too, the sending back of the Infanta, who was by
anticipation already styled the Queen, did not occur without exciting
some regret. The little Princess, now seven years old, had been
confided to the care of Madame de Ventadour, the former governess of
Louis XV., who loved her fondly. The great-granddaughter of Louis XIV.
already knew how to nod graciously in response to the homage of the
crowd, and everybody admired her pretty ways. But Louis XV., who was
in his sixteenth year, and precocious, was hardly satisfied with so
young a _fiancée_. He was pleased therefore with the breaking
off of a marriage whose consummation he must have waited for so long,
and, according to Voltaire’s expression, he was like a bird whose cage
has been changed when he saw the Infanta depart. Beautiful presents,
however, were made to the young Princess, and it was determined that
her return should be accomplished with a respectful magnificence
and ceremony. She left Versailles April 5, 1725, and on reaching
the frontier, she was exchanged at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port for the
two Princesses of Orleans (the widow of King Louis and Mademoiselle
de Beaujolais). Married in 1729 to Joseph Emanuel, then Prince,
afterwards King of Portugal, “she gave that sovereign,” says Voltaire,
“the children she was not allowed to give to Louis XV. and was not
happier on account of it.” As to the two Princesses of Orleans, their
destiny was unhappy: the queen dowager of Spain, who died in 1742,
lived in poverty, with a barren title and the simulacrum of a court.
Her two families had but one thought,--that of ridding themselves of
the support of this unfortunate young woman. Spain showed excessive
negligence in the payment of her pension, and after having reigned
over one of the principal kingdoms of the world, she was obliged,
by economical reasons, to spend three consecutive years with the
Carmelites of Paris. Still living, she was treated as if already
dead. Her sister, Mademoiselle de Beaujolais, so amiable, sweet, and
attractive, retained a tender memory of her former betrothed, Don
Carlos (the future Charles III.), who, on his side, did not forget her.
Possibly a means of renewing their engagement might have been found.
But the young girl died in 1734, carrying her faithful regret with her
to the tomb. She was not yet twenty.
The rupture of the marriage of Louis XV. was not a fortunate event.
The Prince was only fifteen years old. He might easily have waited
several years longer before marrying. His studies and his energy would
both have been the gainers by it. Moreover, it was an evil thing
to insult a great nation like Spain. It was not alone the Spanish
people that were outraged, but the glorious memory of the Infanta’s
great-grandfather, the grand King who had said: “There are no more
Pyrenees.” A fatal lesson was given to the young sovereign when he was
thus taught to violate sworn faith, and habituated from his adolescence
to those culpable caprices, those egotistic desertions of which his
reign was to afford more than one example.
II
THE MARRIAGE OF MARIE LECZINSKA
In the year 1725, a poor exiled king and his family were living in a
dilapidated old commandery in Wissemburg, a little town of Alsace. This
king without a kingdom, this fugitive who dignified his poverty by the
resignation with which he endured misfortune, was the Pole, Stanislas
Leczinski, the protégé of Charles XII. of Sweden. Driven from Poland
after a very short reign, Stanislas had found an asylum in France, and
lived in Wissemburg in complete retirement with his mother, his wife,
his daughter, and several gentlemen who had been faithful to him in
misfortune. His daughter, Marie, born in Breslau, June 23, 1703, was
at this time twenty-two years old. Pious, gentle, and sympathetic,
she was the joy of the exiles. When they spoke to her of projected
marriages, she would say to her parents: “Do not think you can make me
happy by sending me away; it would be far sweeter to me to share your
ill-fortune than to enjoy, at a distance, a happiness which would not
be yours.” Her education had been as intelligent as it was austere. She
spent the time not occupied in prayer and study in working for the
poor of the city or embroidering ornaments for churches. She was a true
Christian, one of those admirable young girls whose charm has in it
something evangelic, and who make virtue lovable.
