Paul I.—Terror he inspired—Death of the mother of Mme.
Le Brun—Marriage of her daughter—Moscow—The Tsarevitch
Alexander—Assassination of Paul I.—“I salute my
Emperor”—Mme. Le Brun returns to Paris—Changes—London—Life
in England—Paris—Separated from M. Le Brun—Society
during the Empire—Caroline Murat—Switzerland—Fall of the
Empire—Restoration—Death of M. Le Brun—Of her daughter—Travels in
France—Her nieces—Conclusion.
From Catherine II. to Paul I. was indeed a fearful change. The sudden
accession to supreme power after a life of repression increased the
malady which was gaining ground upon him. It was evident that his
brain was affected, and the capricious violence and cruelty which he
was now free to exercise as he pleased left nobody in peace or safety.
[Illustration: PAUL, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA]
Nobody could feel sure when they got up in the morning that they would
go safely to bed at night; the slightest offence given to the Emperor
meant imprisonment or Siberia, and his orders were so preposterous
that it was difficult not to offend him.
He commanded every one to salute his palace, even when he was not
there. He forbade round hats, and sent police about with long sticks
to knock off any they met.
There were spies everywhere; people never dared mention him, and
began to be afraid to receive their friends at all, or if they did,
carefully closed the shutters; if a ball took place, the carriages
were sent away for fear of attracting attention.
The order was given for every one to wear powder, but as Mme. Le
Brun did not like it in portraits, and was painting that of Prince
Bariatinski, she begged him to come without it. One day he arrived in
her studio pale and trembling.
“What is the matter?” she exclaimed.
“Ah!” cried he. “I have just met the Emperor as I came to you. I
had only time to rush under a portico and am dreadfully afraid he
recognized me.”
One night, at a masked ball, a young man accidentally in a crowd
pushed against a woman, who cried out.
Paul turned to one of his _aides-de-camp_, saying—
“Take that gentleman to the fortress and come back and tell me when he
is safely shut up there.”
The _aide-de-camp_ returned, saying that he had executed the order,
but adding—
“Your Majesty must know that that young man is extremely shortsighted;
here is the proof.” And he held out his spectacles, which he had
brought.
The Emperor tried them on and exclaimed hastily—
“Run quick and fetch him and take him to his parents. I shall not go
to bed till you tell me he is safe at home.”
Lisette was dreadfully afraid of him, for although he liked her, and
was always extremely polite and pleasant to her, she never felt that
she could trust him.
He gave orders that every one, women as well as men, should get out
of their sledges or carriages when he passed. It was dreadfully cold,
with deep snow, and he was always driving about, often almost without
escort, so that he was not at once recognised; but it was dangerous to
disobey.
One day Lisette was driving, and seeing him coming when her coachman
did not, she called out—
“Stop! Stop! It is the Emperor!” But as she was getting out, he
descended from his sledge and hastened to prevent her, saying with a
most gracious air that his orders did not apply to foreigners, above
all, not to Mme. Le Brun.
He continued the kindness of Catherine II. to Doyen, who was now very
old, and lived prosperous and happy, and, as Mme. Le Brun said, if her
father’s old friend was satisfied with his lot at St. Petersburg, she
was not less so.
She now painted the whole day except when on Sundays she received in
her studio the numbers of people, from the Imperial family downwards,
who came to see her portraits; to which she had added a new and great
attraction, for she had caused to be sent from Paris her great picture
of Marie Antoinette in a blue velvet dress, which excited the deepest
interest. The Prince de Condé, when he came to see it, could not
speak, but looked at it and burst into tears.
Society was so full of French refugees that Lisette remarked she
could almost fancy herself in Paris.
The Emperor desired her to paint the portrait of the Empress, whom she
represented standing in full court dress, with a crown of diamonds.
Lisette used to declare that she was like a woman out of the Gospel,
and that she was the only woman she knew whom no calumny ever
attacked. One day she brought her two youngest sons to the sitting,
the Grand Dukes Nicolas and Michael, then children. Of the Grand Duke
Nicolas, afterwards Emperor, Mme. Le Brun declared that she had never
seen a more beautiful child, and that she could paint from memory his
face, which had all the characteristic beauty of Greece.
But amidst all this professional and social prosperity Mme. Le Brun
was now to experience two severe domestic sorrows, one of which was
the loss of her mother, of whose death her brother sent her the news
from France. The other, related to her daughter, was entirely owing to
her own infatuated folly, and was not at all surprising.
For Mme. Le Brun had so brought up the girl that it would have been a
miracle if she had not turned out, as she did, utterly selfish, vain,
and heartless.
Jeanne Le Brun was, according to her mother, pretty, clever, extremely
well-educated, charming in manner, and universally admired. Allowing
for her infatuation, it was probable that her daughter was attractive.
She was now seventeen, and went into society with her mother, whose
foolish admiration and flattery encouraged all her faults.
Mme. Le Brun allowed her to have her own way in all things; made
herself a slave to her caprices, as she had always done; and when
her friends remonstrated with her upon her folly, paid no attention
to them, or replied that everybody loved or admired her child. Being
engaged all day and unable to go out much with Jeanne, she allowed her
to go on sledging parties with the Countess Czernicheff, and often to
spend the evenings at her house, where she met and fell in love with
the Count’s secretary, M. Nigris, a good-looking man of thirty with
neither fortune, talent, character, connections, or any recommendation
whatever.
In vain Mme. Le Brun tried to dissuade her from this deplorable
marriage, the spoilt young girl, accustomed to have everything she
chose, would not give way; the Czernicheff and other objectionable
friends she had made supported her against her mother, the worst of
all being her governess, Mme. Charot, who had betrayed the confidence
of Mme. Le Brun by giving her daughter books to read of which she
disapproved, filling her head with folly, and assisting her secretly
in this fatal love-affair.
After being tormented and persecuted for some time, Mme. Le Brun
yielded, gave her consent, obtained that of M. Le Brun, and provided
a handsome _dot_, trousseau, and jewels for the intolerable girl, who
did not show the slightest gratitude or affection to her mother, but
behaved throughout in the most insolent, heartless manner.
A fortnight after the marriage she no longer cared about her husband,
and soon afterwards she caught the small-pox.
Mme. Le Brun nursed her through it with a devotion she did not
deserve, and then ill, exhausted, and out of spirits, set off for
Moscow, where she arrived after a long journey full of hardships,
bad roads, and thick fogs. The sight of Moscow, the ancient splendid
capital, before it was devastated by the fire and sword of the
invader, with its huge palaces and thousands of domes surmounted with
gold crosses, filled her with admiration and delight.
She was received with the hospitality and distinction she always
experienced, met many old acquaintances, and passed several months
very pleasantly.
Society was much larger here than at St. Petersburg, where it seemed
almost to form one family, every one being related to each other.
It was with difficulty that she tore herself away when, in March,
1801, she wished to return to St. Petersburg, and it was upon her
journey thither that she heard of the assassination of Paul I.
She had stopped to change horses and found that she could get none, as
they were being sent all over the country to convey the news. She was
consequently obliged to remain all night in her carriage, which was
drawn up by the roadside close to a river, from which blew a bitterly
cold wind.
When at length she arrived in St. Petersburg she found the city in a
frenzy of delight. They danced in the streets, embracing each other,
and exclaiming—
“What a deliverance!”
Indeed, many houses had been illuminated, such was the terror he had
inspired and the cruelty of his actions.
For some time the character of Paul had become more and more gloomy
and menacing; his mind was filled with the darkest suspicions, even
to the extent of believing that the Empress and his children were
conspiring against his life; which was all the more terrible for the
Empress Marie, as they had for many years, as long as the Empress
Catherine lived, been very happy together, and in spite of everything
she still remained deeply attached to him.
This was all the more inexplicable as he not only suspected and
accused her of conspiracy, but made no pretence of being faithful to
her, and had taken away Mme. Chevalier, the mistress of his devoted
_valet de chambre_, Koutaivoff. The doors between his own apartments
and those of the Empress he had caused to be double-locked, thereby
preventing his own escape when the conspirators forced their way into
his room, headed by Zuboff, whom he had first exiled, then loaded with
favours.
They had systematically augmented his suspicions till they induced
him to sign an order for the arrest of the Empress, the Tsarevitch,
and the Grand Duke Constantine, and this document they showed the
Tsarevitch, saying: “You see that your father is mad, and you will all
be lost unless we prevent it by shutting him up instead.”
Alexander, seeing the fearful danger hanging over his mother, his
brother, and himself, was silent; and Pahlen, who was the director of
the plot, took care that it should go much further than restraint.
When Alexander heard of the assassination of his father his grief and
horror left no doubt of his ignorance of what had been intended and
carried out; and when, on presenting himself to his mother she cried
out, “Go away! Go away! I see you stained with your father’s blood!”
he replied with tears—
“I call God to witness, mother, that I did not order this dreadful
crime!”
When the affair was fully explained to her she threw herself at his
feet, exclaiming—
“Then I salute my Emperor.”
The strong affection between Alexander I. and his mother lasted as
long as she lived.
The young Emperor and Empress showed the same kindness and friendship
to Mme. Le Brun as their parents and grandmother, but the time had
come when she was resolved to return to France, and in spite of the
entreaties of the Emperor and Empress, of her friends, and of her
own regret at leaving a country to which she had become attached,
she started in September, 1801, for Paris, leaving her ungrateful
daughter, her unsatisfactory son-in-law, and her treacherous governess
behind.
She was received with delight at her house in the _rue du
Gros-Chenet_, by M. Le Brun, her brother, her sister-in-law, and their
only child, the niece who was to fill her daughter’s place. The house
was beautifully furnished and filled with flowers, and that same
evening a grand concert in her honour was given in the large _salon_
of a house in a garden adjoining, which also belonged to M. Le Brun,
who told her that he had during the Revolution, when the churches
were closed, lent this _salon_ to celebrate mass.
The applause with which she was welcomed on entering the _salon_ so
overcame her that she burst into tears. Next day those of her friends
who had survived the Revolution began to flock to see her. Her old
friend, Mme. Bonneuil, was among the first, and invited her to a ball
the following night given by her daughter, now the celebrated beauty,
Mme. Regnault de Saint-Jean-d’Angely, to which she went in a dress
made of the gold-embroidered India muslin given her by the unfortunate
Mme. Du Barry.
There she met many old friends, and saw many new beauties, amongst
others Signora Visconti, the mistress of Berthier, and another by whom
she was so attracted that she involuntarily exclaimed—
“Ah, Madame! Comme vous étes belle!”
It was Mme. Jouberthon, afterwards the wife of Lucien Buonaparte.
Macdonald, Marmont, and other generals were pointed out during the
evening; it was a new world to her.
