BOOK 6.

Produced by David Widger

MEMOIRS OF MADAME LA MARQUISE DE MONTESPAN

Written by Herself

Being the Historic Memoirs of the Court of Louis XIV.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Madame de Montespan----Etching by Mercier

Hortense Mancini----Drawing in the Louvre

Madame de la Valliere----Painting by Francois

Moliere----Original Etching by Lalauze

Boileau----Etching by Lalauze

A French Courtier----Photogravure from a Painting

Madame de Maintenon----Etching by Mercier from Painting by Hule

Charles II.----Original Etching by Ben Damman

Bosseut----Etching by Lalauze

Louis XIV. Knighting a Subject----Photogravure from a Rare Print

A French Actress----Painting by Leon Comerre

Racine----Etching by Lalauze

BOOK 1.

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE.

Historians have, on the whole, dealt somewhat harshly with the

fascinating Madame de Montespan, perhaps taking their impressions from

the judgments, often narrow and malicious, of her contemporaries. To help

us to get a fairer estimate, her own “Memoirs,” written by herself, and

now first given to readers in an English dress, should surely serve.

Avowedly compiled in a vague, desultory way, with no particular regard to

chronological sequence, these random recollections should interest us, in

the first place, as a piece of unconscious self-portraiture. The cynical

Court lady, whose beauty bewitched a great King, and whose ruthless

sarcasm made Duchesses quail, is here drawn for us in vivid fashion by

her own hand, and while concerned with depicting other figures she really

portrays her own. Certainly, in these Memoirs she is generally content

to keep herself in the background, while giving us a faithful picture of

the brilliant Court at which she was for long the most lustrous ornament.

It is only by stray touches, a casual remark, a chance phrase, that we,

as it were, gauge her temperament in all its wiliness, its egoism, its

love of supremacy, and its shallow worldly wisdom. Yet it could have

been no ordinary woman that held the handsome Louis so long her captive.

The fair Marquise was more than a mere leader of wit and fashion. If she

set the mode in the shape of a petticoat, or devised the sumptuous

splendours of a garden fete, her talent was not merely devoted to things

frivolous and trivial. She had the proverbial ‘esprit des Mortemart’.

Armed with beauty and sarcasm, she won a leading place for herself at

Court, and held it in the teeth of all detractors.

Her beauty was for the King, her sarcasm for his courtiers. Perhaps

little of this latter quality appears in the pages bequeathed to us,

written, as they are, in a somewhat cold, formal style, and we may assume

that her much-dreaded irony resided in her tongue rather than in her pen.

Yet we are glad to possess these pages, if only as a reliable record of

Court life during the brightest period of the reign of Louis Quatorze.

As we have hinted, they are more, indeed, than this. For if we look

closer we shall perceive, as in a glass, darkly, the contour of a subtle,

even a perplexing, personality.

P. E. P.

HISTORIC COURT MEMOIRS.

MADAME DE MONTESPAN.

CHAPTER I.

The Reason for Writing These Memoirs.--Gabrielle d’Estrees.

The reign of the King who now so happily and so gloriously rules over

France will one day exercise the talent of the most skilful historians.

But these men of genius, deprived of the advantage of seeing the great

monarch whose portrait they fain would draw, will search everywhere among

the souvenirs of contemporaries and base their judgments upon our

testimony. It is this great consideration which has made me determined

to devote some of my hours of leisure to narrating, in these accurate and

truthful Memoirs, the events of which I myself am witness.

Naturally enough, the position which I fill at the great theatre of the

Court has made me the object of much false admiration, and much real

satire. Many men who owed to me their elevation or their success have

defamed me; many women have belittled my position after vain efforts to

secure the King’s regard. In what I now write, scant notice will be

taken of all such ingratitude. Before my establishment at Court I had

met with hypocrisy of this sort in the world; and a man must, indeed, be

reckless of expense who daily entertains at his board a score of insolent

detractors.

I have too much wit to be blind to the fact that I am not precisely in my

proper place. But, all things considered, I flatter myself that

posterity will let certain weighty circumstances tell in my favour. An

accomplished monarch, to greet whom the Queen of Sheba would have come

from the uttermost ends of the earth, has deemed me worthy of his

entertainment, and has found amusement in my society. He has told me of

the esteem which the French have for Gabrielle d’Estrees, and, like that

of Gabrielle, my heart has let itself be captured, not by a great king,

but by the most honest man of his realm.

To France, Gabrielle gave the Vendome, to-day our support. The princes,

my sons, give promise of virtues as excellent, and will be worthy to

aspire to destinies as noble. It is my desire and my duty to give no

thought to my private griefs begotten of an ill-assorted marriage. May

the King ever be adored by his people; may my children ever be beloved

and cherished by the King; I am happy, and I desire to be so.

CHAPTER II.

That Which Often It is Best to Ignore.--A Marriage Such as One Constantly

Sees.--It is Too Late.

My sisters thought it of extreme importance to possess positive knowledge

as to their future condition and the events which fate held in store for

them. They managed to be secretly taken to a woman famed for her talent

in casting the horoscope. But on seeing how overwhelmed by chagrin they

both were after consulting the oracle, I felt fearful as regarded myself,

and determined to let my star take its own course, heedless of its

existence, and allowing it complete liberty.

My mother occasionally took me out into society after the marriage of my

sister, De Thianges; and I was not slow to perceive that there was in my

person something slightly superior to the average intelligence,--certain

qualities of distinction which drew upon me the attention and the

sympathy of men of taste. Had any liberty been granted to it, my heart

would have made a choice worthy alike of my family and of myself. They

were eager to impose the Marquis de Montespan upon me as a husband; and

albeit he was far from possessing those mental perfections and that

cultured charm which alone make an indefinite period of companionship

endurable, I was not slow to reconcile myself to a temperament which,

fortunately, was very variable, and which thus served to console me on

the morrow for what had troubled me to-day.

Hardly had my marriage been arranged and celebrated than a score of the

most brilliant suitors expressed, in prose and in verse, their regret at

having lost beyond recall Mademoiselle de Tonnai-Charente. Such elegiac

effusions seemed to me unspeakably ridiculous; they should have explained

matters earlier, while the lists were still open. For persons of this

sort I conceived aversion, who were actually so clumsy as to dare to tell

me that they had forgotten to ask my hand in marriage!

CHAPTER III.

Madame de Montespan at the Palace.--M. de Montespan.--His Indiscreet

Language.--His Absence.--Specimen of His Way of Writing.--A Refractory

Cousin.--The King Interferes.--M. de Montespan a Widower.--Amusement of

the King.--Clemency of Madame de Montespan.

The Duc and Duchesse de Navailles had long been friends of my father’s

and of my family. When the Queen-mother proceeded to form the new

household of her niece and daughter-in-law, the Infanta, the Duchesse de

Navailles, chief of the ladies-in-waiting, bethought herself of me, and

soon the Court and Paris learnt that I was one of the six ladies in

attendance on the young Queen.

This princess, who while yet at the Escurial had been made familiar

with the notable names of the French monarchy, honoured me during the

journey by alluding in terms of regard to the Mortemarts and

Rochechouarts,--kinsmen of mine. She was even careful to quote matters

of history concerning my ancestors. By such marks of good sense and good

will I perceived that she would not be out of place at a Court where

politeness of spirit and politeness of heart ever go side by side, or, to

put it better, where these qualities are fused and united.

M. le Marquis de Montespan, scion of the old house of Pardaillan de

Gondrin, had preferred what he styled “my grace and beauty” to the most

wealthy partis of France. He was himself possessed of wealth, and his

fortune gave him every facility for maintaining at Court a position of

advantage and distinction.

At first the honour which both Queens were graciously pleased to confer

upon me gave my husband intense satisfaction. He affectionately thanked

the Duc and Duchesse de Navailles, and expressed his most humble

gratitude to the two Queens and to the King. But it was not long before

I perceived that he had altered his opinion.

The love-affair between Mademoiselle de la Valliere and the King having

now become public, M. de Montespan condemned this attachment in terms of

such vehemence that I perforce felt afraid of the consequences of such

censure. He talked openly about the matter in society, airing his views

thereanent. Impetuously and with positive hardihood, he expressed his

disapproval in unstinted terms, criticising and condemning the prince’s

conduct. Once, at the ballet, when within two feet of the Queen, it was

with the utmost difficulty that he could be prevented from discussing so

obviously unfitting a question, or from sententiously moralising upon the

subject.

All at once the news of an inheritance in the country served to occupy

his attention. He did all that he could to make me accompany him on this

journey. He pointed out to me that it behoved no young wife to be

anywhere without her husband. I, for my part, represented to him all

that in my official capacity I owed to the Queen. And as at that time I

still loved him heartily (M. de Montespan, I mean), and was sincerely

attached to him, I advised him to sell off the whole of the newly

inherited estate to some worthy member of his own family, so that he

might remain with us in the vast arena wherein I desired and hoped to

achieve his rapid advance.

Never was there man more obstinate or more selfwilled than the Marquis.

Despite all my friendly persuasion, he was determined to go. And when

once settled at the other end of France, he launched out into all sorts

of agricultural schemes and enterprises, without even knowing why he did

so. He constructed roads, built windmills, bridged over a large torrent,

completed the pavilions of his castle, replanted coppices and vineyards,

and, besides all this, hunted the chamois, bears, and boars of the

Nebouzan and the Pyrenees. Four or five months after his departure I

received a letter from him of so singular a kind that I kept it in spite

of myself, and in the Memoirs it will not prove out of place. Far better

than any words of mine, it will depict the sort of mind, the logic, and

the curious character of the man who was my husband.

MONTESPAN,--May 15, 1667.

I count more than ever, madame, upon your journey to the Pyrenees. If you

love me, as all your letters assure me, you should promptly take a good

coach and come. We are possessed of considerable property here, which of

late years my family have much neglected. These domains require my

presence, and my presence requires yours. Enough is yours of wit or of

good sense to understand that.

The Court is, no doubt, a fine country,--finer than ever under the

present reign. The more magnificent the Court is, the more uneasy do I

become. Wealth and opulence are needed there; and to your family I never

figured as a Croesus. By dint of order and thrift, we shall ere long

have satisfactorily settled our affairs; and I promise you that our stay

in the Provinces shall last no longer than is necessary to achieve that

desirable result. Three, four, five,--let us say, six years. Well, that

is not an eternity! By the time we come back we shall both of us still

be young. Come, then, my dearest Athenais, come, and make closer

acquaintance with these imposing Pyrenees, every ravine of which is a

landscape and every valley an Eden. To all these beauties, yours is

missing; you shall be here, like Dian, the goddess of these noble

forests. All our gentlefolk await you, admiring your picture on the

sweetmeat-box. They are minded to hold many pleasant festivals in your

honour; you may count upon having a veritable Court. Here it is that you

will meet the old Warnais nobility that followed Henri IV. and placed the

sceptre in his hand. Messieurs de Grammont and de Biron are our

neighbours; their grim castles dominate the whole district, so that they

seem like kings.

Our Chateau de Montespan will offer you something less severe; the

additions made for my mother twenty years ago are infinitely better than

anything that you will leave behind you in Paris. We have here the

finest fruits that ever grew in any earthly paradise. Our huge, luscious

peaches are composed of sugar, violets, carnations, amber, and jessamine;

strawberries and raspberries grow everywhere; and naught may vie with the

excellence of the water, the vegetables, and the milk.

You are fond of scenery and of sketching from nature; there are half a

dozen landscapes here for you that leave Claude Lorrain far behind. I

mean to take you to see a waterfall, twelve hundred and seventy feet in

height, neither more nor less. What are your fountains at Saint Germain

and Chambord compared with such marvellous things as these?

Now, madame, I am really tired of coaxing and flattering you, as I have

done in this letter and in preceding ones. Do you want me, or do you

not? Your position as Court lady, so you say, keeps you near the

monarch; ask, then, or let me ask, for leave of absence. After having

been for four consecutive years Lady of the Palace, consent to become

Lady of the Castle, since your duties towards your spouse require it.

The young King, favourite as he is with the ladies, will soon find ten

others to replace you. And I, dearest Athenais, find it hard even to

think of replacing you, in spite of your cruel absence, which at once

annoys and grieves me. I am--no, I shall be--always and ever yours, when

you are always and ever mine.

MONTESPAN.

I hastened to tell my husband in reply that his impatience and ill-humour

made me most unhappy; that as, through sickness or leave of absence, five

or six of the Court ladies were away, I could not possibly absent myself

just then; that I believed that I sufficiently merited his confidence to

let me count upon his attachment and esteem, whether far or near. And I

gave him my word of honour that I would join him after the Court moved to

Fontainebleau, that is to say, in the autumn.

My answer, far from soothing or calming him, produced quite a contrary

effect. I received the following letter, which greatly alarmed and

agitated me:

Your allegations are only vain pretexts, your pretexts mask your

falsehoods, your falsehoods confirm all my suspicions; you are deceiving

me, madame, and it is your intention to dishonour me. My cousin, who saw

through you better than I did before my wretched marriage,--my cousin,

whom you dislike and who is no whit afraid of you,--informs me that,

under the pretext of going to keep Madame de la Valliere company, you

never stir from her apartments during the time allotted to her by the

King, that is to say, three whole hours every evening. There you pose as

sovereign arbiter; as oracle, uttering a thousand divers decisions; as

supreme purveyor of news and gossip; the scourge of all who are absent;

the complacent promoter of scandal; the soul and the leader of sparkling

conversation.

One only of these ladies became ill, owing to an extremely favourable

confinement, from which she recovered a week ago. At the outset, the King

fought shy of your raillery, but in a thousand discreditable ways you set

your cap at him and forced him to pay you attention. If all the letters

written to me (all of them in the same strain) are not preconcerted, if

your misconduct is such as I am told it is, if you have dishonoured and

disgraced your husband, then, madame, expect all that your excessive

imprudence deserves. At this distance of two hundred and fifty leagues I

shall not trouble you with complaints and vain reproaches; I shall

collect all necessary information and documentary evidence at

headquarters; and, cost me what it may, I shall bring action against you,

before your parents, before a court of law, in the face of public

opinion, and before your protector, the King. I charge you instantly to

deliver up to me my child. My unfortunate son comes of a race which

never yet has had cause to blush for disgrace such as this. What would

he gain, except bad example, by staying with a mother who has no virtue

and no husband? Give him up to me, and at once let Dupre, my valet, have

charge of him until my return. This latter will occur sooner than you

think; and I shall shut you up in a convent, unless you shut me up in the

Bastille.

Your unfortunate husband, MONTESPAN.

The officious cousin to whom he alluded in this threatening letter had

been so bold as to sue for my hand, although possessed of no property.

Ever since that time he remained, as I knew, my enemy, though I did not

know, nor ever suspected, that such a man would find pleasure in spying

upon my actions and in effecting the irrevocable estrangement of a

husband and a wife, who until then had been mutually attached to each

other.

The King, whose glance, though very sweet, is very searching, said to me

that evening, “Something troubles you; what is it?” He felt my pulse,

and perceived my great agitation. I showed him the letter just

transcribed, and his Majesty changed colour.

“It is a matter requiring caution and tact,” added the prince after brief

meditation. “At any rate we can prevent his showing you any disrespect.

Give up the Marquis d’Antin to him,” continued the King, after another

pause. “He is useless, perhaps an inconvenience, to you; and if deprived

of his child he might be driven to commit some desperate act.”

“I would rather die!” I exclaimed, bursting into tears.

The King affectionately took hold of both my hands, and gently said:

“Very well, then, keep him yourself, and don’t give him up.”

As God is my witness, M. de Montespan had already neglected me for some

time before he left for the Pyrenees; and to me this sudden access of

fervour seemed singularly strange. But I am not easily hoodwinked; I

understood him far better and far quicker than he expected. The Marquis

is one of those vulgar-minded men who do not look upon a woman as a

friend, a companion, a frank, free associate, but as a piece of property

or of furniture, useful to his house, and which he has procured for that

purpose only.

I am told that in England a man is the absolute proprietor of his wife,

and that if he took her to the public market with a cord round her neck

and exhibited her for sale, such sale is perfectly valid in the eyes of

the law. Laws such as these inspire horror. Yet they should hardly

surprise one among a semibarbarous nation, which does nothing like other

peoples, and which deems itself authorised to place the censer in the

hands of its monarch, and its monarch in the hands of the headsman.

M. de Montespan came to Paris and instituted proceedings against me

before the Chatelet authorities. To the King he sent a letter full of

provocations and insults. To the Pope he sent a formal complaint,

accompanied by a most carefully prepared list of opinions which no lawyer

was willing to sign. For three whole months he tormented the Pope, in

order to induce him to annul our marriage. Of a truth, our Sovereign

Pontiff could have done nothing better, but in Rome justice and religion

always rank second to politics. The cardinals feared to offend a great

prince, and so they suffered me to remain the wife of my husband. When

he saw that on every side his voice was lost in the desert, and that the

King, being calmer and more prudent than he, did not deign to pick up the

glove, his folly reached its utmost limit. He went into the deepest

mourning ever seen. He draped his horses and carriages with black. He

gave orders for a funeral service to be held in his parish, which the

whole town and its suburbs were invited to attend. He declared, verbally

and in writing, that he no longer possessed a wife; that Madame de

Montespan had died of an attack of coquetry and ambition; and he talked

of marrying again when the year of mourning and of widowhood should be

over.

His first outbursts of wrath were the source of much amusement to the

King, who naturally was on the side of decorum and averse to hostile

opinion. Pranks such as these seemed to him more a matter for mirth than

fear, and, on hearing the story of the catafalque, he laughingly said to

me, “Now that he has buried you, it is to be hoped that he will let you

repose in peace.” But hearing each day of fresh absurdities, his Majesty

grew at last impatient. Luckily, M. de Montespan, perceiving that every

house had closed its doors to him, decided to close his own altogether

and travel abroad.

Not being of a vindictive disposition, I never would allow M. de Louvois

to shut him up in the Bastille. On the contrary I privately paid more

than fifty thousand crowns to defray his debts, being glad to render him

some good service in exchange for all the evil that he spoke of me.

I reflected that he had been my husband, my confidant, my friend; that

his only faults were bad temper, love of sport, and love of wine; that he

belonged to one of the very first families of France; and that, despite

all that was said, my son D’Antin certainly was nothing to the King, and

that the Marquis was his father.

CHAPTER IV.

Mademoiselle de la Valliere Jealous.--The King Wishes All to Enjoy

Themselves.--The Futility of Fighting against Fate.--What is Dead is

Dead.

MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIERE was tall, shapely, and extremely pretty, with

as sweet and even a temper as one could possibly imagine, which eminently

fitted her for dreamy, contemplative love-making, such as one reads of in

idyls and romances. She would willingly have spent her life in.

contemplating the King,--in loving and adoring him without ever opening

her mouth; and to her, the sweet silence of a tete-a-tete seemed

preferable to any conversation enlivened by wit.

The King’s character was totally different. His imagination was vivid,

and mere love-making, however pleasant, bored him at last if the charm of

ready speech and ready wit were wanting.

I do not profess to be a prodigy, but those who know me do me the justice

to admit that where I am it is very difficult for boredom to find ever so

small a footing.

Mademoiselle de la Valliere, after having begged me, and begged me often,

to come and help her to entertain the King, grew suddenly suspicious and

uneasy. She is candour itself, and one day, bursting into tears, she

said to me, in that voice peculiar to her alone, “For Heaven’s sake, my

good friend, do not steal away the King’s heart from me!” When

mademoiselle said this to me, I vow and declare in all honesty that her

fears were unfounded, and that (for my part at least) I had only just a

natural desire to gain the good-will of a great prince. My friendship for

La Valliere was so sincere, so thorough, that I often used to superintend

little details of her toilet and give her various little hints as to

attentive conduct of the sort which cements and revives attachments. I

even furnished her with news and gossip, composing for her a little

repertoire, of which, when needful, she made use.

But her star had set, and she had to show the world the touching

spectacle of love as true, as tender, and as disinterested as any that

has ever been in this world, followed by a repentance and an expiation

far superior to the sin, if sin it was.

Moreover, Mademoiselle de la Valliere never broke with me. She shed

tears in abundance, and wounded my heart a thousand times by the sight of

her grief and her distress. For her sake I was often fain to bid

farewell to her fickle lover, proud monarch though he was. But by

breaking with him I should not have reestablished La Valliere. The

prince’s violent passion had changed to mere friendship, blended with

esteem. To try and resuscitate attachments of this sort is as if one

should try to open the grave and give life to the dead. God alone can

work miracles such as these.

CHAPTER V.

The Marquis de Bragelonne, Officer of the Guards.--His Baleful Love.--His

Journey.--His Death.

The Marquis de Bragelonne was born for Mademoiselle de la Valliere. It

was this young officer, endowed with all perfections imaginable, whom

Heaven had designed for her, to complete her happiness. Despite his

sincere, incomparable attachment for her, she disdained him, preferring a

king, who soon afterwards wearied of her.

The Marquis de Bragelonne conceived a passion for the little La Valliere

as soon as he saw her at the Tuileries with Madame Henrietta of England,

whose maid of honour at first she was. Having made proof and declaration

of his tender love, Bragelonne was so bold as to ask her hand of the

princess. Madame caused her relatives to be apprised of this, and the

Marquise de Saint-Remy, her stepmother, after all necessary inquiries had

been made, replied that the fortune of this young man was as yet too

slender to permit him to think of having an establishment.

Grieved at this answer, but nothing daunted, Bragelonne conferred

privately with his lady-love, and told her of his hazardous project. This

project instantly to realise all property coming to him from his father,

and furnished with this capital, to go out, and seek his fortune in India

[West Indies. D.W.]

“You will wait for me, dearest one, will you not?” quoth he. “Heaven,

that is witness how ardently I long to make you happy, will protect me on

my journey and guard my ship. Promise me to keep off all suitors, the

number of whom will increase with your beauty. This promise, for which I

desire no other guarantee but your candour, shall sustain me in exile,

and make me count as nought my privations and my hardships.”

Mademoiselle de la Beaume-le-Blanc allowed the Marquis to hope all that

he wished from her beautiful soul, and he departed, never imagining that

one could forget or set at nought so tender a love which had prompted so

hazardous an enterprise.

His journey proved thoroughly successful. He brought back with him

treasures from the New World; but of all his treasures the most precious

had disappeared. Restored once more to family and friends, he hastened

to the capital. Madame d’Orleans no longer resided at the Tuileries,

which was being enlarged by the King.

Bragelonne, in his impatience, asks everywhere for La Valliere. They

tell him that she has a charming house between Saint Germain, Lucienne,

and Versailles. He goes thither, laden with coral and pearls from the

Indies. He asks to have sight of his love. A tall Swiss repulses him,

saying that, in order to speak with Madame la Duchesse, it was absolutely

necessary to make an appointment.

At the same moment one of his friends rides past the gateway. They greet

each other, and in reply to his questioning, this friend informs him that

Mademoiselle de la Valliere is a duchess, that she is a mother, that she

is lapped in grandeur and luxury, and that she has as lover a king.

At this news, Bragelonne finds nothing further for him to do in this

world. He grasps his friend’s hand, retires to a neighbouring wood, and

there, drawing his sword, plunges it into his heart,--a sad requital for

love so noble!

CHAPTER VI.

M. Fouquet.--His Mistake.--A Woman’s Indiscretion May Cause the Loss of a

Great Minister.--The Castle of Vaux.--Fairy-land.--A Fearful

Awakening.--Clemency of the King.

On going out into society, I heard everybody talking everywhere about M.

Fouquet. They praised his good-nature, his affability, his talents, his

magnificence, his wit. His post as Surintendant-General, envied by a

thousand, provoked indeed a certain amount of spite; yet all such vain

efforts on the part of mediocrity to slander him troubled him but little.

My lord the Cardinal (Mazarin. D.W.) was his support, and so long as the

main column stood firm, M. Fouquet, lavish of gifts to his protector, had

really nothing to fear.

This minister also largely profited by the species of fame to be derived

from men of letters. He knew their venality and their needs. His

sumptuous, well-appointed table was placed in grandiose fashion at their

disposal. Moreover, he made sure of their attachment and esteem by fees

and enormous pensions. The worthy La Fontaine nibbled like others at the

bait, and at any rate paid his share of the reckoning by the most profuse

gratitude. M. Fouquet had one great defect: he took it into his head

that every woman is devoid of will-power and of resistance if only one

dazzle her eyes with gold. Another prejudice of his was to believe, as

an article of faith, that, if possessed of gold and jewels, the most

ordinary of men can inspire affection.

Making this twofold error his starting-point as a principle that was

incontestable, he was wont to look upon every beautiful woman who

happened to appear on the horizon as his property acquired in advance.

At Madame’s, he saw Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and instantly sent her

his vows of homage and his proposals.

To his extreme astonishment, this young beauty declined to understand

such language. Couched in other terms, he renewed his suit, yet

apparently was no whit less obscure than on the first occasion. Such a

scandal as this well-nigh put him to the blush, and he was obliged to

admit that this modest maiden either affected to be, or really was,

utterly extraordinary.

Perhaps Mademoiselle de la Valliere ought to have had the generosity not

to divulge the proposals made to her; but she spoke about them, so

everybody said, and the King took a dislike to his minister.

Whatever the cause or the real motives for Fouquet’s disgrace, it was

never considered unjust, and this leads me to tell the tale of his mad

folly at Vaux.

The two palaces built by Cardinal Mazarin and the castles built by

Cardinal Richelieu served as fine examples for M. Fouquet. He knew that

handsome edifices embellished the country, and that Maecenas has always

been held in high renown, because Maecenas built a good deal in his day.

He had just built, at great expense, in the neighbourhood of Melun, a

castle of such superb and elegant proportions that the fame of it had

even reached foreign parts. All that Fouquet lived for was show and

pomp. To have a fine edifice and not show it off was as if one only

possessed a kennel.

He spoke of the Castle of Vaux in the Queen’s large drawing-room, and

begged their Majesties to honour by their presence a grand fete that he

was preparing for them.

To invite the royal family was but a trifling matter,--he required

spectators proportionate to the scale of decorations and on a par with

the whole spectacle; so he took upon himself to invite the entire Court

to Vaux.

On reaching Vaux-le-Vicomte, how great and general was our amazement! It

was not the well-appointed residence of a minister, it was not a human

habitation that presented itself to our view,--it was a veritable fairy

palace. All in this brilliant dwelling was stamped with the mark of

opulence and of exquisite taste in art. Marbles, balustrades, vast

staircases, columns, statues, groups, bas-reliefs, vases, and pictures

were scattered here and there in rich profusion, besides cascades and

fountains innumerable. The large salon, octagonal in shape, had a high,

vaulted ceiling, and its flooring of mosaic looked like a rich carpet

embellished with birds, butterflies, arabesques, fruits, and flowers.

On either side of the main edifice, and somewhat in the rear, the

architect had placed smaller buildings, yet all of them ornamented in the

same sumptuous fashion; and these served to throw the chateau itself into

relief. In these adjoining pavilions there were baths, a theatre, a

‘paume’ ground, swings, a chapel, billiard-rooms, and other salons.

One noticed magnificent gilt roulette tables and sedan-chairs of the very

best make. There were elegant stalls at which trinkets were distributed

to the guests,--note-books, pocket-mirrors, gloves, knives, scissors,

purses, fans, sweetmeats, scents, pastilles, and perfumes of all kinds.

It was as if some evil fairy had prompted the imprudent minister to act

in this way, who, eager and impatient for his own ruin, had summoned his

King to witness his appalling system of plunder in its entirety, and had

invited chastisement.

When the King went out on to the balcony of his apartment to make a

general survey of the gardens and the perspective, he found everything

well arranged and most alluring; but a certain vista seemed to him

spoiled by whitish-looking clearings that gave too barren an aspect to

the general coup d’oeil.

His host readily shared this opinion. He at once gave the requisite

instructions, which that very night were executed by torchlight with the

utmost secrecy by all the workmen of the locality whose services at such

an hour it was possible to secure.

When next day the monarch stepped out on to his balcony, he saw a

beautiful green wood in place of the clearings with which on the previous

evening he had found fault.

Service more prompt or tasteful than this it was surely impossible to

have; but kings only desire to be obeyed when they command.

Fouquet, with airy presumption, expected thanks and praise. This,

however, was what he had to hear: “I am shocked at such expense!”

Soon afterwards the Court moved to Nantes; the ministers followed; M.

Fouquet was arrested.

His trial at the Paris Arsenal lasted several months. Proofs of his

defalcations were numberless. His family and proteges made frantic yet

futile efforts to save so great a culprit. The Commission sentenced him

to death, and ordered the confiscation of all his property.

The King, content to have made this memorable and salutary example,

commuted the death penalty, and M. Fouquet learned with gratitude that he

would have to end his days in prison.

Nor did the King insist upon the confiscation of his property, which went

to the culprit’s widow and children, all that was retained being the

enormous sums which he had embezzled.

CHAPTER VII.

Close of the Queen-mother’s Illness.--The Archbishop of Auch.--The

Patient’s Resignation.--The Sacrament.--Court Ceremony for its

Reception.--Sage Distinction of Mademoiselle de Montpensier.--Her

Prudence at the Funeral.

As the Queen-mother’s malady grew worse, the Court left Saint Germain to

be nearer the experts and the Val-de-Grace, where the princess frequently

practised her devotions with members of the religious sisterhood that she

had founded.

Suddenly the cancer dried up, and the head physician declared that the

Queen was lost.

The Archbishop of Auch said to the King, “Sire, there is not an instant

to be lost; the Queen may die at any moment; she should be informed of

her condition, so that she may prepare herself to receive the Sacrament.”

The King was troubled, for he dearly loved his mother. “Monsieur,” he

replied, with emotion, “it is impossible for me to sanction your request.

My mother is resting calmly, and perhaps thinks that she is out of

danger. We might give her her death-blow.”

The prelate, a man of firm, religious character, insisted, albeit

reverently, while the prince continued to object. Then the Archbishop

retorted, “It is not with nature or the world that we have here to deal.

We have to save a soul. I have done my duty, and filial tenderness will

at any rate bear the blame.”

The King thereupon acceded to the churchman’s wishes, who lost no time in

acquainting the patient with her doom.

Anne of Austria was grievously shocked at so terrible an announcement,

but she soon recovered her resignation and her courage; and M. d’ Auch

made noble use of his eloquence when exhorting her to prepare for the

change that she dreaded.

A portable altar was put up in the room, and the Archbishop, assisted by

other clerics, went to fetch the Holy Sacrament from the church of Saint

Germain de l’Auxerrois in the Louvre parish.

The princes and princesses hereupon began to argue in the little closet

as to the proper ceremony to be observed on such occasions. Madame de

Motteville, lady-in-waiting to the Queen, being asked to give an opinion,

replied that, for the late King, the nobles had gone out to meet the Holy

Sacrament as far as the outer gate of the palace, and that it would be

wise to do this on the present occasion.

Mademoiselle de Montpensier interrupted the lady-in-waiting and those who

shared her opinion. “I cannot bring myself to establish such a

precedent,” she said, in her usual haughty tone. “It is I who have to

walk first, and I shall only go half-way across the courtyard of the

Louvre. It’s quite far enough for the Holy Wafer-box; what’s the use of

walking any further for the Holy Sacrament?”

The princes and princesses were of her way of thinking, and the

procession advanced only to the limits aforesaid.

When the time came for taking the Sacred Heart to Val-de-Grace with the

funeral procession, Mademoiselle, in a long mourning cloak, said to the

Archbishop before everybody, “Pray, monsieur, put the Sacred Heart in the

best place, and sit you close beside it. I yield my rank up to you on

the present occasion.” And, as the prelate protested, she added, “I

shall be very willing to ride in front on account of the malady from

which she died.” And, without altering her resolution, she actually took

her seat in front.

CHAPTER VIII.

Cardinal Mazarin.--Regency of Anne of Austria.--Her Perseverance in

Retaining Her Minister.--Mazarin Gives His Nieces in Marriage.--M. de la

Meilleraye.--The Cardinal’s Festivities.--Madame de Montespan’s Luck at a

Lottery.

Before taking holy orders, Cardinal Mazarin had served as an officer in

the Spanish army, where he had even won distinction.

Coming to France in the train of a Roman cardinal, he took service with

Richelieu, who, remarking in him all the qualities of a supple,

insinuating, artificial nature,--that is to say, the nature of a good

politician,--appointed him his private secretary, and entrusted him with

all his secrets, as if he had singled him out as his successor.

Upon the death of Richelieu, Mazarin did not scruple to avow that the

great Armand’s sceptre had been a tyrant’s sceptre and of bronze. By

such an admission he crept into the good graces of Louis XIII., who,

himself almost moribund, had shown how pleased he was to see his chief

minister go before him to the grave.

Louis XIII. being dead, his widow, Anne of Austria, in open Parliament

cancelled the monarch’s testamentary depositions and constituted herself

Regent with absolute authority. Mazarin was her Richelieu.

In France, where men affect to be so gallant and so courteous, how is it

that when women rule their reign is always stormy and troublous? Anne of

Austria--comely, amiable, and gracious as she was--met with the same

brutal discourtesy which her sister-in-law, Marie de Medici, had been

obliged to bear. But gifted with greater force of intellect than that

queen, she never yielded aught of her just rights; and it was her strong

will which more than once astounded her enemies and saved the crown for

the young King.

They lampooned her, hissed her, and burlesqued her publicly at the

theatres, cruelly defaming her intentions and her private life. Strong

in the knowledge of her own rectitude, she faced the tempest without

flinching; yet inwardly her soul was torn to pieces. The barricading of

Paris, the insolence of M. le Prince, the bravado and treachery of

Cardinal de Retz, burnt up the very blood in her veins, and brought on

her fatal malady, which took the form of a hideous cancer.

Our nobility (who are only too glad to go and reign in Naples, Portugal,

or Poland) openly declared that no foreigner ought to hold the post of

minister in Paris. Despite his Roman purple, Mazarin was condemned to be

hanged.

The motive for this was some trifling tax which he had ordered to be

collected before this had been ratified by the magistrates and registered

in the usual way.

But the Queen knew how to win over the nobles. Her cardinal was

recalled, and the apathy of the Parisians put an end to these

dissensions, from which, one must admit, the people and the bourgeoisie

got all the ills and the nobility all the profits.

As comptroller of the list of benefices, M. le Cardinal allotted the

wealthiest abbeys of the realm to himself.

Having made himself an absolute master of finance, like M. Fouquet, he

amassed great wealth. He built a magnificent palace in Rome, and an

equally brilliant one in Paris, conferring upon himself the wealthy

governorships of various towns or provinces. He had a guard of honour

attached to his person, and a captain of the guard in attendance, just as

Richelieu had.

He married one of his nieces to the Prince of Mantua, another to the

Prince de Conti, a third to the Comte de Soissons, a fourth to the

Constable Colonna (an Italian prince), a fifth to the Duc de Mercoeur (a

blood relation of Henri IV.), and a sixth to the Duc de Bouillon. As to

Hortense, the youngest, loveliest of them all,--Hortense, the

beauteous-eyed, his charming favourite,--he appointed her his sole

heiress, and having given her jewelry and innumerable other presents, he

married her to the agreeable Duc de la Meilleraye, son of the marshal of

that name.

Society was much astonished when it came out that M. le Cardinal had

disinherited his own nephew, a man of merit, handing over his name, his

fortune, and his arms to a stranger.

[De Mancini, Duc de Nevers, a relative of the last Duc de Nivernois. He

married, soon after, Madame de Montespan’s niece.--Editor’s Note]

This was an error; in taking the name and arms of Mazarin, young De la

Meilleraye was giving up those which he ought to have given up, and

assuming those which it behove him to assume.

Nor did he retain the great possessions of the La Meilleraye family.

Herein, certainly, he did not consult his devotion; since the secret and

fatherly avowal of M. le Cardinal he had no right whatever to the estates

of this family.

Beneath the waving folds of his large scarlet robe, the Cardinal showed

such ease and certainty of address, that he never put one in mind of a

cardinal and a bishop. To such manners, however, one was accustomed; in

a leading statesman they were not unpleasant.

He often gave magnificent balls, at which he displayed all the

accomplishments of his nieces and the sumptuous splendour of his

furniture. At such entertainments, always followed by a grand banquet,

he was wont to show a liberality worthy of crowned heads. One day, after

the feast, he announced that a lottery would be held in his palace.