One day Stanislas, much moved, entered the room where his wife and
daughter were. “Let us kneel down,” he exclaimed, “and return thanks to
God!”--“Father,” said Marie, “have you been called back to the throne
of Poland?”--“Ah! daughter,” he replied, “Heaven is far more favorable
to us than that. You are Queen of France.” It was not a dream. The
exile’s daughter, the poor and obscure Princess, living on alms from
the French court, who, but the day before, would have been happy to
marry one of those who were now to be her principal officials, ascended
as if by miracle the greatest throne in the world. How had she happened
to be preferred to the ninety-nine marriageable princesses, a list
of whom had been drawn up at Versailles? There was but this simple
remark below her name in the list: “Nothing disadvantageous is known
concerning this family.” Louis XV. who had sent back the daughter of a
King of Spain could choose among the wealthiest and most highly placed
princesses in Europe. How did they contrive to make him marry this
poor Polish girl who brought him no dot and who was seven years his
senior (in an inverse sense, the same difference of age that existed
between him and the Infanta, his first betrothed)? It is true that a
former secretary of embassy, Lozillières, whom the Duke of Bourbon
had sent to make inquiries about twenty-seven princesses, had thus
drawn the portrait of Marie Leczinska: “This Princess, as simple as the
daughter of Alcinoüs, who knows no cosmetics but water and snow, and,
seated between her mother and her grandmother, embroiders altar-cloths,
recalls to us, in the commandery of Wissemburg, the artlessness of
heroic times.” Was it this mythological style which affected sceptical
and depraved souls like those of the Duke of Bourbon and his mistress,
Madame de Prie?
It was not this, at all events, which chiefly preoccupied them. If they
selected Marie Leczinska, it was because they fancied that, owing her
elevation solely to their caprice, she would esteem herself in their
debt and be their tool. What pleased them in her was that she had no
resources; that a price had been set upon her father’s head; that the
exile, dispossessed of his throne for thirteen years, had wandered
from asylum to asylum, in Turkey, in Sweden, in the principality of
Deux-Ponts, and in Alsace; that the young girl was merely agreeable
without being beautiful; that she was seven years older than Louis
XV.; and that in calling her to the throne in the most unforeseen and
inconceivable manner, the Duke and Madame de Prie would create for
themselves exceptional claims upon her gratitude.
Louis XV. was at this time the most beautiful youth in the kingdom.
An ideal lustre illuminated his charming visage, and when they were
praising the graces of her young betrothed to Marie Leczinska: “Alas!”
said she, “you redouble my alarms.”
One should read in the sympathetic work of the Countess d’Armaillé,[6]
the story of the beginnings of this union which was at first to be
so happy. Louis XV. made his official request for the hand of Marie
Leczinska through Cardinal de Rohan, Bishop of Strasburg. She contented
herself with responding: “I am penetrated with gratitude, Monsieur the
Cardinal, for the honor done me by the King of France. My will belongs
to my parents, and their consent will be mine.” The marriage by proxy
took place at Strasburg, August 14, 1725. The King was represented
by the Duke of Orleans. After having received her parents’ blessing,
and distributed souvenirs to the faithful companions of her exile,
Marie went to join Louis XV. She was greeted everywhere she went
with extravagant laudations. “There is nothing which the good French
people do not do to divert me,” she wrote at the time to Stanislas
Leczinski. “They say the finest things in the world to me, but nobody
says that you may be near me. Perhaps they will say so presently, for
I am journeying in fairyland, and am veritably under their magical
dominion. At every instant I undergo transformations, of which one is
more brilliant than the other. Sometimes I am fairer than the Graces;
again, I belong to the family of the Nine Sisters; here, I have the
virtues of an angel; there, the sight of me makes people happy.
Yesterday I was the wonder of the world; to-day I am the lucky star.
Every one does his best to deify me, and doubtless I shall be placed
among the immortals to-morrow. To dispel the illusion, I lay my hand
on my head, and instantly find again her whom you love, and who loves
you very tenderly.” The new Queen of France signed this letter with the
Polish diminutive of her name: Maruchna.
At Sézanne, September 3, a page, the Prince of Conti, brought her a
bouquet from Louis XV. Near Moret, the next day, she saw her husband
for the first time. As soon as he appeared she threw herself on her
knees on a cushion; the King raised her at once and embraced her
affectionately. The royal pair made their entry at Fontainebleau
September 5, and were crowned the following day. “The Queen,” wrote
Voltaire, “makes a very good appearance, although her face is not at
all pretty. Everybody is enchanted with her virtue and her politeness.
The first thing she did was to distribute among the princesses and
ladies of the palace all the magnificent trinkets composing what is
called her _corbeille_, which consisted of jewels of every sort
except diamonds. When she saw the casket in which they had been placed:
‘This is the first time in my life,’ said she, ‘that I have been able
to make presents.’ She wore a little rouge on her wedding day, just
enough to prevent her from looking pale. She fainted for an instant in
the chapel, but only for form’s sake. There was a comedy performed the
same day. I had prepared a little entertainment which M. de Mortemart
would not execute. In place of it they gave _Amphion_ and _Le
Médecin malgré lui_, which did not seem very appropriate. After
supper there were fireworks with many rockets and very little invention
and variety.... For the rest, there is a frightful noise, racket,
crowd, and tumult here.”