Madame Buonaparte came to see her, recalled the balls at which they
had met before the Revolution, and asked her to come some day to
breakfast with the First Consul. But Mme. Le Brun did not like the
family or surroundings of the Buonaparte, differing so entirely as
they did from the society in which she had always lived, and did not
receive with much enthusiasm this invitation which was never repeated.
The Louvre, then filled with works of art—the plunder of the rest
of Europe—was naturally a great attraction, in fact so absorbed was
Lisette in the wonders it contained that she was shut in when it
closed, and only escaped passing the night there by knocking violently
at a little door she discovered. The aspect of Paris depressed her;
still in the streets were the inscriptions, “Liberty, Equality, and
Fraternity,” which in France bore so horrible a meaning. Many of the
friends for whom she inquired had perished on the scaffold; nearly all
who survived had lost either parents, husband, wife, or some other
near relation. The change in dress gave her a gloomy impression; the
absence of powder, which she was accustomed to see in other countries,
the numerous black coats which had displaced the gorgeous velvets,
satin, and gold lace of former days—in her opinion made a theatre or
an evening party look like a funeral; the manners and customs of the
new society were astonishing and repulsive to her.
Still, there was at first much to attract her. The friends who had
survived were delighted to have her again amongst them. Many of her
foreign friends arrived in Paris; she began again to give suppers
which were as popular as ever. She even gave a ball at which the
celebrated dancers, M. de Trénis, Mme. Hamelin, and Mme. Demidoff,
excited general admiration. She also gave private theatricals in her
large gallery.
The peace of Amiens had just been signed, society was beginning to be
reorganised. The Princess Dolgorouki who, to Lisette’s great joy,
was in Paris, gave a magnificent ball, at which, Lisette remarked,
young people of twenty saw for the first time in their lives liveries
in the _salons_ and ante-rooms of the ambassadors, and foreigners
of distinction richly dressed, wearing orders and decorations. With
several of the new beauties she was enchanted, especially Mme.
Récamier and Mme. Tallien. She renewed her acquaintance with Mme.
Campan, and went down to dine at her famous school at Saint Germain,
where the daughters of all the most distinguished families were now
being educated. Madame Murat, sister of Napoleon, was present at
dinner, and the First Consul himself came to the evening theatricals,
when “Esther” was acted by the pupils, Mlle. Auguier, niece of Mme.
Campan, afterwards wife of Marshal Ney, taking the chief part.
The brothers of Napoleon came to see the pictures of Mme. Le Brun,
which Lucien especially greatly admired.
The Princess Dolgorouki came to see her after being presented to
Napoleon, and on her asking how she liked his court, replied, “It is
not a court at all; it is a power.”
The scarcity of women at that time and the enormous number of soldiers
of all ranks gave that impression to one used to the brilliant Russian
court.
But the changed aspect of Paris, the loss of so many she loved, and
perhaps most of all the ungrateful conduct of her daughter, depressed
Mme. Le Brun so that she lost her spirits, had a perpetual craving to
be alone, and for this purpose took a little house in the wood of
Meudon, where, except for the visits of the Duchesse de Fleury and one
or two other friends who lived near, she could to a certain extent
indulge in her new fancy for solitude.
After a few months, however, finding that she did not become
accustomed or reconciled to her surroundings, she resolved to go
abroad again, and as she had never seen England she chose that country
for her next wanderings, and set off in April, 1802, accompanied by
a companion she had taken to live with her, named Adélaïde, who soon
became a dear and indispensable friend. She intended to spend only a
few months in England, but as usual, when she arrived there, she soon
made so much money and so many friends that she remained for three
years, dividing her time between London and the country houses, where
she was always welcome.
Society in London she found _triste_ after the splendour of St.
Petersburg and the brilliant gaiety of Paris and Vienna, declaring
that what struck her most was the want of conversation, and that a
favourite form of social entertainment was what was called a “rout,”
at which no sort of amusement or real social intercourse was offered
or expected, the function merely consisting of an enormous crowd of
people walking up and down the rooms, the men generally separate from
the women.
However, she had plenty of interests, and made many English friends
besides the numerous French _emigrés_ she found there. She painted
the portraits of the Prince of Wales, Lord Byron, the Comtesse de
Polastron, adored by the Comte d’Artois, who was inconsolable when
she died soon afterwards, and many others—English, French, Russian,
and German—and made the acquaintance of the first musicians, actors,
and singers of the day; also of the painters, many of whom were
extremely jealous of her.
The Duc de Berri, second son of the Comte d’Artois, was often at her
house, and she met also the sons of Philippe-Égalité, the eldest of
whom was afterwards Louis-Philippe, King of France. She was in London
when the news came of the murder of the Duc d’Enghien, and witnessed
the outburst of horror and indignation it called forth. His father,
the Duc de Bourbon, came to see her a month later, so changed by grief
that she was shocked. He sat down without speaking, and then covering
his face with his hands to conceal his tears, he said, “No! I shall
never get over it.”
Mme. Le Brun went to all the chief watering-places—Bath, Brighton,
Tunbridge Wells, Matlock, &c.—she found English life monotonous, as
it certainly was in those days, and hated the climate of London; but
she had gathered round her a congenial society, with whom she amused
herself very well, and whom she left with regret when she decided to
return to France, partly because her ungrateful daughter had arrived
there, and was being introduced by her father to many undesirable
people.
She embarked with Adélaïde for Rotterdam, and on arriving at Paris
found her daughter, who had neither lost her good looks nor her social
attractions, but was otherwise as unsatisfactory as ever. For her
husband she had long ceased to care at all. They had come to Paris to
engage some artists for Prince Narischkin, and when M. Nigris returned
to Russia, his wife refused to accompany him.
However, Mme. Le Brun was overjoyed to see Jeanne, and to keep her
in Paris, although she refused to live with her, because the people
with whom she persisted in associating were so objectionable that her
mother would not meet them.
Mme. Le Brun was now virtually separated from her husband, with whom
it would have been impossible for her to live unless she were prepared
to allow him to spend her fortune, and reduce her to beggary. She
soon collected round her a large society of friends, and resumed the
_soirées_ at which they amused themselves as far as possible after
their old fashion, acting _tableaux vivants_, &c.
[Illustration:
_Madame Vigée Le Brun_
COMTESSE D’ANDLAU]
Catalani, then young and beautiful, was one of her new friends, and
used to sing at her parties. She painted her portrait, and kept it as
a _pendant_ to the one she had done of Grassini in London.
Grassini had sung at her London parties, and comparing these two great
singers and actresses—both young, beautiful, and celebrated—Mme. Le
Brun found that although the voice of Catalani was in its beauty and
compass one of the most extraordinary ever known, Grassini had more
expression.
Amongst other old friends whom she now frequented was the Comtesse de
Ségur, who equally disliked the alterations in social matters.
“You wouldn’t believe,” she said to Lisette, who came to see her at
eight o’clock one evening, and found her alone, “that I have had
twenty people to dinner to-day? They all went away directly after
the coffee.”
She observed also that it was now usual for all the men to stand at
one side of the room, leaving the women at the other, as if they were
enemies.
The Comte de Ségur was made Master of the Ceremonies by Napoleon when
he became Emperor, after which his brother used to put on his cards,
“_Ségur sans cérémonies_.”
Most of the great painters were to be found at the house in the _rue
du Gros-Chenet_, where the suppers were as gay and pleasant as of old.
Vien, who had been first painter to the King; Gérard, Gros, and
Girodet, the great portrait painters (all pupils of David), and her
old friend Robert, were constant guests. With David she was not on
friendly terms; his crimes and cruelties during the Revolution caused
her to regard him with horror. He had caused Robert to be arrested,
and had done all he could to increase the horrors of his imprisonment.
He had also tried to circulate the malicious reports about Calonne and
Mme. Le Brun, of whom he was jealous, though his real love for his art
made him acknowledge the excellence of her work.
One day Lisette met him at the house of Isabey, who, having been his
pupil, kept friends with him out of gratitude, although his principles
and actions were abhorrent to him. It happened that she was his
partner at cards, and being rather _distraite_, made various mistakes,
which irritated David, who was always rude and ill-tempered, and
exclaimed angrily, “But you made me lose by these stupid mistakes.
Why didn’t you play me your king of diamonds? Tell me that, I say!”
“Why?” answered she contemptuously; “because I know to what fate you
condemn kings!”
David turned pale, made his escape, and for a long time would not go
to the house for fear of meeting her.[49] She was afterwards told
by Gros that David would like to go and see her, but her silence
expressed her refusal. Soon after the return of Mme. Le Brun, Napoleon
sent M. Denon to order from her the portrait of his sister, Caroline
Murat. She did not like to refuse, although the price given (1,800
francs) was less than half what she usually got, and Caroline Murat
was so insufferable that it made the process a penance. She appeared
with two maids, whom she wanted to do her hair while she was being
painted. On being told that this was impossible, she consented to
dismiss them, but she kept Mme. Le Brun at Paris all the summer by
her intolerable behaviour. She was always changing her dress or
_coiffure_, which had to be painted out and done over again. She was
never punctual, and often did not come at all, when she had made the
appointment; she was continually wanting alterations and giving so
much trouble, that one day Mme. Le Brun remarked to M. Denon, loudly
enough for her to hear—
“I have painted _real_ princesses and they have never tormented or
kept me waiting.”
In 1808 and 1809 Mme. Le Brun travelled in Switzerland, with which
she was enraptured; after which she bought a country house at
Louveciennes, where in future she passed the greater part of the
year, only spending the winter in Paris.
The pavilion of Mme. Du Barry had been sacked by the Revolutionists,
only the walls were standing, while the palaces of Marly, Sceaux, and
Bellevue had entirely disappeared.
But the woods, the meadows, the Seine, and the general beauty of the
landscape delighted Mme. Le Brun, who, after all her wanderings, began
to have a longing for rest, became more and more attached to her home
as the years passed, and spent more and more of her time there.
The decline and fall of the Empire were no calamity to her, and she
witnessed with heartfelt joy the return of the King, although she was
seriously inconvenienced by the arrival of the Allies at Louveciennes
in 1814. Although it was only March, she had already established
herself there, and on the 31st at about eleven o’clock she had just
gone to bed when the village was filled with Prussian soldiers, who
pillaged the houses, and three of whom forced their way into her
bedroom, accompanied by her Swiss servant Joseph, entreating and
remonstrating in vain. They stole her gold snuff-box and many other
things, and it was four hours before they could be got out of the
house.
Next morning she escaped to St. Germain, and then to Paris, leaving
Joseph to take what care he could of her property, but the wine was
all drunk out of the cellar, the garden and courtyard ravaged, and the
house ransacked. To all remonstrances the Prussians replied that the
French had done much worse things in Germany; which was true enough.