Accordingly, all the guests repaired to his superb gallery, which had

just been brilliantly decorated with paintings by Romanelli, and here,

spread out upon countless tables, we saw pieces of rare porcelain,

scent-bottles of foreign make, watches of every size and shape, chains of

pearls or of coral, diamond buckles and rings, gold boxes adorned by

portraits set in pearls or in emeralds, fans of matchless elegance,--in a

word, all the rarest and most costly things that luxury and fashion could

invent.

The Queens distributed the tickets with every appearance of honesty and

good faith. But I had reason to remark, by what happened to myself, that

the tickets had been registered beforehand. The young Queen, who felt

her garter slipping off, came to me in order to tighten it. She handed

me her ticket to hold for a moment, and when she had fastened her garter,

I gave her back my ticket instead of her own. When the Cardinal from his

dais read out the numbers in succession, my number won a portrait of the

King set in brilliants, much to the surprise of the Queen-mother and his

Eminence; they could not get over it.

To me this lottery of the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Changes

[The gallery to which the Marquise alludes is to-day called the

Manuscript Gallery. It belongs to the Royal Library in the Rue de

Richelieu. Mazarin’s house is now the Treasury.]

I brought good luck, and we often talked about it afterwards with the

King, regarding it as a sort of prediction or horoscope.

CHAPTER IX.

Marriage of Monsieur, the King’s Brother.--His Hope of Mounting a

Throne.--His High-heeled Shoes.--His Dead Child.--Saint Denis.

Monsieur would seem to have been created in order to set off his brother,

the King, and to give him the advantage of such relief. He is small in

stature and in character, being ceaselessly busied about trifles,

details, nothings. To his toilet and his mirror, he devotes far more

time than a pretty woman; he covers himself with scents, with laces, with

diamonds.

He is passionately fond of fetes, large assemblies, and spectacular

displays. It was in order to figure as the hero of some such

entertainment that he suddenly resolved to get married.

Mademoiselle--the Grande Mademoiselle--Mademoiselle d’Eu, Mademoiselle de

Dombes, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle de Saint-Fargeau,

Mademoiselle de la Roche-sur-Yon, Mademoiselle d’Orleans--had come into

the world twelve or thirteen years before he had, and they could not

abide each other. Despite such trifling differences, however, he

proposed marriage to her. The princess, than whom no one more determined

exists, answered, “You ought to have some respect for me; I refused two

crowned husbands the very day you were born.”

So the Prince begged the Queen of England to give him her charming

daughter Henrietta, who, having come to France during her unfortunate

father’s captivity, had been educated in Paris.

The Princess possessed an admirable admixture of grace and beauty, wit

being allied to great affability and good-nature; to all these natural

gifts she added a capacity and intelligence such as one might desire

sovereigns to possess. Her coquetry was mere amiability; of that I am

convinced. Being naturally vain, the Prince, her husband, made great use

at first of his consort’s royal coat-of-arms. It was displayed on his

equipages and stamped all over his furniture.

“Do you know, madame,” quoth he gallantly, one day, “what made me

absolutely desire to marry you? It was because you are a daughter and a

sister of the Kings of England. In your country women succeed to the

throne, and if Charles the Second and my cousin York were to die without

children (which is very likely), you would be Queen and I should be

King.”

“Oh, Sire, how wrong of you to imagine such a thing!” replied his wife;

“it brings tears to my eyes. I love my brothers more than I do myself. I

trust that they may have issue, as they desire, and that I may not have

to go back and live with those cruel English who slew my father-in-law.”

The Prince sought to persuade her that a sceptre and a crown are always

nice things to have. “Yes,” replied Henrietta slyly, “but one must know

how to wear them.”

Soon after this, he again talked of his expectations, saying every

minute, “If ever I am King, I shall do so; if ever I am King, I shall

order this; if ever I am King,” etc., etc.

“Let us hope, my good friend,” replied the Princess, “that you won’t be

King in England, where your gewgaws would make people call out after you;

nor yet in France, where they would think you too little, after the

King.”

At this last snub, Monsieur was much mortified. The very next day he

summoned his old bootmaker, Lambertin, and ordered him to put extra heels

two inches high to his shoes. Madame having told this piece of childish

folly to the King, he was greatly amused, and with a view to perplex his

brother, he had his own shoe-heels heightened, so that, beside his

Majesty, Monsieur still looked quite a little man.

The Princess gave premature birth to a child that was scarcely

recognisable; it had been dead in its mother’s womb for at least ten

days, so the doctors averred. Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans, however,

insisted upon having this species of monstrosity baptised.

My sister, De Thianges, who is raillery personified, seeing how

embarrassed was the cure of Saint Cloud by the Prince’s repeated requests

for baptism, gravely said to the cleric in an irresistibly comic fashion,

“Do you know, sir, that your refusal is contrary to all good sense and

good breeding, and that to infants of such quality baptism is never

denied?”

When this species of miscarriage had to be buried, as there was urgent

need to get rid of it, Monsieur uttered loud cries, and said that he had

written to his brother so that there might be a grand funeral service at

Saint Denis.

Of so absurd a proposal as this no notice was taken, which served to

amaze Monsieur for one whole month.

CHAPTER X.

M. Colbert.--His Origin.--He Unveils and Displays Mazarin’s Wealth.--The

Monarch’s Liberality.--Resentment of the Cardinal’s Heirs.

A few moments before he died, Cardinal Mazarin, through strategy, not

through repentance, besought the King to accept a deed of gift whereby he

was appointed his universal legatee. Touched by so noble a resolve, the

King gave back the deed to his Eminence, who shed tears of emotion.

“Sire, I owe all to you,” said the dying man to the young prince, “but I

believe that I shall pay off my debt by giving Colbert, my secretary, to

your Majesty. Faithful as he has been to me, so will he be to you; and

while he keeps watch, you may sleep. He comes from the noble family of

Coodber, of Scottish origin, and his sentiments are worthy of his

ancestors.”

A few moments later the death-agony began, and M. Colbert begged the King

to listen to him in an embrasure. There, taking a pencil, he made out a

list of all the millions which the Cardinal had hidden away in various

places. The monarch bewailed his minister, his tutor, his friend, but so

astounding a revelation dried his tears. He affectionately thanked M.

Colbert, and from that day forward gave him his entire consideration and

esteem.

M. Colbert was diligent enough to seize upon the millions hidden at

Vincennes, the millions secreted in the old Louvre, at Courbevoie and the

other country seats. But the millions in gold, hidden in the bastions of

La Fere, fell into the hands of heirs, who, a few moments after the

commencement of the Cardinal’s death-agony, sent off a valet post-haste.

The Cardinal’s family pretended to know nothing of this affair; but they

could never bear M. Colbert nor any of his kinsfolk. The King, being of

a generous nature, distributed all this wealth in the best and most

liberal manner possible. M. Colbert told him to what use Mazarin meant

to put all these riches; he hoped to have prevailed upon the Conclave to

elect him Pope, with the concurrence of Spain, France, and the Holy

Ghost.

CHAPTER XI.

The Young Queen.--Her Portrait.--Her Whims.--Her Love for the King.--Her

Chagrin.

MARIA THERESA, the King’s new consort, was the daughter of the King of

Spain and Elizabeth of France, daughter of Henri IV. At the time of her

marriage she had lost her mother, and it was King Philip, Anne of

Austria’s brother, who himself presented her to us at Saint Jean de Luz,

where he signed the peace-contract. The Spanish monarch admired his

nephew, the King, whose stalwart figure, comely face, and polished

manners, were, indeed, well calculated to excite surprise.

Anne of Austria had said to him, “My brother, my one fear during your

journey was lest your ailments and the hardships of travel should hinder

you from getting back here again.”

“Was such your thought, sister?” replied the good man. “I would

willingly have come on foot, so as to behold with my own eyes the superb

cavalier that you and I are going to give to my daughter.”

After the oath of peace had been sworn upon the Gospels, there was a

general presentation before the two Kings. Cantocarrero, the Castilian

secretary of state, presented the Spanish notabilities, while Cardinal

Mazarin, in his pontifical robes, presented the French. As he announced

M. de Turenne, the old King looked at him repeatedly. “There’s one,”

quoth he, “who has given me many a sleepless night.”

M. de Turenne bowed respectfully, and both courts could perceive in his

simple bearing his unaffected modesty.

On leaving Spain and the King, young princess was moved to tears. Next

day she thought nothing of it at all. She was wholly engrossed by the

possession of such a King, nor was she at any pains to hide her glee from

us.

Of all her Court ladies I was the most youthful and, perhaps, the most

conspicuous. At the outset the Queen showed a wish to take me into her

confidence but it was the lady-in-waiting who would never consent to

this.

When, at that lottery of the Cardinal’s, I won the King’s portrait, the

Queen-mother called me into her closet and desired to know how such a

thing could possibly have happened. I replied that, during the

garter-incident, the two tickets had got mixed. “Ah, in that case,” said

the princess, “the occurrence was quite a natural one. So keep this

portrait, since it has fallen into your hands; but, for God’s sake, don’t

try and make yourself pleasant to my son; for you’re only too fascinating

as it is. Look at that little La Valliere, what a mess she has got into,

and what chagrin she has caused my poor Maria Theresa!”

I replied to her Majesty that I would rather let myself be buried alive

than ever imitate La Valliere, and I said so then because that was really

what I thought.

The Queen-mother softened, and gave me her hand to kiss, now addressing

me as “madame,” and anon as “my daughter.” A few days afterwards she

wished to walk in the gallery with me, and said to me, “If God suffers me

to live, I will make you lady-in-waiting; be sure of that.”

Anne of Austria was a tall, fine, dark woman, with brown eyes, like those

of the King. The Infanta, her niece, is a very pretty blonde, blue-eyed,

but short in stature.

To her slightest words the Queen-mother gives sense and wit; her

daughter-in-law’s speeches and actions are of the simplest, most

commonplace kind. Were it not for the King, she would pass her life in a

dressing-gown, night-cap, and slippers. At Court ceremonies and on

gala-days, she never appears to be in a good humour; everything seems to

weigh her down, notably her diamonds.

However, she has no remarkable defect, and one may say that she is devoid

of goodness, just as she is devoid of badness. When coming among us, she

contrived to bring with her Molina, the daughter of her nurse, a sort of

comedy confidante, who soon gave herself Court airs, and who managed to

form a regular little Court of her own. Without her sanction nothing can

be obtained of the Queen. My lady Molina is the great, the small, and

the unique counsellor of the princess, and the King, like the others,

remains submissive to her decisions and her inspection.

French cookery, by common consent, is held to be well-nigh perfect in its

excellence; yet the Infanta could never get used to our dishes. The

Senora Molina, well furnished with silver kitchen utensils, has a sort of

private kitchen or scullery reserved for her own use, and there it is

that the manufacture takes place of clove-scented chocolate, brown soups

and gravies, stews redolent with garlic, capsicums, and nutmeg, and all

that nauseous pastry in which the young Infanta revels.

Ever since La Valliere’s lasting triumph, the Queen seems to have got it

into her head that she is despised; and at table I have often heard her

say, “They will help themselves to everything, and won’t leave me

anything.”

I am not unjust, and I admit that a husband’s public attachments are not

exactly calculated to fill his legitimate consort with joy. But,

fortunately for the Infanta, the King abounds in rectitude and

good-nature. This very good-nature it is which prompts him to use all

the consideration of which a noble nature is capable, and the more his

amours give the Queen just cause for anxiety, the more does he redouble

his kindness and consideration towards her. Of this she is sensible.

Thus she acquiesces, and, as much through tenderness as social tact, she

never reproaches or upbraids him with anything. Nor does the King

scruple to admit that, to secure so good-natured a partner, it is well

worth the trouble of going to fetch her from the other end of the world.

CHAPTER XII.

Madame de la Valliere Becomes Duchess.--Her Family is Resigned.--Her

Children Recognised by the King.--Madame Colbert Their Governess.--The

King’s Passion Grows More Serious.--Love and Friendship.

Out of affection and respect for the Queen-mother, the King had until

then sought to conceal the ardour of his attachment for Mademoiselle de

la Valliere. It was after the six months of mourning that he shook off

all restraint, showing that, like any private person, he felt himself

master of his actions and his inclinations.

He gave the Vaujours estate to his mistress, after formally constituting

it a duchy, and, owing to the two children of his duchy, Mademoiselle de

la Valliere assumed the title of Duchess. What a fuss she made at this

time! All that was styled disinterestedness, modesty. Not a bit of it.

It was pusillanimity and a sense of servile fear. La Valliere would have

liked to enjoy her handsome lover in the shade and security of mystery,

without exposing herself to the satire of courtiers and of the public,

and, above all, to the reproaches of her family and relatives, who nearly

all were very devout.

On this head, however, she soon saw that such fears were exaggerated. The

Marquise de Saint-Remy was but slightly scandalised at what was going on.

She and the Marquis de Saint-Remy, her second husband, strictly proper

though they were, came to greet their daughter when proclaimed duchess.

And when, a few days afterwards, the King declared the rank of the two

children to the whole of assembled Parliament, the two families of

Saint-Remy and La Valliere offered congratulations to the Duchess, and

received those of all Paris.

M. Colbert, who owed everything to the King, entrusted Madame Colbert

with the education of the new prince and princess; they were brought up

under the eyes of this statesman, who for everything found time and

obligingness. The girl, lovely as love itself, took the name of

Mademoiselle de Blois, while to her little brother was given the title of

Comte de Vermandois.

It was just about this time that I noticed the beginning of the monarch’s

serious attachment for me. Till then it had been only playful badinage,

good-humoured teasing, a sort of society play, in which the King was

rehearsing his part as a lover. I was at length bound to admit that

chaff of this sort might end in something serious, and his Majesty begged

me to let him have La Valliere for some time longer.

I have already said that, while becoming her rival, I still remained her

friend. Of this she had countless proofs, and when, at long intervals, I

saw her again in her dismal retreat, her good-nature, unchanging as this

was, caused her to receive and welcome me as one welcomes those one

loves.

CHAPTER XIII.

First Vocation of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.--The King Surprises His

Mistress.--She is Forced to Retire to a Convent.--The King Hastens to

Take Her Back.--She Was Not Made for Court Life.--Her Farewell to the

King.--Sacrifice.--The Abbe de Bossuet.

What I am now about to relate, I have from her own lips, nor am I the

only one to whom she made such recitals and avowals.

Her father died when she was quite young, and, when dying, foresaw that

his widow, being without fortune or constancy, would ere long marry

again. To little Louise he was devotedly attached. Ardently embracing

her, he addressed her thus:

“In losing me, my poor little Louise, you lose all. What little there is

of my inheritance ought, undoubtedly, to belong to you; but I know your

mother; she will dispose of it. If my relatives do not show the interest

in you which your fatherless state should inspire, renounce this world

soon, where, separated from your father, there exists for you but danger

and misfortune. Two of my ancestors left their property to the nuns of

Saint Bernard at Gomer-Fontaines, as they are perfectly well aware. Go to

them in all confidence; they will receive you without a dowry even; it is

their duty to do so. If, disregarding my last counsel, you go astray in

the world, from the eternal abodes on high I will watch over you; I will

appear to you, if God empower me to do so; and, at any rate, from time to

time I will knock at the door of your heart to rouse you from your

baleful slumber and draw your attention to the sweet paths of light that

lead to God.”

This speech of a dying father was graven upon the heart of a young girl

both timid and sensitive. She never forgot it; and it needed the fierce,

inexplicable passion which took possession of her soul to captivate her

and carry her away so far.

Before becoming attached to the King, she opened out her heart to me with

natural candour; and whenever in the country she observed the turrets or

the spire of a monastery, she sighed, and I saw her beautiful blue eyes

fill with tears.

She was maid of honour to the Princess Henrietta of England, and I filled

a like office. Our two companions, being the most quick-witted, durst

not talk about their love-affairs before Louise, so convinced were we of

her modesty, and almost of her piety.

In spite of that, as she was gentle, intelligent, and well-bred, the

Princess plainly preferred her to the other three. In temperament they

suited each other to perfection.

The King frequently came to the Palais Royal, where the bright, pleasant

conversation of his sister-in-law made amends for the inevitable boredom

which one suffered when with the Queen.

Being brought in such close contact with the King, who in private life is

irresistibly attractive, Mademoiselle de la Valliere conceived a violent

passion for him; yet, owing to modesty or natural timidity, it was plain

that she carefully sought to hide her secret. One fine night she and two

young persons of her own age were seated under a large oak-tree in the

grounds of Saint Germain. The Marquis de Wringhen, seeing them in the

moonlight, said to the King, who was walking with him, “Let us turn

aside, Sire, in this direction; yonder there are three solitary nymphs,

who seem waiting for fairies or lovers.” Then they noiselessly

approached the tree that I have mentioned, and lost not a word of all the

talk in which the fair ladies were engaged.

They were discussing the last ball at the chateau. One extolled the

charms of the Marquis d’Alincour, son of Villeroi; the second mentioned

another young nobleman; while the third frankly expressed herself in

these terms:

“The Marquis d’Alincour and the Prince de Marcillac are most charming, no

doubt, but, in all conscience, who could be interested in their merits

when once the King appeared in their midst?

“Oh, oh!” cried the two others, laughing, “it’s strange to hear you talk

like that; so, one has to be a king in order to merit your attention?”

“His rank as king,” replied Mademoiselle de la Valliere, “is not the

astonishing part about him; I should have recognised it even in the

simple dress of a herdsman.”

The three chatterers then rose and went back to the chateau. Next day,

the King, wholly occupied with what he had overheard on the previous

evening, sat musing on a sofa at his sister-in-law’s, when all at once

the voice of Mademoiselle de la Beaume-le-Blanc smote his ear and brought

trouble to his heart. He saw her, noticed her melancholy look, thought

her lovelier than the loveliest, and at once fell passionately in love.

They soon got to understand one another, yet for a long while merely

communicated by means of notes at fetes, or during the performance of

allegorical ballets and operettas, the airs in which sufficiently

expressed the nature of such missives.

In order to put the Queen-mother off the scent and screen La Valliere,

the King pretended to be in love with Mademoiselle de la

Mothe-Houdancour, one of the Queen’s maids of honour. He used to talk

across to her out of one of the top-story windows, and even wished her to

accept a present of diamonds. But Madame de Navailles, who took charge

of the maids of honour, had gratings put over the top-story windows, and

La Mothe-Houdancour was so chagrined by the Queen’s icy manner towards

her that she withdrew to a convent. As to the Duchesse de Navailles and

her husband, they got rid of their charges and retired to their estates,

where great wealth and freedom were their recompense after such pompous

Court slavery.

The Queen-mother was still living; unlike her niece, she was not

blindfold. The adventure of Mademoiselle de la Mothe-Houdancour seemed

to her just what it actually was,--a subterfuge; as she surmised, it

could only be La Valliere. Having discovered the name of her confessor,

the Queen herself went in disguise to the Theatin Church, flung herself

into the confessional where this man officiated, and promised him the sum

of thirty thousand francs for their new church if he would help her to

save the King.

The Theatin promised to do what the Queen thus earnestly desired, and

when his fair penitent came to confess, he ordered her at once to break

off her connection with the Court as with the world, and to shut herself

up in a convent.

Mademoiselle de la Valliere shed tears, and sought to make certain

remarks, but the confessor, a man of inflexible character, threatened her

with eternal damnation, and he was obeyed.

Beside herself with grief, La Valliere left by another door, so as to

avoid her servants and her coach. She recollected seeing a little

convent of hospitalieres at Saint Cloud; she went thither on foot, and

was cordially welcomed by these dames.

Next day it was noised abroad in the chateau that she had been carried

off by order of the Queen-mother. During vespers the King seemed greatly

agitated, and no sooner had the preacher ascended the pulpit than he rose

and disappeared.

The confusion of the two Queens was manifest; no one paid any heed to the

preacher; he scarcely knew where he was.

Meanwhile the conquering King had started upon his quest. Followed by a

page and a carriage and pair, he first went to Chaillot, and then to

Saint Cloud, where he rang at the entrance of the modest abode which

harboured his friend. The nun at the turnstile answered him harshly, and

denied him an audience. It is true, he only told her he was a cousin or

a relative.

Seeing that this nun was devoid of sense and of humanity, he bethought

himself of endeavouring to persuade the gardener, who lived close to the

monastery. He slipped several gold pieces into his hand, and most

politely requested him to go and tell the Lady Superior that he had come

thither on behalf of the King.

The Lady Superior came down into the parlour, and recognising the King

from a superb miniature, besought him of his grandeur to interest himself

in this young lady of quality, devoid of means and fatherless, and

consented, moreover, to give her up to him, since as King he so

commanded.

Louise de la Beaume-le-Blanc obeyed the King, or in other words, the

dictates of her own heart, imprudently embarking upon a career of

passion, for which a temperament wholly different from hers was needed.

It is not simple-minded maidens that one wants at Court to share the

confidence of princes. No doubt natures of that sort--simple,

disinterested souls are pleasant and agreeable to them, as therein they

find contentment such as they greedily prize; but for these unsullied,

romantic natures, disillusion, trickery alone is in store. And if

Mademoiselle de la Beaumele-Blanc had listened to me, she might have

turned matters to far better account; nor, after yielding up her youth to

a monarch, would she have been obliged to end, her days in a prison.

The King no longer visited her as his mistress, but trusted and esteemed

her as a friend and as the mother of his two pretty children.

One day, in the month of April, 1674, his Majesty, while in the gardens,

received the following letter, which one of La Valliere’s pages proffered

him on bended knee:

SIRE:--To-day I am leaving forever this palace, whither the cruellest of

fatalities summoned my youth and inexperience. Had I not met you, my

heart would have loved seclusion, a laborious life, and my kinsfolk. An

imperious inclination, which I could not conquer, gave me to you, and,

simple, docile as I was by nature, I believed that my passion would

always prove to me delicious, and that your love would never die. In

this world nothing endures. My fond attachment has ceased to have any

charm for you, and my heart is filled with dismay. This trial has come

from God; of this my reason and my faith are convinced. God has felt

compassion for my unspeakable grief. That which for long past I have

suffered is greater than human force can bear; He is going to receive me

into His home of mercy. He promises me both healing and peace.

In this theatre of pomp and perfidy I have only stayed until such a

moment as my daughter and her youthful brother might more easily do

without me. You will cherish them both; of that I have no doubt. Guide

them, I beseech you, for the sake of your own glory and their well-being.

May your watchful care sustain them, while their mother, humbled and

prostrate in a cloister, shall commend them to Him who pardons all.

After my departure, show some kindness to those who were my servants and

faithful domestics, and deign to take back the estates and residences

which served to support me in my frivolous grandeur, and maintain the

celebrity that I deplore.

Adieu, Sire! Think no more about me, lest such a feeling, to which my

imagination might but all too readily lend itself, only beget links of

sympathy in my heart which conscience and repentance would fain destroy.

If God call me to himself, young though yet I am, He will have granted my

prayers; if He ordain me to live for a while longer in this desert of

penitence, it will never compensate for the duration of my error, nor for

the scandal of which I have been the cause.

Your subject from this time forth, LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE.

The King had not been expecting so desperate a resolve as this, nor did

he feel inclined to hinder her from making it. He left the Portuguese

ambassador, who witnessed his agitation, and hastened to Madame de la

Valliere’s, who had left her apartments in the castle at daybreak. He

shed tears, being kind of heart and convinced that a body so graceful and

so delicate would never be able to resist the rigours and hardships of so

terrible a life.

The Carmelite nuns of the Rue Saint Jacques loudly proclaimed this

conversion, and in their vanity gladly received into their midst so

modest and distinguished a victim, driven thither through sheer despair.

The ceremony which these dames call “taking the dress” attracted the

entire Court to their church. The Queen herself desired to be present at

so harrowing a spectacle, and by a curious contradiction, of which her

capricious nature is capable, she shed floods of tears. La Valliere

seemed gentler, lovelier, more modest and more seductive than ever. In

the midst of the grief and tears which her courageous sacrifice provoked,

she never uttered a single sigh, nor did she change colour once. Hers

was a nature made for extremes; like Caesar, she said to herself, “Either

Rome or nothing!”

The Abbe de Bossuet, who had been charged to preach the sermon of

investiture, showed a good deal of wit by exhibiting none at all. The

King must have felt indebted to him for such reserve. Into his discourse

he had put mere vague commonplaces, which neither touch nor wound any

one; honeyed anathemas such as these may even pass for compliments.

This prelate has won for himself a great name and great wealth by words.

A proof of his cleverness exists in his having lived in grandeur,

opulence, and worldly happiness, while making people believe that he

condemned such things.

CHAPTER XIV.

Story of the Queen-mother’s Marriage with Cardinal Mazarin Published in

Holland.

Despite the endeavours made by the ministers concerning the pamphlet or

volume about which I am going to speak, neither they nor the King

succeeded in quashing a sinister rumour and an opinion which had taken

deep root among the people. Ever since this calumny it believes--and

will always believe--in the twin brother of Louis XIV., suppressed, one

knows not why, by his mother, just as one believes in fairy-tales and

novels. This false rumour, invented by far-seeing folk, is that which

has most affected the King. I will recount the manner in which it

reached him.

Since the disorder and insolence of the Fronde, this prince did not like

to reside in the capital; he soon invented pretexts for getting away from

it. The chateau of the Tuileries, built by Catherine de Medici at some

distance from the Louvre, was, really speaking, only a little

country-house and Trianon. The King conceived the plan of uniting this

structure with his palace at the Louvre, extending it on the Saint Roch

side and also on the side of the river, and this being settled, the

Louvre gallery would be carried on as far as the southern angle of the

new building, so as to form one whole edifice, as it now appears.

While these alterations were in progress, the Court quitted the Louvre

and the capital, and took up its permanent residence at Saint Germain.

Though ceasing to make a royal residence and home of Paris, his Majesty

did not omit to pay occasional visits to the centre of the capital. He

came incognito, sometimes on horseback, sometimes in a coach, and usually

went about the streets on foot. On these occasions he was dressed

carelessly, like any ordinary young man, and the better to ensure a

complete disguise, he kept continually changing either the colour of his

moustache or the colour and cut of his clothes. One evening, on leaving

the opera, just as he was about to open his carriage door, a man

approached him with a great air of mystery, and tendering a pamphlet,

begged him to buy it. To get rid of the importunate fellow, his Majesty

purchased the book, and never glanced at its contents until the following

day.

Imagine his surprise and indignation! The following was the title of his

purchase:

“Secret and Circumstantial Account of the Marriage of Anne of Austria,

Queen of France, with the Abbe Jules Simon Mazarin, Cardinal of the Holy

Roman Church. A new edition, carefully revised. Amsterdam.”

Grave and phlegmatic by nature, the King was always master of his

feelings, a sign, this, of the noble-minded. He shut himself up in his

apartment, so as to be quite alone, and hastily perused the libellous

pamphlet.

According to the author of it, King Louis XIII., being weak and languid,

and sapped moreover by secret poison, had not been able to beget any

heirs. The Queen, who secretly was Mazarin’s mistress, had had twins by

the Abbe, only the prettier of the two being declared legitimate. The

other twin had been entrusted to obscure teachers, who, when it was time,

would give him up.

The princess, so the writer added, stung by qualms of conscience, had

insisted upon having her guilty intimacy purified by the sacrament of

marriage, to which the prime minister agreed. Then, mentioning the names

of such and such persons as witnesses, the book stated that “this

marriage was solemnised on a night in February, 1643, by Cardinal de

Sainte-Suzanne, a brother and servile creature of Mazarin’s.”

“This explains,” added the vile print, “the zeal, perseverance, and

foolish ardour of the Queen Regent in defending her Italian against the

just opposition of the nobles, against the formal charges of the

magistrates, against the clamorous outcry, not only of Parisians, but of

all France. This explains the indifference, or rather the firm resolve,

on Mazarin’s part; never to take orders, but to remain simply ‘tonsure’

or ‘minore’,--he who controls at least forty abbeys, as well as a

bishopric.

“Look at the young monarch,” it continued, “and consider how closely he

resembles his Eminence, the same haughty glance; the same uncontrolled

passion for pompous buildings, luxurious dress and equipages; the same

deference and devotion to the Queen-mother; the same independent customs,

precepts, and laws; the same aversion for the Parisians; the same

resentment against the honest folk of the Fronde.”

This final phrase easily disclosed its origin; nor upon this point had

his Majesty the slightest shadow of a doubt.

The same evening he sent full instructions to the lieutenant-general of

police, and two days afterwards the nocturnal vendor of pamphlets found

himself caught in a trap.

The King wished him to be brought to Saint Germain, so that he might

identify him personally; and, as he pretended to be half-witted or an

idiot, he was thrown half naked into a dungeon. His allowance of dry

bread diminished day by day, at which he complained, and it was decided

to make him undergo this grim ordeal.

Under the pressure of hunger and thirst, the prisoner at length made a

confession, and mentioned a bookseller of the Quartier Latin, who, under

the Fronde, had made his shop a meeting-place for rebels.

The bookseller, having been put in the Bastille, and upon the same diet

as his salesman, stated the name of the Dutch printer who had published

the pamphlet. They sought to extract more from him, and reduced his diet

with such severity that he disclosed the entire secret.

This bookseller, used to a good square meal at home, found it impossible

to tolerate the Bastille fare much longer. Bound hand and foot, at his

final cross-examination he confessed that the work had emanated from the

Cardinal de Retz, or certain of his party.

He was condemned to three years’ imprisonment, and was obliged to sell

his shop and retire to the provinces.

I once heard M. de Louvois tell this tale, and use it as a means of

silencing those who regretted the absence of the exiled

Cardinal-archbishop.

As to the libellous pamphlet itself, the clumsy nature of it was only too

plain, for the King is no more like Mazarin than he is like the King of

Ethiopia. On the contrary, one can easily distinguish in the general

effect of his features a very close resemblance to King Louis XIII.

The libellous pamphlet stated that, on the occasion of the Infanta’s

first confinement, twins were born, and that the prettier of the two had

been adopted, another blunder, this, of the grossest kind. A book of

this sort could deceive only the working class and the Parisian lower

orders, for folk about the Court, and even the bourgeoisie, know that it

is impossible for a queen to be brought to bed in secret. Unfortunately

for her, she has to comply with the most embarrassing rules of etiquette.

She has to bear her final birth-pangs under an open canopy, surrounded at

no great distance by all the princes of the blood; they are summoned

thither, and they have this right so as to prevent all frauds,

subterfuges, or impositions.

When the King found the seditious book in question, the Queen, his

mother, was ill and in pain; every possible precaution was taken to

prevent her from hearing the news, and the lieutenant-general of police,

having informed the King that two-thirds of the edition had been seized

close to the Archbishop’s palace, orders were given to burn all these

horrible books by night, in the presence of the Marquis de Beringhen,

appointed commissioner on this occasion.

CHAPTER XV.

Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans Wishes to be Governor of a Province.--The

King’s Reply.--He Requires a Fauteuil for His Wife.--Another Excellent

Answer of the King’s.

In marrying Monsieur, the King consulted only his well-known generosity,

and the richly equipped household which he granted to this prince should

assuredly have made him satisfied and content. The Chevalier de Lorraine

and the Chevalier de Remecourt, two pleasant and baneful vampires whom

Monsieur could refuse nothing, put it into his head that he should make

himself feared, so as to lead his Majesty on to greater concessions,

which they were perfectly able to turn to their own enjoyment and profit.

Monsieur began by asking for the governorship of a province; in reply he

was told that this could not be, seeing that such appointments were never

given to French princes, brothers of the King.

Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans hastened to point out that Gaston, son of Henri

IV., had had such a post, and that the Duc de Verneuil, natural son of

the same Henri, had one at the present time.

“That is true,” replied the King, “but from my youth upward you have

always heard me condemn such innovations, and you cannot expect me to do

the very thing that I have blamed others for doing. If ever you were

minded, brother, to rebel against my authority, your first care would,

undoubtedly, be to withdraw to your province, where, like Gaston, your

uncle, you would have to raise troops and money. Pray do not weary me

with indiscretions of this sort; and tell those people who influence you

to give you better advice for the future.”

Somewhat abashed, the Duc d’Orleans affirmed that what he had said and

done was entirely of his own accord.

“Did you speak of your own accord,” said the King, “when insisting upon

being admitted to the privy council? Such a thing can no longer be

allowed. You inconsiderately expressed two different opinions, and since

you cannot control your tongue, which is most undoubtedly your own, I

have no power over it,--I, to whom it does not want to belong.”

Then Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans added that these two refusals would seem

less harsh, less painful to him, if the King would grant a seat in his

own apartments, and in those of the Queen, to the Princess, his wife, who

was a king’s daughter.

“No, that cannot be,” replied his Majesty, “and pray do not insist upon

it. It is not I who have established the present customs; they existed

long before you or me. It is in your interest, brother, that the majesty

of the throne should not be weakened or altered; and if, from Duc

d’Orleans, you one day become King of France, I know you well enough to

believe that you would never be lax in this matter. Before God, you and

I are exactly the same as other creatures that live and breathe; before

men we are seemingly extraordinary beings, greater, more refined, more

perfect. The day that people, abandoning this respect and veneration

which is the support and mainstay of monarchies,--the day that they

regard us as their equals,--all the prestige of our position will be

destroyed. Bereft of beings superior to the mass, who act as their

leaders and supports, the laws will only be as so many black lines on

white paper, and your armless chair and my fauteuil will be two pieces of

furniture of the selfsame importance. Personally, I should like to

gratify you in every respect, for the same blood flows in our veins, and

we have loved each other from the cradle upwards. Ask of me things that

are practicable, and you shall see that I will forestall your wishes.

Personally, I daresay I care less about honorary distinctions than you

do, and in Cabinet matters I am always considered to be simpler and more

easy to deal with than such and such a one. One word more, and I have

done. I will nominate you to the governorship of any province you

choose, if you will now consent in writing to let proceedings be taken

against you, just as against any ordinary gentleman, in case there should

be sedition in your province, or any kind of disorder during your

administration.”

Hereupon young Philippe began to smile, and he begged the King to embrace

him.

CHAPTER XVI.

Arms and Livery of Madame de Montespan.--Duchess or Princess.--Fresh

Scandal Caused by the Marquis.--The Rue Saint Honore Affair.--M. de

Ronancour.--Separation of Body and Estate.

When leaving, despite himself, for the provinces, M. de Montespan wrote

me a letter full of bitter insults, in which he ordered me to give up his

coat-of-arms, his livery, and even his name.

This letter I showed to the King. For a while he was lost in thought, as

usual on such occasions, and then he said to me:

“There’s nothing extraordinary about the fellow’s livery. Put your

servants into pale orange with silver lace. Assume your old crest of

Mortemart, and as regards name, I will buy you an estate with a pretty

title.”

“But I don’t like pale orange,” I instantly replied; “if I may, I should

like to choose dark blue, and gold lace, and as regards crest, I cannot

adopt my father’s crest, except in lozenge form, which could not

seriously be done. As it is your gracious intention to give me the name

of an estate, give me (for to you everything is easy) a duchy like La

Valliere, or, better still, a principality.”

The King smiled, and answered, “It shall be done, madame, as you wish.”

The very, next day I went into Paris to acquaint my lawyer with my

intentions. Several magnificent estates were just then in the market,

but only marquisates, counties, or baronies! Nothing illustrious,

nothing remarkable! Duhamel assured me that the estate of Chabrillant,

belonging to a spendthrift, was up for sale.

“That,” said he, “is a sonorous name, the brilliant renown of which would

only be enhanced by the title of princess.”

Duhamel promised to see all his colleagues in this matter, and to find me

what I wanted without delay.

I quitted Paris without having met or recognised anybody, when, about

twenty paces at the most beyond the Porte Saint Honor, certain sergeants

or officials of some sort roughly stopped my carriage and seized my

horses’ bridles “in the King’s name.”

“In the King’s name?” I cried, showing myself at the coach door.

“Insolent fellows! How dare you thus take the King’s name in vain?” At

the same time I told my coachman to whip up his horses with the reins and

to drive over these vagabonds. At a word from me the three footmen

jumped down and did their duty by dealing out lusty thwacks to the

sergeants. A crowd collected, and townsfolk and passers-by joined in the

fray.

A tall, fine-looking man, wrapped in a dressing-gown, surveyed the tumult

like a philosopher from his balcony overhead. I bowed graciously to him

and besought him to come down. He came, and in sonorous accents

exclaimed:

“Ho, there! serving-men of my lady, stop fighting, will you? And pray,

sergeants, what is your business?”