The Queen pleased everybody by her extreme affability. What they
admired was neither the magnificence of her costume, the Sancy that
sparkled on her corsage, nor the Regent that glittered on her chaste
forehead, but her modesty, her benevolence, her gentleness, the grace
which is still more beautiful than beauty. Voltaire was in the front
rank of the courtiers of this new star which shed so soft a lustre.
But he did not find his rôle as flatterer rewarded by sufficient
gratuities. Hence he wrote from Fontainebleau: “I have been very well
received by the Queen. She wept over _Marianne_, she laughed
over _L’Indiscret_; she often talks to me, she calls me her
poor Voltaire. A blockhead would be satisfied with all this; but,
unfortunately, I think soundly enough to feel that praise does not
amount to much, and that the rôle of a poet at court always entails
upon him something slightly ridiculous. You would not believe, my dear
Thiriot, how tired I am of my life as a courtier. _Henri IV._
is very stupidly sacrificed at the court of Louis XV. I bewail the
moments I rob him of. The poor child ought to have appeared already
in quarto, with fine paper, fine margins, and fine type. That will
surely come this winter, whatever may happen. I think you will find
this work somewhat more finished than _Marianne_. The epic is my
_forte_, or I am very much mistaken.... The Queen is constantly
assassinated with Pindaric odes, sonnets, epistles, and epithalamiums.
I fancy she takes the poets for court-fools; and in this case she is
quite right, for it is great folly for a man of letters to be here.
They give no pleasure and receive none.”[7]
By dint of compliments in prose and verse, Voltaire obtained a pension
of 1500 livres, which made him write to _la présidente_ de
Bernières, November 13, 1725: “I count on the friendliness of Madame de
Prie. I no longer complain of court life, I begin to have reasonable
expectations.”
Some days afterwards (December 1, 1725), Marie Leczinska left
Fontainebleau and went to Versailles. She installed herself in what
were called the Queen’s apartments, and slept in the chamber which had
been successively occupied by Marie Thérèse, the Bavarian Dauphiness,
the Duchess of Burgundy, and the Infanta Marie Anne Victoire. There she
brought her ten children into the world, and it was there she was to
die.
The early days of the marriage were very happy; at that time Louis XV.
was a model youth. The counsels of his former preceptor, the Bishop of
Fréjus; the sense of duty; religious beliefs; the timidity inseparable
from adolescence,--all these contributed to keep in the paths of wisdom
the young monarch who dreamed of being a good husband and father, a
good king, and working out his own salvation along with the welfare of
his subjects. Naturally inclined to the pleasures of the senses, he
attached himself to Marie Leczinska with the ardor of an innocent young
man who loves for the first time. Notwithstanding the shamelessness of
many of them, the court beauties did not yet venture to raise their
eyes toward this royal adolescent, who made even the most audacious
respectful, by his gentleness and his reserve. Nothing, at this time,
announced the disorders to which the young monarch was one day to yield
himself. The _roués_ of the Regency could not console themselves
for having so calm and virtuous a master; they awaited with impatience
the moment when they could thrust him over the declivity of scandal,
and, like real demons, they lay in wait for their prey.
III
THE DISGRACE OF THE MARQUISE DE PRIE
The Marquise de Prie congratulated herself upon having brought
Marie Leczinska to the throne. It was, in fact, as D’Argenson has
remarked, an excellent choice, according to the views of the Marquise:
“Fecundity, piety, sweetness, humanity, and, above all, a great
incapacity for affairs. This court policy required, moreover, a woman
without attractions and without coquetry, who could only retain her
husband through the sense of duty and the necessity of giving heirs
to the crown.” The Duke and his favorite had found in the Queen all
the gratitude and complaisance they had counted on. As to the King,
amused by the chase, festivities, journeys to Marly, Chantilly, and
Rambouillet, he occupied himself with politics very little. The prime
minister could flatter himself on being a real mayor of the palace.
But he had reckoned without a prelate of seventy-four years, to whom
ambition had come with age, and who was about to cast down with a
breath all this scaffolding of intrigues and calculations.