With tears of joy Lisette witnessed the entry into Paris of the Comte
d’Artois on April 12th and of Louis XVIII. shortly afterwards. By his
side sat the Duchesse d’Angoulême, whose smiles mingled with sadness
amidst the shouts of “_Vive le Roi_”; recalled the remembrance that
she was traversing the route by which her mother had passed to the
scaffold.
By the King and royal family Mme. Le Brun was received with especial
favour and kindness, most of the returned _emigrés_ were her friends,
and Paris was now again all that she wished.
From the horrors of the Revolution she had fled in time; with the
Empire and its worshippers she had never had any sympathy; the episode
of the Hundred Days was a new calamity, but when it was past and the
King again restored her joy was complete.
The great picture of Marie Antoinette and her three children, which
under Napoleon had been hidden away in a corner at Versailles, was
taken out and exhibited at the Salon, where every one crowded to
look at it. Again she painted the portraits of the royal family,
contrasting the simple, gracious politeness of the Duchesse de Berri,
of whom she did two portraits, with the vulgar, pretentious airs of
Caroline Murat.
Her favourite picture, the Sibyl, was bought by the Duc de Berri, to
whom she parted with it rather reluctantly. In 1813 M. Le Brun died.
His death was rather a melancholy regret than a real sorrow to her,
as they had long been separated by mutual consent.
But that of her daughter, who still lived in Paris, and who in 1819
was seized with a sudden illness which terminated fatally, was a
terrible grief to her at the time; though in fact that selfish,
heartless woman had for many years caused her nothing but vexation and
sorrow, and it seems probable that after the first grief had subsided
her life was happier without her, for the place she ought to have
occupied had long been filled by the two nieces who were looked upon
by her and by themselves as her daughters—her brother’s only child,
Mme. de Rivière, and Eugénie Le Brun, afterwards Mme. Tripier Le Franc.
By their affectionate and devoted love the rest of her life was made
happy, even after the far greater loss in 1820 of the brother to whom
she had always been deeply attached.
Louis Vigée was a charming and excellent man, well known in literary
circles. He had been imprisoned for a time in Port Libre, but
afterwards released.
After his death, in order to distract her mind from the sorrow
of it, she made a tour to Orléans, Blois, Tours, Bordeaux, &c.,
accompanied by her faithful Adélaïde; after which she returned home
and resumed her usual life, a happy and prosperous one, continually
occupied by her beloved painting, surrounded by numbers of friends
and adored by the two nieces, her adopted children. Eugénie Le Brun
was like herself, a portrait painter, and although not, of course, of
world-wide fame like her aunt, she was nevertheless a good artist,
and made a successful career, which gave an additional interest to the
life of Mme. Le Brun.
Her winters were spent at Paris, where her house was still the
resort of all the most distinguished, the most intellectual, and the
pleasantest people, French and foreign; the summers at her beloved
country home at Louveciennes.
Thus happily and peacefully the rest of her life flowed on; her
interest in all political and social matters—art, science, and
literature—remaining undiminished, her affection for old friends
unaltered, while new ones were constantly added to the number, until
on May 29, 1842, she died at the age of eighty-seven.
She had painted 662 portraits, 15 pictures, 200 landscapes, many of
them in Switzerland, and many pastels.
FOOTNOTE:
[49] “Salons d’Autrefois” (Comtesse de Bassanville).
II
LA MARQUISE DE MONTAGU
CHAPTER I
The House of Noailles—The court of Louis XV.—The Dauphin—The
Dauphine—An evil omen—The Queen—The Convent of Fontevrault—Death
of Mme. Thérèse—The Infanta—Madame Henriette and the Duc
d’Orléans—Mesdames Victoire, Sophie, and Louise.
Anne Paule Dominique de Noailles was by birth, character, education,
and surroundings a complete contrast to our last heroine. She belonged
to the great house of Noailles, being the fourth of the five daughters
of the Duc d’Ayen, eldest son of the Maréchal Duc de Noailles, a
brilliant courtier high in the favour of Louis XV.
The Duchesse d’Ayen was the only daughter of M. d’Aguesseau de Fresne,
_Conseiller d’état_, and grand-daughter of the great Chancellor
d’Aguesseau. From her mother, daughter of M. Dupré, _conseiller du
parlement_, she inherited a fortune of 200,000 _livres de rente_, in
consequence of which her family were able to arrange her marriage with
the young heir of the Noailles, then Comte d’Ayen.
The d’Aguesseau, _qualifiés barons_ in 1683, were amongst the most
respected of the _noblesse de robe_, but their position was not,
of course, to be compared to that of the de Noailles, and Mlle.
d’Aguesseau was all the more pleased with the brilliant prospect
before her, since her future husband was violently in love with her,
and although a lad of sixteen, two years younger than herself, was
so handsome, charming, and attractive, that she, in her calmer way,
returned his affection.
And a lad of sixteen at the court of Louis XV. was very different from
the average lad of that age in these days and this country, a shy,
awkward schoolboy who knows nothing of the world or society, can only
talk to other boys, and cares for nothing except sports and games. In
the France, or at any rate the Paris, of those days, he was already
a man and a courtier, probably a soldier, sometimes a husband and
father.[50]
Likewise girls at fourteen or fifteen and even younger, who, with us,
wear their hair down their backs, their petticoats half way up to
their knees, and spend their time in lessons and play, were wives,
mothers, court beauties, and distinguished members of society at the
French Court of those days.
The marriage took place in February, 1755, when the cold was so
intense that the navigation of the Seine was stopped by the ice,
which at that time, when traffic was carried on chiefly by means of
the rivers, was a serious inconvenience.[51] After the wedding the
Comte and Comtesse d’Ayen went to live with his parents at the stately
_hôtel de Noailles_, now degraded into the _hôtel St. James_, while
the vast, shady gardens that surrounded it[52] have long disappeared;
shops and houses covering the ground where terraces, fountains,
beds of flowers, and masses of tall trees then formed a scene of
enchantment.
The family of Noailles was a large and powerful one, and, as Louis
XVIII. remarks in his Mémoires, “_Les Noailles ... etaient unis comme
chair et ongle_,”[53] and having been loaded with favours by Louis
XIV. and Louis XV., seemed to think they had a natural right to all
the best posts and highest honours.[54]
In the family of Noailles there had been six Marshals of France, and
at the time of the marriage, the old Maréchal de Noailles, grandfather
of the Count, was still living.[55] At his death, his son, also
Maréchal, became of course Duc de Noailles, and his son, the husband
of Mlle. d’Aguesseau, Duc d’Ayen, by which name it will be most
convenient to call him to avoid confusion, from the beginning of this
biography.
The Duc d’Ayen, though always retaining a deep affection for his wife,
spent a great part of his time away from her. He was one of the most
conspicuous and brilliant figures at the court, and besides entering
eagerly into all its pleasures, dissipation, and extravagance, was
a member of the Academy of Science; and although by no means an
atheist or an enemy of religion, associated constantly with the
“philosophers,” whose ideas and opinions he, like many of the French
nobles in the years preceding the Revolution, had partly adopted,
little imagining the terrible consequences that would result from them.
Not so the Duchess, his wife. Brought up first in a convent and then
under the care of her father, whose household, like those of many of
the _noblesse de robe_, was regulated by a strictness and gravity
seldom to be seen amongst the rest of the French nobles, Mme. d’Ayen
cared very little for society, and preferred to stay at home absorbed
in religious duties, charities, and domestic affairs, while her
husband amused himself as he chose.
The power, security, and prosperity of the throne and royal family
of France seemed to be at that time absolute and unassailable;
and although of the ten or eleven children of Louis XV. and Marie
Leczinska, the Dauphin was the only son who had lived to grow up, the
succession to the crown appeared to be in no danger, as he had already
two boys, the Ducs de Bourgogne and Berri; the Comte de Provence was
born in November, 1755, and his birth was followed by that of the
Comte d’Artois, besides the Princesses Clotilde and Elizabeth, who
by the Salic law were excluded. The Queen, who was seven years older
than the King, was already fifty-two. A woman of blameless character,
she had never been pretty, attractive, or even sensible. D’Argenson,
writing in 1750, says of her that she was very stupid, made silly
remarks, reproved her children for trifles, and passed over serious
faults. They were all so fond of eating that Mesdames kept port wine,
ham, and other things in a cupboard, and ate and drank at all hours.
Louis XV., at this time about forty-five, extremely handsome, immersed
in a life of pleasure, magnificence, and vice, was then under the
domination of the Duchesse de Châteauroux, _maîtresse en titre_,
the youngest of the five daughters of the Marquis de Nesle, four of
whom had been for a longer or shorter period the mistresses of Louis
XV. That such a father as the King should have had such a son as
the Dauphin is astonishing indeed. The author of some fascinating
memoirs of the day writes of him, “If I have not yet spoken of M. le
Dauphin, do not suppose that it is from negligence or distraction,
it is because the thought of his death always envelopes my mind like
a funeral pall. His premature end is ever present with me, and is
a subject of regret and affliction which I cannot approach without
terrible emotion. He was so grievously mourned for, he has been so
universally and justly praised, that there would not be much left
me to tell you if I were not to speak of his perfect beauty, which
was the least of his perfections, and which perhaps for that very
reason, the writers of his time never mention.... His face and figure
were perfectly formed; and he had, especially in the movement of
his lips and the gentle, melancholy pride of his great black eyes,
an expression which I have never seen unless perhaps in some old
picture of the Spanish school ... he might have been an archangel
of Murillo.... He carried with him the happiness of France and the
peace of the world, but one felt that it would have been perfect
happiness, and that one would never experience it. The subjects,
perhaps the family of the King his father had provoked such terrible
chastisements, that we may sorrowfully say that France and the French
of the eighteenth century were not worthy to be ruled by the Dauphin
Louis.”[56]
Of the Dauphine, Marie-Josèphe de Saxe, as well as of his father,
their son the Comte de Provence, afterwards Louis XVIII., writes in
his Memoirs as follows: “His pure soul could not rest on this earth,
his crown was not of this world, and he died young. France had to
mourn the premature death of a prince, who, if he had lived might
perhaps have saved the kingdom from the catastrophe of a blood-stained
revolution, and his family from exile and the scaffold.