“It is a disgrace,” cried they all, as with one breath. “Madame lets her

scoundrelly footmen murder us, despite the name of his Majesty, which we

were careful to utter at the outset of things. Madame is a person (as

everybody in France now knows) who is in open revolt against her husband;

she has deserted him in order to cohabit publicly with some one else. Her

husband claims his coach, with his own crest and armorial bearings

thereon, and we are here for the purpose of carrying out the order of one

of the judges of the High Court.”

“If that be so,” replied the man in the dressing-gown, “I have no

objection to offer, and though madame is loveliness itself, she must

suffer me to pity her, and I have the honour of saluting her.”

So saying, he made me a bow and left me, without help of any sort, in the

midst of this crazy rabble.

I was inconsolable. My coachman, the best fellow in the world, called

out to him from the top of his bog, “Monsieur, pray procure help for my

mistress,--for Madame la Marquise de Montespan.”

No sooner had he uttered these words than the gentleman came back again,

while, among the lookers-on, some hissing was heard. He raised both

hands with an air of authority, and speaking with quite incredible

vehemence and fire, he successfully harangued the crowd.

“Madame does not refuse to comply with the requirements of justice,” he

added firmly; “but madame, a member of the Queen’s household, is

returning to Versailles, and cannot go thither on foot, or in some

tumbledown vehicle. So I must beg these constables or sergeants (no

matter which) to defer their arrest until to-morrow, and to accept me as

surety. The French people is the friend of fair ladies; and true

Parisians are incapable of harming or of persecuting aught that is

gracious and beautiful.”

All those present, who at first had hissed, replied to this speech by

cries of “Bravo!” One of my men, who had been wounded in the scuffle,

had his hand all bloody. A young woman brought some lavender-water, and

bound up the wound with her white handkerchief, amid loud applause from

the crowd, while I bowed my acknowledgments and thanks.

The King listened with interest to the account of the adventure that I

have just described, and wished to know the name of the worthy man who

had acted as my support and protector. His name was De Tarcy-Ronancour.

The King granted him a pension of six thousand francs, and gave the Abbey

of Bauvoir to his daughter.

As for me, I kept insisting with might and main for a separation of body

and estate, which alone could put an end to all my anxiety. When a

decree for such separation was pronounced at the Chatelet, and registered

according to the rules, I set about arranging an appanage which, from the

very first day, had seemed to me absolutely necessary for my position.

As ill-luck would have it, the judges left me the name of Montespan,

which to my husband was so irksome, and to myself also; and the King,

despite repeated promises, never relieved me of a name that it was very

difficult to bear.

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER XVII.

Monsieur’s Jealousy.--Diplomacy.--Discretion.--The Chevalier de

Lorraine’s Revenge.--The King’s Suspicions.--His Indignation.--Public

Version of the Matter.--The Funeral Sermon.

After six months of wedlock, Henrietta of England had become so beautiful

that the King drew every one’s attention to this change, as if he were

not unmindful of the fact that he had given this charming person to his

brother instead of reserving her for himself by marrying her.

Between cousins german attentions are permissible. The Court, however,

was not slow to notice the attentions paid by the King to this young

English princess, and Monsieur, wholly indifferent though he was as

regarded his wife, deemed it a point of honour to appear offended

thereat. Ever a slave to the laws of good breeding, the King showed much

self-sacrifice in curbing this violent infatuation of his. (I was

Madame’s maid of honour at the time.) As he contemplated a Dutch

expedition, in which the help of England would have counted for much, he

resolved to send a negotiator to King Charles. The young Princess was

her brother’s pet; it was upon her that the King’s choice fell.

She crossed the Channel under the pretext of paying a flying visit to her

native country and her brother, but, in reality, it was to treat of

matters of the utmost importance.

Upon her return, Monsieur, the most curious and inquisitive of mortals,

importuned her in a thousand ways, seeking to discover her secret; but

she was a person both faithful and discreet. Of her interview and

journey he got only such news as was already published on the housetops.

At such reticence he took umbrage; he grumbled, sulked, and would not

speak to his wife.

The Chevalier de Lorraine, who in that illustrious and luckless household

was omnipotent, insulted the Princess in the most outrageous manner.

Finding such daily slights and affronts unbearable, Madame complained to

the Kings of France and England, who both exiled the Chevalier.

Monsieur de Lorraine d’Armagnac, before leaving, gave instructions to

Morel, one of Monsieur’s kitchen officials, to poison the Princess, and

this monster promptly executed the order by rubbing poison on her silver

goblet.

I no longer belonged to Madame’s household,--my marriage had caused a

change in my duties; but ever feeling deep attachment for this adorable

princess, I hastened to Saint Cloud directly news reached me of her

illness. To my horror, I saw the sudden change which had come over her

countenance; her horrible agony drew tears from the most callous, and

approaching her I kissed her hand, in spite of her confessor, who sought

to constrain her to be silent. She then repeatedly told me that she was

dying from the effects of poison.

This she also told the King, whom she perceived shed tears of

consternation and distress.

That evening, at Versailles, the King said to me, “If this crime is my

brother’s handiwork, his head shall fall on the scaffold.”

When the body was opened, proof of poison was obtained, and poison of the

most corrosive sort, for the stomach was eaten into in three places, and

there was general inflammation.

The King summoned his brother, in order to force him to explain so

heinous a crime. On perceiving his mien, Monsieur became pale and

confused. Rushing upon him sword in hand, the King was for demolishing

him on the spot. The captain of the guard hastened thither, and Monsieur

swore by the Holy Ghost that he was guiltless of the death of his dear

wife.

Leaving him a prey to remorse, if guilty he were, the King commanded him

to withdraw, and then shut himself up in his closet to prepare a

consolatory message to the English Court. According to the written

statement, which was also published in the newspapers, Madame had been

carried off by an attack of bilious colic. Five or six bribed physicians

certified to that effect, and a lying set of depositions, made for mere

form’s sake, bore out their statements in due course.

The Abbe de Bossuet, charged to preach the funeral sermon, was apparently

desirous of being as obliging as the doctors. His homily led off with

such fulsome praise of Monsieur, that, from that day forward, he lost all

his credit, and sensible people thereafter only looked upon him as a vile

sycophant, a mere dealer in flattery and fairy-tales.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Madame Scarron.--Her Petition.--The King’s Aversion to Her.--She is

Presented to Madame de Montespan.--The Queen of Portugal Thinks of

Engaging Her.--Madame de Montespan Keeps Her Back.--The Pension

Continued.--The King’s Graciousness.--Rage of Mademoiselle d’Aumale.

As all the pensions granted by the Queen-mother had ceased at her demise,

the pensioners began to solicit the ministers anew, and all the

petitions, as is customary, were sent direct to the King.

One day his Majesty said to me, “Have you ever met in society a young

widow, said to be very pretty, but, at the same time, extremely affected?

It is to Madame Scarron that I allude, who, both before and after

widowhood, has resided at the Marais.”

I replied that Madame Scarron was an extremely pleasant person, and not

at all affected. I had met her at the Richelieus’ or the Albrets’, where

her charm of manner and agreeable wit had made her in universal request.

I added a few words of recommendation concerning her petition, which,

unfortunately, had just been torn up, and the King curtly rejoined, “You

surprise me, madame; the portrait I had given to me of her was a totally

different one.”

That same evening, when the young Marquis d’Alincour spoke to me about

this petition which had never obtained any answer, I requested him to go

and see Madame Scarron as soon as possible, and tell her that, in her own

interest, I should be pleased to receive her.

She lost no time in paying me a visit. Her black attire served only to

heighten the astounding whiteness of her complexion. Effusively thanking

me for interesting myself in her most painful case, she added:

“There is, apparently, some obstacle against me. I have presented two

petitions and two memoranda; being unsupported, both have been left

unanswered, and I have now just made the following resolve, madame, of

which you will not disapprove. M. Scarron, apparently well off, had only

a life interest in his property. Upon his death, his debts proved in

excess of his capital, and I, deeming it my duty to respect his

intentions and his memory, paid off everybody, and left myself nothing.

To-day, Madame la Princesse de Nemours wishes me to accompany her to

Lisbon as her secretary, or rather as her friend.

“Being about to acquire supreme power as a sovereign, she intends, by

some grand marriage, to keep me there, and then appoint me her

lady-in-waiting.”

“And you submit without a murmur to such appalling exile?” I said to

Madame Scarron. “Is such a pretty, charming person as yourself fitted

for a Court of that kind, and for such an odd sort of climate?”

“Madame, I have sought to shut my eyes to many things, being solely

conscious of the horribly forlorn condition in which I find myself in my

native country.”

“Have you reckoned the distance? Did the Princess confess that she was

going to carry you off to the other end of the world? For her city of

Lisbon, surrounded by precipices, is more than three hundred leagues from

Paris.”

“At the age of three I voyaged to America, returning hither when I was

eleven.”

“I am vexed with Mademoiselle d’Aumale for wanting to rob us of so

charming a treasure.

[Mademoiselle d’Aumale, daughter of the Duc de Nemours, of the House of

Savoy. She was a blonde, pleasant-mannered enough, but short of stature.

Her head was too big for her body; and this head of hers was full of

conspiracies and coups d’etat. She dethroned her husband in order to

marry his brother.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

But has she any right to act in this way? Do you think her capable of

contributing to your pleasure or your happiness? This young Queen of

Portugal, under the guise of good-humour, hides a violent and irascible

temperament. I believe her to be thoroughly selfish; suppose that she

neglects and despises you, after having profited by your company to

while away the tedium of her journey? Take my word for it, madame, you

had better stay here with us; for there is no real society but in

France, no wit but in our great world, no real happiness but in Paris.

Draw up another petition as quickly as possible, and send it to me. I

will present it myself, and to tell you this is tantamount to a promise

that your plea shall succeed.”

Mademoiselle d’Aubigne, all flushed with emotion, assured me of her

gratitude with the ingenuous eloquence peculiar to herself. We embraced

as two friends of the Albret set should do, and three days later, the

King received a new petition, not signed with the name of Scarron, but

with that of D’Aubigne.

The pension of two thousand francs, granted three years before her death

by the Queen-mother, was renewed. Madame Scarron had the honour of

making her courtesy to the King, who thought her handsome, but grave in

demeanour, and in a loud, clear voice, he said to her, “Madame, I kept

you waiting; I was jealous of your friends.”

The Queen of Portugal knew that I had deprived her of her secretary,

fellow-gossip, reader, Spanish teacher, stewardess, confidante, and

lady-in-waiting. She wrote to me complaining about this, and on taking

leave of the King to go and reign in Portugal, she said, with rather a

forced air of raillery:

“I shall hate you as long as I live, and if ever you do me the honour of

paying me a visit some day at Lisbon, I’ll have you burned for your

pains.”

Then she wanted to embrace me, as if we were equals, but this I

deprecated as much from aversion as from respect.

CHAPTER XIX.

La Fontaine.--Boileau.--Moliere.--Corneille.--Louis XIV.’s Opinion of

Each of Them.

The King’s studies with his preceptor, Perefixe, had been of only a

superficial sort, as, in accordance with the express order of the

Queen-mother, this prelate had been mainly concerned about the health of

his pupil, the Queen being, above all, desirous that he should have a

good constitution. “The rest comes easily enough, if a prince have but

nobility of soul and a sense of duty,” as the Queen often used to say.

Her words came true.

I came across several Spanish and Italian books in the library of the

little apartments. The “Pastor Fido,” “Aminta,” and the “Gerusalemme,”

seemed to me, at first, to be the favourite works. Then came Voiture’s

letters, the writings of Malherbe and De Balzac, the Fables of La

Fontaine, the Satires of Boileau, and the delightful comedies of Moliere.

Corneille’s tragedies had been read, but not often.

Until I came to Court, I had always looked upon Corneille as the greatest

tragic dramatist in the world, and as the foremost of our poets and men

of letters. The King saved me from this error.

Book in hand, he pointed out to me numberless faults of style, incoherent

and fantastic imagery, sentiment alike exaggerated and a thousand leagues

removed from nature. He considered, and still considers, Pierre

Corneille to be a blind enthusiast of the ancients, whom we deem great

since we do not know them. In his eyes, this declamatory poet was a

republican more by virtue of his head than his heart or his

intention,--one of those men more capricious than morose, who cannot

reconcile themselves to what exists, and prefer to fall back upon bygone

generations, not knowing how to live like friendly folk among their

contemporaries.

He liked La Fontaine better, by reason of his extreme naturalness, but

his unbecoming conduct at the time of the Fouquet trial proved painful to

his Majesty, who considered the following verses passing strange:

“. . . . Trust not in kings Their favour is but slippery; worse than

that, It costs one dear, and errors such as these Full oft bring shame

and scandal in their wake.”

“Long live Moliere!” added his Majesty; “there you have talent without

artifice, poetry without rhapsody, satire without bitterness, pleasantry

that is always apt, great knowledge of the human heart, and perpetual

raillery that yet is not devoid of delicacy and compassion. Moliere is a

most charming man in every respect; I gave him a few hints for his

‘Tartuffe,’ and such is his gratitude that he wants to make out that,

without me, he would never have written that masterpiece.”

“You helped him, Sire, to produce it, and above all things, to carry out

his main idea; and Moliere is right in thinking that, without a mind free

from error, such as is yours, his masterpiece would never have been

created.”

“It struck me,” continued the King, “that some such thing was

indispensable as a counterbalance in the vast machinery of my government,

and I shall ever be the friend and supporter, not of Tartuffes, but of

the ‘Tartuffe,’ as long as I live.”

“And Boileau, Sire?” I continued; “what place among your favourites does

he fill?”

“I like Boileau,” replied the prince, “as a necessary scourge, which one

can pit against the bad taste of second-rate authors. His satires, of

too personal, a nature, and consequently iniquitous, do not please me. He

knows it, and, despite himself, he will amend this. He is at work upon

an ‘Ars Poetica,’ after the manner of Horace. The little that he has

read to me of this poem leads me to expect that it will be an important

work. The French language will continue to perfect itself by the help of

literature like this, and Boileau, cruel though he be, is going to confer

a great benefit upon all those who have to do with letters.”

CHAPTER XX.

Birth of the Comte de Vegin.--Madame Scarron as Governess.--The King’s

Continued Dislike of Her.--Birth of the Duc du Maine.--Marriage of the

Nun.

The King became ever more attached to me personally, as also to the

peculiarities of my temperament. He had witnessed with satisfaction the

birth of Madame de la Valliere’s two children, and I thought that he

would have the same affection for mine. But I was wrong. It was with

feelings of trepidation and alarm that he contemplated my approaching

confinement. Had I given birth to a daughter, I am perfectly certain

that, in his eyes, I should have been done for.

I gave birth to the first Comte de Vegin, and, grasping my hand

affectionately, the King said to me, “Be of good courage, madame; present

princes to the Crown, and let those be scandalised who will!” A few

moments later he came back, and gave me a million for my expenses.

It was, however, mutually arranged that the newborn Infant should be

recognised later on, and that, for the time being, I was to have him

brought up in secrecy and mystery.

When dissuading Madame Scarron from undertaking a journey to Lisbon, I

had my own private ends in view. I considered her peculiarly fitted to

superintend the education of the King’s children, and to maintain with

success the air of mysterious reserve which for a while was indispensable

to me. I deputed my brother, M. de Vivonne, to acquaint her with my

proposals,--proposals which came from the King as well,--nor did I doubt

for one moment as regarded her consent and complacency, being, as she

was, alone in Paris.

“Madame,” said M. de Vivonne to her, “the Marquise is overjoyed at being

able to offer you an important position of trust, which will change your

life once for all.”

“The gentle, quiet life which, thanks to the kindness of the King, I now

lead, is all that my ambition can desire,” replied the widow, concealing

her trouble from my brother; “but since the King wishes and commands it,

I will renounce the liberty so dear to me, and will not hesitate to

obey.”

Accordingly she came. The King had a few moments’ parley with her, in

order to explain to her all his intentions relative to the new life upon

which she was about to enter, and M. Bontems--[First Groom of the

Chamber, and Keeper of the Privy Purse.]--furnished her with the

necessary funds for establishing her household in suitable style.

A month afterwards, I went incognito to her lonely residence, situate

amid vast kitchen-gardens between Vaugirard and the Luxembourg. The

house was clean, commodious, thoroughly well appointed, and, not being

overlooked by neighbours, the secret could but be safely kept. Madame

Scarron’s domestics included two nurses, a waiting-maid, a physician, a

courier, two footmen, a coachman, a postilion, and two cooks.

Being provided with an excellent coach, she came to Saint Germain every

week, to bring me my son, or else news of his welfare.

Her habitually sad expression somewhat pained the King. As I soon

noticed their mutual embarrassment, I used to let Madame Scarron stay in

an inner room all the time that his Majesty remained with me.

In the following year, I gave birth to the Duc du Maine. Mademoiselle

d’Aubigne, who was waiting in the drawing-room, wrapped the child up

carefully, and took it away from Paris with all speed.

On her way she met with an adventure, comic in itself, and which

mortified her much. When told of it, I laughed not a little; and, in

spite of all my excuses and expressions of regret, she always felt

somewhat sore about this; in fact, she never quite got over it.

Between Marly and Ruel, two mounted police officers, in pursuit of a nun

who had escaped from a convent, bethought themselves of looking inside

Madame Scarron’s carriage. Such inquisitiveness surprised her, and she

put on her mask, and drew down the blinds. Observing that she was

closely followed by these soldiers, she gave a signal to her coachman,

who instantly whipped up his horses, and drove at a furious rate.

At Nanterre the gendarmes, being reinforced, cried out to the coachman to

stop, and obliged Madame Scarron to get out. She was taken to a tavern

close by, where they asked her to remove her mask. She made various

excuses for not doing so, but at the mention of the lieutenant-general of

police, she had to give in.

“Madame,” inquired the brigadier, “have you not been in a nunnery?”

“Pray, monsieur, why do you ask?”

“Be good enough to answer me, madame; repeat my question, and I insist

upon a reply. I have received instructions that I shall not hesitate to

carry out.”

“I have lived with nuns, but that, monsieur, was a long while ago.”

“It is not a question of time. What was your motive for leaving these

ladies, and who enabled you to do so?”

“I left the convent after my first communion. I left it openly, and of

my own free will. Pray be good enough to allow me to continue my

journey.”

“On leaving the convent, where did you go?”

“First to one of my relatives, then to another, and at last to Paris,

where I got married.”

“Married? What, madame, are you married? Oh, young lady, what behaviour

is this? Your simple, modest mien plainly shows what you were before

this marriage. But why did you want to get married?”

As he said this, the little Duc du Maine, suffering, perhaps, from a

twinge of colic, began to cry. The brigadier, more amazed than ever,

ordered the infant to be shown as well.

Seeing that she could make no defence, Madame Scarron began to shed

tears, and the officer, touched to pity, said:

“Madame, I am sorry for your fault, for, as I see, you are a good mother.

My orders are to take you to prison, and thence to the convent specified

by the archbishop, but I warn you that if we catch the father of your

child, he will hang. As for you, who have been seduced, and who belong

to a good family, tell me one of your relatives with whom you are on

friendly terms, and I will undertake to inform them of your predicament.”

Madame Scarron, busy in soothing the Duc du Maine, durst not explain for

fear of aggravating matters, but begged the brigadier to take her back to

Saint Germain.

At this juncture my brother arrived on his way back to Paris. He

recognised the carriage, which stood before the inn, with a crowd of

peasants round it, and hastened to rescue the governess, for he soon

succeeded in persuading these worthy police officers that the sobbing

dame was not a runaway nun, and that the new-born infant came of a good

stock.

CHAPTER XXI.

The Saint Denis View.--Superstitions, Apparitions.--Projected Enlargement

of Versailles.--Fresh Victims for Saint Denis.

One evening I was walking at the far end of the long terrace of Saint

Germain. The King soon came thither, and pointing to Saint Denis, said,

“That, madame, is a gloomy, funereal view, which makes me displeased and

disgusted with this residence, fine though it be.”

“Sire,” I replied, “in no other spot could a more magnificent view be

found. Yonder river winding afar through the vast plain, that noble

forest divided by hunting roads into squares, that Calvary poised high in

air, those bridges placed here and there to add to the attractiveness of

the landscape, those flowery meadows set in the foreground as a rest to

the eye, the broad stream of the Seine, which seemingly is fain to flow

at a slower rate below your palace windows,--I do not think that any more

charming combination of objects could be met with elsewhere, unless one

went a long way from the capital.”

“The chateau of Saint Germain no longer pleases me,” replied the King. “I

shall enlarge Versailles and withdraw thither. What I am going to say

may astonish you, perhaps, as it comes from me, who am neither a

whimsical female nor a prey to superstition. A few days before the

Queen, my mother, had her final seizure, I was walking here alone in this

very spot. A reddish light appeared above the monastery of Saint Denis,

and a cloud which rose out of the ruddy glare assumed the shape of a

hearse bearing the arms of Austria. A few days afterwards my poor mother

was removed to Saint Denis. Four or five days before the horrible death

of our adorable Henrietta, the arrows of Saint Denis appeared to me in a

dream covered in dusky flames, and amid them I saw the spectre of Death,

holding in his hand the necklaces and bracelets of a young lady. The

appalling death of my cousin followed close upon this presage.

Henceforth, the view of Saint Denis spoils all these pleasant landscapes

for me. At Versailles fewer objects confront the eye; a park of that

sort has its own wealth of natural beauty, which suffices. I shall make

Versailles a delightful resort, for which France will be grateful to me,

and which my successors can neither neglect nor destroy without bringing

to themselves dishonour.”

I sympathised with the reasons which made Saint Germain disagreeable to

his Majesty. Next summer the causes for such aversion became more

numerous, as the King had the misfortune to lose the daughters which the

Queen bore him, and they were carried to Saint Denis.

CHAPTER XXII.

M. de Lauzun.--His Pretensions.--Erroneous Ideas of the Public.--The War

in Candia.--M. de Lauzun Thinks He Will Secure a Throne for Himself.--The

King Does Not Wish This.

The Marquis de Guilain de Lauzun was, and still is, one of the handsomest

men at Court. Before my marriage, vanity prompted him to belong to the

list of my suitors, but as his reputation in Paris was that of a man who

had great success with the ladies, my family requested him either to come

to the point or to retire, and he withdrew, though unwilling to break

matters off altogether.

When he saw me in the bonds of matrimony, and enjoying its liberty, he

recommenced his somewhat equivocal pursuit of me, and managed to get

himself talked about at my expense. Society was unjust; M. de Lauzun

only dared to pay me homage of an insipid sort. He had success enough in

other quarters, and I knew what I owed to some one as well as what I owed

to myself.

Ambition is the Marquis’s ruling passion. The simple role of a fine

gentleman is, in his eyes, but a secondary one; his Magnificency requires

a far more exalted platform than that.

When he knew that war in Candia had broken out, and which side the kings

of Christendom would necessarily take, his ideas became more exalted

still. He bethought himself of the strange fortunes of certain valiant

warriors in the time of the Crusades. He saw that the Lorraines, the

Bouillons, and the Lusignans had won sceptres and crowns, and he

flattered himself that the name of Lauzun might in this vast adventurous

career gain glory too.

He begged me to get him a command in this army of Candia, wherein the

King had just permitted his own kinsmen to go and win laurels for

themselves. He was already a full colonel of dragoons, and one of the

captains of the guard. The King, who till then liked him well enough,

considered such a proposition indecent, and, gauging or not gauging his

intentions, he postponed until a later period these aspirations of Lauzun

to the post of prince or sovereign.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The Abbe d’Estrees.--Singular Offers of Service.--Madame de Montespan

Declines His Offer of Intercession at the Vatican.--He Revenges Himself

upon the King of Portugal.--Difference between a Fair Man and a Dark.

Since the reign of Gabrielle d’Estrees, who died just as she was about to

espouse her King, the D’Estrees family were treated at Court more with

conventional favour than with esteem. The first of that name was

lieutenant-general, destined to wield the baton of a French marshal, on

account of his ancestry as well as his own personal merit. The Abbe

d’Estrees passed for being in the Church what M. de Lauzun was in

society,--a man who always met with success, and who also was madly

ambitious.

While still very young, he had been appointed to the bishopric of Laon,

which, in conjunction with two splendid abbeys, brought him in a handsome

revenue. The Duc and Duchesse de Vendome were as fond of him as one of

their own kin, doing nothing without first consulting him, everywhere

praising and extolling his abilities, which were worthy of a ministry.

This prelate desired above all things to be made a cardinal. Under Henri

IV. he could easily have had his wish, but at that time he was not yet

born. He imagined that on the strength of my credit he could procure the

biretta for himself.

As soon as he saw me recognised as a mistress, he paid assiduous court to

me, never losing an opportunity of everywhere sounding my praise. One day

he said to me: “Madame, every one pities you on account of the vexation

and grief which the Marquis de Montespan has caused you. If you will

confide in me,--that is, if you will let me represent your interests with

the Cardinals and the Holy Father,--I heartily offer you my services as

mediator and advocate with regard to the question of nullity. At an

early age I studied theology and ecclesiastical law. Your marriage may

be considered null and void, according to this or that point of view. You

know that upon the death of the Princesse de Nemours, Mademoiselle de

Nemours and Mademoiselle d’Aumale, her two daughters, came to reside with

Madame de Vendome, my cousin, a relative and a friend of their mother.

The eldest I first of all married to Duc Charles de Lorraine, heir to the

present Duc de Lorraine. His Majesty did not approve of this marriage,

which was contrary to his politics. His Majesty deigned to explain

himself and open out to me upon the subject. I at once consulted my

books, and found all the means necessary for dissolving such a marriage.

So true, indeed is this, that I forthwith remarried Mademoiselle de

Nemours to the Duc de Savoie. This took place under your very eyes. Soon

afterwards I married her younger sister to the King of Portugal, and

accompanied her to Lisbon, where the Portuguese gave her a fairly warm

reception. Her young husband is tall and fair, with a pleasant,

distinguished face; he loves his wife, and is only moderately beloved in

return. Is she wrong or is she right? Now, I will tell you. The

monarch is well-made, but a childish infirmity has left one whole side of

him somewhat weak, and he limps. Mademoiselle d’Aumale, or to speak more

correctly, the Queen of Portugal, writes letter upon letter to me,

describing her situation. She believed herself pregnant, and had even

announced the news to Madame de Vendome, as well as to Madame de Savoie,

her sister. Now it appears that this is not the case. She is vexed and

disgusted. I am about to join her at Lisbon. She is inclined to place

the crown upon the young brother of the King, requesting the latter to

seek the seclusion of a monastery. I can see that this new idea of the

youthful Queen’s will necessitate my visiting the Vatican. Allow me,

madame, to have charge of your interests. Do not have the slightest fear

but that I shall protect them zealously and intelligently, killing thus

two birds with one stone.”

“Pray accept my humble thanks,” I replied to the Bishop. “The reigning

Sovereign Pontiff has never shown me any favour whatever, and is in

nowise one of my friends. What you desire to do for me at Rome deserves

some signal mark of gratitude in return, but I cannot get you a

cardinal’s hat, for a thousand reasons.

“Mademoiselle de Nemours, when leaving us, promised to hate me as long as

she lived, and to have me burnt at an ‘auto da fe’ whenever she got the

chance. Do not let her know that you have any regard for me, or you

might lose her affection.

“I hope that the weak side of her husband, the King, may get stronger,

and that you will not help to put the young monarch in a convent of

monks.

“In any case, my lord Bishop, do not breathe it to a living soul that you

have told me of such strange resolutions as these; for my own part, I

will safely keep your secret, and pray God to have you in his holy

keeping.”

The Bishop of Laon was not a man to be rebuffed by pleasantry such as

this. He declared the King of Portugal to be impotent, after what the

Queen had expressly stated. The Pope annulled the marriage, and the

Queen courageously wedded her husband’s brother, who had no congenital

weakness of any sort, and who was, as every one knew, of dark complexion.

At the request of the Queen, the Bishop of Laon was afterwards presented

with the hat, and is, today, my lord Cardinal d’Estrees.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Mademoiselle de Valois.--Mademoiselle d’Orleans.--Mademoiselle

d’Alencon.--M. de Savoie.--His Love-letters.--His Marriage with

Mademoiselle de Valois.--M. de Guise and Mademoiselle d’Alencon.--Their

Marriage Ceremony.--Madame de Montespan’s Dog.--Mademoiselle

d’Orleans.--Her Marriage with the Duke of Tuscany.--The Bishop de Bonzy.

By his second wife, Marguerite de Lorraine, Gaston de France had three

daughters, and being devoid of energy, ability, or greatness of

character, they did not object when the King married them to sovereigns

of the third-rate order.

Upon these three marriages I should like to make some remarks, on account

of certain singular details connected therewith, and because of the

joking to which they gave rise.

Mademoiselle de Montpensier had flatly refused the Duc de Savoie, because

Madame de Savoie, daughter of Henri IV., was still living, ruling her

estate like a woman of authority; and therefore, to this stepmother, a

king’s daughter, Mademoiselle had to give way, she being but the daughter

of a French prince who died in disgrace and was forgotten.

Being refused by the elder princess, M. de Savoie, still quite young,

sought the hand of her sister, Mademoiselle de Valois. He wrote her a

letter which, unfortunately, was somewhat singular in style, and which,

unfortunately too, fell into the hands of Mademoiselle de Montpensier.

Like her late father, Gaston, she plumed herself upon her wit and

eloquence; she caused several copies of the effusion to be printed and

circulated at Court. I will include it in these Memoirs, as it cannot

but prove entertaining. The heroes of Greece, and even of Troy, possibly

delivered their compliments in somewhat better fashion, if we may judge

by the version preserved for us by Homer.

FROM HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUC DE SAVOIE TO HIS MOST HONOURED COUSIN,

MADEMOISELLE DE VALOIS.

MY DEAR COUSIN:--As the pen must needs perform the office of the tongue,

and as it expresses the feelings of my heart, I doubt not but that I am

at great disadvantage, since the depth of these feelings it cannot

express, nor rightly convince you that, having given all myself to you,

nothing remains either to give or to desire, save to find such affection

pleasantly reciprocated. Thus, in these lines, I earnestly beseech you

to return my love,--lines which give you the first hints of that fire

which your many lovely qualities have lighted in my soul. They create in

me an inconceivable impatience closely to contemplate that which now I

admire at a distance, and to convince you by various proofs that, with

matchless loyalty and passion,

I am, dear Cousin, Your most humble slave and servant, EMMANUEL.

Gentle as an angel, Mademoiselle de Valois desired just what everybody

else did. The youngest of the three princesses was named Mademoiselle

d’Alencon. With a trifle more wit and dash, she could have maintained

her position at Court, where so charming a face as hers was fitted to

make its mark; but her fine dark eyes did but express indifference and

vacuity, seemingly unconscious of the pleasure to be got in this world

when one is young, good-looking, shapely, a princess of the blood, and

cousin german of the King besides.

Marguerite de Lorraine, her mother, married her to the Duc de Guise,

their near relative, who, without ambition or pretension, seemed almost

astonished to see that the King gave, not a dowry, but a most lovely

verdure--[Drawing-room tapestry, much in vogue at that time]--, and an

enamelled dinner-service.

The marriage was celebrated at the chateau, without any special

ceremonies or preparations; so much so that two cushions, which had been

forgotten, had to be hastily fetched. I saw what was the matter, and

motioning the two attendants of the royal sacristy, I whispered to them

to fetch what was wanted from my own apartment.

Not knowing to what use these cushions were to be put, my ‘valet de

chambre’ brought the flowered velvet ones, on which my dogs were wont to

lie. I noticed this just as their Highnesses were about to kneel down,

and I felt so irresistibly inclined to laugh that I was obliged to retire

to my room to avoid bursting out laughing before everybody.

Fortunately the Guises did not get to know of this little detail until

long after, or they might have imagined that it was a planned piece of

malicious mockery. However, it is only fair to admit that the marriage

was treated in a very off-hand way, and it is that which always happens

to people whose modesty and candour hinder them from posing and talking

big when they get the chance. A strange delusion, truly!

Mademoiselle d’Orleans, the eldest child of the second marriage, is

considered one of the prettiest and most graceful of blondes. Her

endowments were surely all that a princess could need, if one except

reserve in speaking, and a general dignity of deportment.

When it was a question of giving her to Prince de Medici, Grand Duke of

Tuscany, she was all the while sincerely attached to handsome Prince

Charles de Lorraine, her maternal cousin. But the King, who, in his

heart of hearts, wanted to get hold of Lorraine for himself, could not

sanction this union; nay, he did more: he opposed it. Accordingly the

Princess, being urged to do so by her mother, consented to go to Italy,

and as we say at Court, expatriate herself.

The Bishop of Nziers, named De Bonzy, the Tuscan charge d’afaires, came,

on behalf of the Medici family, to make formal demand of her hand, and

had undertaken to bring her to her husband with all despatch. He had

undertaken an all too difficult task.

“Monsieur de Bonzy,” said she to the prelate, “as it is you who here play

the part of interpreter and cavalier of honour as it is you, moreover,

who have to drag me away from my native country, I have to inform you

that it is my intention to leave it as slowly as possible, and to

contemplate it at my leisure before quitting it forever.”

And, indeed, the Princess desired to make a stay more or less long in

every town en route. If, on the way, she noticed a convent of any

importance, she at once asked to be taken thither, and, in default of

other pastime or pretext, she requested them to say complines with full

choral accompaniment.

If she saw some castle or other, she inquired the name of its owner, and,

though she hardly knew the inmates, was wont to invite herself to dinner

and supper.

The Bishop of Beziers grew disconsolate. He wrote letters to the Court,

which he sent by special courier, and I said to the King, “Pray, Sire,

let her do as she likes; she will surely have time enough to look at her

husband later on.”

Near Saint Fargeau, when the Princess heard that this estate was her

sister’s, Mademoiselle sent a gentleman with her compliments, to ask if

she would give her shelter for twenty-four hours. Instead of twenty-four

hours’ stay, she proceeded to take up her abode there; and, provided with

a gun and dogs, she wandered all over the fields, always accompanied by

the worthy Bishop, at whose utter exhaustion she was highly amused.

At length she left her native land, and joined her husband, who seemed

somewhat sulky at all this delay.

“I cannot love you just yet,” quoth she, weeping; “my heart is still

another’s, and it is impossible to break off such attachments without

much time and much pain. Pray treat me with gentleness, for if you are

severe, I shall not do you any harm, but I shall go back to the

Luxembourg to my mother.”

CHAPTER XXV.

Random Recollections.--Madame de Montespan Withdraws from Politics.--The

Queen’s Dowry.--First Campaign in Flanders.--The Queen Meets the

King.--Some One Else Sees Him First.--The Queen’s Anger at La Valliere.

In compiling these Memoirs, I have never pretended to keep a strictly

regular diary, where events are set down chronologically and in their

proper order. I write as I recollect; some of my recollections are

chronicled sooner, and others later. Thus it happens that the King’s

first conquests are only now mentioned in the present chapter, although

they occurred in the year 1667, at the beginning of my credit and my

favour.

I was naturally inclined for politics, and should have liked the hazard

of the game; but I suppose that the King considered me more frivolous and

giddy than I really was, for, despite the strong friendship with which he

has honoured me, he has never been gracious enough to initiate me into

the secrets of the Cabinet and the State.

If this sort of exclusion or ostracism served to wound my self-respect,

it nevertheless had its special advantage for me, for in epochs less

glorious or less brilliant (that is to say, in times of failure), they

could never cavil at advice or counsel which I had given, nor blame me

for the shortcomings of my proteges or creatures.

The King was born ambitious. This prince will not admit it; he gives a

thousand reasons in justification of his conquests. But the desire for

conquest proves him to be a conqueror, and one is not a conqueror without

being ambitious. I think I can explain myself by mentioning the treaty

drawn up at the time of his marriage. It was stipulated that the Infanta

should have rights over the Netherlands, then possessed by Don Balthazar,

Prince of Spain. But it was agreed to give the Princess Maria Theresa a

handsome dowry, in lieu of which she signed a paper renouncing her

rights.

Her father, King Philip IV., died at the close of the year 1665, and the

Queen-mother besought our King not to take advantage of the minority of

the young Charles II., his brother-in-law, by troubling Spain afresh with

his pretensions.

Hardly had Anne of Austria been interred, when the King informed the

Spanish Court of his claims. In the spring of the following year, he

himself led an army into Spanish Flanders, where his appearance was not

expected. These fine provinces, badly provisioned and badly fortified,

made but a merely formal resistance to Conde, Turenne, Crequi, and all

our illustrious generals, who, led by the King in person, wrought the

troops to a wild pitch of enthusiasm.