Fleury, Bishop of Fréjus, the preceptor of Louis XV., was of humble
origin, having been the son of a tithe-collector[8] in the diocese
of Fréjus. Appointed chaplain to Queen Marie Thérèse in 1680, “he
was,” says Saint-Simon, “received at the ministers’ houses where, in
fact, he was of as little importance as he was elsewhere, and often
supplied the place of a bell before such things had been invented.” He
was selected as preceptor for the little Prince, who was to be styled
Louis XV., and gained his pupil’s good-will by his easy, gentle, and
insinuating character, his perfect calmness, and his mingled veneration
and tenderness for a child who, thinking himself always menaced, felt
that this assiduous and obsequious devotion protected him. The secret
of his affection for Fleury was that Fleury never opposed him. He
affected, moreover, an absolute disinterestedness, and seemed to be
making a sacrifice to the King by remaining at court instead of taking
refuge in a convent. The Bishop was always one of the party when the
young King was working, or pretending to work, with his Ministers. In
appearance he guarded the most humble, most insignificant attitude;
but, in reality, he exerted an influence which exasperated the Duke,
and still more Madame de Prie. The Queen herself was jealous of the
confidence enjoyed by this silent old man who followed the King like
his shadow, and who seemed likely to monopolize everything in spite of
his modest airs. The Marquise, who had constant access to the Queen in
her capacity as lady of the palace, contrived a real plot with her. It
was a question of getting rid of this troublesome third person who was
always putting himself between the King and the Prime Minister. “In
order to deliver herself from the old Bishop, Madame de Prie devised a
scheme by which she might take his place, and enter almost openly into
the council of State. She persuaded her lover to induce the King to
work in the apartments of the Queen whom he loved, at least with that
love which every young man feels for the first woman he possesses. The
preceptor, having no lessons to give there, would not follow his pupil,
so that, without being pushed too rudely he would slip out of his
place, and, naturally, find himself on the ground. Then the Marquise,
relying on the good-nature of the Queen, would introduce herself as a
fourth, and from that time on would govern the State. Although the plan
seemed to her an admirable one, yet its success was not equally so.”[9]
The little conspiracy, however, had been conducted with great vigor.
One evening, the Queen, who happened to be with the Duke of Bourbon,
sent the King a request to come to her. Louis XV. complied, and
the Prime Minister handed him a letter from Cardinal de Polignac
containing violent accusations against the Bishop of Fréjus. This was
the first time that Fleury had not been present when the King and
the Duke were together. Convinced that his exclusion was henceforth
determined, he went at once to his own apartment, and after writing a
very mournful but tender and respectful letter in which he took leave
of his young master, he departed at once for the Sulpician convent at
Issy. The Duke and Madame de Prie thought themselves sure of victory,
but they were in too great haste to triumph. On reading the letter of
his former preceptor the King began to weep. He dared not avow the
cause of his chagrin, however, and being always timid and irresolute,
he kept silence. His first gentleman, the Duke de Mortemart, at last
emboldened him. “What! Sire, are you not the master?” said he. “Have
the Duke told to send a messenger at once for Monseigneur de Fréjus,
and you will see him again.” This was no sooner said than done. The
Bishop returned, and hid his success at first under the appearance
of modesty. He pretended to desire nothing for himself, and showed
profound deference toward the Duke, but the Prime Minister and his
favorite were doomed.
The little King, with his seventeen years, was about to show that he
was master. With that dissimulation which from infancy he had been
accustomed to consider a quality indispensable to princes, he silently
prepared the Duke’s downfall. As he was getting into his carriage
to go to Rambouillet, June 11, 1727, he said to his Prime Minister
with the most gracious air in the world: “I expect you to supper this
evening.” The Duke re-entered the château in perfect confidence. But
what was his surprise when, three hours later, he received a royal
letter in these terms:--
“I order you, under pain of disobedience, to repair to Chantilly, and
to remain there until further orders.” This was a veritable exile.
The Duke submitted without a murmur. At the same time, the Queen
received this laconic billet from Louis XV.: “I beg you, Madame, and if
necessary, I order you, to do all that the Bishop of Fréjus shall tell
you from me as if he were myself.” The poor Queen wept and resigned
herself. As to Madame de Prie, she was struck at the same time as her
lover, and relegated to her estate of Courbépine in Normandy. M. de
Prie was startled at this disgrace. He went about asking people with an
affectation which made everybody smile: “But what is there in common
between the Duke and my wife?” Those who but yesterday were at the
feet of the Duke and his favorite now overwhelmed them with gibes and
sarcasms. The people lighted bonfires, and the walls were covered with
posters whereon might be read: “A hundred pistoles’ reward for whoever
finds a valuable mare accustomed to follow a one-eyed horse.”[10]
M. Michelet, usually so severe and merciless toward the court of Louis
XV., speaks with a certain complacency of the Marquise de Prie. “Though
history ought to be severe toward this female tyrant,” says he, “it
is, nevertheless, a duty to own the vigor with which she supported the
bold attempts of Duverney. This rude government, thoroughly violent and
shameless as it was, had, nevertheless, instincts of life which one
may regret in the mortal torpor of the asphyxia which followed it.”
One hardly comprehends this indulgence, for there was nothing moral,
nothing great in the ephemeral reign of the Duke and his mistress.