“My mother, worthy to be the wife of the Dauphin ... was, like him,
good, pious, indulgent, attached to her duties, caring only for
the happiness of others, loving the French as her own family. Her
character, naturally grave and melancholy, was not without a gentle
gaiety, which lent her an additional charm.... With all the philosophy
of which some narrow minds have accused me as of a crime ... I have
sometimes found myself, in the midst of great calamities, invoking the
holy spirit of my mother and that of my august father.”[57]
The Dauphin’s eldest son, the Duc de Bourgogne, died in early
childhood, leaving a fearful inheritance to his next brother, the Duc
de Berri, afterwards Louis XVI. From his very birth ill-luck seemed
to overshadow him. The Dauphine was at Choisy-le-roy when he was
born, and none of the royal family arrived in time to be present. The
courier sent to Paris to announce the news fell from his horse at the
_barrière_ and was killed. The Abbe de Saujon, sent for to baptise
him privately, was stricken with paralysis on the great staircase at
Versailles. Of the three wet-nurses chosen for him two died within the
week, and the third was seized with small-pox in six weeks.
“All this is not of good omen,” said the King, his grandfather, “and I
don’t know how it can have happened that I have made him Duc de Berri;
it is an unlucky name.”[58]
“Mesdames de France,” the King’s daughters, of whom there had been
seven or eight, were now reduced to five, four of whom were unmarried.
Nothing is more characteristic of the period than the way these
princesses were brought up and educated; and the light thrown upon
manners and customs early in the eighteenth century gives interest to
all the details concerning them.
The Queen had bad health and saw very little of them, although she
loved them in her apathetic way, but she was too much occupied with
her devotions, her nerves, and her health to trouble herself much
about them. If there was going to be a thunder-storm, or she was
nervous and could not go to sleep, she would make one of her ladies
sit by her bed all night, holding her hand and telling her stories.
On one occasion, after the death of the King’s mistress, the Duchesse
de Châteauroux, she was dreadfully afraid lest she should see her
ghost, and so tormented the lady-in-waiting who sat by her, that she
at last exclaimed—
“But your Majesty must remember that even if the Duchess were to
return to re-visit us, it would not be your Majesty she would come
after.”
The King was very fond of his daughters, but had no idea of bringing
them up properly. The four younger ones were sent to the convent of
Fontevrault, in Anjou, to be educated, and as they never came home
and were never visited by their parents, they were strangers to each
other when, after twelve years, the two youngest came back. As to the
others, Madame Victoire returned when she was fourteen, and Madame
Thérèse, who was called Madame Sixième, because she was the sixth
daughter of the King, died when she was eight years old at Fontevrault.
A _fête_ was given to celebrate the recovery of the King from an
illness; at which the little princess, although very unwell, insisted
on being present. The nuns gave way, though the child was very
feverish and persisted in sitting up very late. The next day she was
violently ill with small-pox, and died.
The three eldest princesses, who had always remained at court, were,
Louise-Elizabeth, called Madame;[59] handsome, clever, and ambitious;
who was married to the Duke of Parma, Infant of Spain, a younger son
of Philip V., consequently her cousin.[60]
Next came her twin sister, Henriette, from whom she had parted almost
heart-broken, when she reluctantly left France for Parma. Henriette
was the King’s favourite daughter, the best and most charming of all
the princesses. Lovely, gentle, and saintly, the Duc de Chartres[61]
was deeply in love with her and she with him. The King was disposed
to allow the marriage, but was dissuaded by Cardinal Fleury. If the
Infanta had been in question she would have got her own way, but
Henriette was too yielding and submissive. She died at twenty-five
years of age, of the small-pox, so fatal to her race (1752) to the
great grief of the court and royal family, and especially of the King,
by whom she was adored.
At the time of the marriage of the young M. and Mme. d’Ayen, the
Princesse Adélaïde had to some extent, though never entirely,
succeeded the Princesse Henriette in the King’s affection, and was now
supposed to be his favourite daughter. She had, however, none of her
elder sister’s charm, gentleness, or beauty; being rather plain, with
a voice like that of a man. She had a strong, decided character, and
more brains than her younger sisters, Victoire, Sophie, and Louise;
she was fond of study, especially of music, Italian, and mathematics.
Two or three years before the marriage of the young M. and
Mme. d’Ayen, his father the Duke, who was captain in the
_gardes-du-corps_,[62] was consulted by one of the guards of his
regiment, who in much perplexity showed him a costly snuff-box which
had been mysteriously sent him, and in which was a note as follows:
“_Ceci vous sera précieux; on vous avertira bientôt de quelle main il
vient_.”[63]
The Duke, whose suspicions were aroused, told the King, who desired
to see the snuff-box, and recognised it as one he had given to Madame
Adélaïde. It appeared that that young princess, then twenty years old,
had taken a fancy to the _garde-du-corps_, who was very good-looking.
The King gave him a pension of 4,000 _louis_ to go away for a long
time to the other end of the kingdom, and the affair was at an end.[64]
[Illustration:
_Nattier_
MADAME ADÉLAÏDE]
Each of the princesses had her own household, and when mere children
they gave balls and received the ambassadors. It was the custom
that in the absence of the King, Queen, and Dauphin, the watchword
should be given to the sentinel by the eldest princess present. On
one occasion when this was Madame Adélaïde, her governess, then the
Duchesse de Tallard, complained to Cardinal Fleury that it was not
proper for the princess, being a young girl, to whisper in a man’s
ear. The Cardinal spoke to the King, who decided that although Madame
Adélaïde must still give the _consigne_, she should first ask her
governess the name of which saint she was to say.
Madame Victoire was very pretty, all the rest except the two eldest,
were plain; and her parents were delighted with her when she returned
from the convent. The King and Dauphin went to meet her at Sceaux
and took her to Versailles to the Queen, who embraced her tenderly.
Neither she nor her younger sisters were half educated, but the
Dauphin, who was very fond of them and had great influence over them
persuaded them to study.
When first Madame Victoire appeared at court her sisters, Henriette
and Adélaïde, and her brother the Dauphin, who were inseparable, were
inclined to find her in the way and treat her as a child, but they
soon became very fond of her, and she at once had her own household
and took part in all the court gaieties as her sisters had done from
the earliest age.
The Queen, too indolent to write to them separately, on one occasion
when she was at Compiègne and they at Versailles, wrote as follows:—
“_J’embrasse la gracieuse souveraine,[65] la sainte Henriette, la
ridicule Adélaïde la belle Victoire._”
Henriette and Adélaïde were devoted to their old governess, the
Duchesse de Ventadour. They got her an _appartement_ next to theirs
at Versailles, and in her _salon_, amongst her friends, they always
spent an hour or two every evening after supper. Madame Henriette used
to say it was the happiest part of her day. The Duchesse de Ventadour
was an excellent woman, though she had been rather _galante_[65] in
her youth. She and her mother had brought up twenty-three “Children
of France.” The mother was said to have saved the life of Louis XV. by
giving him a counter-poison.
FOOTNOTES:
[50] “Journal de Barbier, Chronique de la Régence, 1755.”
[51] The Duc de Bourbon was only sixteen when his son, the unfortunate
Duc d’Enghien, was born.
[52] They reached to the Tuileries.
[53] “Mémoires de Louis XVIII.,” t. ii., p. 19.
[54] _Ibid._, p. 53.
[55] He died in 1766.
[56] “Souvenirs de Créquy.”
[57] “Mémoires de Louis XVIII.,” t. i, p. 7.
[58] “Voilà qui n’est pas d’un heureux augure, et je ne sais comment
il a pu se faire que je l’aie titré Duc de Berry: c’est un nom qui
porte malheur.”
[59] The Duchess of Parma died 1759.
[60] Philippe V., grandson of Louis XIV., second son of Louis, le
Grand Dauphin. His right to the crown of Spain was disputed in the War
of Succession.
[61] Afterwards Duc d’Orléans, grandson of the Regent.
[62] The _gardes-du-corps_ were all gentlemen.
[63] This will be precious to you; you will soon be told from whom it
comes.
[64] “Journal d’Argenson.”
[65] “Mesdames de France” (Barthélemy).
CHAPTER II
The Greatest Names in France—The Maréchale de Noailles—Strange
proceedings—Death of the Dauphin—Of the Dauphine—Of the Queen—The
Children of France—Louis XIV. and Louis XV.
“The first family in France after the royal family, is evidently that
of Lorraine; the second without dispute that of Rohan, and the third
La Tour d’Auvergne, or Bouillon-Turenne, after that La Trémoille,”[66]
and then come a whole string of illustrious names, Mailly-de-Nesle,
Créquy, Harcourt, Clermont-Tonnerre, Saint Jean, Thoury; Sabran,
La Rochefoucauld, Montmorency, Narbonne-Pelet, Béthune, Beauvoir,
Beauffremont, Villeneuve (premier Marquis de France), and many others.
The writer of these fascinating memoirs of the time proceeds, after
speaking of various noble names and regretting many that were extinct,
such as Lusignan, Coucy, Xaintrailles, Châtillon, Montgommery, &c.,
to say, “One thing that has always given me the best opinion of the
Noailles, is the protection they have never ceased to grant to all
gentlemen who can prove that they have the honour to belong to them,
no matter what their position nor how distant the relationship.”
He (or she)[67] goes on to relate that a family of much less
consideration, the Montmorin, being envious of the Noailles, asserted
that they were not of the ancient noblesse, and pretended that they
possessed a piece of tapestry on which a Noailles was depicted serving
a Montmorin as a _maître d’hôtel_, with the date 1593.
But as the Noailles were known to have possessed the estate and
castle bearing their name in the twelfth century, and that in 1593
the Seigneur de Noailles was also Comte d’Ayen, and of much more
consequence than the Montmorin, this spiteful fabrication fell to the
ground.
Nobody ever saw the tapestry in question because it did not exist, and
Louis XV., speaking of the story, said scornfully, “Have there ever
been such things as tapestries _chez les_ Montmorin?”
For no one knew better than he did the histories and genealogies of
his _noblesse_, and that he did not hesitate to explain them even when
to his own disadvantage, the following anecdote shows:—
A discussion was going on about the great difficulty of proving a
descent sufficiently pure to gain admittance into the order of the
Knights of Malta.
“You think me _de très bonne maison_, don’t you?” said the King;
“well, I myself should find difficulty in entering that order, because
in the female line I descend in the eighth degree from a _procureur_.”
There was a general exclamation of dissent, but the King replied—
“I am not joking, Messieurs, and I am going to give you the proof of
what I say. Griffet, the _procureur_, who was one of my ancestors,
made a large fortune and gave his daughter in legitimate marriage to a
Sieur Babou de la Bourdoisie, a ruined gentleman, who wanted to regild
his shield. From this union was born a daughter who was beautiful and
rich, and married the Marquis de Cœuvres. Everyone knows that of _la
belle Gabrielle_, daughter of this Marquis, and Henri IV., was born
a son, César de Vendôme; he had a daughter who married the Duc de
Nemours. The Duchesse de Nemours had a daughter who married the Duke
of Savoy, and of this marriage was born Adélaïde of Savoy, my mother,
who was the eighth in descent of that genealogy. So after that you may
believe whether great families are without alloy.”[68]
The Noailles, unlike most of the great French families, although they
lived in Paris during the winter, spent a portion of their time on
their estates, looked after their people, and occupied themselves with
charities and devotion. The Maréchal de Mouchy de Noailles, brother of
the Duc d’Ayen, even worked with his own hands amongst his peasants,
while his wife and daughter, Mme. de Duras, shared his views and the
life he led, as did his sons, the Prince de Poix and the Vicomte de
Noailles, of whom more will be said later.