The King had left the Infanta, his wife, at Compiegne, and it was there

that we awaited either news of the army or orders to advance.

From Compiegne we went to La Fere, where we heard that the King was

coming to receive us. Suddenly it was rumoured that the Duchesse de la

Valliere had just arrived, and that she was acting in accordance with

orders received.

The Queen began to weep, and, sobbing, bewailed her destiny. She was

seized by convulsions and violent retching, much to the alarm of her

ladies and the physicians.

Next day, after mass, the Duchesse and the Marquise de la Valliere came

to make their courtesy to the Queen, who, staring at them, said not a

word. When dinner-time came, she gave orders that no food should be

served to them, but the officials supplied this to them in secret,

fearing to be compromised.

In the coach, the Queen complained greatly of Mademoiselle de la

Valliere, and the Princesse de Bade, one of the ladies-in-waiting, said

to me, “Could you have believed that, with such gentleness, one could

also display such impudence?” The Duchesse de Montausier, I know not

why, expressed herself to me in the same terms of amazement. I replied

that, “Were I in that fair lady’s place, I should dare to show myself

least of all to the Queen, for fear of grieving her Majesty.” I was

often rebuked afterwards for this speech, which, I admit, I delivered

somewhat thoughtlessly.

On leaving La Fere, the Queen gave particular orders to let the Duchess

have no relays, so that she could not follow; but the Master of the Horse

had caused these to be brought to her from Versailles, so nothing was

wanting.

On putting my head out of window, when we turned a corner of the road, I

saw that La Valliere’s coach, with six horses, was following quite close

behind; but I took care not to tell the Queen, who believed those ladies

were a long way off.

All at once, on a height, we saw a body of horsemen approaching. The

King could be plainly distinguished, riding at their head. La Valliere’s

coach immediately left the main road, and drove across country, while the

Queen called out to have it stopped; but the King embraced its occupants,

and then it drove off at a gallop to a chateau already fixed upon for its

reception.

I like to be just, and it is my duty to be so. This mark of irreverence

towards the Queen is the only one for which Mademoiselle de la Valliere

can be blamed; but she would never have done such a thing of her own

accord; it was all the fault of the Marquise, blinded as she was by

ambition.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The King Contemplates the Conquest of Holland.--The Grand Seignior’s

Embassy.--Madame de Montespan’s Chance of Becoming First Lady of the

Harem.--Anxiety to Conclude Negotiations with so Passionate an

Ambassador.--Help Sent to Candia.--With Disastrous Results.--Death of the

Duc de Beaufort.--Why It Is Good to Carry About the Picture of One’s

Lady-love.

Having gained possession of the Netherlands in the name of the Infanta,

his consort, the King seriously contemplated the subjugation of the

Dutch, and possibly also the invasion of these rich countries. Meanwhile,

he privately intimated as much to the princes of Europe, promising to

each of them some personal and particular advantage in exchange for a

guarantee of assistance or neutrality in this matter.

The Grand Seignior, hearing that the Pope and the Venetians were urging

our Cabinet to come to the help of Candia, lost no time in sending a

splendid embassy to Paris, to congratulate the young King upon his

conquest of Flanders, and to predict for him all success in the paths

along which ambition might lead him.

[This important island of Candia, the last powerful bulwark of

Christendom against the Turk, belonged at that time to Venice. EDITOR’S

NOTE.]

Being naturally fond of show and display, the King left nothing undone

which might give brilliance to the reception of so renowned an embassy.

The Court wore an air of such splendour and magnificence that these

Mussulmans, used though they were to Asiatic pomp, seemed surprised and

amazed at so brilliant a reception, at which nothing, indeed, had been

forgotten.

The ambassador-in-chief was a pleasant young man, tall, shapely, and

almost as good-looking as the King. This Turk had splendidly shaped

hands, and eyes that shone with extraordinary brilliance. He conceived

an ardent passion for me, a passion that went to such lengths that he

sacrificed thereto all his gravity, all his stately Ottoman demeanour.

When I passed by, he saluted me, placing his hand to his heart, stopping

to gaze at me intently, and watch me as long as possible. Being

introduced (either by chance or design) to my Paris jeweller, he seized a

gold box upon which he saw my portrait, and, giving the jeweller a

considerable sum, refused to part with the picture, however much they

begged him to do so.

One fine morning, in spite of his turban, he got into the large chapel of

the chateau during mass, and while the Court of France was adoring the

true God, Ibrahim knelt down in front of me, which made every one laugh,

including the King.

All such absurdities caused the ministers to give him the required reply

with all speed, and they were not backward in granting him a farewell

audience.

When the time came for him to go, Ibrahim burst into tears, exclaiming

that, in his country, I should be in the first rank, whereas at Saint

Germain I was only in the second; and he charged his interpreter to tell

the King of France that the unhappy Ibrahim would never get over this

visit to his Court.

The King replied, with a smile, that he had “better become a Christian,

and stay with us.”

At these words the ambassador turned pale, and glancing downwards,

withdrew, forgetting to salute his Majesty.

Then he returned, and made all his bows quite nicely; nor would he quit

the capital before he had sent me his portrait, some pretty verses in

Italian, which he had caused to be composed, and besides this, a set of

amber ornaments, the most beautiful of any worn by ladies of the harem.

Despite this imposing and costly embassy, despite the ambassador’s

compliment, who referred to the King as “Eldest Son of the Sun,” this

same Son of the Sun despatched seven thousand picked troops to help

Venice against the Turks. To this detachment the Venetian Republic sent

fourteen vessels laden with their own soldiers, under the leadership of

our Duc de Beaufort, Grand Admiral of France, and Lieutenant-General Duc

de Navailles.

Had these troops arrived in the nick of time, they would have saved

Candia, but by a sudden accident all was lost, and after so terrible a

reverse, the Isle of Candia, wrested from the potentates of Europe and

Christendom, fell a prey to the infidels.

A pistol-shot fired at a Turk blew up several barrels of gunpowder

belonging to a large magazine captured from the enemy. Our troops,

thinking that a mine had been sprung, fled in headlong confusion, never

even caring to save their muskets. The Turks butchered them in the most

frightful manner. In this huge massacre, some of our most promising

officers perished, and the Duc de Beaufort was never found either among

the wounded or the slain.

The young Comte de Guiche, of whom I shall presently speak, had his hand

smashed, and if on his breast he had not worn a portrait of Madame,--[The

ill-fated Duchesse d’Orleans.]--the sword of a Turk would have struck him

to the heart.

The King felt sorry that he had only despatched seven thousand men

thither. But when M. de Louvois informed him that the whole detachment

had been almost annihilated, he regretted having sent so many.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Danger of Harbouring a Malcontent.--The King’s Policy with Regard to

Lorraine.--Advice of Madame de Thianges.--Conquest of Lorraine.--The

Lorraines Surrender to the Emperor.

The petty princes placed too near a great potentate are just like the

shrubs that grow beside an old oak tree, whose broad shade blights them,

while its roots undermine and sap them, till at last they are weakened

and destroyed.

When young Gaston, son of Henri IV., seeking to get free from Richelieu’s

insolent despotism, withdrew to the Duc de Lorraine, the Cardinal uttered

a cry of joy, and remarked to Louis XIII., that vindictive, jealous

prince, “Oh, what a good turn the Duc d’Orleans has just done you to-day!

By going to stay with M. de Lorraine, he will oust him!”

The Court soon got to know that M. de Lorraine had given Monsieur a most

cordial reception, and that the latter, who, like his father, was very

susceptible, had proposed for the hand of the Princesse Marguerite, a

charming person, and sister to the reigning Duke.

King Louis XIII. openly opposed this marriage, which nevertheless was

arranged for, and celebrated partly at Nancy and partly at Luneville.

Such complacence earned for M. de Lorraine the indignation of the King

and his minister, the Cardinal. They waged against him a war of revenge,

or rather of spoliation, and as the prince, being unable then to offer

any serious resistance, was sensible enough to surrender, he got off with

the sacrifice of certain portions of his territory. He also had to

witness the demolition by France of the fine fortifications of Nancy.

Things were at this juncture when our young King assumed the management

of affairs. The policy pursued by Louis XIII. and his Cardinal seemed to

him an advantageous one, also; he lured to his capital M. de Lorraine,

who was still young and a widower, and by every conceivable pretext he

was prevented from marrying again. Lorraine had a nephew,--[Prince

Charles.]--a young man of great promise, to whom the uncle there and then

offered to make over all his property and rights, if the King would

honour him with his protection and marry him to whomsoever he fancied.

The King would not consent to a marriage of any kind, having a firm,

persistent desire in this way to make the line of these two princes

extinct.

I was talking about this one day in the King’s chamber, when my sister De

Thianges had the hardihood to say:

“I hear that the Messieurs de Lorraine are about to take their departure,

and that, having lost all hope of making themselves beloved, they have

resolved to make themselves feared.”

The King looked impassively at my sister, showing not a sign of emotion,

and he said to her:

“Do you visit there?”

“Sire,” replied Madame de Thianges, unabashed, “augment the number, not

of your enemies, but of your friends; of all policies that is the best.”

The King never said a word.

Soon afterwards, the Lorraines appealed secretly to the Empire and the

Emperor. The King was only waiting for such an opportunity; he forthwith

sent Marshal de Crequi at the head of twenty thousand men, who invaded

Lorraine, which had already been ravaged, and the Duchy of Bar, which had

not.

The manifesto stated the motives for such complaint, alleging that the

Duke had not been at the pains to observe the Treaty of Metz with regard

to the surrender of Harsal, and, as a punishment, his entire sovereignty

would be confiscated.

A large army then marched upon Peronne; it had been formed at Saint

Germain, and was divided into two columns. The first went to join the

Duc de Crequi, who occupied Lorraine; the other took up its position near

Sedan, to keep the Flemish and Dutch in check in case of any attempted

rebellion.

The Lorraines, in despair, gave themselves up to the Emperor, who, aware

of their fine soldierly qualities, bestowed upon both high posts of

command. They caused great losses to France and keen anxiety to her

King.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Embassy of the King of Arda.--Political Influence Exercised by the Good

Looks of Madame de Montespan.--Gifts of the Envoys.--What the Comte de

Vegin Takes for a Horse.--Madame de Montespan Entertains Them in Her Own

House.--Three Missionaries Recommend Her to Them.

From the wilds of Africa, the King of Arda sent an embassy no less

brilliant and far more singular than that of the Turks. This African

prince, hearing of the French King’s noble character and of his recent

conquests, proposed to form with him a political and commercial alliance,

and sought his support against the English and the Dutch, his near

neighbours.

The King said to me; “Madame, I believe Ibrahim has proclaimed your

charms even to the Africans; you bring embassies to me from the other end

of the globe. For Heaven’s sake, don’t show yourself, or these new

envoys will utterly lose their heads, too.”

The envoys referred to were notable for their rich, semibarbaric dress,

but not one of them was like Ibrahim. They brought the King a present,

in the shape of a tiger, a panther, and two splendid lions. To the Queen

they gave a sort of pheasant covered with gold and blue feathers, which

burst out laughing while looking intensely grave, to the great diversion

of every one. They also brought to the princess a little blackamoor,

extremely well-made, who could never grow any bigger, and of which she,

unfortunately, grew very fond.--[Later on the writer explains herself

more fully.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

These Africans also came in ceremonious fashion to present their respects

to me. They greeted me as the “second spouse of the King” (which greatly

offended the Queen), and in the name of the King of Arda, they presented

me with a necklace of large pearls, and two bracelets of priceless

value,--splendid Oriental sapphires, the finest in the world.

I gave orders for my children to be brought to them. On seeing these,

they prostrated themselves. The little Comte de Vein, profiting by their

attitude, began to ride pick-a-back on one of them, who did not seem

offended at this, but carried the child about for a little while.

The ceremony of their presentation will, doubtless, have been described

in various other books; but I cannot forbear mentioning one incident. As

soon as the curtains of the throne were drawn aside, and they saw the

King wearing all his decorations and ablaze with jewels, they put their

hands up to their eyes, pretending to be dazzled by the splendour of his

presence, and then they flung themselves down at full length upon the

ground, the better to express their adoration.

I invited them to visit me at the Chateau de Clagny, my favourite

country-seat, and there I caused a sumptuous collation to be served to

them in accordance with their tastes. Plain roast meat they ate with

avidity; other dishes seemed to inspire them with distrust,--they looked

closely at them, and then went off to something else.

I do not interfere in affairs of State, but I wanted to know from what

source in so remote a country they could have obtained any positive

information as to the secrets of the Court of France. Through the

interpreter, they replied that three travellers--missionaries--had stayed

for a couple of months with their master, the King of Arda, and the good

fathers had told them “that Madame de Montespan was the second spouse of

the great King.” These same missionaries had chosen the sort of presents

which they were to give me.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Comte de Vegin, Abbe of Saint Germain des Pres.--Revenues Required, but

Not the Cowl.--Discussion between the King and the Marquise.--Madame

Scarron Chosen as Arbiter.--An Unanswerable Argument.

The wealthy abbey of Saint Germain des Pres--[Yielding a revenue of five

hundred thousand livres.]--was vacant; the King appointed thereto his

son, the Comte de Vegin, and as the Benedictine monks secretly complained

that they should have given to them as chief a child almost still in its

cradle, the King instructed the grand almoner to remind them that they

had had as abbes in preceding reigns princes who were married and of

warlike tastes. “Such abuses,” said the prelate, “were more than

reprehensible; his Majesty is incapable of wishing to renew them. As to

the Prince’s extreme youth, that is in no way prejudicial to you, my

brethren, as monseigneur will be suitably represented by his

vicar-general until such time as he is able to assume the governorship

himself.”

“Is it your intention to condemn my son to be an ecclesiastic?” I asked

the King, in amazement.

“Madame, these are my views,” he answered: “If the Comte de Vegin as he

grows up should continue to show pluck and a taste for things military,

as by birth he is bound to do, we will relieve him of the abbey on the

eve of his marriage, while he will have profited thereby up to that time.

If, on the contrary, my son should show but inferior mental capacity, and

a pusillanimous character, there will be no harm in his remaining among

the Church folk; he will be far better off there than elsewhere. The

essential thing for a parent is to study carefully and in good time the

proper vocation for his children; the essential thing for the ruler of an

Empire is to employ the right people to do the work in hand.”

“Will my son, on receiving this abbey, have to wear the dress of his

office?” I asked. “Imagine the Comte de Vegin an abbe!”

“Do not feel the slightest repugnance on that score,” added the King.

“The Electors of the German Empire are nearly all of them ecclesiastics;

our own history of France will show you that the sons of kings were

bishops or mere abbes; the grandson of the Duc de Savoie is a cardinal

and an archbishop, and King Charles X., my grandfather’s paternal uncle,

nearly became King of France and cardinal at one and the same time.”

At this moment Madame Scarron came in. “Madame, we will make you our

judge in the argument that we are now having,” said his Majesty. “Do you

think there is any objection to our giving to little Vegin the dress of

an abbe?”

“On the contrary, Sire,” replied the governess, smiling, “such a dress

will inspire him betimes with reserve and modesty, strengthening his

principles, and making far more profitable to him the excellent education

which he is now receiving.”

“I am obliged to you for your opinion,” said the King, “and I flatter

myself, madame, that you see things in the same light that I do.”

When the King had gone, Madame Scarron asked me why I disapproved of this

abbey.

“I do not wish to deny so rich a benefice to my son,” I replied, “but it

seems to me that he might enjoy the revenues therefrom, without being

obliged to wear the livery. Is not the King powerful enough to effect

this?”

“You are hardly just, madame,” replied the governess, in a serious tone.

“If our religion be a true one, God himself is at the head of it, and for

so supreme a Chief the sons of kings are but of small account.”

With an argument such as this she closed my mouth, leaving me quite

amazed, and next day she smiled with delight when she presented the

little Comte de Vegin dressed as a little abbe.

She was careful to see that the crozier, mitre, and cross were painted on

the panels of his carriage, and let the post of vicar-general be given to

one of her pious friends who was presented to me.

CHAPTER XXX.

Once a Queen, Always a Queen.--An Anonymous Letter.--The Queen’s

Confidence.--She Has a Sermon Preached against Madame de Montespan.--Who

the Preacher was.--One Scandal May Avert Another.

I related how, near La Fere, at the time of the Flanders campaign, Madame

de la Valliere’s coach, at the risk of offending the Queen, left the main

road and took a short cut across country, so as to get on ahead, and

arrive before anybody else. By this the Duchess thought to give her

royal friend a great mark of her attachment. On the contrary, it was the

first cause for that coolness which the King afterwards displayed.

“Fain would he be beloved, yet loved with tact.”

The very next day his Majesty, prevailed upon La Valliere to say that

such a style of travelling was too fatiguing for her. She had the honour

of dining with the Queen, and then she returned to the little chateau of

Versailles, so as to be near her children.

The King arranged with Madame de Montausier, lady-in-waiting to the

Queen, that I should use her rooms to dress and write in, and that his

Majesty should be free to come there when he liked, and have a quiet chat

with me about matters of interest.

The Queen, whom I had managed to please by my amusing talk, always kept

me close to her side, both when taking long walks or playing cards. At a

given signal, a knock overhead, I used to leave the Queen, excusing

myself on the score of a headache, or arrears of correspondence; in

short, I managed to get away as best I could.

The King left us in order to capture Douai, then Tournay, and finally the

whole of Flanders; while the Queen continued to show me every sign of her

sincere and trustful friendship.

In August, on the Day of Our Lady, while the King was besieging Lille, a

letter came to the Queen, informing her that her husband had forsaken

Madame de la Valliere for her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de

Montespan. Moreover, the anonymous missive named “the prudent Duchesse

de Montausier” as confidante and accomplice.

“It is horrible--it is infamous!” cried the Queen, as she flung aside the

letter. “I shall never be persuaded that such is the case. My dear

little Montespan enjoys my friendship and my esteem; others are jealous

of her, but they shall not succeed. Perhaps the King may know the

handwriting; he shall see it at once!” And that same evening she

forwarded the letter to him.

The Comte de Vegin had been born, and the Queen was absolutely ignorant

of his existence. My pregnancy with the Duc du Maine had likewise

escaped her notice, owing to the large paniers which I took to wearing,

and thus made the fashion. But the Court is a place where the best of

friends are traitors. The Queen was at length convinced, after long

refusing to be so, and from that day forward she cordially detested me.

While the King was conquering Holland, she instructed her chief almoner

to have a sermon of a scandalous sort to be preached, which, delivered

with all due solemnity in her presence, should grieve and wound me as

much as possible.

On the day appointed, a preacher, totally unknown to us, gets into the

pulpit, makes a long prayer for the guidance of the Holy Ghost, and then,

rising gracefully, bows low to the Queen. Raising his eyes to heaven, he

makes the sign of the cross and gives out the following text: “Woman,

arise and sin no more. Go hence; I forgive thee.”

As he uttered these words, he looked hard at my pew, and soon made me

understand by his egordium how interesting his discourse would be to me.

Written with rare grace of style, it was merely a piece of satire from

beginning to end,--of satire so audacious that it was constantly levelled

at the King.

The orator brought before us in succession lifelike portraits of the

Queen, of her august spouse, of my children, of M. de Montespan, and of

myself. Upon some he lavished praise; others he vehemently rebuked;

while to others he gave tender pity. Anon he caused the lips of his

hearers to curl in irony, and again, roused their indignation or touched

them to tears.

Any one else would have been bored by such a rigmarole; it rather amused

me.

That evening, and for a week afterwards, nothing else but this sermon was

talked of at Versailles. The Queen had received complete satisfaction.

Before me she was at pains not to laugh, and I was pleased to see that

her resentment had almost disappeared.

Upon his return, the King was for punishing such an offence as this.

Things are not easily hidden from him; his Majesty desired to know the

name and rank of the ecclesiastic. The entire Court replied that he was

a good-looking young Franciscan.

The chief almoner, being forced to state the monastery from which the

preacher came, mentioned the Cordeliers of Paris. There it transpired

that the monk told off by the prior for this enterprise had been too

frightened to execute it, and had sent, as his deputy, a young actor from

Orleans,--a brother of his, who thus could not say no.

So, as it happened, Queen Maria Theresa and her chief almoner (an

exemplary person) had caused virtue to be preached to me by a young

play-actor! The King dared not take further proceedings in so strange a

matter, for fear lest one scandal might beget a far greater one. It was

this that caused Madame Cornuel to remark, “The pulpit is in want of

comedians; they work wonders there!”

CHAPTER XXXI.

The King Alters His Opinion about Madame Scarron.--He Wants Her to Assume

Another Name.--He Gives Her the Maintenon Estates.--She and Madame de

Montespan Visit These.--A Strange Story.

At first the King used to feel afraid of Madame Scarron, and seemingly

laughed at me when I endeavoured to persuade him that there was nothing

affected or singular about her. The Marquis de Beringhen, for some

reason or other, had prejudiced his Majesty against her, so that very

often, when the King heard that she was visiting me, he never got beyond

the vestibule, but at once withdrew. One day she was telling me, in her

pleasant, original way, a funny tale about the famous Brancas, and I

laughed till I cried again,--in fact, until I nearly made myself quite

ill.

The King, who was listening at the door, was greatly tickled by the

story. He came in smiling and thoroughly self-possessed. Then,

addressing the governess, he said, “Madame, allow me to compliment you

and to thank you at the same time. I thought you were of a serious,

melancholy disposition, but as I listened to you through the keyhole, I

am no longer surprised that you have such long talks with the Marquise.

Will you do me the favour of being as amusing some other time, if I

venture to make one of the party?”

The governess, courtesying, blushed somewhat; and the King continued,

“Madame, I am aware of your affection for my children; that is a great

recommendation to me; banish all restraint; I take the greatest pleasure

in your company.”

She replied, “It was the fear of displeasing you which, despite myself,

caused me to incur your displeasure.”

The King continued, “Madame, I know that the late M. de Scarron was a man

of much wit and also of agreeable manners. My cousin, De Beaufort, used

to rave about him, but on account of his somewhat free poems, his name

lacks weight and dignity. In fact, his name in no way fits so charming a

personality as yours; would it grieve you to change it?”

The governess cleverly replied that all that she owed to the memory of

her defunct husband was gratitude and esteem.

“Allow me, then, to arrange matters,” added the King. “I am fond of

sonorous names; in this I agree with Boileau.”

A few days afterwards we heard that the splendid Maintenon estates were

for sale. The King himself came to inform the widow of this, and, giving

her in advance the fee for education, he counted out a hundred thousand

crowns wherewith instantly to purchase the property.

Forthwith the King compelled her to discard this truly ridiculous

author’s name, and styled her before everybody Madame de Maintenon.

I must do her the justice to state that her gratitude for the King’s

liberality was well-nigh exaggerated, while no change was perceptible in

her manners and bearing. She had, naturally, a grand, dignified air,

which was in strange contrast to the grotesque buffoonery of her

poet-husband. Now she is exactly in her proper place, representing to

perfection the governess of a king’s children.

Spiteful persons were wont to say that I appeared jealous on seeing her

made a marquise like myself. Good gracious, no! On the contrary, I was

delighted; her parentage was well known to me. The Duchesse de

Navailles, my protectress, was a near relative of hers, and M. d’Aubigne,

her grandfather, was one of King Henri’s two Chief Gentlemen of the

Chamber.

Madame de Maintenon’s father was, in many respects, greatly to blame.

Without being actually dishonest, he squandered a good deal of his

fortune, the greater part being pounced upon by his family; and had the

King forced these harpies to disgorge, Madame de Maintenon could have

lived in opulence, eclipsing several of the personages at Court.

I am glad to be able to do her justice in these Memoirs, to the

satisfaction of my own self-respect. I look upon her as my own

handiwork, and everything assures me that this is her conviction also,

and that she will always bear it in mind.

The King said to us, “Go and see the Chateau de Maintenon, and then you

can tell me all about it. According to an old book, I find that it was

built in the reign of Henri II. by Nicolas de Cointerot, the King’s

minister of finance; a ‘surintendant’s’ castle ought to form a noteworthy

feature of the landscape.”

Madame de Maintenon hereupon told us a most extraordinary story. The

lady who sold this marquisate had retired two years previously to the

island of Martinique, where she, at the present moment, owned the

residence of Constant d’Aubigne, the same house where the new Marquise de

Maintenon had spent her childhood with her parents, so that while one of

these ladies had quitted the Chateau de Maintenon in order to live in

Martinique, the other had come from Martinique in order to reside at the

Chateau de Maintenon. Truly, the destinies of some are strange in this

world.

The chateau appeared to be large, of solid proportions, and built in a

grandly simple style, befitting a minister of dignity and position. The

governess shed tears of emotion when setting foot there for the first

time. The six priests, whom the surintendant had appointed, officiated

in the large chapel or little church attached to the castle.

They approached us in regular procession, presenting holy water, baskets

of flowers and fruit, an old man, a child, and two little lambs to the

Marquise. The villagers, dressed out with flowers and ribbons, also came

to pay, their respects to her. They danced in the castle courtyard,

under our balcony, to the sound of hautbois and bagpipes.

We gave them money, said pleasant things to everybody, and invited all

the six clerics to sup with us. These gentry spoke with great respect of

the other Madame de Maintenon, who had become disgusted with her

property, and with France generally, because, for two winters running,

her orange-groves and fig-trees had been frost-bitten. She herself,

being a most chilly, person, never left off her furs until August, and in

order to avoid looking at or walking upon snow and ice, she fled to the

other end of the world.

“The other extreme will bring her back to us,” observed Madame de

Maintenon to the priests. “Though his Majesty were to give me Martinique

or Saint Domingo, I certainly would never go and live there myself.”

When we returned, all these little details greatly amused the King. He,

too, wanted to go and see the castle of another Fouquet, but, as we

complained of the bad roads, he ordered these to be mended along the

entire route.

CHAPTER XXXII.

The Second Comte de Vexin.--He is made Abbe of Saint Denis.--Priests or

Devils?--The Coronation Diadem.--Royalty Jokes with the Monks.

My poor little Comte de Vegin died. We all mourned for him as he

deserved; his pretty face would have made every one love him; his extreme

gentleness had nothing of the savage warrior about it, but at any rate,

he was the best-looking cardinal in Christendom. He made such funny

speeches that one could not help recollecting them. He was more of a

Mortemart than a Bourbon, but that did not prevent the King from

idolising him.

The King thought of conferring the Abbey of Saint Germain des Pres upon

his younger brother; to this I was opposed, imagining, perhaps without

reason, that such succession would bring bad luck. So the King presented

him to the Abbey of Saint Denis, the revenue of which was equally

considerable, and he conferred upon him the title of Comte de Vexin,

caring nothing for the remarks I made concerning the similarities of such

names and distinctions.

The second Comte de Vegin bid fair to be a man of reflection and of

genius. He obviously disliked his little abbe’s dress, and we always

kept saying, “It’s only for the time being, my little fellow.”

When, after his nomination, the monks of Saint Denis came to make their

obeisance to him, he asked if they were devils, and continually covered

his face so as not to see them.

The King arrived, and with a few flattering words managed to soothe the

priests’ outraged dignity, and when they asked the little prince if he

would honour them by a visit of inspection to Suger’s room, which had

just been restored, he replied with a sulky smile, “I’ll come and see

you, but with my eyes shut.”

[Suger was Abbe of Saint Denis, and a famous minister of Queen Blanche.

Editor’s Note.]

Then the priests mildly remonstrated because the coronation diadem had

not been brought back to their store of treasures, but was still missing.

“So, in your treasure-house at Saint Denis you keep all the crowns of all

the reigns?” asked the prince.

“Yes, Sire, and where could they be better guarded than with us? Who has

most may have least.”

“With all their rubies, diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds?”

“Yes, Sire; and hence the name treasure.”

The King replied, “If this be the case, I will send you my coronation

crown. At that time my brow was not so big; you will find the crown

small, I tell you.”

Then one of the monks, in the most serious manner, said, “It’s not as

small as it was; your Majesty has enlarged it a good deal.”

Madame de Maintenon burst out laughing, and I was not slow to follow her

example; we saw that the King could hardly maintain his gravity. He said

to the priest, “My father, you turn a pretty compliment in a most

praiseworthy manner; you ought to have belonged to the Jesuits, not to

the Benedictines.”

We burst out laughing anew, and this convent-deputation, the

gloomiest-looking, most funereal one in the world, managed to cause us

some diversion, after all.

To make amends for our apparent frivolity, his Majesty himself took them

to see his splendid cabinet of medals and coins, and sent them back to

their abbey in Court carriages.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

M. de Lauzun Proposes for the Hand of Mademoiselle de Thianges.--Letter

from the Duc de Lorraine.--Madame de Thianges Thinks that Her Daughter

Has Married a Reigning Prince.--The King Disposes Otherwise.--The Duc de

Nevers.

The brilliant Marquis de Lauzun, after paying court to myself, suddenly,

turned his attention to Mademoiselle de Thianges,--my sister’s child. If

a fine figure and a handsome face, as well as the polished manners of a

great gentleman, constitute a good match, M. de Lauzun was, in all

respects, worthy of my niece. But this presumptuous nobleman had but a

slender fortune. Extravagant, without the means to be so, his debts grew

daily greater, and in society one talked of nothing but his lavish

expenditure and his creditors. I know that the purses of forty women

were at his disposal. I know, moreover, that he used to gamble like a

prince, and I would never marry my waiting-maid to a gambler and a rake.

Both Madame de Thianges and myself rejected his proposals, and though

resolved to let him have continued proofs of our good-will, we were

equally determined never to accept such a man as son-in-law and nephew.

Hereupon the letter which I am about to transcribe was sent to me by a

messenger:

PRINCE CHARLES DE LORRAINE TO MADAME LA MARQUISE DE MONTESPAN.

MADAME:--My unfortunate uncle and I have always loved France, but France

has forced us both to break off all relations with her and to become

exiles!!! Despite the kindness and generosity wherewith the Imperial

Court seeks to comfort us in our misfortune, the perpetual cry of our

hearts calls us back to our fatherland,--to that matchless land where my

ancestors have ever been beloved.

My uncle is guilty of no crime but that of having formerly received in

his palace a son of good King Henri IV., after his humiliation by a

shameless minister. My dear uncle proposed to resign all his property in

my favour, and to meet the wishes of his Majesty as to the wife that

should be mine.

When my uncle asked for the hand of Mademoiselle de Montpensier, on my

behalf, my cousin replied that a ruined and dismantled throne did not

augur well for a dowry, and she further remarked that we were not on good

terms with the King.

When I begged Cardinal Mazarin to grant me the hand of the present Madame

de Mazarin, his Eminence replied, “Would you like to be a cardinal? I

can manage that; but as regards my niece, the Queen is going to get her

married immediately.”

When, before God and man, I wedded Mademoiselle de Nemours, whose worthy

mother led her to the altar, his Majesty refused to sign the marriage

contract, and told Madame de Nemours that it would never be considered

valid.

Soon afterwards the Bishop of Laon, who has complete influence over

Madame de Vendome, declared as null and void--a marriage negotiated and

consecrated by himself, and thus a bond made in heaven has been broken on

earth.

Such treatment as this, I confess, seemed to us to exceed the bounds of

humanity and of justice. My uncle and I quitted France,--the France that

persecutes and harasses us, that desires the destruction of our family

and the forcible union of our territory with her own.

The late Queen, of illustrious and glorious memory, disapproved of

Richelieu’s injustice towards us. Under the ministry of the Cardinal,

his successor, she often, in noble fashion, held out to us a helping

hand. How comes it that the King, who in face is her living image, does

not desire to be like her in heart?

I address myself to you, madame, who by your beauty and Spiritual charm

hold such imperious sway over his decisions, and I implore you to

undertake our defence. My uncle and I, his rightful and duteous heir,

offer the King devoted homage and unswerving fealty. We offer to forget

the past, to put our hearts and our swords at his service. Let him

withdraw his troops and those standards of his that have brought terror

and grief to our unhappy Lorraine. I offer to marry Mademoiselle de

Thianges, your beautiful and charming niece, and to make her happy, and

to surrender all any estates to the King of France, if I die without male

issue or heirs of any sort.

I know your kind-heartedness, madame, by a niece who is your picture. In

your hands I place her interests and my fate. I await your message with

impatience, and I shall receive it with courage if you fail to obtain

that which you ought to obtain.

Be assured, madame, of my unbounded admiration and respect.

CHARLES

I at once went to my house at Clagny, whither I privately summoned Madame

de Thianges. On reading this letter, my sister was moved to tears, for

she had always deeply felt how unjustly this family had been treated. She

was also personally attached to this same Prince Charles, whom to see was

to love.

We read this letter through thrice, and each time we found it more

admirable; the embarrassing thing was how to dare to let his Majesty know

its contents. However temperate the allusions to himself, there was

still the reproach of injustice and barbarity, set against the clemency

of Anne of Austria, and her generous compassion.

My sister said to me, “Go boldly to work in the matter. Despite your

three children, the King leaves you merely a marquise; and for my own

part, if my daughter becomes Duchesse do Lorraine, I promise you the

Principality of Vaudemont.”

“It is quite true,” I replied; “his conduct is inexplicable. To Madame

Scarron, who was only the governess of his children, he gives one of the

first marquisates of France, while to me, who have borne these three

children (with infinite pain), I admit he has only given some jewelry,

some money, and this pretty castle of Clagny.”

“You are as clever as can be, my dear Athenais,” said Madame de Thianges,

“but, as a matter of fact, your cleverness is not of a business kind. You

don’t look after yourself, but let yourself be neglected; you don’t push

yourself forward enough, nor stand upon your dignity as you ought to do.

“The little lame woman had hardly been brought to bed of Mademoiselle de

Blois, when she was made Duchesse de Vaujours and de la Valliere.

“Gabrielle d’Estrees, directly she appeared, was proclaimed Duchesse de

Beaufort.

“Diane de Poitiers was Duchesse de Valentinois and a princess. It’s only

you who are nobody, and your relations also are about the same! Make the

most of this grand opportunity; help the Prince of Lorraine, and the

Prince of Lorraine will help you.”

On our return from the chateau, while our resolution was yet firm, we

went laughing to the King. He asked the reason of our gaiety. My sister

said with her wonted ease, “Sire, I have come to invite you to my

daughter’s wedding.”

“Your daughter? Don’t you think I am able to get her properly married?”

cried the King.

“Sire, you cannot do it better than I can myself. I am giving her a

sovereign as husband, a sovereign in every sense of the term.”

It seemed to me the King flushed slightly as he rejoined, “A sovereign on

his feet, or a sovereign overthrown?”

“How do you mean, Sire?” said my sister.

“Madame de Thianges,” replied the King, “pray, let us be friends. I was

informed two days ago of the proposals of the Messieurs de Lorraine; it

is not, yet time to give them a definite reply. It behoves, me to give

your daughter in marriage, and I have destined her for the Duc de Nevers,

who is wealthy, and my friend.”

“The Duc de Nevers!” cried my sister; “why, he’s cracked for six months

in the year.”

“Those who are cracked for a whole twelvemonth deserve far more pity,”

replied the King.

Then, turning to me, he observed, “You make no remark, madame? Does your

niece’s coronation provide you also with illusions?”

I easily perceived that we had been cherishing an utterly fantastic

scheme, and I counselled Madame de Thianges to prefer to please the King;

and, as she was never able to control her feelings, she sharply replied,

“Madame la Marquise, good day or good night!”

The King, however, did not relax his persistence in giving us the Duc de

Nevers as son-in-law and nephew; and as this young gentleman’s one fault

is to require perpetual amusement, partly derived from poetry and partly

from incessant travelling, my niece is as happy with him as a woman who

takes her husband’s place well can be. As soon as he gets to Paris, he

wants to return to Rome, and hardly has he reached Rome, when he has the

horses put to for Paris.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Mademoiselle de Mortemart, Abbess of Fontevrault.--She Comes to

Court.--The Cloister.--Her Success at Court.--Her Opinion Respecting

Madame de Montespan’s Intimacy with the King.

My second sister, Mademoiselle de Mortemart, was so unfortunate as to

fall in love with a young Knight of Malta, doomed from his birth and by

his family to celibacy. Having set out upon his caravans,--[Sea-fights

against the Turks and the pirates of the Mediterranean.]--he was killed

in combat by the Algerians.

Such was Mademoiselle de Mortemart’s grief that life became unbearable to

her. Beautiful, witty, and accomplished, she quitted the world where she

was beloved, and, at the age of seventeen, took the veil at Fontevrault.

So severely had she blamed the conduct of Mademoiselle de la Valliere,

while often vehemently denouncing that which she termed the disorder at

Court, that, since the birth of the Duc du Maine, I had not gone to the

convent to see her. We were like unto persons both most anxious to break

off an intimacy and yet who had not done so.

The Duc de Lorraine was known to her. He wrote to her, begging her to

make it up with me, so as to further his own ends. To gratify him, and

mainly because of her attachment to Prince Charles, my sister actually

wrote to me, asking for my intervention and what she termed my support.

Nuns always profess to be, and think that they are, cut off from the

world. But the fact is, they care far more for mundane grandeur than we

do. Madame de Thianges and her sister would have given their very

heart’s blood to see my niece the bride of a royal prince.

One day the King said to me, “The Marquise de Thianges complains that I

have as yet done nothing for your family; there is a wealthy abbey that

has just become vacant; I am going to give it to your sister, the nun;

since last night she is the Abbess of Fontevrault.”

I thanked the King, as it behoved me to do, and he added, “Your brother

shall be made a duke at once. I am going to appoint him general of Royal

Galleys, and after one or two campaigns he will have a marshal’s baton.”

“And what about me, Sire?” said I. “What, may it please your Majesty,

shall I get from the distribution of all these favours and emoluments?” I

laughingly asked the question.

“You, madame?” he replied. “To you I made a present of my heart, which

is not altogether worthless; yet, as it is possible that, when this heart

shall have ceased to beat, you may have to maintain your rank, I will

give you the charming retreat of Petit-Bourg, near Fontainebleau.”

Saying this, his face wore a sad look, and I was sorry that I asked him

for anything. He is fond of giving, and of giving generously, but of his

own accord, without the least prompting. Had I refrained from committing

this indiscretion, he might, possibly, have made me a duchess there and

then, renaming Petit-Bourg Royal-Bourg.

The new abbess of Fontevrault, caring less now for claustral seclusion,

equipped her new residence in very sumptuous style. In a splendid

carriage she came to thank the King and kiss hands. With much tact and

dignity she encountered the scrutiny of the royal family and of the

Court. Her manners showed her to have been a person brought up in the

great world, and possessed of all the tact and delicacy which her

position as well as mine required.

As she embraced me, she sighed; yet, instantly recovering herself, she

made the excuse that so many ceremonious greetings and compliments had

fatigued her.

It was not long before the King joined us, who said, “Madame, I never

thought that there was much amusement to be got by wearing the veil. Now,

you must admit that days in a convent seem very long to any one who has

wit and intelligence.”

“Sire,” replied my sister, “the first fifteen or twenty months are

wearisome, I readily confess. Then comes discouragement; after that,

habit; and then one grows resigned to one’s fetters from the mere

pleasure of existence.”

“Did you meet with any good friends among your associates?”

“In such assemblies,” rejoined the Abbess, “one can form no attachment or

durable friendship. The reason for this is simple. If the companion you

choose is religious in all sincerity, she is perforce a slave to every

little rule and regulation, and to her it would seem like defrauding the

Deity to give affection to any one but to Him. If, by mischance, you

meet with some one of sensitive temperament, with a bright intellect that

matches your own, you lay yourself open to be the mournful sharer of her

griefs, doubts, and regrets, and her depression reacts upon you; her

sorrow makes your melancholy return. Privation conjures up countless

illusions and every chimera imaginable, so that the peaceful retreat of

virgins of the Lord becomes a veritable hell, peopled by phantoms that

groan in torture!”

“Oh, madame!” exclaimed the King. “What a picture is this! What a

spectacle you present to our view!”

“Fortunately,” continued Mademoiselle de Mortemart, “in convents girls of

intelligence are all too rare. The greater number of them are colourless

persons, devoid of imagination or fire. To exiles like these, any

country, any climate would seem good; to flaccid, crushed natures of this

type, every belief would seem authoritative, every religion holy and

divine. Fifteen hundred years ago these nuns would have made excellent

vestal virgins, watchful and resigned. What they need is abstinence,

prohibitions, thwartings, things contrary to nature. By conforming to

most rigorous rules, they consider themselves suffering beings who

deserve heavy recompense; and the Carmelite or Trappist sister, who

macerates herself by the hair-shirt or the cilex, would look upon God as

a false or wicked Being, if, after such cruel torment, He did not

promptly open to her the gates of Paradise.

“Sire,” added the Abbess de Fontevrault, “I have three nuns in my convent

who take the Holy Communion every other day, and whom my predecessor

could never bring herself to absolve for some old piece of nonsense of

twenty years back.”

“Do you think you will be able to manage them, madame?” asked the King,

laughing.

“I am afraid not,” replied my sister. “Those are three whom one could

never manage, and your Majesty on the throne may possibly have fewer

difficulties to deal with than the abbess or the prior of a convent.”

The King was obliged to quit us to go and see one of the ministers, but

he honoured the Abbess by telling her that she was excellent company, of

which he could never have too much.

My sister wished to see Madame de Maintenon and the Duc du Maine; so we

visited that lady, who took a great liking to the Abbess, which was

reciprocated.

When my sister saw the young Duc du Maine, she exclaimed, “How handsome

he is! Oh, sister, how fond I shall be of such a nephew!”

“Then,” said I, “you will forgive me, won’t you, for having given birth

to him?”

“When I reproached you,” she answered, “I had not yet seen the King. When

one has seen him, everything is excusable and everything is right.

Embrace me, my dear sister, and do not let us forget that I owe my abbey

to you, as well as my independence, fortune, and liberty.”

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XXXV.

M. de Lauzun and Mademoiselle de Montpensier.--Marriage of the One and

Passion of the Other.--The King Settles a Match.--A Secret Union.--The

King Sends M. de Lauzun to Pignerol.--The Life He Leads

There.--Mademoiselle’s Liberality.--Strange Way of Acknowledging It.

They are forever talking about the coquetry of women; men also have their

coquetry, but as they show less grace and finesse than we do, they do not

get half as much attention.

The Marquis de Lauzun, having one day, noticed a certain kindly feeling

for him in the glances of Mademoiselle, endeavoured to seem to her every

day more fascinating and agreeable. The foolish Princess completely fell

into the snare, and suddenly giving up her air of noble indifference,

which till then had made her life happy, she fell madly in love with a

schemer who despised and detested her.

Held back for some months by her pride, as also by the exigencies of

etiquette, she only disclosed her sentimental passion by glances and a

mutual exchange of signs of approval; but at last she was tired of

self-restraint and martyrdom, and, detaining M. de Lauzun one day in a

recess, she placed her written offer of marriage in his hand.

The cunning Marquis feigned astonishment, pretending humbly to renounce

such honour, while increasing his wiles and fascinations; he even went so

far as to shed tears, his most difficult feat of all.

Mademoiselle de Montpensier, older than he by twelve or fourteen years,

never suspected that such a disparity of years was visible in her face.

When one has been pretty, one imagines that one is still so, and will

forever remain so. Plastered up and powdered, consumed by passion, and

above all, blinded by vanity, she fancied that Nature had to obey

princes, and that, to favour her, Time would stay his flight.

Though tired and bored with everything, Lauzun, the better to excite her

passion, put on timid, languid airs, like those of some lad fresh from

school. Quitting the embraces of some other woman, he played the lonely,

pensive, melancholy bachelor, the man absorbed by this sweet, new mystery

of love.

Having made mutual avowal of their passion, which was fill of esteem,

Lauzun inquired, merely from motives of caution, as to the Princess’s

fortune; and she did not fail to tell him everything, even about her

plate and jewels. Lauzun’s love grew even more ardent now, for she had

at least forty millions, not counting her palace.

He asked if, by the marriage, he would become a prince, and she replied

that she, herself, had not sufficient power to do this; that she was most

anxious to arrange this, if she could; but anyhow, that she could make

him Duc de Montpensier, with a private uncontrolled income of five

hundred thousand livres.

He asked if, on the family coat-of-arms, the husband’s coronet was to

figure, or the wife’s; but, as she would not change her name, her arms,

she decided, could remain as heretofore,--the crown, the fleur-de-lis,

and so forth.

He inquired if the children of the marriage would rank as princes, and

she said that she saw nothing to prevent this. He also asked if he would

be raised higher in the peerage, and might look to being made a prince at

last, and styled Highness as soon as the contract had been signed.

This caused some doubt and reflection. “The King, my cousin,” said

Mademoiselle, “is somewhat strict in matters of this sort. He seems to

think that the royal family is a new arch-saint, at whom one may look

only when prostrate in adoration; all contract therewith is absolutely

forbidden. I begin to feel uneasy about this; yes, Lauzun, I have fears

for our love and marriage.”

“Are you, then, afraid?” asked Lauzun, quite crestfallen.

“I knew how to point the Bastille cannon at the troops of the King,” she

replied; “but he was very young then. No matter, I will go and see him;

if he is my King, I am his cousin; if he has his crotchets, I have my

love and my will. He can’t do anything, my dear Lauzun; I love you as

once he loved La Valliere, as to-day he loves Montespan; I am not afraid

of him. As for the permission, I know our history by heart, and I will

prove to him by a hundred examples that, from the time of Charlemagne up

to the present time, widows and daughters of kings have married mere

noblemen. These nobleman may have been most meritorious,--I only know

them from history,--but not one of them was as worthy as you.”

So saying, she asked for her fan, her gloves, and her horses, and

attended by her grooms-in-waiting, she went to the King in person.

The King listened to her from beginning to end, and then remarked, “You

refused the Kings of Denmark, Portugal, Spain, and England, and you wish

to marry my captain of the guard, the Marquis de Lauzun?”

“Yes, Sire, for I place him above all monarchs,--yourself alone

excepted.”

“Do you love him immensely?”

“More than I can possibly say; a thousand, a hundred thousand times more

than myself.”

“Do you think he is equally devoted to you?”--“That would be impossible,”

she tranquilly answered; “but his love for me is delicate, tender; and

such friendship suffices me.”

“My cousin, in all that there is self-interest. I entreat you to

reflect. The world, as you know, is a mocking world; you want to excite

universal derision and injure the respect which is due to the place that

I fill.”

“Ah, Sire, do not wound me! I fling myself at your feet. Have

compassion upon M. de Lauzun, and pity my tears. Do not exercise your

power; let him be the consolation of my life; let me marry him.”

The King, no longer able to hide his disgust and impatience, said,

“Cousin, you are now a good forty-four years old; at that age you ought

to be able to take care of yourself. Spare me all your grievances, and

do what pleases you.”

On leaving Mademoiselle, he came to my apartment and told me about all

this nonsense. I then informed him of what I had heard by letter the day

before. Lauzun, while still carrying on with the fastest ladies of the

Court and the town, had just wheedled the Princess into making him a

present of twenty millions,--a most extravagant gift.

“This is too much!” exclaimed the King; and he at once caused a letter to

be despatched to Mademoiselle and her lover, telling them that their

intimacy must cease, and that things must go no farther.

But the audacious Lauzun found means to suborn a well-meaning simpleton

of a priest, who married them secretly the very same day.

The King’s indignation and resentment may well be imagined. He had his

captain of the guard arrested and sent as a prisoner to Pignerol.

On this occasion, M. de Lauzun complained bitterly of me; he invented the

most absurd tales about me, even saying that he had struck me in my own

apartments, after taunting me to my face with “our old intimacy.”

That is false; he reproached me with nothing, for there was nothing to

reproach. Shortly after the Princess’s grand scene, he came and begged

me to intercede on his behalf. I only made a sort of vague promise, and

he knew well enough that, in the great world, a vague promise is the same

as a refusal.

For more than six months I had to stanch the tears and assuage the grief

of Mademoiselle. So tiresome to me did this prove, that she alone

well-nigh sufficed to make me quit the Court.

Such sorrowing and chagrin made her lose the little beauty that still

remained to her; nothing seemed more incongruous and ridiculous than to

hear this elderly grand lady talking perpetually about “her dearest

darling, the prisoner.”

At the time I write he is at Pignerol; his bad disposition is forever

getting him into trouble. She sends him lots of money unknown to the

King, who generally knows everything. All this money he squanders or

gambles away, and when funds are low, says, “The old lady will send us

some.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Hyde, the Chancellor.--Misfortune Not Always Misfortune.--Prince

Comnenus.--The King at Petit-Bourg.--His Incognito.--Who M. de Vivonne

Really Was.

The castle of Petit-Bourg, of which the King made me a present, is

situate on a height overlooking the Seine, whence one may get the

loveliest of views. So pleasant did I find this charming abode, that I

repaired thither as often as possible, and stayed for five or six days.

One balmy summer night, I sat in my dressing-gown at the central balcony,

watching the stars, as was my wont, asking myself whether I should not be

a thousand times happier if I should pass my life in a retreat like this,

and so have time to contemplate the glorious works of Nature, and to

prepare myself for that separation which sooner or later awaited me.

Reason bade me encourage such thoughts, yet my heart offered opposition

thereto, urging that there was something terrifying in solitude, most of

all here, amid vast fields and meadows, and that, away from the Court and

all my friends, I should grow old, and death would take me before my

time. While plunged in such thoughts, I suddenly heard the sound of a

tocsin, and scanning the horizon, I saw flames and smoke rising from some

hamlet or country-house. I rang for my servants, and told them instantly

to despatch horsemen to the scene of the catastrophe, and bring back

news.

The messengers started off, and soon came back to say that the fire had

broken out at the residence of my lord Hyde, Chancellor of England, who

was but lately convalescent. They had seen him lying upon a rug on the

grass, some little distance from the burning mansion. I forthwith

ordered my carriage to be sent for him, and charged my surgeon and

secretary to invite him to take shelter at my castle.

My lord gratefully accepted the invitation; he entered my room as the

clock struck twelve. As yet he could not tell the cause of the disaster,

and in a calm, patriarchal manner observed, “I am a man marked out for

great misfortune. God forbid, madame, that the mischance which dogs my

footsteps touch you also!”

“I cannot bear to see a fire,” said I, in reply to the English nobleman,

“for some dreadful accident always results therefrom. Yet, on the whole,

they are of good augury, and I am sure, my lord, that your health or your

affairs will benefit by this accident.”

Hearing me talk thus, my lord smiled. He only took some slight

refreshment,--a little soup,--and heard me give orders for all my

available servants to be sent to the scene of disaster, in order to save

all his furniture, and protect it as well.

After repeated expressions of his gratitude, he desired to withdraw, and

retired to rest. Next day we learnt that the fire had been got under

about one o’clock in the morning; one wing only of the chateau had been

destroyed, and the library, together with all the linen and plate, was

well-nigh intact. Lord Hyde was very glad to hear the news. They told

him that all the labourers living near had gladly come to the help of his

servants and mine. As his private cashbox had been saved, owing to their

vigilance and honesty, he promised to distribute its contents among them

when he returned.

Hardly had he got the words out, when they came to tell me that, on the

highroad, just in front of my gates, a carriage, bound for Paris, had the

traces broken, and the travellers persons of distinction begged the

favour of my hospitality for a short while. I consented with pleasure,

and they went back to take the travellers my answer.

“You see, madame,” said the Chancellor, “my bad luck is contagious; no

sooner have I set foot in this enchanting abode than its atmosphere

deteriorates. A travelling-carriage passes rapidly by in front of the

gates, when lo! some invisible hand breaks it to pieces, and stops it

from proceeding any further.”

Then I replied, “But how do you know, monsieur, that this mishap may not

prove a most agreeable adventure for the travellers to whom we are about

to give shelter? To begin with, they will have the honour of making your

acquaintance, and to meet with an illustrious person is no common or

frivolous event.”

The servants announced the Princes Comnenus, who immediately entered the

salon. Though dressed in travelling-costume, with embroidered gaiters,

in the Greek fashion, it was easy to see what they were. The son, a lad

of fourteen, was presented to me by his father, and when both were

seated, I introduced them to the Chancellor.

“The name is well known,” observed the Prince, “even in Greece. My lord

married his daughter to the heir-presumptive to the English throne, and

England, being by nature ungrateful, has distressed this worthy parent,

while robbing him of all his possessions.”

At these words Lord Hyde became greatly affected; he could not restrain

his tears, and fearing at first to compromise himself, he told us that

his exile was voluntary and self-imposed, or very nearly so.

After complimenting the Chancellor of a great kingdom, Prince Comnenus

thought that he ought to say something courteous and flattering to

myself.

“Madame,” quoth he, “it is only now, after asking for hospitality and

generously obtaining it, that I and my son have learnt the name of the

lady who has so graciously granted us admission to this most lovely

place. For a moment we hesitated in awe. But now our eyes behold her

whom all Europe admires, whom a great King favours with his friendship

and confidence. What strange chances befall one in life! Could I ever

have foreseen so fortunate a mishap!”

I briefly replied to this amiable speech, and invited the travellers to

spend, at least, one day with us. They gladly accepted, and each retired

to his apartment until the time came for driving out. Dinner was laid,

and on the point of being served, when the King, who was on his way from

Fontainebleau, suddenly entered my room. He had heard something about a

fire, and came to see what had happened. I at once informed him, telling

him, moreover, that I had the Duke of York’s father-in-law staying with

me at the moment.

“Lord Hyde, the Chancellor?” exclaimed the King. “I have never seen

him, and have always been desirous to make his acquaintance. The

opportunity is an easy and favourable one.”

“But that is not all, Sire; I have other guests to meet you,” said I.

“And who may they be?” inquired the King, smiling. “Just because I have

come in rough-and-ready plight, your house is full of people.”

“But they are in rough-and-ready plight as well,” I answered; “so your

Majesties must mutually excuse each other.”

“Are you in fun or in earnest?” asked his Majesty. “Have you really got

some king stowed away in one of your rooms?”

“Not a king, Sire, but an emperor,--the Emperor of Constantinople and

Trebizond, accompanied by the Prince Imperial, his son. You shall see

two Greek profiles of the best sort, two finely cut noses, albeit hooked,

and almond-shaped eyes, like those of Achilles and Agamemnon.”

Then the King said, “Send for your groom of the chambers at once, and

tell him to give orders that my incognito be strictly observed. You must

introduce me to these dignitaries as your brother, M. de Vivonne. Under

these conditions, I will join your party at table; otherwise, I should be

obliged to leave the castle immediately.”

The King’s wishes were promptly complied with; the footmen were let into

the secret, and I introduced “Monsieur de Vivonne” to my guests.

The talk, without being sparkling, was pleasant enough until dessert.

When the men-servants left us, it assumed a very different character. The

King induced the Chancellor to converse, and asked him if his exile were

owing to the English monarch personally, or to some parliamentary

intrigue.

“King Charles,” replied his lordship, “is a prince to gauge whose

character requires long study. Apparently, he is the very soul of

candour, but no one is more deceitful than he. He fawns and smiles upon

you when in his heart of hearts he despises and loathe you. When the

Duke of York, unfortunately, became violently enamoured of my daughter,

he did not conceal his attachment from his brother, the King, and at last

asked for his approval to join his fortunes to my daughter’s, when the

King, without offering opposition, contented himself by pointing out the

relative distance between their rank and position; to which the Duke

replied, ‘But at one time you did everything you possibly could to get

Olympia Mancini, who was merely Mazarin’s niece!’ And King Charles, who

could not deny this, left his brother complete liberty of action.

“As my daughter was far dearer and more precious to me than social

grandeur, I begged the Duke of York to find for himself a partner of

exalted rank. He gave way to despair, and spoke of putting an end to his

existence; in fact, he behaved as all lovers do whom passion touches to

madness; so this baleful marriage took place. God is my witness that I

opposed it, urged thereto by wisdom, by modesty, and by foresight. Now,

as you see, from that cruel moment I have been exiled to alien lands,

robbed of the sight of my beloved child, who has been raised to the rank

of a princess, and whom I shall never see again. Why did my sovereign

not say to me frankly, I do not like this marriage; you must oppose it,

Chancellor, to please me?

“How different was his conduct from that of his cousin, the French King!

Mademoiselle d’Orleans wanted to make an unsuitable match; the King

opposed it, as he had a right to do, and the marriage did not take

place.”

My “brother,” the King, smiled as he told his lordship he was right.

Prince Comnenus was of the same opinion, and, being expressly invited to

do so, he briefly recounted his adventures, and stated the object of his

journey to Paris.

“The whole world,” said he, “is aware of the great misfortunes of my

family. The Emperors Andronicus and Michael Comnenus, driven from the

throne of Constantinople, left their names within the heart and memory of

Greece; they had ruled the West with a gentle sceptre, and in a people’s

grateful remembrance they had their reward. My ancestors, their

descendants, held sway in Trebizond, a quicksand which gave way beneath

their tread. From adversity to adversity, from country to country, we

were finally driven to seclusion in the Isle of Candia, part of the

quondam Minos territory. Venice had allowed Candia to fall before

Mahomet’s bloody sword. Europe lost her bulwark, the Cross of the

Saviour was thrown down, and the Candian Christians have been massacred

or forced to flee. I have left in the hands of the conqueror my fields

and forests, my summer palace, my winter palace, and my gardens filled

with the produce of America, Asia, and Europe. From this overwhelming

disaster I managed to save my son; and as my sole fortune I brought away

with me the large jewels of Andronicus, his ivory and sapphire sceptre,

his scimitar of Lemnos, and his ancient gold crown, which once encircled

Theseus’s brow.

“These noble relics I shall present to the King of France. They say that

he is humane, generous, fond of glory, and zealous in the cause of

justice. When before his now immovable throne he sees laid down these

last relics of an ancient race, perhaps he will be touched by so

lamentable a downfall, and will not suffer distress to trouble my last

days, and darken the early years of this my child.”

During this speech I kept watching the King’s face. I saw that he was

interested, then touched, and at last was on the point of forgetting his

incognito and of appearing in his true character.

“Prince,” said he to the Greek traveller, “my duties and my devotion make

it easy for me to approach the King of France’s person very closely. In

four or five days he will be leaving Fontainebleau for his palace at

Saint Germain. I will tell him without modification all that I have just

heard from you. Without being either prophet or seer, I can guarantee

that you will be well received and cordially welcomed, receiving such

benefits as kings are bound to yield to kings.

“Madame, who respects and is interested in you, is desirous, I feel

certain, for me to persuade you to stay here until her departure; she

enjoys royal favour, and it is my sister herself who shall present you at

Court. You shall show her, you shall show us all, the golden crown of

Theseus, the sceptre of Adronicus, and this brow which I gaze upon and

revere, for it deserves a kingly diamond.

“As for you, my lord,” said his Majesty to the English nobleman, “if the

misfortune of last night prove disastrous in more ways than one, pray

wait for a while before you go back to the smouldering ashes of a

half-extinguished fire. My sister takes pleasure in your company;

indeed, the Marquise is charmed to be able to entertain three such

distinguished guests, and begs to place her chateau at your disposal

until such time as your own shall be restored. We shall speak of you to

the King, and he will certainly endeavour to induce King Charles, his

cousin, to recall you to your native country.”

Then, after saying one or two words to me in private, he bowed to the

gentlemen and withdrew. We went out on to the balcony to see him get

into his coach, when, to the surprise and astonishment of my guests, as

the carriage passed along the avenue, about a hundred peasants, grouped

near the gateway, threw off their hats and cried, “Long live the King!”

Prince Comnenus and his son were inconsolable; I excused myself by saying

that it was at the express desire of our royal visitor, and my lord

admitted that at last he recollected his features, and recognised him by

his grand and courtly address.

Before I end my tale, do not let me forget to say that the King strongly

recommended Prince Comnenus to the Republic of Genoa, and obtained for

him considerable property in Corsica and a handsome residence at Ajaccio.

He accepted five or six beautiful jewels that had belonged to Andronicus,

and caused the sum of twelve hundred thousand francs to be paid to the

young Comnenus from his treasury.

CHAPTER XXXVII

The Universal Jubilee.--Court Preachers.--King David.--Madame de

Montespan is Obliged to go to Clagny.--Bossuet’s Mission.--Mademoiselle

de Mauleon.--An Enemy’s Good Faith.

I do not desire to hold up to ridicule the rites of that religion in

which I was born and bred. Neither would I disparage its ancient usages,

nor its far more modern laws. All religions, as I know, have their

peculiarities, all nations their contradictions, but I must be suffered

to complain of the abuse sometimes made in our country of clerical and

priestly authority.

A general jubilee was held soon after the birth of my second son, and

among Christian nations like ours, a jubilee is as if one said, “Now all

statutes, divine and earthly, are repealed; by means of certain formula

recited, certain visits paid to the temples, certain acts of abstinence

practised here and there, all sins, misdemeanours, and crimes are

forgiven, and their punishment cancelled.” It is generally on the

occasion of the proclamation of a new pontificate at Rome that such great

papal absolutions are extended over the whole universe.

The jubilee having been proclaimed in Paris, the Court preachers worked

miracles. They denounced all social irregularities and friendships of

which the Church disapproved. The opening sermon showed plainly that the

orator’s eloquence was pointed at myself. The second preacher showed

even less restraint; he almost mentioned me by name. The third

ecclesiastic went beyond all bounds, actually uttering the following

words:

“Sire, when King David was still but a shepherd, a heifer was stolen from

his flocks; David made complaint to the patriarch of the land, when his

heifer was restored to him, and the thief was punished.

“When David came to the throne, he carried off his servant’s wife, and as

an excuse for such an odious deed, he pleaded the young woman’s extreme

beauty. The wretched servant besought him to obey the voice, not of

passion, but of justice, and the servant was disgraced and perished

miserably. Oh, David, unhappy David!”

The King, who had found it hard to sit quiet and hear such insults, said

to me that evening:

“Go to Clagny. Let this stormy weather pass by. When it is fine again,

you must come back.”

Having never run counter to the wishes of the father of my children, I

acquiesced, and without further delay gladly departed.

Next day, Madame de Montausier came to see me at my country-house; she

told me of the general rumour that was afloat at Court. The news, said

she, of my retirement had begun to get about; three bishops had gone to

congratulate the King, and these gentlemen had despatched couriers to

Paris to inform the heads of the various parishes, inviting them to write

to the prince sympathising references touching an event which God and all

Christendom viewed with complete satisfaction.

Madame de Montausier assured me that the King’s bearing was fairly calm

on the whole, and she also added that he had granted an interview of half

an hour at least to the Abbe Bossuet, who had discoursed to him about me

in a strain similar to that of the other clerics.

She was my sincere friend; she promised to come to Clagny every evening,

driving thither incognito.

She had hardly been gone an hour, when my footman announced “Monsieur

Bossuet, Bishop of Condom.”

At the mention of this name, I felt momentarily inclined to refuse to see

its owner; but I conquered my disgust, and I did well. The prelate, with

his semi-clerical, semi-courtly air, made me a low bow. I calmly waited,

so as to give him time to deliver his message. The famous rhetorician

proceeded as follows:

“You know, madame, with what health-giving sacrifices the Church is now

engaged. The merits of our Lord doubtless protect Christians at all

times, but the Church has appointed times more efficacious, ceremonies

more useful, springs yet more abounding. Thus it is that we now

celebrate the grand nine days of the jubilee.

“To this mystic pool herdsman and monarchs alike receive summons and

admission. The most Christian King must, for his own sake, accomplish

his own sanctification; his sanctification provides for that of his

subjects.

“Chosen by God to this royal priesthood, he comprehends the duties

imposed upon him by such noble office. The passions of the heart are

maladies from which man may recover, just as he recovers from physical

disease. The physicians of the soul have lifted up their voice, have

taken sage counsel together; and I come to inform you of the monarch’s

miraculous recovery, and at his request, I bring you this important and

welcome news.

“For convalescents, greater care is required than for others; the King,

and the whole of France, beseech you, with my voice, to have respect and

care for the convalescence of our monarch, and I beg you, madame, to

leave at once for Fontevrault.”

“For Fontevrault?” I cried, without betraying my emotion. “Fontevrault

is near Poitiers; it is too far away. No, I would rather go to

Petit-Bourg, near the forest of Fontainebleau.”

“Fontainebleau is but eighteen leagues from the capital,” he answered;

“such proximity would be dangerous. I must insist upon Fontevrault,

madame.”

“But I cannot take my children to Fontevrault,” I retorted; “the nuns,

and the Abbess herself, would never admit them. You know better than I

do that it is a nunnery.”

“Your children,” said he, “are not necessary to you; Madame de la

Valliere managed to leave here for good and all.”

“Yes; and in forsaking them she committed a crime,” I answered; “only

ferocious-hearted persons could have counselled her or commanded her to

do so.” And saying this, I rose, and gave him a glance of disdain.

He grew somewhat gentler in manner as he slowly went on, “His Majesty

will take care of your children; it behoves you to save their mother.

And, in order to prove to you that I have not come here of my own accord,

but that, on the contrary, I am executing a formal command, here is a

letter of farewell addressed to you by the King.”

I took the letter, which was couched in the following terms:

It is but right, madame, that on so solemn an occasion I should set an

example myself. I must ask you henceforth to consider our intimacy

entirely at an end. You must retire to Fontevrault, where Madame de

Montemart will take care of you and afford you distraction by her

charming society. Your children are in good hands; do not be in the

least uneasy about them. Farewell. I wish you all the firmness and

well-being possible. LOUISON.

In the first flush of my indignation I was about to trample under foot so

offensive a communication. But the final phrase shocked me less than the

others.

I read it over again, and understood that if the King recommended me to

be firm, it was because he needed to be firm himself. I soon mastered my

emotion, and looked at things in their real light. It was easy to see

that sanctimonious fanatics had forced the King to act. Bossuet was not

sanctimonious, but, to serve his own ends, proffered himself as spokesman

and emissary, being anxious to prove to his old colleagues that he was on

the side of what they styled moral conduct and good example.

For a while I walked up and down my salon; but the least exertion

fatigues me. I resumed my armchair or my settee, leaving the man there

like a sort of messenger, whom it was not necessary to treat with any

respect. He was bold, and asked me for a definite answer which he could

take back to his Majesty. I stared hard at him for about a minute, and

then said: “My Lord Bishop of Condom, the clerics who have been advising

the King are very pleased that he should set an example to his people of

self-sacrifice. I am of their opinion; I think as they do, as you do, as

the Pope does; but feeling convinced that to us, the innocent sheep, the

shepherds ought first to show an example, I will consent to break off my

relationship with his Majesty when you, M. de Condom, shall have broken

off your intimacy with Mademoiselle de Mauleon des Vieux!”

By a retort of this kind I admit that I hoped greatly to embarrass the

Bishop, and enjoy seeing his face redden with confusion. But he was

nowise disconcerted, and I confess to-day that this circumstance proved

to me that there was but little truth in the rumours that were current

with regard to this subject.

“Mademoiselle de Mauleon!” said he, smiling half-bitterly,

half-pityingly. “Surely, madame, your grief makes you forget what you

say. Everybody knows that she is an acquaintance of my youth, and that,

since that time, having confidence in my doctrines and my counsel, she

wished to have me as spiritual monitor and guide. How can you institute

a comparison between such a relationship and your own?” Then, after

walking up and down for a moment, as if endeavouring to regain his

self-possession, he continued:

“However, I shall not insist further; it was signally foolish of me to

speak in the name of an earthly king, when I should have invoked that of

the King of Heaven. I have received an insulting answer. So be it.

“Farewell, madame. I leave you to your own conscience, which, seemingly,

is so tranquil that I blame myself for having sought to disturb it.”

With these words he departed, leaving me much amazed at the patience with

which a man, known to be so arrogant and haughty, had received such an

onslaught upon his private life and reputation.

I need scarcely say that, next day, the species of pastoral letter which

my lords the Bishops of Aleth, Orleans, Soissons, and Condom had dictated

to the King was succeeded by another letter, which he had dictated

himself, and by which my love for him was solaced and assured.

He begged me to wait patiently for a few days, and this arrangement

served my purpose very well. I thought it most amusing that the King

should have commissioned M. de Bossuet to deliver this second missive,

and I believe I said as much to certain persons, which perhaps gave rise

to a rumour that he actually brought me love-letters from the King. But

the purveyors of such gossip could surely know nothing of Bossuet’s

inflexible principles, and of the subtlety of his policy. He was well

aware that by lending himself to such amenities he would lose caste

morally with the King, and that if by his loyalty he had won royal

attachment and regard, all this would have been irretrievably lost. Thus

M. de Bossuet was of those who say, “Hate me, but fear me,” rather than

of those who strive to be loved. Such people know that friendships are

generally frail and transient, and that esteem lasts longer and leads

further. He never interfered again with my affairs, nor did I with his;

I got my way, and he is still where he was.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Madame de Montespan Back at Court.--Her Friends.--Her Enemies.--Edifying

Conversions.--The Archbishop of Paris.

Eight days after the conclusion of the jubilee I returned to Versailles.

The King received me with every mark of sincere friendship; my friends

came in crowds to my apartments; my enemies left their names with my

Swiss servant, and in chapel they put back my seat, chairs, and

footstools in their usual place.

Madame de Maintenon had twice sent my children to Clagny with the

under-governess; but she did not come herself, which greatly

inconvenienced me.

[The splendid Chateau de Clagny (since demolished) was situated on the

beautiful country surrounding Versailles, near the wood of Millers

d’Avrai.--EDITOR’s NOTE.]

I complained to her about this, and she assured me the King had

dissuaded her from visiting me, “so as to put curious folk off the

scent;” and when I told her of my interview with M. de Bossuet, she

neatly avoided being mixed up in the matter by omitting to blame

anybody. The most licentious women, so she told me, had distinguished

themselves by pious exercises during the observance of the jubilee. She

informed me that the Comtesse de Soissons, the Princesse de Monaco,

Madame de Soubise, and five or six virtuous dames of this type, had

given gold, silver, and enamelled lamps to the most notable churches of

the capital. The notorious Duchesse de Longueville talked of having her

own tomb constructed in a Carmelite chapel. Six leaders of fashion had

forsworn rouge, and Madame d’Humieres had given up gambling. As for my

lord the Archbishop of Paris, he had not changed his way of life a jot,

either for the better or for the worse.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Attempted Abduction.--The Marquise Procures a Bodyguard.--Her Reasons for

So Doing.--Geography and Morals.

The youthful Marquis d’Antin--my son--was growing up; the King showed him

the most flattering signs of his attachment, and as the child had lived

only with me, he dreaded his father’s violent temper, of which he had

often heard me speak. In order to have the custody of his son, the

Marquis de Montespan had appealed to Parliament; but partisans of the

King had shelved the matter, which, though ever in abeyance, was still

pending. I had my son educated under my care, being sure of the tender

attachment that would spring up between himself and the princes, his

brothers. At the Montespan chateau, I admit, he would have learned to

ride an unbroken horse, as well as to shoot hares, partridges, and big

game; he would also have learned to talk loud, to use bad language, to

babble about his pedigree, while ignorant of its history or its crest; in

fine, he would have learned to despise his mother, and probably to hate

her. Educated under my eyes, almost on the King’s lap, he soon learned

the customs of the Court and all that a well-born gentleman should know.

He will be made Duc d’Antin, I have the King’s word for it,--and his mien

and address, which fortunately sort well with that which Fate holds in

store for him, entitle him to rank with all that is most exalted at

Court.

The Procureur-General caused a man from Barn to be arrested, who had come

to abduct my son. This individual, half-Spanish and half-French, was

detained in the Paris prisons, and I was left in ignorance of the matter.

It was imprudent not to tell me, and almost occasioned a serious mishap.

One day I was returning from the neighbourhood of Etampes with only my

son, his tutor, and my physician in the carriage. On reaching a steep

incline, where the brake should be put on, my servants imprudently

neglected to do this, and I felt that we were burning the roadway in our

descent. Such recklessness made me uneasy, when suddenly twelve horsemen

rode headlong at us, and sought to stop the postilions. My six horses

were new ones and very fresh; they galloped along at breakneck speed. Our

pursuers fired at the coachman, but missed him, and the report of a

pistol terrified the horses yet further. They redoubled their speed. We

gave ourselves up for lost, as an accident of some sort seemed bound to

ensue, when suddenly my carriage reached the courtyard of an inn, where

we obtained help.

Baulked of their prey, the horsemen turned about and rode away. They had

been noticed the day before, hanging about and asking for Madame de

Montespan.

We stayed that night at the inn, and next day, provided with a stout

escort, we reached Saint Germain.