With these and all the different relations of her husband, Mme. d’Ayen
lived in the greatest harmony, especially with his sister, the
Duchesse de Lesparre, a calm, holy, angelic woman after her own heart.
With his other sister, the Comtesse de Tessé, she was not at first
so intimate. For Mme. de Tessé, a brisk, clever, amusing, original
person, was not only a friend of Voltaire, and a diligent frequenter
of the _salons_ of the philosophers, wits, and encyclopædists, but,
although not going to their extreme lengths, was rather imbued with
their opinions.
But the most extraordinary and absurd person in the family was the
Maréchale de Noailles, mother of the Duc d’Ayen, whose eccentricity
was such that she might well have been supposed to be mad. It
was, however, only upon certain points that her delusions were so
singular—otherwise she seems to have been only an eccentric person,
whose ideas of rank and position amounted to a mania.
She had a large picture painted by Boucher, in which all her
grandnephews were represented as Cupids, with nothing on but the
Order of the Grand Cross of Malta, to show their right to belong to
it. None of the family could look at or speak of it with gravity. But
what was a more serious matter was her passion for stealing relics and
objects of religious value. She even mixed one into a medicine for her
son, the Duc d’Ayen, when he had the measles. This had been lent her
by some nuns, who of course could never get it back again. The nuns
were very angry, so were the Archbishop of Paris and the Bishop of
Chartres; she had also stolen a beautiful chalice and they refused to
give her the Holy Communion. Her family were much disturbed and had
considerable trouble in getting her out of the difficulties and trying
to hush up the affair.
She also used to write letters to the holy Virgin, which she hid in a
dovecote, in which she always found answers, supposed to be written by
her priest. On one occasion she complained that the way of addressing
her, “_Ma chère Maréchale_,” was not quite respectful in _une petite
bourgeoise de Nazereth_, but observed that as she was the mother of
our Saviour she must not be exacting; besides, St. Joseph belonged to
the royal house of David, and she added, “I have always thought St.
Joseph must have belonged to a younger branch, sunk by injustice or
misfortune.”
The Abbess of the Abbaye-aux-Bois, hearing that a pilgrim was in the
habit of coming into the Abbey Church during dinner time when nobody
was there, had her watched, and discovered that it was the Duchesse de
Noailles, who would stand for an interminable time before a statue of
the Virgin, talking and even seeming to dispute with it.
One day she arrived, and after many bows and speeches began to address
her prayers to the holy Virgin, and it appeared that what she asked
for was in the first place a sum of eighteen hundred thousand livres
for her husband, the Maréchal, then the Order of the Garter, which
he wanted because it was the only great order not possessed by his
family, and finally the _diplôme_ of a Prince of the Holy Roman
Empire, because it was the only title he did not already bear.
Suddenly a shrill voice was heard from the altar, saying, “Mme. la
Maréchale, you will not have the eighteen hundred thousand francs
that you ask for your husband, he has already one hundred thousand
_écus de rente_, and that is enough; he is already Duke, Peer, Grandee
of Spain, and Marshal of France; he has already the orders of the
Saint-Esprit and the Golden Fleece; your family is loaded with the
favours of the court; if you are not content it is because it is
impossible to satisfy you; and I advise you to renounce becoming a
princess of the Empire. Your husband will not have the garter of St.
George either.”
The Maréchale thought it was the Holy Child Himself speaking, and
called out to Him to be quiet and let His Mother speak; when a burst
of laughter was heard from behind the altar. It was the Vicomte
de Chabrillan, one of the Queen’s pages, the little nephew of the
coadjutrice of the Abbey, who had hidden there to play a trick.
But fantastic and ridiculous as she was, the old Maréchale went
bravely to the scaffold years afterwards and died without fear.
Her daughter-in-law seems to have got on very well with her, and
with all her husband’s family. Besides the Maréchal de Mouchy, there
was another brother, the Marquis de Noailles, and numbers of other
relations, nearly all united by the strongest affection and friendship.
The year 1765 witnessed the death of the Dauphin, and soon after that
of the Dauphine, who was broken-hearted at his loss. The Dauphin
died of a wasting illness, to the great grief of the King, who stood
leaning against the doorway of his son’s room, holding by the hand
the Duc de Berri, until all was over. Then, turning away, he led the
boy to the apartment of the Dauphine to acquaint her with what had
happened, by giving the order to announce “the King and Monseigneur le
Dauphin.”[69]
The Queen died three years later. Her death did not make much
difference to the court, but devotion to religion in the royal family
now seemed to be concentrated in the households of Mesdames.
From the care of the Dauphin and Dauphine, who had exercised the most
affectionate supervision over them, their children passed to that of
their grandfather, who, though he was fond of his daughters, cared
very little about his grandchildren, never inquiring about their
studies, conduct or habits. He only saw them at the hours required by
etiquette, when he embraced them with ceremony; but he took care that
they were treated with all the homage due to the “Children of France,”
and gave orders that their wishes were always to be gratified.
The late Dauphin was said to have regarded with especial affection the
unlucky Duc de Berri, who was awkward, plain, brusque, and dull; but
the favourite of Louis XV. was his youngest grandson, the handsome,
mischievous Comte d’Artois, in whom he recognised something of his own
disposition, and upon whom he was often seen to look with a smile of
satisfaction.
[Illustration: COMTE D’ARTOIS, AFTERWARDS CHARLES X.]
Between Mesdames and their nephews and nieces there was always
the most tender affection. They had adored their brother, were
inconsolable for his loss, and devoted to his children, whom they
spoilt to their hearts’ content, giving them everything they liked,
and allowing any amount of noise, disturbance, and mischief to go on
in their presence. Madame Adélaïde, who was extremely fond of the
eldest boy, would say to him, “Talk at your ease, Berri, shout like
your brother Artois. Make a noise, break my porcelaines, but make
yourself talked about.”
Madame Victoire’s favourite was the Comte de Provence. She found that
he had the most sense and brains, and prophesied that he would repair
the faults his brothers would commit.
The King, after the death of Mme. de Pompadour, of whom he had become
tired, lived for some years without a reigning favourite, in spite of
the attempts of various ladies of the court to attain to that post.
His life was passed in hunting, in the festivities of the court, and
in a constant succession of intrigues and _liaisons_ for which the
notorious _Parc aux cerfs_ was a sort of preserve. His next and last
recognised and powerful mistress was Mme. Du Barry.
Amongst other contrasts to be remarked between Louis XIV. and Louis
XV., was the opposite way in which they treated their numerous
illegitimate children.
Those of the _Grand Monarque_ were brought up in almost royal state,
magnificently dowered, raised to a rank next to the princes of the
blood, amongst whom they were generally married, and with whom they
kept up constant quarrels and rivalry.
The King regarded them with nearly, if not quite, as great affection
as his legitimate children, and even tried, though in vain, to alter
the laws of succession in their favour, and allow them to inherit the
crown failing his lawful issue.
This, however, neither the Princes of the blood, the nobles, nor the
French nation would stand, and the project had to be relinquished;
but the rapacity and outrageous arrogance and pretensions of “_les
bâtards_,” as they were called, had aroused such irritation and hatred
that Louis XV. took care to go into the opposite extreme. Unlike his
predecessor, he cared nothing for the children of his innumerable
_liaisons_, which were of a lower and more degraded type than those of
his great-grandfather. He seldom recognised or noticed these children,
made only a very moderate provision for them, and allowed them to be
of no importance whatever.
FOOTNOTES:
[66] “Créquy Souvenirs.”
[67] The fascinating volumes, called “Souvenirs de la Marquise de
Créquy,” are said not to be by any means entirely written by that
celebrated woman. But they contain much curious information and many
amusing anecdotes of that day, and present a vivid picture of the
eighteenth century in France.
[68] “Salons d’Autrefois” (Bassanville).
[69] There are one or two different accounts of this.
CHAPTER III
The Duchesse d’Ayen—Birth and death of her sons—Her five
daughters—Their education at home—Saintly life of the
Duchess—Marriage of her eldest daughter to the Vicomte de
Noailles—Of the second to the Marquis de la Fayette—Of the
Dauphin to the Archduchess Marie Antoinette—The Comtesse de
Noailles—Marriages of the Comtes de Provence and d’Artois to
the Princesses of Sardinia—Death of Louis XV.—Unhappy marriage
of the third daughter of the Duc d’Ayen to the Vicomte du
Roure—Afterwards to Vicomte de Thésan—Paulette and Rosalie de
Noailles—Adrienne de la Fayette—Radical ideas of the Vicomte de
Noailles and Marquis de la Fayette—Displeasure of the family
and the King—La Fayette and de Noailles join the American
insurgents—Grief and heroism of Adrienne—Marriage of Pauline to
the Marquis de Montagu.
Two years after her marriage the Duchesse d’Ayen had a son who, to her
great grief, lived only a few months, and whose death was followed by
the birth of Louise, called Mlle. de Noailles, Adrienne Mlle. d’Ayen,
Thérèse Mlle. d’Epernon, Pauline Mlle. de Maintenon, and Rosalie Mlle.
de Montclar.
In 1768, a year after the birth of her youngest girl, she had another
boy, and at the same time was dangerously ill of small-pox. The Duke,
in terror for her life, would not allow her to be told what was the
matter, and even insisted on the children all being admitted to her
room, for fear of arousing her suspicions and alarming her. However,
she recovered and none of them took it. The baby lived and for some
time appeared quite well; though after a few months it began to fade,
and soon died of consumption.
This was a severe disappointment to the Duke, who had already begun
to occupy himself with his son’s future, but the Duchess, whose
saintly mind had been tormented with misgivings about the future life
of the boy whose prospects then seemed so brilliant and so full of
temptations, and who did not probably consider the Duke, her husband,
a very promising or trustworthy guide and example, resigned herself to
the loss of the heir, whom she had even in her prayers entreated God
to take out of this world rather than allow him to be tainted by the
vice and corruption with which she foresaw he would be surrounded in
it.
She considered that the death of the child was the answer to her
prayer; never, from the moment he began to ail, having the least hope
of his recovery, subduing her grief with all the strength of her
character and religious fervour, and devoting herself entirely to the
care and education of her daughters.