The King regretted not having provided against similar attempts. He

rewarded my postilions for their neglect to use the brake (a neglect

which, at first, I was going to punish), saying to me, “If they had put

the brake on, you would have been captured and whisked off to the

Pyrenees. Your husband is never going to give in!”

“Such a disagreeable surprise,” added he, “shall not occur again.

Henceforth you shall not travel without an adequate escort. In future,

you shall have a guard of honour, like the Queen and myself.” I had long

wished for this privilege, and I warmly thanked his Majesty.

Nevertheless, people chose to put a completely false construction upon so

simple an innovation, and my sentiments in the matter were wholly

misunderstood. It was thought that vanity had prompted me to endeavour

to put myself on a level with the Queen, and this worthy princess was

herself somewhat nettled thereat. God is my witness that, from mere

motives of prudence, this unusual arrangement had to be made, and I

entirely agreed to it. After all, if the Infanta of Spain gave birth to

the Dauphin, Athenais de Mortemart is the mother of several princes.

In France, a Catholic realm, for the King to have a second wife is

considered superfluous by the timorous and shrivelled-brained. In

Constantinople, Alexandria, and Ispahan, I should have met with only

homage, veneration, respect. Errors of a purely geographical nature are

not those which cause me alarm; to have brought into the world so perfect

a being as the Duc du Maine will never, as I take it, incur blame at the

tribunal of Almighty God.

Mademoiselle de Nantes, his charming sister, has from her cradle been

destined to belong to one of the royal branches. Mademoiselle de Blois

will also become the mother of several Bourbon princes; I have good

grounds for cherishing such flattering hopes.

The little Comte de Toulouse already bids fair to be a worthy successor

to M. du Maine. He has the same grace of manner, and frank,

distinguished mien.

When all these princes possess their several escorts, it will seem

passing strange that their mother alone should not have any. That is my

opinion, and it is shared by all people of sense.

CHAPTER XL.

Osmin, the Little Moor.--He Sets the Fashion.--The Queen Has a Black

Baby.--Osmin is Dismissed.

I have already told how the envoys of the King of Arda, an African

prince, gave to the Queen a nice little blackamoor, as a toy and pet.

This Moor, aged about ten or twelve years, was only twenty-seven inches

in height, and the King of Arda declared that, being quite unique, the

boy would never grow to be taller than three feet.

The Queen instantly took a great fancy to this black creature. Sometimes

he gambolled about and turned somersaults on her carpet like a kitten, or

frolicked about on the bureau, the sofa, and even on the Queen’s lap.

As she passed from one room to another, he used to hold up her train, and

delighted to catch hold of it and so make the Queen stop short suddenly,

or else to cover his head and face with it, for mischief, to make the

courtiers laugh.

He was arrayed in regular African costume, wearing handsome bracelets,

armlets, a necklace ablaze with jewels, and a splendid turban. Wishing

to show myself agreeable, I gave him a superb aigrette of rubies and

diamonds; I was always sorry afterwards that I did so.

The King could never put up with this little dwarf, albeit his features

were comely enough. To begin with, he thought him too familiar, and

never even answered him when the dwarf dared to address him.

Following the fashion set by her Majesty, all the Court ladies wanted to

have little blackamoors to follow them about, set off their white

complexions, and hold up their cloaks or their trains. Thus it came that

Mignard, Le Bourdon, and other painters of the aristocracy, used to

introduce negro boys into all their large portraits. It was a mode, a

mania; but so absurd a fashion soon had to disappear after the mishap of

which I am about to tell.

The Queen being pregnant, public prayers were offered up for her

according to custom, and her Majesty was forever saying: “My pregnancy

this time is different from preceding ones. I am a prey to nausea and

strange whims; I have never felt like this before. If, for propriety’s

sake, I did not restrain myself, I should now dearly like to be turning

somersaults on the carpet, like little Osmin. He eats green fruit and

raw game; that is what I should like to do, too. I should like to--”

“Oh, madame, you frighten us!” exclaimed the King. “Don’t let all those

whimsies trouble you further, or you will give birth to some monstrosity,

some freak of nature.” His Majesty was a true prophet. The Queen was

delivered of a fine little girl, black as ink from head to foot. They

did not tell her this at once, fearing a catastrophe, but persuaded her

to go to sleep, saying that the child had been taken away to be

christened.

The physicians met in one room, the bishops and chaplains in another. One

prelate was opposed to baptising the infant; another only agreed to this

upon certain conditions. The majority decided that it should be baptised

without the name of father or mother, and such suppression was

unanimously advocated.

The little thing, despite its swarthy hue, was most beautifully made; its

features bore none of those marks peculiar to people of colour.

It was sent away to the Gisors district to be suckled as a negro’s

daughter, and the Gazette de France contained an announcement to the

effect that the royal infant had died, after having been baptised by the

chaplains.

[This daughter of the Queen lived, and was obliged to enter a Benedictine

nunnery at Moret. Her portrait is to be seen in the Sainte Genevieve

Library of Henri IV.’s College, where it hangs in the winter

saloon.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

The little African was sent away, as may well be imagined; and the Queen

admitted that, one day soon after she was pregnant, he had hidden himself

behind a piece of furniture and suddenly jumped out upon her to give her

a fright. In this he was but too successful.

The Court ladies no longer dared come near the Queen attended by their

little blackamoors. These, however, they kept for a while longer, as if

they were mere nick-hacks or ornaments; in Paris they were still to be

seen in public. But the ladies’ husbands at last got wind of the tale,

when all the little negroes disappeared.

CHAPTER XLI.

Monsieur’s Second Marriage.--Princess Palatine.--The Court Turnspit.--A

Woman’s Hatred.--The King’s Mistress on a Par with the First Prince of

the Blood.--She Gives His Wife a Lesson.

In order to keep up appearances at his Palais Royal, Monsieur besought

the King to consent to his remarriage after the usual term of mourning

was at an end.

“Whom have you in view?” asked his brother. He replied that he proposed

to wed Mademoiselle--the grande Mademoiselle de Montpensier--on account

of her enormous wealth!

Just then Mademoiselle was head over ears in love with Lauzun. She sent

the Prince about his business, as I believe I have already stated.

Moreover, she remarked: “You had the loveliest wife in all

Europe,--young, charming, a veritable picture. You might have seen to it

that she was not poisoned; in that case you would not now be a widower.

As it is not likely that I should ever come to terms with your

favourites, I shall never be anything else to you but a cousin, and I

shall endeavour not to die until the proper time; that is, when it shall

please God to take me. You can repeat this speech, word for word, to your

precious Marquis d’Effiat and Messieurs de Remecourt and de Lorraine.

They have no access to my kitchens; I am not afraid of them.”

This answer amused the King not a little, and he said to me: “I was told

that the Palatine of Bavaria’s daughter is extremely ugly and ill-bred;

consequently, she is capable of keeping Monsieur in check. Through one

of my Rhenish allies, I will make proposals to her father for her hand.

As soon as a reply comes, I will show my brother a portrait of some sort;

it will be all the same to him; he will accept her.”

Soon afterwards this marriage took place. Charlotte Elizabeth of

Bavaria, though aware of the sort of death that her predecessor died,

agreed to marry Monsieur. Had she not been lucky enough to make this

grand match, her extreme ugliness would assuredly have doomed her to

celibacy, even in Bavaria and in Germany. It is surely not allowable to

come into the world with such a face and form, such a voice, such eyes,

such hands, and such feet, as this singular princess displayed. The

Court, still mindful of the sweetness, grace, and charm of Henrietta of

England, could not contemplate without horror and disgust the fearful

caricature I have just described. Young pregnant women--after the

Queen’s unfortunate experience--were afraid to look at the Princess

Palatine, and wished to be confined before they reappeared at Court.

As for herself, armed with robust, philosophical notions, and a complete

set of Northern nerves, she was in no way disconcerted at the effect her

presence produced. She even had the good sense to appear indifferent to

all the raillery she provoked, and said to the King:

“Sire, to my mind you are one of the handsomest men in the world, and

with few exceptions, your Court appears to me perfectly fitted for you. I

have come but scantily equipped to such an assemblage. Fortunately, I am

neither jealous nor a coquette, and I shall win pardon for my plainness,

I myself being the first to make merry at it.”

“You put us completely at our ease,” replied the King, who had not even

the courage to be gallant. “I must thank you on behalf of these ladies

for your candour and wit.” Ten or twelve of us began to titter at this

speech of hers. The Robust Lady never forgave those who laughed.

Directly she arrived, she singled me out as the object of her ponderous

Palatine sarcasms. She exaggerated my style of dress, my ways and

habits. She thought to make fun of my little spaniels by causing herself

to be followed, even into the King’s presence-chamber, by a large

turnspit, which in mockery she called by the name of my favourite dog.

When I had had my hair dressed, ornamented with quantities of little

curls, diamonds, and jewelled pins, she had the impertinence to appear at

Court wearing a huge wig, a grotesque travesty of my coiffure. I was

told of it. I entered the King’s apartment without deigning to salute

Madame, or even to look at her.

I had also been told that, in society, she referred to me as “the

Montespan woman.” I met her one day in company with a good many other

people, and said to her:

“Madame, you managed to give up your religion in order to marry a French

prince; you might just as well have left behind your gross Palatine

vulgarity also. I have the honour to inform you that, in the exalted

society to which you have been admitted, one can no more say ‘the

Montespan woman,’ than one can say ‘the Orleans woman.’ I have never

offended you in the slightest degree, and I fail to see why I should have

been chosen as the favoured object of your vulgar insults.”

She blushed, and ventured to inform me that this way of expressing

herself was a turn of speech taken from her own native language, and that

by saying “the,” as a matter of course “Marquise” was understood.

“No, madame,” I said, without appearing irritated; “in Paris, such an

excuse as that is quite inadmissible, and since you associate with

turnspits, pray ask your cooks, and they will tell you.”

Fearing to quarrel with the King, she was obliged to be more careful, but

to change one’s disposition is impossible, and she has loathed and

insulted me ever since. Her husband, who himself probably taught her to

do so, one day tried to make apologies for what he ruefully termed her

reprehensible conduct. “There, there, it doesn’t matter,” I said to him;

“it is easier to offend me than to deceive me. Allow me to quote to you

the speech of Mademoiselle de Montpensier, ‘You had a charming and

accomplished wife, you ought to have prevented her from being poisoned,

and then we should not have had this hag at Court.’”

CHAPTER XLII.

Madame de Montespan’s Father-confessor.--He Alters His Opinion.--Madame

de Maintenon Is Consulted.--A General on Theology.--A Country

Priest.--The Marquise Postpones Her Repentance and Her Absolution.

My father-confessor, who since my arrival at Court had never vexed or

thwarted me, suddenly altered his whole manner towards me, from which I

readily concluded that the Queen had got hold of him. This priest, of

gentle, easy-going, kindly nature, never spoke to me except in a tone of

discontent and reproach. He sought to induce me to leave the King there

and then, and retire to some remote chateau. Seeing that he was

intriguing, and had, so to speak, taken up his position, like a woman of

experience I took up mine as well, and politely dismissed him, at which

he was somewhat surprised. In matters of religion, Madame de Maintenon,

who understands such things, was my usual mentor. I told her that I was

disheartened, and should not go to confession again for ever so long. She

was shocked at my resolve, and strove all she could to make me change my

mind and endeavour to lead me back into the right way.

She forever kept repeating her favourite argument, saying, “Good

gracious! suppose you should die in that state!”

I replied that it was not my fault, as I had never ceased to obey the

precepts of the Holy Church. “It was my old father-confessor,” said I,

“the Canon of Saint Thomas du Louvre, who had harshly refused to confess

me.”

“What he does,” replied she, “is solely for your own good.”

“But if he has only my well-being in view,” I quickly retorted, “why did

not he think of this at first? It would have been far better to have

stopped me at the outset, instead of letting me calmly proceed upon my

career. He is obeying the Queen’s orders, or else those of that Abbe

Bossuet de Mauleon, who no longer dares attack me to my face.”

As we thus talked, the Duc de Vivonne came into my room. Learning the

topic of our discussion, he spoke as follows: “I should not be general of

the King’s Galleys and a soldier at heart and by profession if my opinion

in this matter were other than it is. I have attentively read

controversies on this point, and have seen it conclusively proved that

our kings never kept a confessor at Court. Among these kings, too, there

were most holy, most saintly people, and--”

“Then, what do you conclude from that, Duke?” asked Madame de Maintenon.

“Why, that Madame will do well to respect his Majesty the King as her

father-confessor.”

“Oh, Duke, you shock me! What dreadful advice, to be sure!” cried the

governess.

“I have not the least wish to shock you, madame; but my veneration for

D’Aubigne, your illustrious grandfather--is too great to let me think

that he is among the damned, and he never attended confession at all.”

[Theodore Agrippa, Baron d’Aubigne, lieutenant-general in the army of

Henri IV. He persevered in Calvinism after the recantation of the

King.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

“Eternity hides that secret from us,” replied Madame de Maintenon. “Each

day I pray to God to have mercy upon my poor grandfather; if I thought he

were among the saved, I should never be at pains to do this.”

“Bah, madame! let’s talk like sensible, straightforward people,” quoth

the General. “The reverend Pere de la Chaise--one of the Jesuit

oracles--gives the King absolution every year, and authorises him to

receive the Holy Sacrament at Easter. If the King’s confessor--thorough

priest as he is--pardons his intimacy with madame, here, how comes it

that the other cleric won’t tolerate madame’s intimacy with the King? On

a point of such importance as this, the two confessors ought really to

come to some agreement, or else, as the Jesuits have such a tremendous

reputation, the Marquise is entitled to side with them.”

Hemmed in thus, Madame de Maintenon remarked “that the morals of Jesuits

and lax casuists had never been hers,” and she advised me to choose a

confessor far removed from the Court and its intrigues.

The next day she mentioned a certain village priest to me, uninfluenced

by anybody, and whose primitive simplicity caused him to be looked upon

as a saint.

I submitted, and ingenuously went to confess myself to this wonderful

man; his great goodness did not prevent him from rallying me about the

elegance of my costume, and the perfume of my gloves, and my hair. He

insisted upon knowing my name, and on learning it, flew into a passion. I

suppress the details of his disagreeable propositions. Seated sideways

in his confessional, he stamped on the floor, abused me, and spoke

disrespectfully of the King. I could not stand such scandalous behaviour

for long; and, wearing my veil down, I got into my coach, being

thoroughly determined that I would take a good long holiday. M. de

Vivonne soundly rated me for such cowardice, as he called it, while

Madame de Maintenon offered me her curate-in-chief, or else the Abbe

Gobelin.

But, for the time being, I determined to keep to my plan of not going to

confession, strengthened in such resolve by my brother Vivonne’s good

sense, and the attitude of the King’s Jesuit confessor, who had a great

reputation and knew what he was about.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The Comte de Guiche.--His Violent Passion for Madame.--His Despair.--He

Flees to La Trappe.--And Comes Out Again.--A Man’s Heart.--Cured of His

Passion, He Takes a Wife.

The Comte de Guiche, son of the Marechal de Grammont, was undoubtedly one

of the handsomest men in France.

The grandeur and wealth of his family had, at an early age, inspired him

with courage and self-conceit, so that in his blind, frivolous

presumption, the only person, as he thought, who exceeded his own

fascination was possibly the King, but nobody else.

Perceiving the wonderful charm of Monsieur’s first wife, he conceived so

violent a passion for her that no counsel nor restraint could prevent him

from going to the most extravagant lengths in obedience to this rash,

this boundless passion.

Henrietta of England, much neglected by her husband, and naturally of a

romantic disposition, allowed the young Count to declare his love for

her, either by singing pretty romances under her balcony, or by wearing

ribbons, bunched together in the form of a hieroglyphic, next his heart.

Elegantly dressed, he never failed to attend all the assemblies to which

she lent lustre by her presence. He followed her to Saint Germain, to

Versailles, to Chambord, to Saint Cloud; he only lived and had his being

in the enjoyment of contemplating her charms.

One day, being desirous of walking alongside her sedan-chair, without

being recognised, he had a complete suit made for him of the La Valliere

livery, and thus, seeming to be one of the Duchess’s pages, he was able

to converse with Madame for a short time. Another time he disguised

himself as a pretty gipsy, and came to tell the Princess her fortune. At

first she did not recognise him, but when the secret was out, and all the

ladies were in fits of laughter, a page came running in to announce the

arrival of Monsieur. Young De Guiche slipped out by a back staircase,

and in order to facilitate his exit, one of the footmen, worthy of

Moliere, caught hold of the Prince as if he were one of his comrades, and

holding a handkerchief over his face, nearly poked his eye out.

The Count’s indiscretions were retailed in due course to Monsieur by his

favourites, and he was incensed beyond measure. He complained to

Marechal de Grammont; he complained to the King.

Hereupon, M. de Guiche received orders to travel for two or three years.

War with the Turks had just been declared, and together with other

officers, his friends, he set out for Candia and took part in the siege.

All did him the justice to affirm that while there he behaved like a

hero. When the fortress had to capitulate, and Candia was lost to the

Christians forever, our officers returned to France. Madame was still

alive when the young Count rejoined his family. He met the Princess once

or twice in society, without being able to approach her person, or say a

single word to her.

Soon afterwards, she gave birth to a daughter. A few days later, certain

monsters took her life by giving her poison. This dreadful event made

such an impression upon the poor Comte de Guiche, that for a long while

he lost his gaiety, youth, good looks, and to a certain extent, his

reason. After yielding to violent despair, he was possessed with rash

ideas of vengeance. The Marechal de Grammont had to send him away to one

of his estates, for the Count talked of attacking and of killing, without

further ado, the Marquis d’Effiat, M. de Remecourt, the Prince’s

intendant, named Morel, and even the Duc d’Orleans himself.

[Morel subsequently admitted his guilt in the matter of Madame’s death,

as well as the commission of other corresponding crimes. See the Letters

of Charlotte, the Princess Palatine.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

His intense agitation was succeeded by profound melancholy, stupor

closely allied to insanity or death.

One evening, the Comte de Guiche went to the Abbey Church of Saint Denis.

He hid himself here, to avoid being watched, and when the huge nave was

closed, and all the attendants had left, he rushed forward and flung

himself at full length upon the tombstone which covers the vast royal

vault. By the flickering light of the lamps, he mourned the passing

hence of so accomplished a woman, murdered in the flower of her youth. He

called her by name, telling her once more of his deep and fervent love.

Next day, he wandered about in great pain, gloomy and inconsolable.

One day he came to see me at Clagny, and talked in a hopeless, desolate

way about our dear one. He told me that neither glory nor ambition nor

voluptuous pleasures could ever allure him or prove soothing to his soul.

He assured me that life was a burden to him,--a burden that religion

alone prevented him from relinquishing, and that he was determined to

shut himself up in La Trappe or in some such wild, deserted place.

I sought to dissuade him from such a project, which could only be the

cause of grief and consternation to his relatives. He pretended to yield

to my entreaties, but the next night he left home and disappeared.

At length he came back. Luckily, the Trappist Abbe de Ranch wished to

take away from him the portrait on enamel of Henrietta of England, so as

to break it in pieces before his eyes. So indignant was the Count that

he was upon the point of giving the hermit a thrashing. He fled in

disgust from the monastery, and this fresh annoyance served, in some

degree, to assuage his grief. Life’s daily occupations, the excitements

of society, the continual care shown towards him by his relatives, youth,

above all, and Time, the irresistible healer, at last served to soothe a

sorrow which, had it lasted longer, would have been more disastrous in

its results.

The Comte de Guiche consented to marry a wife to whom he was but slightly

attached, and who is quite content with him, praising his good qualities

and all his actions.

CHAPTER XLIV.

Mexica.--Philippa.--Molina.--The Queen’s Jester.

In marrying Maria Theresa, Infanta of Spain, the King had made an

advantageous match from a political point of view. For through the

Infanta he had rights with regard to Flanders; she also provided him with

eventual claims upon Spain itself, together with Mexico and Peru. But

from a personal and social point of view, the King could not have

contracted a more miserable alliance. The Infanta, almost wholly

uneducated, had not even such intellectual resources as a position such

as hers certainly required, where personal risk was perpetual, where

authority had to be maintained by charming manners, and respect for power

ensured by elevation of tone and sentiment, which checks the indiscreet,

and imbues everybody with the spirit of consideration and reverence.

Maria Theresa, though a king’s daughter, made no more effect at Court

than if she had been a mere middle-class person. The King, in fact, by

his considerateness, splendour, and glory, served to support her dignity.

He hoped and even desired that she should be held in honour, partly for

her own sake, in a great measure for his. But as soon as she started

upon some argument or narration where force of intellect was needed, she

always seemed bewildered, and he soon interrupted her either by finishing

the tale himself, or by changing the conversation. This he did

good-naturedly and with much tact, so that the Queen, instead of taking

offence, was pleased to be under such an obligation to him. From such a

wife this prince could not look to have sons of remarkable talent or

intellect, for that would have been nothing short of a miracle. And thus

the little Dauphin showed none of those signs of intelligence which the

most ordinary commonplace children usually display. When the Queen heard

courtiers repeat some of the droll, witty sayings of the Comte de Vegin,

or the Duc du Maine, she reddened with jealousy, and remarked, “Everybody

goes into ecstasies about those children, while Monsieur le Dauphin is

never even mentioned.”

She had brought with her from Spain that Donna Silvia Molina, of whom I

have already spoken, and who had got complete control over her character.

Instead of tranquillising her, and so making her happy, Donna Silvia

thought to become more entertaining, and above all, more necessary to

her, by gossiping to her about the King’s amours. She ferreted out all

the secret details, all the petty circumstances, and with such dangerous

material troubled the mind and destroyed the repose of her mistress, who

wept unceasingly, and became visibly changed.

La Molina, enriched and almost wealthy, was sent back to Spain, much to

the grief of Maria Theresa, who for several days after her departure

could neither eat nor sleep.

At the same time, the King got rid of that little she-dwarf, named

Mexica, in whose insufferable talk and insufferable presence the Queen

took delight. But the sly little wretch escaped during the journey, and

managed to get back to the princess again, hidden in some box or basket.

The Queen was highly delighted to see her again; she pampered her

secretly in her private cabinet with the utmost mystery, giving up every

moment that she could spare.

One day, by way of a short cut, the King was passing through the Queen’s

closet, when he heard the sound of coughing in one of the cupboards.

Turning back, he flung it open, where, huddled up in great confusion, he

found Mexica.

“What!” cried his Majesty; “so you are back again? When and how did you

come?”

In a feeble voice Mexica answered, “Sire, please don’t send me away from

the Queen any more, and she will never complain again about Madame de

Montespan.”

The King laughed at this speech, and then came and repeated it to me. I

laughed heartily, too, and such a treaty of peace seemed to contain queer

compensation clauses: Madame de Montespan and Mexica were mutually bound

over to support each other; the spectacle was vastly droll, I vow.

Besides her little dwarf, the Queen had a fool named Tricominy. This

quaint person was permitted to utter everywhere and to everybody in

incoherent fashion the pseudo home-truths that passed through his head.

One day he went up to the grande Mademoiselle de Montpensier, and said to

her before everybody, “Since you are so anxious to get married, marry me;

then that will be a man-fool and a woman-fool.” The Princess tried to

hit him, and he took refuge behind the Queen’s chair.

Another time, to M. Letellier, Louvois’s brother and Archbishop of

Rheims, he said, “Monseigneur, do let me ascend the pulpit in your

Cathedral, and I will preach modesty and humanity to you.” When the

little Duc d’Anjou, that pretty, charming child, died of suppressed

measles, the Queen was inconsolable, and the King, good father that he

is, was weeping for the little fellow, for he promised much. Says

Tricominy, “They’re weeping just as if princes had not got to die like

anybody else. M. d’Anjou was no better made than I am, nor of better

stuff.”

Tricominy was dismissed, because it was plain that his madness took a

somewhat eccentric turn; that, in fact, he was not fool enough for his

place.

The Queen had still a Spanish girl named Philippa, to whom she was much

attached, and who deserved such flattering attachment. Born in the

Escurial Palace, Philippa had been found one night in a pretty cradle at

the base of one of the pillars. The palace guards informed King Philip,

who adopted the child and brought it up, since it had been foisted upon

him as his daughter. He grew fond of the girl, and on coming to Saint

Jean de Luz to marry the Infanta to his nephew the King, he made them a

present of Philippa, and begged them both to be very good to her. In

this amiable Spanish girl, the Infanta recognised a sister. She knew she

was an illegitimate daughter of King Philip and one of the palace ladies.

When Molina left the Court, she did everything on earth to induce

Philippa to return with her to Spain, but the girl was sincerely attached

to the Queen, who, holding her in a long embrace, promised to find her a

wealthy husband if she would stay. However, the Queen only gave her as

husband the Chevalier de Huze, her cloak-bearer, so as to keep the girl

about her person and to be intimate with her daily. Philippa played the

mandolin and the guitar to perfection; she, also sang and danced with

consummate grace.

CHAPTER XLV.

Le Bouthilier de Ranch, Abbe de la Trappe.

The Abbe le Bouthilier de Rance,--son of the secretary of state, Le

Bouthilier de Chavigny,--after having scandalised Court and town by his

public gallantries, lost his mistress, a lady possessed of a very great

name and of no less great beauty. His grief bordered upon despair; he

forsook the world, gave away or sold his belongings, and went and shut

himself up in his Abbey of La Trappe, the only benefice which he had

retained. This most ancient monastery was of the Saint Bernard Order,

with white clothing. The edifice spacious, yet somewhat dilapidated was

situated on the borders of Normandy, in a wild, gloomy valley exposed to

fog and frost.

The Abbe found in this a place exactly suitable to his plan, which was to

effect reforms of austere character and contrary to nature. He convened

his monks, who were amazed at his arrival and residence; he soundly rated

them for the scandalous laxity of their conduct, and having reminded them

of all the obligations of their office, he informed them of his new

regulations, the nature of which made them tremble. He proposed nothing

less than to condemn them to daily manual labour, the tillage of the

soil, the performance of menial household duties; and to this he added

the practices of immoderate fasting, perpetual silence, downcast glances,

veiled countenances, the renouncement of all social ties, and all

instructive or entertaining literature. In short, he advocated sleeping

all together on the bare floor of an ice-cold dormitory, the continual

contemplation of death, the dreadful obligation of digging, while alive,

one’s own grave every day with one’s own hands, and thus, in imagination,

burying oneself therein before being at rest there for ever.

As laws so foolish and so tyrannical were read out to them, the worthy

monks--all of them of different character and age openly expressed their

discontent. The Abbe de Rance allowed them to go and get pleasure in

other monasteries, and contrived to collect around him youths whom it was

easy to delude, and a few elderly misanthropes; with these he formed his

doleful wailing flock.

As he loved notoriety in everything, he had various views of his

monastery engraved, and pictures representing the daily pursuits of his

laborious community. Such pictures, hawked about everywhere by itinerant

vendors of relics and rosaries, served to create for this barbarous

reformer a reputation saintly and angelic. In towns, villages, even in

royal palaces, he formed the one topic of conversation. Several

gentlemen, disgusted either with vice or with society, retired of their

own accord to his monastery, where they remained in order that they might

the sooner die.

Desirous of enjoying his ridiculous celebrity, the Abbe de Rance came to

Paris, under what pretext I do not remember, firmly resolved to show

himself off in all the churches, and solicit abundant alms for his

phantoms who never touched food. From all sides oblations were

forthcoming; soon he had got money enough to build a palace, if he had

liked.

It being impossible for him to take the august Mademoiselle de

Montpensier to his colony of monks, he desired at any rate to induce her

to withdraw from the world, and counselled her to enter a Carmelite

convent. Mademoiselle’s ardent passion for M. de Lauzun seemed to the

Trappist Abbe a scandal; in fact, his sour spirit could brook no scandal

of any sort. “I attended her father as he lay dying,” said he, “and to

me belongs the task of training, enlightening, and sanctifying his

daughter. I would have her keep silence; she has spoken too much.”

The moment was ill chosen; just then Mademoiselle de Montpensier was

striving to break the fetters of her dear De Lauzun; she certainly did

not wish to get him out of one prison, and then put herself into another.

Every one blamed this reformer’s foolish presumption, and Mademoiselle,

thoroughly exasperated, forbade her servants to admit him. It was said

that he had worked two or three miracles, and brought certain dead people

back to life.

“I will rebuild his monastery for him in marble if he will give us back

poor little Vegin, and the Duc d’Anjou,” said the King to me.

The remark almost brought tears to my eyes, just as I was about to joke

with his Majesty about the fellow and his miracles.

Well satisfied with his Parisian harvest, the Abbe le Bouthilier de Rance

went straight to his convent, where the inmates were persevering enough

to be silent, fast, dig, catch their death of cold, and beat themselves

for him.

Madame Cormeil, wishing to have a good look at the man, sent to inform

him of her illness. Would-be saints are much afraid of words with a

double meaning. In no whit disconcerted, he replied that he had devoted

his entire zeal to the poor in spirit, and that Madame Cormeil was not of

their number.

CHAPTER XLVI.

The Court Goes to Flanders.--Nancy.--Ravon.--Sainte Marie aux

Mines.--Dancing and Death.--A German Sovereign’s Respectful Visit.--The

Young Strasburg Priests.--The Good Bailiff of Chatenoi.--The Bridge at

Brisach.--The Capucin Monk Presented to the Queen.

Before relating that which I have to say about the Queen and her

precautions against myself, I would not omit certain curious incidents

during the journey that the King caused us to take in Alsatia and

Flanders, when he captured Maestricht and Courtrai.

The King having left us behind at Nancy, a splendid town where a large

proportion of the nobility grieved for the loss of Messieurs de Lorraine,

their legitimate sovereigns, the Queen soon saw that here she was more

honoured than beloved. It was this position which suggested to her the

idea of going to Spa, close by, and of taking the waters for some days.

If the Infanta was anxious to escape from the frigid courtesies of the

Lorraine aristocracy, I also longed to have a short holiday, and to keep

away from the Queen, as well for the sake of her peace of mind as for my

own. My doctor forbade me to take the Spa waters, as they were too

sulphurous; he ordered me those of Pont-a-Mousson. Hardly had I moved

there, when orders came for us all to meet at Luneville, and thence we

set out to rejoin the King.

Horrible was the first night of our journey spent at Ravon, in the Vosges

Mountains. The house in which Mademoiselle de Montpensier and I lodged

was a dilapidated cottage, full of holes, and propped up in several

places. Lying in bed, we heard the creaking of the beams and rafters.

Two days afterwards the house, so they told us, collapsed.

From that place we went on to Sainte Marie aux Mines, a mean sort of

town, placed like a long corridor between two lofty, well-wooded

mountains, which even at noonday deprive it of sun. Close by there is a

shallow, rock-bound streamlet which divides Lorraine from Alsace. Sainte

Marie aux Mines belonged to the Prince Palatine of Birkenfeld. This

Prince offered us his castle of Reif Auvilliers, an uncommonly beautiful

residence, which he had inherited from the Comtesse de Ribaupierre, his

wife.

This lady’s father was just dead, and as, in accordance with German

etiquette, the Count’s funeral obsequies could not take place for a

month, in the presence of all his relatives and friends, who came from a

great distance, the corpse, embalmed and placed in a leaden coffin, lay

in state under a canopy in the mortuary chapel.

Our equerries, seeing that the King’s chamber looked on to the mortuary

chapel, took upon themselves to blow out all the candles, and for the

time being stowed away the corpse in a cupboard.

We knew nothing about this; and as the castle contained splendid rooms,

the ladies amused themselves by dancing and music to make them forget the

boredom of their journey.

The King looked in upon us every now and then, saying, in a low voice,

“Ah! if you only knew what I know!”

And then he would go off, laughing in his sleeve. We did not get to know

about this corpse until five or six days afterwards, when we were a long

way off, and the discovery greatly shocked us.

The day we left Sainte Marie aux Mines, a little German sovereign came to

present his homage to the King. It was the Prince de Mont-Beliard, of

Wurtemberg, whom I had previously met in Paris, on the occasion of his

marriage with Marechal de Chatillon’s charming daughter. The luxurious

splendour of Saint Germain and Versailles had certainly not yet succeeded

in turning the heads of these German sovereigns. This particular one

wore a large buff doublet with big copper-gilt buttons. His cravat was

without either ribbons or lace. His rather short hair was roughly combed

over his forehead; he carried no sword, and instead of gold buckles or

clasps, he had little bows of red leather on his black velvet shoes. His

coach, entirely black, was still of old-fashioned make; that is to say,

studded with quantities of gilt nails. Wearing mourning for the Empress,

his six horses were richly, caparisoned, his four lackeys wearing yellow

liveries faced with red. An escort of twenty guardsmen, dressed

similarly, was in attendance; they seemed to be well mounted, and were

handsome fellows.

A second carriage of prodigious size followed the ducal conveyance; in

this were twelve ladies and gentlemen, who got out and made their

obeisance to the King and Queen.

The Prince de Mont-Beliard did not get into his coach again until ours

were in motion. He spoke French fairly well, and the little he said was

said with much grace. He looked very hard at me, which shocked the Queen

greatly, but not the King.

A little further on, their Majesties were greeted by the delegates of the

noble chapter of Strasburg. These comprised the Count of Manderhall and

two canons. What canons, too! And how astonished we were!

The old Count was dressed in a black cassock, and his hair looked

somewhat like a cleric’s, but his cravat was tied with a large

flame-coloured bow, and he wore ill-fitting hose of the same hue. As for

the two canons, they were pleasant young men, good-looking and well-made.

Their light gray dress was edged with black and gold; they wore their

hair long in wavy curls, and in their little black velvet caps they had

yellow and black feathers, and their silver-mounted swords were like

those worn by our young courtiers. Their equipment was far superior to

that of the deputation of the Prince de Mont-Beliard. It is true, they

were churchmen, and churchmen have only themselves and their personal

satisfaction to consider.

These gentlemen accompanied us as far as Chatenoi, a little town in their

neighbourhood, and here they introduced the bailiff of the town to the

King, who was to remain constantly in attendance and act as interpreter.

The bailiff spoke French with surprising ease. He had been formerly

tutor at President Tambonneaux’s, an extremely wealthy man, who

entertained the Court, the town, and all the cleverest men of the day.

The King soon became friends with the bailiff, and kept him the whole

time close to his carriage.

When travelling, the King is quite another man. He puts off his gravity

of demeanour, and likes to amuse his companions, or else make his

companions amuse him. Believing him to be like Henri IV. in temper, the

bailiff was for asking a thousand questions. Some of these the King

answered; to others he gave no reply.

“Sire,” said he to his Majesty, “your town of Paris has a greater

reputation than it actually deserves. They say you are fond of building;

then Paris ought to have occasion to remember your reign. Allow me to

express a hope that her principal streets will be widened, that her

temples, most of them of real beauty, may be isolated. You should add to

the number of her bridges, quays, public baths, almshouses and

infirmaries.”

The King smiled. “Come and see us in four or five years,” he rejoined,

“or before that, if you like, and if your affairs permit you to do so.

You will be pleased to see what I have already done.”

Then the bailiff, approaching my carriage window, addressed a few

complimentary remarks to myself.

“I have often met your father, M. de Mortemart,” said he, “at President

Tambonneaux’s. One day the little De Bouillons were there, quarrelling

about his sword, and to the younger he said, ‘You, sir, shall go into the

Church, because you squint. Let my sword alone; here’s my rosary.’”

“Well,” quoth the King, “M. de Mortemart was a true prophet, for that

little Bouillon fellow is to-day Cardinal de Bouillon.”

“Sire,” continued the worthy German, “I am rejoiced to hear such news.

And little Peguilain de Lauzun, of whom you used to be so fond when you

were both boys,--where is he? What rank does he now hold?”

Hereupon the King looked at Mademoiselle, who, greatly confused, shed

tears.

“Well, M. Bailiff,” said his Majesty, “did you easily recognise me at

first sight?”

“Sire,” replied the German, “your physiognomy is precisely the same; when

a boy, you looked more serious. The day you entered Parliament in

hunting-dress I saw you get into your coach; and that evening the

President said to his wife, ‘Madame, we are going to have a King. I wish

you could have been there, in one of the domes, just to hear the little

he said to us.’”

Whereupon the King laughingly inquired what reply the President’s wife

made. But the bailiff, smiling in his turn, seemed afraid to repeat it,

and so his Majesty said:

“I was told of her answer at the time, so I can let you know what it was.

‘Your young King will turn out a despot.’ That is what Madame la

Presidente said to her husband.”

The bailiff, somewhat confused, admitted that this was exactly the case.

The huge bridge at Brisach, across the Rhine, had no railing; the planks

were in a rickety condition, and through fissures one caught sight of the

impetuous rush of waters below. We all got out of our coaches and

crossed over with our eyes half shut, so dangerous did it seem; while the

King rode across this wretched bridge,--one of the narrowest and loftiest

that there is, and which is always in motion.

Next day the Bishop of Bale came to pay his respects to the Queen, and

was accompanied by delegates from the Swiss cantons, and other

notabilities. After this I heard the “General of the Capucins”

announced, who had just been to pay a visit of greeting to the German

Court. He was said to be by birth a Roman. Strange to say, for that

Capucin the same ceremony and fuss was made as for a sovereign prince,

and I heard that this was a time-honoured privilege enjoyed by his Order.

The monk himself was a fine man, wearing several decorations; his

carriage, livery, and train seemed splendid, nor did he lack ease of

manner nor readiness of conversation. He told us that, at the imperial

palace in Vienna, he had seen the Princesse d’Inspruck,--a relative of

the French Queen, and that the Emperor was bringing her up as if destined

one day to be his seventh bride, according to a prediction. He also

stated that the Emperor had made the young Princess sing to him,--a

Capucin monk; and added genially that she was comely and graceful, and

that he had been very pleased to see her.

The King was very merry at this priest’s expense. Not so the Queen, who

was Spanish, and particularly devoted to Capucin friars of all

nationalities.

CHAPTER XLVII.

Moliere.--Racine.--Their Mutual Esteem.--Racine in Mourning.

The King had not much leisure, yet occasionally he gave up half an hour

or an hour to the society of a chosen few,--men famous for their wit and

brilliant talents. One day he was so kind as to bring to my room the

celebrated Moliere, to whom he was particularly attached and showed

special favour. “Madame,” said the King, “here you see the one man in

all France who has most wit, most talent, and most modesty and good sense

combined. I thank God for letting him be born during my reign, and I

pray that He may preserve him to us for a long while yet.”

As I hastened to add my own complimentary remarks to those of the King, I

certainly perceived that about this illustrious person there was an air

of modesty and simplicity such as one does not commonly find in Apollo’s

favourites who aspire to fame. Moreover, he was most comely.

Moliere told the King that he had just sketched out the plot of his

“Malade Imaginaire,” and assured us that hypochondriacs themselves would

find something to laugh at when it was played. He spoke very little

about himself, but at great length, and with evident admiration, about

the young poet Racine.

The King asked if he thought that Racine had strength sufficient to make

him the equal of Corneille. “Sire,” said the comic poet, “Racine has

already surpassed Corneille by the harmonious elegance of his

versification, and by the natural, true sensibility of his dialogue; his

situations are never fictitious; all his words, his phrases, come from

the heart. Racine alone is a true poet, for he alone is inspired.”

The King, continuing, said: “I cannot witness his tragedy of ‘Berenice’

without shedding tears. How comes it that Madame Deshoulieres and Madame

de Sevigne, who have so much mind, refuse to recognise beauties which

strike a genius such as yours?”

“Sire,” replied Moliere, “my opinion is nothing compared to that which

your Majesty has just expressed, such is your sureness of judgment and

your tact. I know by experience that those scenes of my comedies which,

at a first reading, are applauded by your Majesty, always win most

applause from the public afterwards.”

“Is Racine in easy circumstances?” asked the King.

“He is not well off,” replied Moliere, “but the tragedies which he has in

his portfolio will make a rich man of him some day; of that I have not

the least doubt.”

“Meanwhile,” said the King, “take him this draft of six thousand livres

from me, nor shall this be the limit of my esteem and affection.”

Five or six months after this interview, poor Moliere broke a

blood-vessel in his chest, while playing with too great fervour the title

part in his “Malade Imaginaire.” When they brought the news to the King,

he turned pale, and clasping his hands together, well-nigh burst into

tears. “France has lost her greatest genius,” he said before all the

nobles present. “We shall never have any one like him again; our loss is

irreparable!”

When they came to tell us that the Paris clergy had refused burial to

“the author of ‘Tartuffe,’” his Majesty graciously sent special orders to

the Archbishop, and with a royal wish of that sort they were obliged to

comply, or else give good reasons for not doing so.

Racine went into mourning for Moliere. The King heard this, and publicly

commended such an act of good feeling and grateful sympathy.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

Madame de Montausier and the Phantom.--What She Exacts from the

Marquise.--Her Reproaches to the Duke.--Bossuet’s Complacency.

Those spiteful persons who told the Queen how obliging the Duchesse de

Montausier had shown herself towards me were also so extremely kind as to

write an account of the whole affair to the Marquis de Montespan.

At that time he was still in Paris, and one day he went to the Duchess

just as she was getting out of bed. In a loud voice he proceeded to

scold her, daring to threaten her as if she were some common woman; in

fact, he caught hold of her and endeavoured to strike her.

The King would not allow M. de Montausier to obtain redress from the

Marquis for such an insult as this. He granted a large pension to the

Duchess, and appointed her husband preceptor to the Dauphin.

Such honours and emoluments partly recompensed the Duchess, yet they

scarcely consoled her. She considered that her good name was all but

lost, and what afflicted her still more was that she never recovered her

health. She used to visit me, as our duties brought us together, but it

was easy to see that confidence and friendship no longer existed.

One day, when passing along one of the castle corridors, which, being so

gloomy, need lamplight at all hours, she perceived a tall white phantom,

which glared hideously at her, and then approaching, vanished. She was

utterly prostrated, and on returning to her apartments was seized with

fever and shivering. The doctors perceived that her brain was affected;

they ordered palliatives, but we soon saw that there was no counting upon

their remedies. She was gradually sinking.

Half an hour before she died the Duchess sent for me, having given

instructions that we should be left alone, and that there should be no

witnesses. Her intense emaciation was pitiful, and yet her face kept

something of its pleasant expression.

“It is because of you, and through you,” she exclaimed in a feeble,

broken voice, “that I quit this world while yet in the prime of life. God

calls me; I must die.

“Kings are so horribly exacting. Everything that ministers to their

passions seems feasible to them, and righteous folk must consent to do

their pleasure, or suffer the penalty of being disgraced and neglected,

and of seeing their long years of service lost and forgotten.

“During that unlucky journey in Brabant, you sought by redoubling your

coquetry and fascinations to allure La Valliere’s lover. You managed to

succeed; he became fond of you. Knowing my husband’s ambitious nature,

he easily got him to make me favour this intrigue, and lend my apartments

as a meeting-place.

“At Court nothing long remains a secret. The Queen was warned, and for a

while would not believe her informants. But your husband, with brutal

impetuousness, burst in upon me. He insulted me in outrageous fashion.

He tried to drag me out of bed and throw me out of the window. Hearing

me scream, my servants rushed in and rescued me, in a fainting state,

from his clutches. And you it is who have brought upon me such

scandalous insults.

“Ready to appear before my God, who has already summoned me by a spectre,

I have a boon to ask of you, Madame la Marquise. I beg it of you, as I

clasp these strengthless, trembling hands. Do not deny me this favour,

or I will cherish implacable resentment, and implore my Master and my

Judge to visit you with grievous punishment.

“Leave the King,” she continued, after drying her tears. “Leave so

sensual a being; the slave of his passions, the ravisher of others’ good.

The pomp and grandeur which surround you and intoxicate you would seem

but a little thing did you but look at them as now I do, upon my bed of

death.

“The Queen hates me; she is right. She despises me, and justly, too. I

shall elude her hatred and disdain, which weigh thus heavily upon my

heart. Perhaps she may deign to pardon me when my lawyer shall have

delivered to her a document, signed by myself, containing my confession

and excuses.”

As she uttered these words, Madame de Montausier began to vomit blood,

and I had to summon her attendants. With a last movement of the head she

bade me farewell, and I heard that she called for her husband.

Next day she was dead. Her waiting-maid came to tell me that the

Duchess, conscious to the last, had made her husband promise to resign

his appointment as governor to the Dauphin, and withdraw to his estates,

where he was to do penance. M. de Meaux, a friend of the family, read

the prayers for the dying, to which the Duchess made response, and three

minutes before the final death-throe, she consented to let him preach a

funeral sermon in eulogy of herself and her husband.

When printed and published, this discourse was thought to be a fine piece

of eloquence.

Over certain things the Bishop passed lightly, while exaggerating others.

Some things, again, were entirely of his own invention; and if from the

depths of her tomb the Duchess could have heard all that M. de Meaux said

about her, she never would have borne me such malice, nor would her grief

at leaving life and fortune have troubled her so keenly.

The King thought this funeral oration excellently well composed. Of one

expression and of one whole passage, however, he disapproved, though

which these were he did not do me the honour to say.

BOOK 4.

CHAPTER XLIX.

President de Nesmond.--Melladoro.--A Complacent Husband and His Love-sick

Wife.--Tragic Sequel.

President de Nesmond--upright, clear-headed magistrate as he was--was of

very great service to me at the Courts of Justice. He always managed to

oblige me and look after my interests and my rights in any legal dispute

of mine, or when I had reason to fear annoyance on the part of my

husband.

I will here relate the grief that his young wife caused him, and it will

be seen that, by the side of this poor President, M. de Montespan might

count himself lucky. Having long been a widower, he was in some measure

accustomed to this state, until love laid a snare for him just at the age

of sixty-five.

In the garden that lay below his windows--a garden owned by his

neighbour, a farmer--he saw Clorinde. She was this yeoman’s only

daughter. He at once fell passionately in love with her, as David once

loved Bathsheba.

The President married Clorinde, who was very pleased to have a fine name

and a title. But her husband soon saw--if not with surprise, at least

with pain--that his wife did not love him. A young and handsome

Spaniard, belonging to the Spanish Legation, danced one day with

Clorinde; to her he seemed as radiant as the god of melody and song. She

lost her heart, and without further delay confessed to him this loss.

On returning home, the President said to his youthful consort, “Madame,

every one is noticing and censuring your imprudent conduct; even the

young Spaniard himself finds it compromising.”

“Nothing you say can please me more,” she replied, “for this proves that

he is aware of my love. As he knows this, and finds my looks to his

liking, I hope that he will wish to see me again.”

Soon afterwards there was a grand ball given at the Spanish Embassy.

Madame de Nesmond managed to secure an invitation, and went with one of

her cousins. The young Spaniard did the honours of the evening, and

showed them every attention.

As the President was obliged to attend an all-night sitting at the

Tourelle,--[The parliamentary criminal court.]--and as these young ladies

did not like going home alone,--for their residence was some way

off,--the young Spaniard had the privilege of conducting them to their

coach and of driving back with them. After cards and a little music,

they had supper about daybreak; and when the President returned, at five

o’clock, he saw Melladoro, to whom he was formally introduced by madame.

The President’s welcome was a blend of surprise, anger, forced

condescension, and diplomatic politeness. All these shades of feeling

were easily perceived by the Spaniard, who showed not a trace of

astonishment. This was because Clorinde’s absolute sway over her husband

was as patent as the fact that, in his own house, the President was

powerless to do as he liked.

Melladoro, who was only twenty years old, thought he had made a charming

conquest. He asked to be allowed to present his respects occasionally,

when Clorinde promptly invited him to do so, in her husband’s name as

well as in her own.

It was now morning, and he took leave of the ladies. Two days after this

he reappeared; then he came five or six times a week, until at last it

was settled that a place should be laid for him every day at the

President’s table.

That year it was M. de Nesmond’s turn to preside at the courts during

vacation-time. He pleaded urgent motives of health, which made it

imperative for him to have country air and complete rest. Another judge

consented to forego his vacation and take his place on the bench for four

months; so M. de Nesmond was able to leave Paris.

When the time came to set out by coach, madame went off into violent

hysterics; but the magistrate, backed up by his father-in-law, showed

firmness, and they set out for the Chateau de Nesmond, about thirty

leagues from Paris.

M. de Nesmond found the country far from enjoyable. His wife, who always

sat by herself in her dressing-gown and seldom consented to see a soul,

on more than one occasion left her guests at table in order to sulk and

mope in her closet.

She fell ill. During her periods of suffering and depression, she

continually mentioned the Spaniard’s name. Failing his person, she

desired to have his portrait. Alarmed at his wife’s condition, the

President agreed to write a letter himself to the author of all this

trouble, who soon sent the lady a handsome sweetmeat-box ornamented with

his crest and his portrait.

At the sight of this, Clorinde became like another woman. She had her

hair dressed and put on a smart gown, to show the portrait how deeply

enamoured she was of the original.

“Monsieur,” she said to her husband, “I am the only daughter of a wealthy

man, who, when he gave me to a magistrate older than himself, did not

intend to sacrifice me. You have been young, no doubt, and you,

therefore, ought to know how revolting to youth, all freshness and

perfume, are the cuddlings and caresses of decrepitude. As yet I do not

detest you, but it is absolutely impossible to love you. On the

contrary, I am in love with Melladoro; perhaps in your day you were as

attractive as he is, and knew how to make the most of what you then

possessed. Now, will you please me by going back to Paris? I shall be

ever so grateful to you if you will. Or must you spend the autumn in

this gloomy abode of your ancestors? To show myself obedient, I will

consent; only in this case you must send your secretary to the Spanish

Legation, and your coach-and-six, to bring Melladoro here without delay.”

At this speech M. de Nesmond could no longer hide his disgust, but

frankly refused to entertain such a proposal for one moment. Whereupon,

his wife gave way to violent grief. She could neither eat nor sleep, and

being already in a weakly state, soon developed symptoms which frightened

her doctors.

M. de Nesmond was frightened too, and at length sent his rival a polite

and pressing invitation to come and stay at the chateau.

This state of affairs went on for six whole years, during which time

Madame de Nesmond lavished upon her comely paramour all the wealth

amassed by her frugal, orderly spouse.

At last the President could stand it no longer, but went and made a

bitter complaint to the King. His Majesty at once asked the Spanish

Ambassador to have Melladoro recalled.

At this news, Clorinde was seized with violent convulsions; so severe,

indeed, was this attack, that her wretched husband at once sought to have

the order rescinded. But as it transpired, the King’s wish had been

instantly complied with, and the unwelcome news had to be told to

Clorinde.

“If you love me,” quoth she to her husband, “then grant me this last

favour, after which, I swear it, Clorinde will never make further appeal

to your kind-heartedness. However quick they have been, my young friend

cannot yet have reached the coast. Let me have sight of him once more;

let me give him a lock of my hair, a few loving words of advice, and one

last kiss before he is lost to me forever.”

So fervent was her pleading and so profuse her tears, that M. de Nesmond

consented to do all. His coach-and-six was got ready there and then. An

hour before sunset the belfries of Havre came in sight, and as it was

high tide, they drove right up to the harbour wharf.

The ship had just loosed her moorings, and was gliding out to sea.

Clorinde could recognise Melladoro standing amid the passengers on deck.

Half fainting, she stretched out her arms and called him in a piteous

voice. Blushing, he sought to hide behind his companions, who all begged

him to show himself. By means of a wherry Clorinde soon reached the

frigate, and the good-natured sailors helped her to climb up the side of

the vessel. But in her agitation and bewilderment her foot slipped, and

she fell into the sea, whence she was soon rescued by several of the

pluckiest of the crew.

As she was being removed to her carriage, the vessel sailed out of

harbour. M. de Nesmond took a large house at Havre, in order to nurse

her with greater convenience, and had to stop there for a whole month,

his wife being at length brought back on a litter to Paris.

Her convalescence was but an illusion after all. Hardly had she reached

home when fatal symptoms appeared; she felt that she must die, but showed

little concern thereat. The portrait of the handsome Spaniard lay close

beside her on her couch. She smiled at it, besought it to have pity on

her loneliness, or scolded it bitterly for indifference, and for going

away.

A short time before her death, she sent for her husband and her father,

to whom she entrusted the care of her three children.

“Monsieur,” said she to the President de Nesmond, “be kind to my son; he

has a right to your name and arms, and though he is my living image,

dearest Theodore is your son.” Then turning to her father, who was

weeping, she said briefly, “All that to-day remains to you of Clorinde

are her two daughters.

“Pray love them as you loved me, and be more strict with them than you

were with me. M. de Nesmond owes these orphans nothing. All that

Melladoro owes them is affection. Tell him, I pray you, of my constancy

and of my death.”

Such was the sad end of a young wife who committed no greater crime than

to love a man who was agreeable and after her own heart. M. de Nesmond

was just enough to admit that, in ill-assorted unions, good sense or good

nature must intervene, to ensure that the one most to be pitied receive

indulgent treatment at the hands of the most culpable, if the latter be

also the stronger of the two.

CHAPTER L.

Madame de Montespan’s Children and Those of La Valliere.--Monsieur le

Dauphin.

I had successively lost the first and second Comte de Vegin; God also

chose to take Mademoiselle de Tours from me, who (in what way I know not)

was in features the very image of the Queen. Her Majesty was told so,

and desired to see my child, and when she perceived how striking was the

resemblance, she took a fancy to the charming little girl, and requested

that she might frequently be brought to see her. Such friendliness

proved unlucky, for the Infanta, as is well known, has never been able to

rear one of her children,--a great pity, certainly, for she has had five,

all handsome, well-made, and of gracious, noble mien, like the King.

In the case of Mademoiselle de Tours, the Queen managed to conquer her

dislike, and also sent for the Duc du Maine. Despite her affection for

M. le Dauphin, she herself admitted that if Monseigneur had the airs of a

gentleman, M. le Duc du Maine looked the very type of a king’s son.

The Duc du Maine, Madame de Maintenon’s special pupil, was so well

trained to all the exigencies of his position and his rank, that such

premature perfection caused him to pass for a prodigy. Than his, no

smile could be more winning and sweet; no one could carry himself with

greater dignity and ease. He limps slightly, which is a great pity,

especially as he has such good looks, and so graceful a figure; his

lameness, indeed, was entirely the result of an accident,--a sad

accident, due to teething. To please the King, his governess took him

once to Auvez, and twice to the Pyrenees, but neither the waters nor the

Auvez quack doctors could effect a cure. At any rate, I was fortunate

enough to bring up this handsome prince, who, if he treat me with

ceremony, yet loves me none the less.

Brought up by the Duc de Montausier, a sort of monkish soldier, and by

Bossuet, a sort of military monk, Monsieur le Dauphin had no good

examples from which to profit. Crammed as he is with Latin, Greek,

German, Spanish, and Church history, he knows all that they teach in

colleges, being totally ignorant of all that can only be learnt at the

Court of a king. He has no distinction of manner, no polish or

refinement of address; he laughs in loud guffaws, and even raises his

voice in the presence of his father. Having been born at Court, his way

of bowing is not altogether awkward; but what a difference between his

salute and that of the King! “Monseigneur looks just like a German

prince.” That speech exactly hits him off,--a portrait sketched by no

other brush than that of his royal father.

Monseigneur, who does not like me, pays me court the same as any one

else. Being very jealous of the pretty Comte de Vermandois and his

brother, the Duc du Maine, he tries to imitate their elegant manner, but

is too stiff to succeed. The Duc du Maine shows him the respect inspired

by his governess, but the Comte de Vermandois, long separated from his

mother, has been less coached in this respect, and being thoroughly

candid and sincere, shows little restraint. Often, instead of styling

him “Monseigneur,” he calls him merely “Monsieur le Dauphin,” while the

latter, as if such a title were common or of no account, looks at his

brother and makes no reply.

When I told the King about such petty fraternal tiffs, he said, “With

age, all that will disappear; as a man grows taller, he gets a better,

broader view of his belongings.”

M. le Dauphin shows a singular preference for Mademoiselle de Nantes, but

my daughter, brimful of wit and fun, often makes merry at the expense of

her exalted admirer.

Mademoiselle de Blois, the eldest daughter of Madame de la Valliere, is

the handsomest, most charming person it is possible to imagine. Her

slim, graceful figure reminds one of the beautiful goddesses, with whom

poets entertain us; she abounds in accomplishments and every sort of

charm. Her tender solicitude for her mother, and their constant close

companionship, have doubtless served to quicken her intelligence and

penetration.

Like the King, she is somewhat grave; she has the same large brown eyes,

and just his Austrian lip, his shapely hand and well-turned leg, almost

his selfsame voice. Madame de la Valliere, who, in the intervals of

pregnancy, had no bosom to speak of, has shown marked development in this

respect since living at the convent. The Princess, ever since she

attained the age of puberty, has always seemed adequately furnished with

physical charms. The King provided her with a husband in the person of

the Prince de Conti, a nephew of the Prince de Conde. They are devotedly

attached to each other, being both as handsome as can be. The Princesse

de Conti enjoys the entire affection of the Queen, who becomes quite

uneasy if she does not see her for five or six days.

Certain foreign princes proposed for her hand, when the King replied that

the presence of his daughter was as needful to him as daylight or the air

he breathed.

I have here surely drawn a most attractive portrait of this princess, and

I ought certainly to be believed, for Madame de Conti is not fond of me

at all. Possibly she looks upon me as the author of her mother’s

disgrace; I shall never be at pains to undeceive her. Until the moment

of her departure, Madame de la Valliere used always to visit me. The

evening before her going she took supper with me, and I certainly had no

cause to read in her looks either annoyance or reproach. Mademoiselle de

Montpensier, who happened to call, saw us at table, and stayed to have

some dessert with us. She has often told me afterwards how calm and

serene the Duchess looked. One would never have thought she was about to

quit a brilliant Court for the hair shirt of the ascetic, and all the

death-in-life of a convent. I grieved for her, I wept for her, and I got

her a grand gentleman as a husband.

[This statement is scarcely reconcilable with the fact that Madame de la

Valliere remained in a convent until her death. This may refer to

Mademoiselle de Blois, La Valliere’s daughter, who was given in marriage

to the Prince de Conti.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

CHAPTER LI.

Madame de Maintenon’s Character.--The Queen Likes Her.--She Revisits Her

Family.--Her Grandfather’s Papers Restored to Her.

As Madame de Maintenon’s character happened to please the King, as I have

already stated, he allotted her handsome apartments at Court while

waiting until he could keep her there as a fixture, by conferring upon

her some important appointment. She had the honour of being presented to

the Queen, who paid her a thousand compliments respecting the Duc du

Maine’s perfections, being so candid and so good natured as to say:

“You would have been just the person to educate Monseigneur.”

Unwilling to appear as if she slighted the Dauphin’s actual tutors,

Madame de Maintenon adroitly replied that, as it seemed to her, M. le

Dauphin had been brought up like an angel.

It is said that I have special talent for sustaining and enlivening a

conversation; there is something in that, I admit, but to do her justice,

I must say that in this respect Madame de Maintenon is without a rival.

She has quite a wealth of invention; the most arid subject in her hands

becomes attractive; while for transitions, her skill is unequalled. Far

simpler than myself, she gauges her whole audience with a single glance.

And as, since her misfortunes, her rule has been never to make an enemy,

since these easily crop up along one’s path, she is careful never to

utter anything which could irritate the feelings or wound the pride of

the most sensitive. Her descriptions are so varied, so vivacious, that

they fascinate a whole crowd. If now and again some little touch of

irony escapes her, she knows how to temper and even instantly to

neutralise this by terms of praise at once natural and simple.

Under the guise of an extremely pretty woman, she conceals the knowledge

and tact of a statesman. I have, moreover, noticed that latterly the

King likes to talk about matters of State when she is present. He rarely

did this with me.

I think she is at the outset of a successful career. The King made

persistent inquiries with regard to her whole family. He has already

conferred a petty governorship upon the Comte d’Aubigne, her brother, and

the Marquis de la Gallerie, their cousin, has just received the command

of a regiment, and a pension.

Madame de Maintenon readily admits that she owes her actual good fortune

to myself. I also saw one of her letters to Madame de Saint-Geran, in

which she refers to me in terms of gratitude. Sometimes, indeed, she

goes too far, even siding with my husband, and condemning what she dares

to term my conduct; however, this is only to my face. I have always

liked her, and in spite of her affronts, I like her still; but there are

times when I am less tolerant, and then we are like two persons just

about to fall out.

The Comte de Toulouse and Mademoiselle de Blois were not entrusted to her

at their birth as the others were. The King thought that the additional

responsibility of their education would prove too great for the Marquise.

He preferred to enjoy her society and conversation, so my two youngest

children were placed in the care of Madame d’Arbon, a friend or

stewardess of M. de Colbert. Not a great compliment, as I take it.

When, for the second time, Madame de Maintenon took the Duc du Maine to

Barege, she returned by way of the Landes, Guienne, and Poitou. She

wished to revisit her native place, and show her pupil to all her

relations. Perceiving that she was a marquise, the instructress of

princes, and a personage in high favour, they were lavish of their

compliments and their praise, yet forebore to give her back her property.

Knowing that she was a trifle vain about her noble birth, they made over

to her the great family pedigree, as well as a most precious manuscript.

These papers, found to be quite correct, included a most spirited history

of the War of the League, written by Baron Agrippa d’Aubigne, who might

rank as an authority upon the subject, having fought against the Leaguers

for over fifteen years. Among these documents the King found certain

details that hitherto had been forgotten, or had never yet come to light.

And as the Baron was Henri IV.’s favourite aide-decamp, every reference

that he makes to that good king is of importance and interest.

This manuscript, in the simplest manner possible, set forth the

governess’s ancestors. I am sure she was more concerned about this

document than about her property.

CHAPTER LII.

The Young Flemish Lady.--The Sainte-Aldegonde Family.--The Sage of the

Sepulchres.

Just at the time of the conquest of Tournai, a most amusing thing

occurred, which deserves to be chronicled. Another episode may be

recorded also, of a gloomier nature.

Directly Tournai had surrendered, and the new outposts were occupied, the

King wished to make his entry into this important town, which he had long

desired to see. The people and the burghers, although mute and silent,

willingly watched the French army and its King march past, but the

aristocracy scarcely showed themselves at any of the windows, and the few

folk who appeared here and there on the balconies abstained from

applauding the King.

Splendidly apparelled, and riding the loveliest of milk-white steeds, his

Majesty proceeded upon his triumphant way, surrounded by the flower of

French nobility, and scattering money as he went.

Before the Town Hall the procession stopped, when the magistrates

delivered an address, and gave up to his Majesty the keys of the city in

a large enamelled bowl.

When the King, looking calmly contented, was about to reply, he observed

a woman who had pushed her way through the French guardsmen, and staring

hard at him, appeared anxious to get close up to him. In fact, she

advanced a step or two, and the epithet that crossed her lips struck the

conqueror as being coarsely offensive.

“Arrest that woman,” cried the King. She was instantly seized and

brought before him.

“Why do you insult me thus?” he asked quickly, but with dignity.

“I have not insulted you,” replied the Flemish lady. “The word that

escaped me was rather a term of flattery and of praise, at least if it

has the meaning which it conveys to us here, in these semi-French parts.”

“Say that word again,” added the King; “for I want everybody to bear

witness that I am just in punishing you for such an insult.”

“Sire,” answered this young woman, “your soldiers have destroyed my

pasture-lands, my woods, and my crops. Heart-broken, I came here to

curse you, but your appearance at once made me change my mind. On

looking closer at you, in spite of my grief, I could not help exclaiming,

‘So that’s the handsome b-----, is it!’”

The grenadiers, being called as witnesses, declared that such was in fact

her remark. Then the King smiled, and said to the young Flemish lady:

“Who are you? What is your name?”

With readiness and dignity she replied, “Sire, you see before you the

Comtesse de Sainte-Aldegonde.”

“Pray, madame,” quoth the King, “be so good as to finish your toilet; I

invite you to dine with me to-day.”

Madame de Sainte-Aldegonde accepted the honour, and did in fact dine with

his Majesty that day. She was clever, and made herself most agreeable,

so that the King, whose policy it was to win hearts by all concessions

possible, indemnified her for all losses sustained during the war,

besides granting favours to all her relatives and friends.

The Sainte-Aldegonde family appeared at Court, being linked thereto by

good services. It is already a training-ground for excellent officers

and persons of merit.

But for that somewhat neat remark of the Countess’s, all those gentlemen

would have remained in poverty and obscurity within the walls or in the

suburbs of Tournai.

Some days after this, the King was informed of the arrest of a most

dangerous individual, who had been caught digging below certain ancient

aqueducts “with a view to preparing a mine of some sort.” This person

was brought in, tied and bound like a criminal; they hustled him and

maltreated him. I noticed how he trembled and shed tears.

He was a learned man--an antiquary. A few days before our invasion he

had commenced certain excavations, which he had been forced to

discontinue, and now so great was his impatience that he had been obliged

to go on in spite of the surrounding troops. By means of an old

manuscript, long kept by the Druids, as also by monks, this man had been

able to discover traces of an old Roman highroad, and as in the days of

the Romans the tombs of the rich and the great were always placed

alongside these broad roads, our good antiquary had been making certain

researches there, which for him had proved to be a veritable gold-mine.

Having made confession of all this to the King, his Majesty set him free,

granting him, moreover, complete liberty as regarded the execution of his

enterprise.

A few days afterwards he begged to have the honour of presenting to his

Majesty some of the objects which he had collected during his researches.

I was present, and the following are the funereal curiosities which he

showed us:

Having broken open a tomb, he had extracted therefrom a large alabaster

vase, which still contained the ashes of the deceased. Next this urn,

carefully sealed up, there was another vase, containing three gold rings

adorned with precious stones, two gold spurs, the bit of a battle-horse,

very slightly rusted, and chased with silver and gold, a sort of seal

with rough coat-of-arms, a necklace of large and very choice pearls, a

stylet or pencil for calligraphy, and a hundred gold and silver coins

bearing the effigy of Domitian, a very wicked emperor, who reigned over

Rome and over Gaul in those days.

When the King had amused himself with examining these trinkets, he turned

to the antiquary and said, “Is that all, sir? Why, where is Charon’s

flask of wine?”

“Here, your Majesty,” replied the old man, producing a small flask. “See,

the wine has become quite clear.”

With great difficulty the flask was opened; the wine it contained was

pale and odourless, but by those bold enough to taste it, was pronounced

delicious.

When overturning the urn in order to empty out the ashes and bury them,

they noticed an inscription, which the King instantly translated. It ran

thus:

“May the gods who guard tombs punish him who breaks open this mausoleum.

The troubles and misfortunes of Aurelius Silvius have been cruel enough

during his lifetime; in this tomb at least let him have peace.”

The worthy antiquary offered me his pearl necklace and one of the antique

rings, but I refused these with a look of horror. He sold the coins to

the King, and informed us that his various excavations and researches had

brought him in about one hundred thousand livres up to the present time.

The King said to him playfully, “Mind what you are about, monsieur; that

sentence which I translated for you is not of a very, reassuring nature.”

“Yet it will not serve to hinder me in my scientific researches,” replied

the savant. “Charon, who by now must be quite a rich man, evidently

disdains all such petty hidden treasures as these. To me they are most

useful.”

Next time we passed through Tournai, I made inquiries as to this miser,

and afterwards informed the King. It appears that he was surprised by

robbers when despoiling one of these tombs. After robbing him of all

that he possessed, they buried him alive in the very, grave where he was

digging, so as to save expense. What a dismal sort of science! What a

life, and what a death!

CHAPTER LIII.

The Monks of Sainte Amandine.--The Prince of Orange Entrapped.--The

Drugged Wine.--The Admirable Judith.

After the furious siege of Conde, which lasted only four days, the King,

who had been present, left for Sebourg, whence he sent orders for the

destruction of the principal forts of Liege, and for the ravaging of the

Juliers district. He treated the Neubourg estates in the same ruthless

fashion, as the Duke had abandoned his attitude of neutrality, and had

joined the Empire, Holland and Spain. All the Cleves district, and those

between the Meuse and the Vahal, were subjected to heavy taxation.

Everywhere one saw families in flight, castles sacked, homesteads and

convents in flames.

The Duc de Villa-Hermosa, Governor-General in Flanders for the King of

Spain, and William of Orange, the Dutch leader, went hither and thither

all over the country, endeavouring to rouse the people, and spur them on

to offer all possible resistance to the King of France.

These two noble generalissimi even found their way into monasteries and

nunneries, and carried off their silver plate, actually, seizing the

consecrated vessels used for the sacrament, saying that all such things

would help the good cause.

One day they entered a wealthy Bernardine monastery, where the miraculous

tomb of Sainte Amandine was on view. The great veneration shown for this

saint in all the country thereabouts had served greatly to enrich the

community and bring them in numerous costly offerings. The chapel

wherein the saint’s heart was said to repose was lighted by a huge gold

lamp, and on the walls and in niches right up to the ceiling were

thousands of votive offerings in enamel, silver, and gold. The Duc de

Villa-Hermosa (a good Catholic) dared not give orders for the pillage of

this holy chapel, but left that to the Prince of Orange (a good

Huguenot).

One evening they came to ask the prior for shelter, who, seeing that he

was at the mercy of both armies, had to show himself pleasant to each.

During supper, when the two generals informed him of the object of their

secret visit, he clearly perceived that the monastery was about to be

sacked, and like a man of resource, at once made up his mind. When

dessert came, he gave his guests wine that had been drugged. The

generals, growing drowsy, soon fell asleep, and the prior at once caused

them to be carried off to a cell and placed upon a comfortable bed.

This done, he celebrated midnight mass as usual, and at its close he

summoned the whole community, telling them of their peril and inviting

counsel and advice.

“My brethren,” asked he, “ought we not to look upon our prisoners as

profaners of holy places, and serve them in secret and before God as once

the admirable Judith served Holofernes?”

At this proposal there was a general murmur. The assembly grew agitated,

but seeing how perilous was the situation, order was soon restored.

The old monks were of opinion that the two generals ought not yet to be

sacrificed, but should be shut up in a subterranean dungeon, a messenger

being sent forthwith to the French King announcing their capture.

The young monks protested loudly against such an act, declaring it to be

treacherous, disgraceful, felonious. The prior endeavoured to make them

listen to reason and be silent, but the young monks, though in a

minority, got the upper hand. They deposed the prior, abused and

assaulted him, and finally flung him into prison. One of them was

appointed prior without ballot, and this new leader, followed by his

adherents, roused the generals and officiously sent them away.

The prior’s nephew, a young Bernardine, accompanied by a lay brother and

two or three servants, set out across country that night, and brought

information to the King of all this disorder, begging his Majesty to save

his worthy uncle’s life.

At the head of six hundred dragoons, the King hastened to the convent and

at once rescued the prior, sending the good old monks of Sainte Amandine

to Citeaux, and dispersing the rebellious young ones among the Carthusian

and Trappist monasteries. All the treasures contained in the chapel he

had transferred to his camp, until a calmer, more propitious season.

That priceless capture, the Prince of Orange, escaped him, however, and

he was inconsolable thereat, adding, as he narrated the incident, “Were

it not that I feared to bring dishonour upon my name, and sully the

history of my reign and my life, I would have massacred those young

Saint-Bernard monks.”

“What a vile breed they all are!” I cried, losing all patience.

“No, no, madame,” he quickly rejoined, “you are apt to jump from one

extreme to the other. It does not do to generalise thus. The young

monks at Sainte Amandine showed themselves to be my enemies, I admit, and

for this I shall punish them as they deserve, but the poor old monks

merely desired my success and advantage. When peace is declared, I shall

take care of them and of their monastery; the prior shall be made an

abbot. I like the poor fellow; so will you, when you see him.”

I really cannot see why the King should have taken such a fancy to this

old monk, who was minded to murder a couple of generals in his convent

because, forsooth, Judith once slew Holofernes! Judith might have been

tempted to do that sort of thing; she was a Jewess. But a Christian

monk! I cannot get over it!

CHAPTER LIV.

The Chevalier de Rohan.--He is Born Too Late.--His Debts.--Messina Ceded

to the French.--The King of Spain Meditates Revenge.--The Comte de

Monterey.--Madame de Villars as Conspirator.--The Picpus

Schoolmaster.--The Plot Fails.--Discovery and Retribution.--Madame de

Soubise’s Indifference to the Chevalier’s Fate.

Had he been born fifty or sixty years earlier, the Chevalier de Rohan

might have played a great part. He was one of those men, devoid of

restraint and of principle, who love pleasure above all things, and who

would sacrifice their honour, their peace of mind, aye, even the State

itself, if such a sacrifice were really needed, in order to attain their

own personal enjoyment and satisfaction.