They were not, according to the general custom, sent to a convent,
but brought up at home under her constant supervision. The frequent
absence of the Duke, who was usually either at Versailles or with the
army,[70] left them to her undivided care. They had an excellent
governess, but the Duchess herself superintended their studies, they
went to mass with her every morning at the Jacobins or St. Roch, dined
with her at three o’clock, and spent always some time afterwards in
her room, which was very large, was hung with crimson and gold damask,
and contained an immense bed.
The Duchess sat by the fire in her armchair, surrounded by her books,
her work, and her gold snuff-box; the children sat round her, also
reading, working, or talking of anything that interested them.
Every now and then they made excursions to Meudon, where they rode
upon donkeys, or they visited their grandfathers, M. d’Aguesseau, at
Fresne, and the Duc de Noailles at Saint Germain-en-Laye, when they
delighted in playing and wandering in the forest.
Often in after years did they look back to the happy, sheltered
childhood that passed too quickly away, and contrast its peace,
security, and magnificence with the sorrows, dangers, and hardships of
their later lives.
They were all, during their early youth, rather afraid of their
father, of whom they saw so little that he was a stranger to them in
comparison with the mother they all adored, who, exalted as were her
religious principles, austere and saintly her rule of life, yet knew
how to gain her children’s confidence and affection, and understood
thoroughly their different characters and tendencies. People wondered
at the goodness of Mme. d’Ayen’s children, and it was remarked that
the Duchess “had brought up a company of angels.”
Louise, whose fate was so closely linked with her mother’s, was one
of those gentle, saintly characters, who scarcely seem to belong to
this earth; whose thoughts, interests, and aspirations are in another
world. But perhaps the most striking amongst them was Adrienne,
the second girl, who besides being very handsome, was the most
intellectual and talented of the sisters, and of whom the Duchess was
as proud as the severity of her ideas permitted her to be.
While Louise and Adrienne were still children projects of marriage for
them were, of course, discussed, and they were only about thirteen and
fourteen when two sons-in-law were approved of and accepted by their
parents, with the condition that the proposed arrangements should not
be communicated to the young girls for a year, during which they would
be allowed often to meet and become well acquainted with their future
husbands.
The one proposed for Louise was the second son of her uncle, the
Maréchal Mouchy de Noailles, a lad of sixteen, who bore the title
of Vicomte de Noailles, and was in rank, fortune, and character an
extremely suitable marriage for her.
For Adrienne, the Marquis de la Fayette, a boy who when first the
marriage was thought of by the respective families was not fifteen
years old, whose father was dead, who had been brought up by his aunt
in the country, and who was very rich. He was plain, shy, awkward,
and had red hair, but he and Adrienne fell violently in love with
each other during the time of probation. Louise and her cousin had,
of course, always known each other, and now that they were thrown
constantly together they were delighted with the arrangements made for
them.
The marriages accordingly took place when Louise was sixteen and
Adrienne fifteen years old.
Their aunt, the Maréchale de Mouchy, called then the Comtesse de
Noailles, was about this time appointed first lady of honour to the
Archduchess Marie Antoinette of Austria, whose approaching marriage
with the Dauphin was the great event of the day; and was sent with
the other distinguished persons selected to meet her at the frontier.
This alliance was very unpopular with the royal family and court, who
disliked Austria and declared that country to be the enemy of France,
to whom her interests were always opposed. Madame Adélaïde especially,
made no secret of her displeasure, and when M. Campan came to take her
orders before setting off for the frontier with the household of the
Dauphin, she said that she disapproved of the marriage of her nephew
with the Archduchess, and if she had any order to give it would not be
to fetch an Austrian.
The Comtesse de Noailles was a most unfortunate choice to have
made for the post in question; for although a woman of the highest
character, religious, charitable, and honourable, she was so stiff,
precise, and absolutely the slave of every detail of court etiquette
that she only tormented and estranged the young girl, who was ready
to be conciliated, and whom she might have influenced and helped.
The Dauphine, however, an impetuous, thoughtless girl of fifteen,
accustomed to the freedom of her own family life at the court of
Vienna, hated and ridiculed the absurd restrictions of the French
Court, called the Countess “_Madame l’Etiquette_,” and took her own
way.
The ill-luck which seemed to follow the Dauphin had not forsaken
him; a terrible catastrophe marked the _fêtes_ given in honour of
his wedding. Some scaffolding in the _place Louis XV._ caught fire.
The flames spread with fearful rapidity, a scene of panic and horror
ensued, hundreds were burned or trampled to death by the frantic
horses or maddened crowd; and with this terrible calamity began the
married life of the boy and girl, the gloom and darkness of whose
destiny it seemed to foreshadow.[71]
The Comtes de Provence and d’Artois were married to the two daughters
of the King of Sardinia, to whose eldest son the Princess Clotilde was
betrothed.
The King associated all his grandchildren with Mme. Du Barry just as
he had his daughters with the Duchesse de Châteauroux and her sisters
de Nesle, and affairs went on at court much in the usual way until,
in 1774, he caught the small-pox in one of his intrigues and died,
leaving a troubled and dangerous inheritance to the weak, helpless,
vacillating lad, who had neither brains to direct, energy to act, or
strength to rule.
In 1779 Mlle. d’Epernon, third daughter of the Duc d’Ayen, married the
Vicomte du Roure. She was a gentle, affectionate girl of less decided
character than the others, and less is known of her, for her life was
a short one passed in domestic retirement. This marriage was unhappy,
as the Vicomte cared very little for his wife. However, he died in
two years, and in 1784 she married the Vicomte de Thésan, an ardent
Royalist who was devoted to her.[72]
Married or single, the five sisters were all strongly attached to one
another. The married ones were a great deal with their family, either
at Paris or Versailles, while Pauline and Rosalie, between whom there
was only a year’s difference, were inseparable.
The real names of Mlle. de Maintenon were Anne Paule Dominique, which,
sonorous as they sound, were those of a poor old man and woman of
the labouring class whom the Duchess had chosen to be her daughter’s
godfather and godmother.
Pauline was very pretty, a _brunette_ with dark eyes and masses of
dark hair, of an impetuous, affectionate, hasty disposition, which she
was always trying to correct according to the severe, almost ascetic,
counsels of her mother and younger sister, whom one cannot but fancy,
though equally admirable, was perhaps less charming.
Rosalie was rather plain, with irregular but expressive features,
small eyes and a chin inclined to be square and decided; she was
precocious for her age, but good-tempered, calm, and possessing great
strength of character.
She married, in 1788, the Marquis de Grammont.
The anxieties and sorrows of life were already gathering round the
girls thrust so early into the burden and heat of the day.
Adrienne, who with more intellectual gifts had also more human passion
in her nature than her saintly elder sister, adored her husband, under
whose shy, awkward manner she had discovered all sorts of excellent
qualities, an enthusiastic love of liberty, talents and aspirations
with which she ardently sympathised.
His devotion to herself was only interfered with by his political
ideas; but it soon appeared that this interference was a very serious
matter, for in 1777 he announced his intention of going to America to
fight for the colonies then in rebellion against England.
Of course this spread consternation in the family of Noailles, usually
so united that nothing of importance was ever done by them without
a family council. And it was certainly irritating enough, that for
no reason whatever except his own fancy he should desert his wife
who adored him, who had one child and was about to have another, the
management of his estates and all his duties in his own country, and
exile himself for years to fight against a friendly nation and meddle
in a quarrel with which neither he nor France had anything whatever to
do. Besides, his example and influence had induced his brother-in-law,
the Vicomte de Noailles, and his cousin, the Comte de Ségur, to adopt
the same plans. All three young men declared they would go to America
to fight for liberty.
The King heard of it, and formally forbade them to go, which, as far
as de Noailles and de Ségur were concerned, put a stop to the plan
for the present. But La Fayette was his own master and had plenty of
money, so he made the excuse of going to England with his cousin, the
Prince de Poix, and on his way back escaped in a Spanish ship and
landed in Spain _en route_ for America.
The Duc d’Ayen got a _lettre de cachet_ from the King to stop him, but
it was too late. Letters were sent by the family to say that Adrienne
was very ill, and by this he was so far influenced that he set out on
his journey homewards, but finding from other letters he received that
she was in no danger at all, he turned back again.
Adrienne had never opposed his going. Divided between her grief
at their separation, her sympathy with his dreams and ideas, and
her dislike to oppose his wishes, she, though nearly heartbroken,
pretended to be cheerful, stifled her tears, and forced herself to
smile and laugh, though her love for him was such that she said she
felt as if she would faint when he left her even for a short time, a
few hours.
The years of separation while he was in America were most trying, and
her sister, Louise de Noailles, shared her anxiety, as the Vicomte de
Noailles and Comte de Ségur joined the Americans in 1779.
The high rank, great connections, and splendid fortunes of the
daughters of the Duc d’Ayen caused them to be much sought after, and
many brilliant marriages were suggested for Pauline, amongst which
they chose a young officer of the regiment of Artois, proposed to them
by a relation of his, the Princesse de Chimay, daughter of the Duc de
Fitzjames. The young Marquis Joachim de Montagu was then nineteen, had
served in the army of Spain, and belonged to one of the most ancient
families of Auvergne.
All the preliminaries were arranged by the families without anything
being said upon the subject to the proposed bride, nor probably to the
bridegroom either, and when everything was settled it was decided that
now nothing was left to do but “to consult the personal inclinations
of the young people,” in preparation for which Pauline was informed
in one of the usual family councils of her approaching introduction to
her _fiancé_.
One wonders what would have happened if the young people had not
happened to like each other after all these arrangements; but it
appears to have been taken for granted that they would not be so
inconsiderate as to disappoint the expectations of their relations,
who had taken so much trouble. They would have felt like an Italian
lady of our own time, who, in reply to the question of an English
friend as to what would happen should a young girl of her family not
like the husband selected for her, exclaimed in a tone of horror—
“Not like the husband her grandmamma has chosen!”
Her elder sisters, who knew all about it, were much amused at the
embarrassment of Pauline when this announcement was made to her.
Completely taken by surprise, she did not like even to ask questions
about the Marquis de Montagu, but her mother reassured her, told her
everything she wished to know, and said that the young man and his
father were coming to dine next day.
Accordingly at seven o’clock the Duc and Duchesse d’Ayen were seated
in their _salon_ with Pauline and Rosalie, dressed alike in blue and
white satin; Pauline, who had not slept all night, very pale and
dreadfully frightened, especially when the sound of a carriage was
heard in the courtyard, and a few minutes afterwards M. le Vicomte de
Beaune and M. le Marquis de Montagu were announced.
Neither of the young people dared speak to or look at the other, but
at last M. de Beaune[73] got up to be shown a portrait of Washington
by de Noailles and La Fayette, who were present, and she took the
opportunity of looking at him. He was not handsome, but had an
attractive face, and at the end of the evening she told her mother
that she was quite willing to marry him.[74]
The wedding took place in the spring of 1783, before her seventeenth
birthday. The presents and _corbeille_ were magnificent, and every
day, between the signing of the contract and the marriage, Pauline,
in a splendid and always a different dress, received the visits of
ceremony usual on these occasions. As her family and her husband’s
were related to or connected with every one of the highest rank
in France, all the society of Paris passed through the _hôtel de
Noailles_ on those interminable evenings, which began at six o’clock
and ended with a great supper, while Pauline sat by her mother, and
was presented to every one who came.
The young Marquis and Marquise de Montagu remained for two days at
the _hôtel de Noailles_ after the marriage had been celebrated at St.
Roch, and then Pauline, with many tears, got into the splendid blue
and gold _berline_ which was waiting for her, and drove to the _hôtel
Montagu_, where her father-in-law met her at the foot of the great
staircase, and conducted her to the charming rooms prepared for her.
FOOTNOTES:
[70] The Duc d’Ayen was in 1755 Colonel of the regiment of
Noailles—cavalry raised by his grandfather at his own expense during
the War of the Spanish Succession; he had made four campaigns in
the Seven Years’ War, and was now Lieut.-General and Captain of the
_Gardes-du-corps_.
[71] The Empress Maria Thérèsa once asked a person who had the
reputation of having second sight to tell her the destiny of this, her
youngest child. He looked at her, suddenly hesitated, turned pale,
and on the Empress repeating her question, he replied, with much
agitation, “Madame, there is a cross for every one to bear.”
[72] In the souvenirs of the Marquise de Créquy the following
paragraph occurs:—“My Aunt de la Trémoille was the last of the
ancient house of La Fayette, which must not be confounded with that
of the philosophic, republican Marquis, who has just been fighting in
America. Marie Madeline, heiress and Marquise de la Fayette, Duchesse
de la Trémoille and Thouars, died in 1717 at the age of twenty-eight;
and it was at this time that a gentleman of Auvergne named Motier
took it into his head to adjust the name of La Fayette, which had
just become extinct, to the fine name of Motier, which was that of
his family. He gave as his reason that several persons of the true
house of La Fayette had borne the name of Moztier or Moustier in the
seventeenth century.... The Maréchal de Noailles told me that Louis
XV. had said to him _apropos_ of the genealogy of this pretended
Marquis: ‘Have you read the romance of the Motier family? It will
never equal that of Mme. de la Fayette’ (author of ‘La Princesse de
Clèves’). We could never understand how the MM. de Noailles could give
one of their daughters to that little Motier; but they assured us that
he was gentleman enough not to be hanged, very rich, and a very good
fellow.”
[73] By a family arrangement the father was called Vicomte de Beaune.
[74] Anne-Paule-Dominique de Noailles, Marquise de Montagu.
CHAPTER IV
The Marquis de Montagu rejoins his regiment—Life of Pauline at
the _hôtel de Montagu_—Affection of her father-in-law—Brilliant
society—Story of M. de Continges—Death of Pauline’s child—Marriage
of Rosalie to Marquis de Grammont—Birth of Pauline’s daughters—The
court of Louis XVI.—The Royal Family—Dissensions at court—Madame
Sophie and the Storm—Extravagance of the Queen and Comte
d’Artois—The Comte d’Artois and Mlle. Duthé—Scene with the
King—_Le petit Trianon_—The Palace of Marly—A sinister guest.
At the end of seven weeks her husband went back to rejoin his
regiment, and Pauline was left with her father-in-law and her new
aunt, Mme. de Bouzolz, a very young, lively woman, whose husband had
also just returned to the army. Both were very kind and fond of her,
but their ideas were not so strict as those of the Duchesse d’Ayen.
Mme. de Bouzolz delighted in novels, balls, and all the amusements
natural to her age; was affectionate, good-hearted, rather
thoughtless, but with no harm in her. She soon became devoted to
Pauline, and fell a great deal under her influence.
M. de Beaune was an excellent man, rather hasty-tempered, but
generous, honourable, delighted with his daughter-in-law, and most
kind and indulgent to her. He took the deepest interest in her health,
her dress, and her success in society, into which he constantly went,
always insisting upon her accompanying him.
And society was very fascinating just then: all the stately charm and
grace of the old _régime_ mingled with the interest and excitement of
the new.
Pauline never cared much for society, and her tastes were not
sufficiently intellectual to enable her to take much part in the
brilliant conversation or to enter with enthusiasm into the political
ideas and principles discussed at the various houses to which she went
with Mme. de Bouzolz, who did not trouble herself about philosophy or
“ideas”; and M. de Beaune, who was a strong Conservative, and held
revolutionary notions in abhorrence.
They frequented the society of the Queen, went to balls, theatricals,
and to suppers given by the _esprits forts_, such as the Maréchale de
Luxembourg, the old Duchesse de la Vallière, a great friend of M. de
Beaune, who was a Noailles, and a contemporary of Louis XIV.[75]; also
of the Maréchale de Mirepoix, a leading member of society.
An amusing anecdote is related by Mme. de Bassanville[76] concerning
the marriage of a certain Mlle. de Mirepoix, who belonged to that
family, but apparently to a younger and poorer branch of it.
The Marquis de Continges, a dissipated _roué_ of the court of Louis
XV., an encyclopædist and friend of Voltaire, finding in the reign
of Louis XVI. that he was getting old, thought he would marry. He
was noble, rich, and a good _parti_; but after making many inquiries
he could not hear of any one he especially fancied. One evening he
appeared at a great party given by the Princesse de Lamballe, at which
every one of importance was present, dressed in black velvet, with
lace ruffles, a sword by his side, and in his hand an embroidered hat
full of mysterious tickets.
“What is that, M. le Marquis?” asked his hostess.
“I have come to consult Destiny in your temple, Madame, if your
Highness permits,” said he with a bow.
“Have you found means to conciliate her?” asked the Princess amidst
the laughter aroused by this speech.
“I hope so, Madame. In my hat are _100,000 livres de rente_, a
Marquisate, and a dowry, besides my heart and my hand. Thus I put
myself into a lottery: here is a heap of tickets of which only one is
black, the winning one. So let all the young ladies who wish to marry
come and choose one.”
All the young girls, laughing and treating it as a capital joke,
crowded round to draw. One of the last drew the black; it was Mlle. de
Mirepoix, a dark, handsome girl of five-and-twenty, who was poor and
had not yet found a husband.
“Mademoiselle,” said the Marquis, “what you have won there is myself,
your very humble servant, who, if you will allow him, will become your
husband. I put myself into my hat, with all my fortune; accept both,
for they are yours.”
Mlle. de Mirepoix thought at first that he was joking, but finding
the transaction was serious, fainted with joy. They were married
and belonged to the Queen’s intimate circle, but the union did not
turn out any more happily than might have been expected. Soon the
Revolution swept all away; they emigrated, but not together; he went
to Germany, she to England. When afterwards he came to London, his
wife went to Italy.
Pauline went out a great deal, more as a duty than a pleasure. What
she really cared for most were the interviews with her mother twice a
week, and the time she snatched to be with her sisters when she could.
When Mme. de Bouzolz had a baby, she nursed her devotedly, and took
the deepest interest in the child. But the height of bliss seemed to
be attained when soon after she had a daughter herself, with which
she was so enraptured and about which she made such a fuss, that one
can well imagine how tiresome it must have been for the rest of the
family. She thought of nothing else, would go nowhere, except to the
wedding of her sister, Mme. du Roure, with M. de Thésan; and when in
the following spring the poor little thing died after a short illness,
she fell into a state of grief and despair which alarmed the whole
family, who found it impossible to comfort her. She would sit by the
empty cradle, crying, and making drawings in pastel of the child from
memory after its portrait had been put away out of her sight. But her
unceasing depression and lamentation so worried M. de Beaune that,
seeing this, she left off talking about it, and he, hoping she was
becoming more resigned to the loss, proposed that she should begin
again to go into society after more than a year of retirement. She
consented, to please him, for as he would not leave her his life was,
of course, very dull. But the effort and strain of it made her so ill
that the next year she was obliged to go to Bagnères de Luchon. M.
de Beaune, who was certainly a devoted father-in-law, went with her.
Her mother and eldest sister came to visit her there; her husband
travelled three hundred leagues, although he was ill at the time, to
see how she was getting on, and in the autumn she was much better, and
able to go to the wedding of her favourite sister, Rosalie, with the
Marquis de Grammont.
In 1786-8 she had two daughters, Noémi and Clotilde, soon after whose
birth the family had to mourn the loss of Mme. de Thésan, who died
before she was five-and-twenty, and who was certainly, as events soon
proved, taken away from the evil to come.
The same may be said of Pauline’s young aunt, Mme. de Bouzolz, who
died the same year.
M. de Montagu, remembering his wife’s proceedings with the former
baby, insisted upon the others being brought up in the country, and
Pauline again went out with her father-in-law, receiving a great deal
of admiration which delighted him, but about which she cared very
little. She was very pretty, considered very like what the Duchess,
her mother, had been at her age, and perfectly at her ease in society,
even when very young, and timid with her new relations; not being the
least nervous during her presentation at Versailles, which was rather
a trying and imposing ceremony.
People were presented first to the King, then to the Queen, in
different _salons_; of course magnificently dressed. The King, now
that he was Louis XVI., very often did not speak but always made a
friendly, gracious gesture, and kissed the lady presented, on one
cheek only if she was a simple _femme de qualité_; on both if she
was a duchess or _grande d’Espagne_, or bore the name of one of the
families who possessed the hereditary right to the honours of the
Louvre and the title of cousin of the King.
Soon after his accession the young Marquise de Pracontal, who was very
pretty, very _dévote_, and very timid, was presented to Louis XVI.,
who kissed her with such fervour on one cheek that she was dreadfully
embarrassed and frightened; and was just going to kiss her other
cheek, when the Duc d’Aumont threw himself between them, exclaiming in
consternation that she was not a duchess.
When presented to the Queen it was customary to bow low enough to
appear to kneel in order to take up the edge of her dress, but her
Majesty never allowed that to be carried to the lips of the lady
presented, but let it fall with a slight movement of her fan, which
Marie Antoinette always executed with singular grace. A duchess or
_grande d’Espagne_ then seated herself before the Queen, but only for
a moment, a privilege known as the _tabouret_. After retiring, of
course backwards, with a mantle the train of which had to be eight
ells on the ground, people went to be presented to all the other
princes and princesses of the royal family.
It consisted, at the death of Louis XV., of the King, aged nineteen;
the Queen, eighteen; the Comte de Provence, eighteen; the Comtesse
de Provence, twenty; the Comte d’Artois, seventeen; and the Comtesse
d’Artois, eighteen. Of Mesdames Adélaïde, Victoire, Sophie, and
Louise, the last of whom was a Carmelite nun, and whose ages were from
thirty-eight to forty-three.
Mesdames de France were in many respects excellent women: religious,
charitable to the poor, strict in their duties. The three elder ones
had stayed by their father in his fatal illness, by which Adélaïde
and Sophie had caught the small-pox. Louise was a saintly person; and
all of them were devoted to their family and friends. But they were
narrow-minded, obstinate, and prejudiced to an extraordinary degree,
and they allowed their hatred of the house of Austria to include their
niece, the young Queen; their unjust animosity against whom was the
cause of incalculable mischief.
From her first arrival they set themselves against the Dauphine,
they exaggerated the faults and follies which were only those of a
thoughtless, wilful child of fifteen, and by their unjustifiable
spite gave colour to the infamous and false reports circulated by her
enemies. They tried to sow dissension between her and the Comtesse de
Provence, hoping by means of his wife to engage their second nephew in
a party against her. The fault was chiefly that of Madame Adélaïde,
for Madame Victoire was far more gentle and easygoing, and Madame
Sophie so dreadfully shy and nervous that she was incapable of taking
a leading part in anything.
[Illustration:
_Nattier_
MADAME SOPHIE]
She was so terribly frightened at a thunderstorm that once when
visiting the Comte and Comtesse de Provence, as she stayed rather long
and they wanted to go out, the Count had some heavy thing rolled on
the floor of the room above, which she took for distant thunder and
hurried away to reach home before the storm.
The young princes and princesses, however, in spite of the disputes,
jealousies, and quarrels that occurred amongst them, agreed in
amusing themselves very well together. They gave balls, theatricals
and _fêtes_ of all kinds; the Queen was very fond of cards, and
gambling went on to an extent which, with the money spent on _fêtes_
and in other still more reprehensible ways, especially by the Comte
d’Artois, though it could have passed as a matter of course under
former reigns, now increased the irritation and discontent which every
year grew stronger and more dangerous. For the distress amongst the
lower orders was terrible; for years marriages and the birthrate had
been decreasing in an alarming manner; the peasants declaring that
it was no use bringing into the world children to be as miserable as
themselves.
The young princes and princesses could not understand that the
resources of the State were not inexhaustible, or that they might not
draw whatever they liked from the Treasury when they had spent all
their own allowances.
The Comte d’Artois had an affair with Mlle. Duthé, who had ruined
numbers of people, and thought her _liaison_ with a _fils de France_
would open the Treasury to her rapacity. She contracted enormous
debts at all the great shops in Paris, and very soon bills for plate,
pictures, jewels, furniture, dresses, &c., &c., poured in upon the
Prince, who, finding himself utterly unable to pay them, sent for
Turgot, then _Contrôleur-Général_, and asked him to get him out of the
difficulty.
Turgot replied coldly that as the money in the treasury did not belong
to him, he could not dispose of it without the King’s permission.
The Comte d’Artois flew into a passion with Turgot, who went to the
King and laid the matter before him.
Louis XVI., the only one of the family who saw the necessity of order
and economy, was furious, and declared that the treasury of the State
should not be squandered to satisfy the fancies of a prostitute, that
the Comte d’Artois must manage as he could, that he forbade Turgot to
give him the money, and that the Comte d’Artois was to be sent to him
at once.
The whole affair was an exact specimen of the mingled extravagance,
folly, vice, and weakness which were leading to the terrible
retribution so swiftly approaching.
There was a violent scene between the two brothers, the Comte
d’Artois threatened to borrow the money he could not extort, and the
King, after reproaching him for his conduct, ordered him to his own
apartment, intending to punish him by means of a _lettre de cachet_.
But then, as always, the irresolution and weakness of Louis XVI.
more than counterbalanced his good intentions.
The Comte d’Artois appealed to the Queen and the Comte de Provence,
who went to intercede for him with the King. Louis, irritated by the
vehemence with which Marie Antoinette took the part of the Comte
d’Artois, asked her whether she knew what he wanted the money for, and
on her replying that she did not, proceeded to tell her. The Queen
looked thunderstruck, gave way to a torrent of indignation against the
conduct of the Comte d’Artois, and left the room. But Louis, instead
of abiding by the decision he had so vehemently announced, allowed
himself to be persuaded by the Comte de Provence and his aunts to
revoke everything he had said, and do everything he had inveighed
against. The Comte d’Artois was not punished and the disgraceful debts
were paid.
The King had given _le petit Trianon_ to the Queen, who delighted in
the absence of restraint and formality with which she could amuse
herself there, and if she had been satisfied with the suppers and
picnics with her family and friends in the little palace and its shady
gardens, it would have been better for her and for every one. But she
gave _fêtes_ so costly that the King on one occasion, hearing that he
was to be invited to one that was to cost 100,000 francs, refused to
go, and on the Queen, much hurt at his decision, assuring him that
it would only cost a mere trifle, he told her to get the estimates
and look at them. However, as usual, he was persuaded to yield and be
present at the _fête_.
[Illustration:
_E. H. Bearne_
LE PETIT TRIANON]
Then the Comte d’Artois insisted on having a place of the same kind,
and on its being made and finished in a week; which at enormous
expense he succeeded in accomplishing, besides winning from the Queen
a bet of 100,000 francs made upon the subject.
The Comte d’Artois did not hesitate to give 1,700 louis for a race
horse, or to lose four or five hundred thousand francs in an evening
at cards; and the Emperor Joseph II., when under the name of Count von
Falkenstein he paid the celebrated visit to France and his sister,
wherein he made himself so disagreeable and gave so much offence, was
well justified in the contemptuous sarcasm with which he spoke of the
squandering of the revenues in racing and gambling.
It was, perhaps, worst of all at Marly, beautiful Marly, so soon to
be utterly swept away; for there such was the relaxation of etiquette
that any decently-dressed person might enter the _salon_ and join in
the play, with the permission of the ladies of high rank to whom they
gave part of their winnings. People came there in crowds, and on one
occasion the Comte de Tavannes, coming up with a look of consternation
to the Comte de Provence, whispered—
“Ah! Monseigneur! What an indignity! Do you see that man near that
_console_? a man in a pink coat with a waistcoat of blue and silver,
wearing spectacles?”
“Yes; and there is nothing in his appearance to justify your horror.”
“You don’t know who the person is, Monseigneur, or your hair would
stand on end.”
“Can it be the ——”
“The executioner? You have guessed it, Monseigneur, and that fearful
name explains the state of mind in which you see me.”
“Do not say a word to any one,” said the Prince. “I will undertake to
turn out the insolent fellow without making a scandal, unless you will
do it yourself.”
Tavannes drew back, and just then, seeing Prince Maurice de
Montbarrey, Colonel of the _Cent-Suisses_ of his guard, the Comte de
Provence sent him to tell the man to go. Saint-Maurice obeyed, without
knowing who the man was, and the Comte de Provence saw him turn pale
and cast a terrible look at Saint-Maurice. He retired in silence, and
not many years afterwards Saint-Maurice fell under his hand.
FOOTNOTES:
[75] She died May 11, 1784, at the age of ninety-nine years, seven
months, and six days.
[76] “Salons d’Autrefois.”
CHAPTER V
Weak character of Louis XVI.—Quarrels at Court—Mme. de
Tessé—Forebodings of Mme. d’Ayen—La Fayette—Saintly lives
of Pauline and her sisters—Approach of the Revolution—The
States-General—Folly of Louis XVI.—Scenes at Versailles—Family
political quarrels—Royalist and Radical—Death of Pauline’s
youngest child.
There was a striking contrast between the position of Louis XVI. and
that of his predecessors on the throne of France.
Everybody was afraid of Louis XIV., and even of Louis XV. At any rate,
they ruled. They commanded, and their subjects obeyed.
But nobody was afraid of Louis XVI., and when he did command he was by
no means sure of obedience. He had ascended the throne with the most
excellent intentions, abolished all sorts of abuses, and wanted to be
the father of his people. But a father who cannot be respected is very
likely not to be loved, and a ruler who cannot inspire fear cannot
inspire respect either, and is not so fit to be a leader as one who
possesses fewer virtues and more strength and courage.
When Louis XV. remarked that it was a pity the Comte de Provence was
not the eldest of his grandsons, that he knew what he was saying is
evident from the fact that though all three of them inherited the
crown, the Comte de Provence was the only one who succeeded in keeping
it.
Louis XVI. was the most unsuitable person to rule over the French, a
nation more than any other alive to, and abhorrent of, any suspicion
of ridicule or contempt. And to them the virtues and faults of Louis
were alike ridiculous. When he interfered in the love affairs of the
Prince de Condé, and ordered the Princesse de Monaco to retire into
a convent, the Prince de Condé became his enemy, and people laughed.
When he spent hours and hours shut up alone making keys and locks they
shrugged their shoulders, and asked if that was a diversion for the
descendant of Henri IV. and Louis le Grand.
Besides the conflict between the new and old ideas, the extravagant
hopes of some and the natural misgivings of others, the court was
disturbed by the quarrels and jealousies of many of the great nobles
who, not contented with occupying the posts they held, aimed at making
them hereditary in their families.
The Marquis de Noailles was one of the gentlemen of the household of
the Comte de Provence, who did not much like the Noailles, and said
that the Marquis was a true member of that family, eager after his
own interests and those of his relations. Even the saintly Duchesse
de Lesparre, when she resigned her place of _dame d’atours_ to the
Comtesse de Provence, was much aggrieved that the latter would not
appoint another Noailles, but chose to give the post to the Comtesse
de Balbi, a personal friend of her own.
The Maréchale de Mouchy was furious because the Queen had created
or revived an office which she said lessened the importance and
dignity of the one she held, and after much fuss and disturbance she
resigned her appointment. All the Noailles took her part and went
over to the opposition. Although the riches, power, and prestige
of that family were undiminished, they were not nearly so much the
favourites of the present royal family as they had been of Louis XIV.
and Louis XV., which was natural, as they were so much mixed up with
the ultra-Liberals, whose ranks had been joined by so many of their
nearest relations.
Mme. de Tessé, younger sister of the Duc d’Ayen, was well known for
her opinions. La Fayette, de Noailles, and de Ségur had returned
from America, and their ideas were shared by Rosalie’s husband, de
Grammont, and to a certain extent, though with much more moderation,
by M. de Montagu. All the remaining daughters of the Duc d’Ayen except
Pauline shared the opinions of their husbands; M. de Thésan and M. de
Beaune were opposed to them, as was also the Duchesse d’Ayen, whose
affection for her sons-in-law did not make her share their blind
enthusiasm and unfortunate credulity.