The year before, he once invited himself to dinner at my private

residence at Saint Germain, and he then gave me the impression of being a

madman, or a would-be conspirator. My sister De Thianges noticed the

same thing, too.

The Chevalier had squandered his fortune five or six years previously;

his bills were innumerable.

Each day he sank deeper into debt, and the King remarked, “The Chevalier

de Rohan will come to a bad end; it will never do to go on as he does.”

Instead of keeping an eye upon him, and affectionately asking him to

respect his family’s honour, the Prince and Princesse de Soubise made as

if it were their duty to ignore him and blush for him.

Profligacy, debts, and despair drove this unfortunate nobleman to make a

resolve such as might never be expected of any high-born gentleman.

Discontented with their governor, Don Diego de Soria, the inhabitants of

Messina had just shaken off the Spanish yoke, and had surrendered to the

King of France, who proffered protection and help.

Such conduct on the part of the French Government seemed to the King of

Spain most disloyal, and he desired nothing better than to revenge

himself. This is how he set about it.

On occasions of this kind it is always the crafty who are sought out for

such work. Comte de Monterey was instructed to sound the Chevalier de

Rohan upon the subject, offering him safety and a fortune as his reward.

Pressed into their service there was also the Marquise de Villars,--a

frantic gambler, a creature bereft of all principle and all modesty,--to

whom a sum of twenty thousand crowns in cash was paid over beforehand,

with the promise of a million directly success was ensured. She

undertook to manage Rohan and tell him what to do. Certain ciphers had

to be used, and to these the Marquise had the key. They needed a

messenger both intelligent and trustworthy, and for this mission she gave

the Chevalier an ally in the person of an ex-teacher in the Flemish

school at Picpus, on the Faubourg Saint Antoine. This man and the

Chevalier went secretly to the Comte de Monterey in Flanders, and by this

trio it was settled that on a certain day, at high tide, Admiral van

Tromp with his fleet should anchor off Honfleur or Quillebceuf in

Normandy, and that, at a given signal, La Truaumont, the Chevalier de

Preaux, and the Chevalier de Rohan were to surrender to him the town and

port without ever striking a single blow, all this being for the benefit

of his Majesty the King of Spain.

But all was discovered. The five culprits were examined, when the

Marquise de Villars stated that the inhabitants of Messina had given them

an example which the King of France had not condemned!

The Marquise and the two Chevaliers were beheaded, while the

ex-schoolmaster was hanged. As for young La Truaumont, son of a

councillor of the Exchequer, he escaped the block by letting himself be

throttled by his guards or gaolers, to whom he offered no resistance.

Despite her influence upon the King’s feelings, the Princess de Soubise

did not deign to take the least notice of the trial, and they say that

she drove across the Pont-Neuf in her coach just as the Chevalier de

Rohan, pinioned and barefooted, was marching to his doom.

CHAPTER LV.

The Prince of Orange Captures Bonn.--The King Captures Orange.--The

Calvinists of Orange Offer Resistance.

Since Catiline’s famous hatred for Consul Cicero, there has never been

hatred so deep and envenomed as that of William of Orange for the King.

For this loathing, cherished by a petty prince for a great potentate,

various reasons have been given. As for myself, I view things closely

and in their true light, and I am convinced that Prince William was

actuated by sheer jealousy and envy.

It was affirmed that the King, when intending to give him as bride

Mademoiselle de Blois, his eldest daughter and great favourite, had

offered to place him on the Dutch throne as independent King, and that to

such generous proposals the petty Stadtholder replied, “I am not pious

enough to marry the daughter of a Carmelite nun.” So absurd a proposal

as this, however, was never made, for the simple reason that Mademoiselle

de Blois has never yet been offered in marriage to any prince or noble

man in this wide world. Rather than to be parted from her, the King

would prefer her to remain single. He has often said as much to me, and

there is no reason to doubt his word.

The little Principality of Orange, which once formed the estate of this

now outlandish family, is situate close to the Rhone, amid French

territory. Though decorated with the title of Sovereignty, like its

neighbour the Principality of Dombes, it is no less a fief-land of the

Crown. In this capacity it has to contribute to the Crown revenues, and

owes homage and fealty to the sovereign.

Such petty, formal restrictions are very galling to the arrogant young

Prince of Orange, for he is one of those men who desire, at all cost, to

make a noise in the world, and who would set fire to Solomon’s Temple or

to the Delphian Temple, it mattered not which, so long as they made

people talk about them.

After Turenne’s death, there was a good deal of rivalry among our

generals. This proved harmful to the service. The Goddess of Victory

discovered this, and at times forsook us. Many possessions that were

conquered had to be given up, and we had to bow before those whom erst we

had humiliated. But Orange was never restored.--[This was written in

1677.]

When, in November, 1673, the Prince of Orange had the audacity to besiege

Bonn, the residence of our ally, the Prince Elector of Cologne, and to

reduce that prelate to the last extremity, the King promptly seized upon

the Principality of Orange; and having planted the French flag upon every

building, he published a general decree, strictly forbidding the

inhabitants to hold any communication whatever with “their former petty

sovereign,” and ordering prayers to be said for him, Louis, in all their

churches. This is a positive fact.

The Roman Catholics readily complied with this royal decree, which was in

conformity with their sympathies and their interests; but the Protestants

waxed furious thereat. Some of them even carried their devotion to such

a pitch that they paid taxes to two masters; that is to say, to

Stadtholder William, as well as to his Majesty the King.

The Huguenot “ministers,” or priests, issued pastoral letters in praise

of the Calvinist Prince and in abuse of the Most Christian King. They

also preached against the new oath of fealty, and committed several most

imprudent acts, which the Jesuits were not slow to remark and report in

Court circles.

Such audacity, and the need for its repression, rankled deep in the

King’s heart; and I believe he is quite disposed to pass measures of such

extreme severity as will soon deprive the Protestants and Lutherans of

any privileges derived from the Edict of Nantes.

From various sources I receive the assurance that he is preparing to deal

a heavy blow anent this; but the King’s character is impenetrable. Time

alone will show.

CHAPTER LVI

The Castle of Bleink-Elmeink.--Romantic and Extraordinary Discovery.--An

Innocent and Persecuted Wife.--Madame de Bleink-Elmeink at Chaillot.

After the siege and surrender of Maestricht, when the King had no other

end in view than the entire conquest of Dutch Brabant, he took us to this

country, which had suffered greatly by the war. Some districts were

wholly devastated, and it became increasingly difficult to find lodging

and shelter for the Court.

The grooms of the chambers one day found for us a large chateau, situated

in a woody ravine, old-fashioned in structure, and surrounded by a moat.

There was only one drawbridge, flanked by two tall towers, surmounted by

turrets and culverins. Its owner was in residence at the time. He came

to the King and the Queen, and greeting them in French, placed his entire

property at their disposal.

It had rained in torrents for two days without ceasing. Despite the

season, everybody was wet through and benumbed with cold. Large fires

were made in all the huge fireplaces; and when the castle’s vast rooms

were lighted up by candles, we agreed that the architect had not lacked

grandeur of conception nor good taste when building such large corridors,

massive staircases, lofty vestibules, and spacious, resounding rooms.

That given to the Queen was like an alcove, decorated by six large marble

caryatides, joined by a handsome balustrade high enough to lean upon. The

four-post bed was of azure blue velvet, with flowered work and rich gold

and silver tasselling. Over the chimneypiece was the huge Bleink-Elmeink

coat-of-arms, supported by two tall Templars.

The King’s apartment was an exact reproduction of a room existing at

Jerusalem in the time of Saint Louis; this was explained by inscriptions

and devices in Gothic or Celtic.

My room was supposed to be an exact copy of the famous Pilate’s chamber,

and it was named so; and for three days my eyes were rejoiced by the

detailed spectacle of our Lord’s Passion, from His flagellation to His

agony on Calvary.

The Queen came to see me in this room, and did me the honour of being

envious of so charming an apartment.

The fourth day, when the weather became fine, we prepared to change our

quarters and take to our carriages again, when an extraordinary event

obliged us to send a messenger for the King, who had already left us, and

had gone forward to join the army.

An old peasant, still robust and in good health, performed in this gloomy

castle the duties of a housekeeper. In this capacity she frequently

visited our rooms to receive our orders and satisfy our needs.

Seeing that the Queen’s boxes were being closed, and that our departure

was at hand, she came to me and said:

“Madame, the sovereign Lord of Heaven has willed it thus; that the

officers of the French King should have discovered as the residence of

his Court this castle amid gloomy forests and precipices. The great

prince has come hither and has stayed here for a brief while, and we have

sought to welcome him as well as we could. He gave the Comte de

Bleink-Elmeink, lord of this place and my master, his portrait set in

diamonds; he had far better have cut his throat.”

“Good heavens, woman! What is this you tell me?” I exclaimed. “Of what

crime is your master guilty? He seems to me to be somewhat moody and

unsociable; but his family is of good renown, and all sorts of good

things have been, told concerning it to the King and Queen.”

“Madame,” replied the old woman, drawing me aside into a window-recess,

and lowering her voice, “do you see at the far end of yonder court an old

dungeon of much narrower dimensions than the others? In that dungeon

lies the good Comtesse de Bleink-Elmeink; she has languished there for

five years.”

Then this woman informed me that her master, formerly page of honour to

the Empress Eleanor, had wedded, on account of her great wealth, a young

Hungarian noblewoman, by whom he had two children, both of whom were

living. Such was his dislike of their mother, on account of a slight

deformity, that for four or five years he shamefully maltreated her, and

at last shut her up in this dungeon-keep, allowing her daily the most

meagre diet possible.

“When, some few days since, the royal stewards appeared in front of the

moat, and claimed admittance, the Count was much alarmed,” added the

peasant woman. “He thought that all was discovered, and that he was

going to suffer for it. It was not until the King and Queen came that he

was reassured, and he has not been able to hide his embarrassment from

any of us.”

“Where are the two children of his marriage?” I asked the old woman,

before deciding to act.

“The young Baron,” she answered, “is at Vienna or Ohnutz, at an academy

there. His sister, a graceful, pretty girl, has been in a convent from

her childhood; the nuns have promised to keep her there, and as soon as

she is fourteen, she will take the veil.”

My first impulse was to acquaint the Queen with these astounding

revelations, but it soon struck me that, to tackle a man of such

importance as the Count, we could not do without the King. I at once

sent my secretary with a note, imploring his Majesty to return, but

giving no reason for my request. He came back immediately, post-haste,

when the housekeeper repeated to him, word for word, all that I have set

down here. The King could hardly believe his ears.

When coming to a decision, his Majesty never does so precipitately. He

paced up and down the room twice or thrice, and then said to me, “The

matter is of a rather singular nature; I am unacquainted with law, and

what I propose to do may one day serve as an example. It is my duty to

rescue our unfortunate hostess, and requite her nobly for her

hospitality.”

So saying, he sent for the Count, and assuming a careless, almost jocular

air, thus addressed him:

“You were formerly page to the Empress Eleanor, I believe, M. le

Bleink-Elmeink?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“She is dead, but the Emperor would easily recognise you, would he not?”

“I imagine so, Sire.”

“I have thought of you as a likely person to be the bearer of a message,

some one of your age and height being needed, and of grave, secretive

temperament, such as I notice you to possess. Get everything in

readiness, as I intend to send you as courier to his Imperial Majesty. I

am going to write to him from here, and you shall bring me back his reply

to my proposals.”

To be sent off like this was most galling to the Count, but his youth and

perfect health allowed him not the shadow of a pretext. He was obliged

to pack his valise and start. He pretended to look pleased and

acquiescent, but in his eyes I could detect fury and despair.

Half an hour after his departure, the King had the drawbridge raised, and

then went to inform the Queen of everything.

“Madame,” said he, “you have been sleeping in this unfortunate lady’s

nuptial bed. She is now about to be presented to you. I ask that you

will receive her kindly, and afterwards act as her protector, should

anything happen to me.”

Tears filled the Queen’s eyes, and she trembled in amazement. The King

instantly made for the dungeon, and in default of a key, broke open all

the gates. In a few minutes Madame de Bleink-Elmeink, supported by two

guards, entered the Queen’s presence, and was about to fling herself at

her feet; but the King prevented this. He himself placed her in an

armchair, and we others at once formed a large semicircle round her.

She seemed to breathe with difficulty, sighing and sobbing without being

able to utter a word. At, length she said to the King in fairly good

French, “May my Creator and yours reward you for this, great and

unexpected boon! Do not forsake me, Sire, now that you have broken my

fetters, but let your might protect me against the unjust violence of my

husband; and permit me to reside in France in whatever convent it please

you to choose. My august liberator shall become my lawful King, and

under his rule I desire to live and die.”

In spite of her sorrow, Madame de Bleink-Elmeink did not appear to be

more than twenty-eight or thirty years old. Her large blue eyes, though

she had wept, much, were still splendid, and her high-bred features

denoted nobility and beauty of soul. To such a charming countenance her

figure scarcely corresponded; one side of her was slightly deformed, yet.

this did not interfere with the grace of her attitude when seated, nor

her agreeable deportment.

Directly she saw her, the Queen liked her. She looked half longingly at

the Countess, and then rising approached her and held out her hand to be

kissed, saying, “I mean to love you as if you were one of my own family;

you shall be placed at Val-de-Grace, and I will often come and see you.”

Recovering herself somewhat, the Countess sank on her knees and kissed

the Queen’s hand in a transport of joy. We, led her to her room, where

she took a little refreshment and afterwards slept until the following

day. All her servants and gardeners came to express their gladness at

her deliverance; and in order to keep her company, the Queen decided to

stay another week at the castle. The Countess then set out for Paris,

and it was arranged that she should have the apartments at Chaillot, once

constructed by the Queen of England.

As for her dreadful husband, the King gave him plenty to do, and he did

not see his wife again for a good long while.

CHAPTER LVII.

The Silver Chandelier.--The King Holds the Ladder.--The Young Dutchman.

One day the King was passing through some of the large rooms of the

palace, at a time of the morning when the courtiers had not yet made

their appearance, and when carpenters and workmen were about, each busy

in getting his work done.

The King noticed a workman of some sort standing tiptoe on a double

ladder, and reaching up to unhook a large chandelier from the ceiling.

The fellow seemed likely to break his neck.

“Be careful,” cried the King; “don’t you see that your ladder is a short

one and is on castors? I have just come in time to help you by holding

it.”

“Monsieur,” said the man, “a thousand pardons, but if you will do so, I

shall be much obliged. On account of this ambassador who is coming

today, all my companions have lost their heads and have left me alone.”

Then he unhooked the large crystal and silver chandelier, stepped down

carefully, leaning on the King’s shoulder, who graciously allowed him to

do so. After humbly thanking him, the fellow made off.

That night in the chateau every one was talking about the hardihood of

some thief who in sight of everybody had stolen a handsome chandelier;

the Lord High Provost had already been apprised of the matter. The King

began to smile as he said out loud before every one, “I must request the

Lord High Provost to be good enough to hush the matter up, as in cases of

theft accomplices are punished as well, and it was I who held the ladder

for the thief.”

Then his Majesty told us of the occurrence, as already narrated, and

every one was convinced that the thief could not be a novice or an

apprentice at his craft. Inquiries were instantly made, since so bold an

attempt called for exemplary punishment. All the upholsterers of the

castle wished to give themselves up as prisoners; their honour was

compromised. It would be hard to describe their consternation, being in

truth honest folk.

When the Provost respectfully asked the King if he had had time to notice

the culprit’s features, his Majesty replied that the workman in question

was a young fellow of about five-and-twenty, fair complexioned, with

chestnut hair, and pleasant features of delicate, almost feminine cast.

At this news, all the dark, plain men-servants were exultant; the

good-looking ones, however, were filled with fear.

Among the feutiers, whose sole duty it is to attend to the fires and

candles in the royal apartments, there was a nice-looking young Dutchman,

whom his companions pointed out to the Provost. They entered his room

while he was asleep, and found in his cupboard the following articles:

Two of the King’s lace cravats, two shirts marked with a double L and the

crown, a pair of pale blue velvet shoes embroidered with silver, a

flowered waistcoat, a hat with white and scarlet plumes, other trifles,

and splendid portrait of the King, evidently part of some bracelet. As

regarded the chandelier, nothing was discovered.

When this young foreigner was taken to prison, he refused to speak for

twenty-four hours, and in all Versailles there was but one cry,--“They’ve

caught the thief!”

Next day matters appeared in a new light. The Provost informed his

Majesty that the young servant arrested was not a Dutchman, but a very

pretty Dutch woman.

At the time of the invasion, she was so unlucky as to see the King close

to her father’s house, and conceived so violent a passion for him that

she at once forgot country, family, friends,--everything. Leaving the

Netherlands with the French army, she followed her conqueror back to his

capital, and by dint of perseverance managed to secure employment in the

royal palace. While there, her one delight was to see the King as often

as possible, and to listen to praise of his many noble deeds.

“The articles found in my possession,” said she to the Provost, “are most

dear and precious to me; not for their worth, but because they have

touched the King’s person. I did not steal them from his Majesty; I

could not do such a thing. I bought them of the valets de chambre, who

were by right entitled to such things, and who would have sold them

indiscriminately to any one else. The portrait was not sold to me, I

admit, but I got it from Madame la Marquise de Montespan, and in this

way: One day, in the parterres, madame dropped her bracelet. I had the

good fortune to pick it up, and I kept it for three or four days in my

room. Then bills were posted up in the park, stating that whoever

brought the bracelet to madame should receive a reward of ten louis. I

took back the ornament, for its pearls and diamonds did not tempt me, but

I kept the portrait instead of the ten louis offered.”

When the King asked me if I recollected the occurrence, I assured him

that everything was perfectly true. Hereupon the King sent for the girl,

who was immediately brought to his chamber. Such was her modesty, and

confusion that she dared not raise her eyes from the ground. The King

spoke kindly to her, and gave her two thousand crowns to take her back to

her own home. The Provost was instructed to restore all these different

articles to her, and as regarded myself, I willingly let her have the

portrait, though it was worth a good deal more than the ten louis

mentioned.

When she got back to her own country and the news of her safe arrival was

confirmed, the King sent her twenty thousand livres as a dowry, which

enabled her to make a marriage suitable to her good-natured disposition

and blameless conduct.

She made a marked impression upon his Majesty, and he was often wont to

speak about the chandelier on account of her, always alluding to her in

kindly, terms. If ever he returns to Holland, I am sure he will want to

see her, either from motives of attachment or curiosity. Her name, if I

remember rightly, was Flora.

CHAPTER LVIII.

The Observatory.--The King Visits the Carthusians.--How a Painter with

His Brush May Save a Convent.--The Guilty Monk.--Strange

Revelations.--The King’s Kindness.--The Curate of Saint Domingo.

When it was proposed to construct in Paris that handsome building called

the Observatory, the King himself chose the site for this. Having a map

of his capital before him, he wished this fine edifice to be in a direct

line of perspective with the Luxembourg, to which it should eventually be

joined by the demolition of the Carthusian Monastery, which filled a

large gap.

The King was anxious that his idea should be carried out, but whenever he

mentioned it to M. Mansard and the other architects, they declared that

it was a great pity to lose Lesueur’s admirable frescos in the cloisters,

which would have to be destroyed if the King’s vast scheme were executed.

One day his Majesty resolved to see for himself, and without the least

announcement of his arrival, he went to the Carthusian Monastery in the

Rue d’Enfer. The King has great knowledge of art; he admired the whole

series of wall-paintings, in which the life of Saint Bruno is divinely

set forth.

[By a new process these frescos were subsequently transferred to canvas

in 1800 or 1802, at which date the vast property of the Carthusian monks

became part of the Luxembourg estates.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

“Father,” said he to the prior who showed him round, “these simple,

touching pictures are far beyond all that was ever told me. My

intention, I admit, was to move your institution elsewhere, so as to

connect your spacious property with my palace of the Luxembourg, but the

horrible outrage which would have to be committed deters me; to the

marvellous art of Lesueur you owe it that your convent remains intact.”

The monk, overjoyed, expressed his gratitude to the King, and promised

him the love and guardianship of Saint Bruno in heaven.

Just then, service in the chapel was over, and the monks filed past two

and two, never raising their eyes from the gloomy pavement bestrewn with

tombstones. The prior, clapping his hands, signalled them to stop, and

then addressed them:

“My brethren, stay your progress a moment; lift up your heads, bowed down

by penance, and behold with awe the descendant of Saint Louis, the august

protector of this convent. Yes, our noble sovereign himself has

momentarily quitted his palace to visit this humble abode. On these

quiet walls which hide our cells, he has sought to read the simple,

touching story, of the life of our saintly founder. The august son of

Louis the Just has taken our dwelling-place and community under his

immediate protection. Go to your cells and pray to God for this

magnanimous prince, for his children and successors in perpetuity.”

As he said these flattering words, a monk, with flushed cheeks and mouth

agape, flung himself down at the King’s feet, beating his brow repeatedly

upon the pavement, and exclaiming:

“Sire, forgive me, forgive me, guilty though I be. I crave your royal

pardon and pity.”

The prior, somewhat confused, saw that some important confession was

about to be made, so he dismissed the others, and sent them back to their

devotions. The prostrate monk, however, never thought of moving from his

position. Perceiving that he was alone with the King, whose calm, gentle

demeanour emboldened him, he begged anew for pardon with great energy,

and fervour. The King clearly saw that the penitent was some great

evil-doer, and he promised forgiveness in somewhat ambiguous fashion.

Then the monk rose and said:

“Your Majesty reigns to-day, and reigns gloriously. That is an amazing

miracle, for countless incredible dangers of the direst sort have beset

your cradle and menaced your youth. A prince of your house, backed up by

ambitious inferiors, resolved to wrest the crown from you, in order to

get it for himself and his descendants. The Queen, your mother, full of

heroic resolution, herself had energy enough to resist the cabal; but

more than once her feet touched the very brink of the precipice, and more

than once she nearly fell over it with her children.

“Noble qualities did this great Queen possess, but at times she had too

overweening a contempt for her enemies. Her disdain for my master, the

young Cardinal, was once too bitter, and begot in this presumptuous

prelate’s heart undying hatred. Educated under the same roof as M. le

Cardinal, with the same teachers and the same doctrines, I saw, as it

were, with his eyes when I went out into the world, and marched beneath

his banner when civil war broke out.

“Dreading the punishment for his temerity, this prelate decided that the

sceptre should pass into other hands, and that the elder branch should

become extinct. With this end in view, he made me write a pamphlet

showing that you and your brother, the Prince, were not the King’s sons;

and subsequently he induced me to issue another, in which I affirmed on

oath that the Queen, your mother, was secretly married to Cardinal

Mazarin. Unfortunately, these books met with astounding success, nor,

though my tears fall freely, can they ever efface such vile pages.

“I am also guilty of another crime, Sire, and this weighs more heavily

upon my heart. When the Queen-mother dexterously arranged for your

removal to Vincennes, she left in your bed at the Louvre a large doll.

The rebels were aware of this when it was too late. I was ordered to

ride post-haste with an escort in pursuit of your carriage; and I had to

swear by the Holy Gospels that, if I could not bring you back to Paris, I

would stab you to the heart.

“The enormity of my offence weighed heavily upon my spirit and my

conscience. I conceived a horror for the Cardinal and withdrew to this

convent. For many years I have undergone the most grievous penances, but

I shall never make thorough expiation for my sins, and I hold myself to

be as great a criminal as at first, so long as I have not obtained pardon

from my King.”

“Are you in holy orders?” asked the King gently.

“No, Sire; I feel unworthy to take them,” replied the Carthusian, in

dejected tones.

“Let him be ordained as soon as possible,” said his Majesty to the prior.

“The monk’s keen repentance touches me; his brain is still excitable; it

needs fresh air and change. I will appoint him to a curacy at Saint

Domingo, and desire him to leave for that place at the earliest

opportunity. Do not forget this.”

The monk again prostrated himself before the King, overwhelming him with

blessings, and these royal commands were in due course executed. So it

came about that Lesueur’s frescos led to startling revelations, and

enabled the Carthusians to keep their splendid property intact, ungainly

though this was and out of place.

CHAPTER LIX.

Journey to Poitou.--The Mayor and the Sheriffs of Orleans.--The

Marquise’s Modesty.--The Serenade.--The Abbey of Fontevrault.--Family

Council.--Duchomania.--A Letter to the King.--The Bishop of

Poitiers.--The Young Vicar.--Rather Give Him a Regiment.--The Fete at the

Convent.--The Presentation.--The Revolt.--A Grand Example.

The Abbess of Fontevrault, who, when a mere nun, could never bear her

profession, now loved it with all her heart, doubtless because of the

authority and freedom which she possessed, being at liberty to go or come

at will, and as absolute mistress of her actions, accountable to no one

for these.

She sent me her confidential woman, one of the “travelling sisters” of

the community, to tell me privately that the Principality of Talmont was

going to be sold, and to offer me her help at this important juncture.

Her letter, duly tied up and sealed, begged me to be bold and use my

authority, if necessary, in order to induce the King at last to give his

approval and consent. “What!” she wrote, “my dear sister; you have given

birth to eight children, the youngest of which is a marvel, and you have

not yet got your reward. All your children enjoy the rank of prince, and

you, their mother, are exempt from such distinction! What is the King

thinking about? Does it add to his dignity, honour, and glory that you

should still be merely a petty marquise? I ask again, what is the King

thinking of?”

In conclusion my sister invited me to pay a visit to her charming abbey.

“We have much to tell you,” said she, and “such brief absence is needful

to you, so as to test the King’s affection. Your sort of temperament

suits him, your talk amuses him; in fact, your society is absolutely

essential to him; the distance from Versailles to Saumur would seem to

him as far off as the uttermost end of his kingdom. He will send courier

upon courier to you; each of his letters will be a sort of entreaty, and

you have only just got to express your firm intention and desire to be

created a duchess or a princess, and, my dear sister, it will forthwith

be done.”

For two days I trained the travelling nun from Fontevrault in her part,

and then I suddenly presented her to the King. She had the honour of

explaining to his Majesty that she had left the Abbess sick and ailing,

and informed him that my sister was most anxious to see me again, and

that she hoped his Majesty would not object to my paying her a short

visit. For a moment the King hesitated; then he asked me if I thought

such a change of urgent necessity. I replied that the news of Madame de

Mortemart’s ill-health had greatly affected me, and I promised not to be

away more than a week.

The King accordingly instructed the Marquis de Louvois--[Minister of War,

and inspector-General of Posts and Relays.]--to make all due arrangements

for my journey, and two days afterwards, my sister De Thianges, her

daughter the Duchesse de Nevers, and myself, set out at night for

Poitiers.

The royal relays took us as far as Orleans, after which we had

post-horses, but specially chosen and well harnessed. Couriers in

advance of us had given all necessary orders to the officials and

governors, so that we were provided with an efficient military escort

along the road, and were as safe as if driving through Paris.

At Orleans, the mayor and sheriffs in full dress presented themselves at

our carriage window, and were about to deliver an address “to please the

King;” but I thought such a proceeding ill-timed, and my niece De Nevers

told these magnates that we were travelling incognito.

Crowds collected below our balcony. Madame de Thianges thought they were

going to serenade me, but I distinctly heard sounds of hissing. My niece

De Nevers was greatly upset; she would eat no supper, but began to cry.

“What are you worrying about?” quoth I to this excitable young person.

“Don’t you see that we are stopping the night on the estates of the

Princess Palatine,--[The boorish Bavarian princess, the Duc d’Orleans’s

second wife. EDITOR’S NOTE.]--and that it is to her exquisite breeding

that we owe compliments of this kind?”

Next morning at daybreak we drove on, and the day after we reached

Fontevrault. The Abbess, accompanied by her entire community, came to

welcome us at the main gate, and her surpliced chaplains offered me holy

water.

After rest and refreshment, we made a detailed survey of her little

empire, and everywhere observed traces of her good management and tact.

Rules had been made more lenient, while not relaxed; the revenues had

increased; everywhere embellishments, contentment, and well-being were

noticeable.

After praising the Abbess as she deserved, we talked a little about the

Talmont principality. My sister was inconsolable. The Tremouilles had

come into property which restored their shattered fortunes; the

principality was no longer for sale; all thought of securing it must be

given up.

Strange to say, I at once felt consoled by such news. Rightly to explain

this feeling, I ought, perhaps, to make an avowal. A grand and brilliant

title had indeed ever been the object of my ambition; but I thought that

I deserved such a distinction personally, for my own sake, and I was

always wishing that my august friend would create a title specially in my

favour. I had often hinted at such a thing in various ways, and full as

he is of wit and penetration, he always listened to my covert

suggestions, and was perfectly aware of my desire. And yet,

magnificently generous as any mortal well could be, he never granted my

wish. Any one else but myself would have been tired, disheartened even;

but at Court one must never be discouraged nor give up the game. The

atmosphere is rife with vicissitude and change. Monotony would seem to

have made there its home; yet no day is quite like another. What one

hopes for is too long in coming; and what one never foresees on, a sudden

comes to pass.

We took counsel together as to the best thing to be done. Madame de

Thianges said to me: “My dear Athenais, you have the elegance of the

Mortemarts, the fine perception and ready wit that distinguishes them,

but strangely enough you have not their energy, nor the firm will

necessary for the conduct of weighty matters. The King does not treat

you like a great friend, like a distinguished friend, like the mother of

his son, the Duc du Maine; he treats you like a province that he has

conquered, on which he levies tax after tax; that is all. Pray

recollect, my sister, that for ten years you have played a leading part

on the grand stage. Your beauty, to my surprise, has been preserved to

you, notwithstanding your numerous confinements and the fatigues of your

position. Profit by the present juncture, and do not let the chance

slip. You must write to the King, and on some pretext or other, ask for

another week’s leave. You must tell him plainly that you have been

marquise long enough, and that the moment has come at last for you to

have the ‘imperiale’, and sign your name in proper style.”

[The distinctive mark of duchesses was the ‘imperiale’; that is, a rich

and costly hammer-cloth of embroidered velvet, edged with gold, which

covered the roofs of ducal equipages.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

Her advice was considered sound, but the Abbess, taking into account the

King’s susceptibility, decided that it would not do for me to write

myself about a matter so important as this. The Marquise de Thianges, in

some way or other, had got the knack of plain speaking, so that a letter

of hers would be more readily excused. Thus it was settled that she

should write; and write she did. I give her letter verbatim, as it will

please my readers; and they will agree with me that I could never have

touched this delicate subject so happily myself.

SIRE:--Madame de Montespan had the honour of writing one or two notes to

you during our journey, and now she rests all day long in this vast and

pleasant abbey, where your Majesty’s name is held in as great veneration

as elsewhere, being beloved as deeply as at Versailles. Madame de

Mortemart has caused one of the best portraits of your Majesty, done by

Mignard, to be brought hither from Paris, and this magnificent personage

in royal robes is placed beneath an amaranth-coloured dais, richly

embroidered with gold, at the extreme end of a vast hall, which bears the

name of our illustrious and well-beloved monarch. Your privileges are

great, in truth, Sire. Here you are, installed in this pious and

secluded retreat, where never mortal may set foot. Before you, beside

you daily, you may contemplate the multitude of modest virgins who look

at you and admire you, becoming all of them attached to you without

wishing it, perhaps without knowing it, even.

Surely, Sire, your penetration is a most admirable thing. After your

first interview with her, you considered our dear Abbess to be a woman of

capacity and talent. You rightly appreciated her, for nothing can be

compared to the perfect order that prevails in her house. She is active

and industrious without sacrificing her position and her dignity in the

slightest. Like yourself, she can judge of things in their entirety, and

examine them in every little detail; like yourself, she knows how to

command obedience and affection, desiring nothing but that which is just

and reasonable. In a word, Sire, Madame de Mortemart has the secret of

convincing her subordinates that she is acting solely in their interests,

a supreme mission, in sooth, among men; and my sister really has no other

desire nor ambition,--to this we can testify.

Upon our return, which for our liking can never be too soon, we will

acquaint your Majesty with the slight authorised mortification which we

had to put up with at Orleans. We are in possession of certain

information regarding this, and your Majesty will have ample means of

throwing a light upon the subject. As for the magistrates, they behaved

most wonderfully; they had an address all ready for us, but Madame de

Montespan would not listen to it, saying that “such honours are meet only

for you and for your children.” Such modesty on my sister’s part is in

keeping with her great intelligence; I had almost said her genius. But

in this matter I was not wholly of her opinion. It seemed to me, Sire,

that, in refusing the homage offered to her by these worthy magnates,

she, so to speak, disowned the rank ensured to her by your favour. While

the Marquise enjoys your noble affection, she is no ordinary personage.

She has her seat in your own Chapel Royal, so in travelling she has a

right to special honour. By your choice of her, you have made her

notable; in giving her your heart, you have made her a part of yourself.

By giving birth to your children, she has acquired her rank at Court, in

society, and in history. Your Majesty intends her to be considered and

respected; the escorts of cavalry along the highroads are sufficient

proof of that.

All France, Sire, is aware of your munificence and of your princely

generosity: Shall I tell you of the amazement of the provincials at

noticing that the ducal housings are absent from my sister’s splendid

coach? Yes, I have taken upon myself to inform you of this surprise, and

knowing how greatly Athenais desires this omission to be repaired, I went

so far as to promise that your Majesty would cause this to be done

forthwith. It must be done, Sire; the Marquise loves you as much as it

is possible for you to be loved; of this, all that she has sacrificed is

a proof. But while dearly loving you, she fears to appear importunate,

and were it not for my respectful freedom of speech, perhaps you would

still be ignorant of that which she most fervently desires.

What we all three of us ask is but a slight thing for your Majesty, who,

with a single word, can create a thousand nobles and princes. The kings,

your ancestors, used their glory in making their lovers illustrious. The

Valois built temples and palaces in their honour. You, greater than all

the Valois, should not let their example suffice. And I am sure that you

will do for the mother of the Duc du Maine what the young prince himself

would do for her if you should happen to forget.

Your Majesty’s most humble servant, “MARQUISE DE THIANGES.”

To the Abbess and myself; this ending seemed rather too sarcastic, but

Madame de Thianges was most anxious to let it stand. There was no way of

softening or glossing it over; so the letter went off, just as she had

written it.

It so happened that the Bishop of Poitiers was in his diocese at the

time. He came to pay me a visit, and ask me if I could get an abbey for

his nephew, who, though extremely young, already acted as vicar-general

for him. “I would willingly get him a whole regiment,” I replied,

“provided M. de Louvois be of those that are my friends. As for the

benefices, they depend, as you know, upon the Pere de la Chaise, and I

don’t think he would be willing to grant me a favour.”

“Permit me to assure you, madame, that in this respect you are in error,”

replied the Bishop. “Pere de la Chaise respects you and honours you, and

only speaks of you in such terms. What distresses him is to see that you

have an aversion for him. Let me write to him, and say that my nephew

has had the honour of being presented to you, and that you hoped he might

have a wealthy abbey to enable him to bear the privations of his

calling.”

The young vicar-general was good-looking, and of graceful presence. He

had that distinction of manner which causes the priesthood to be held in

honour, and that amenity of address which makes the law to be obeyed. My

sisters began to take a fancy to him, and recommended him to me. I wrote

to Pere de la Chaise myself, and instead of a mere abbey, we asked for a

bishopric for him.

It was my intention to organise a brilliant fete for the Fontevrault

ladies, and invite all the nobility of the neighbourhood. We talked of

this to the young vicar, who highly approved of my plan, and albeit

monsieur his uncle thought such a scheme somewhat contrary to rule and to

what he termed the proprieties, we made use of his nephew, the young

priest, as a lever; and M. de Poitiers at last consented to everything.

The Fontevrault gardens are one of the most splendid sights in all the

country round. We chose the large alley as our chief entertainment-hall,

and the trees were all illuminated as in my park at Clagny, or at

Versailles. There was no dancing, on account of the nuns, but during our

repast there was music, and a concert and fireworks afterwards. The fete

ended with a performance of “Genevieve de Brabant,” a grand spectacular

pantomime, played to perfection by certain gentry of the neighbourhood;

it made a great impression upon all the nuns and novices.

Before going down into the gardens, the Abbess wished to present me

formally to all the nuns, as well as to those persons it had pleased her

to invite. Imagine her astonishment! Three nuns were absent, and

despite our entreaties and the commands of their superiors, they

persisted in their rebellion and their refusal. They set up to keep

rules before all things, and observe the duties of their religion, lying

thus to their Abbess and their conscience. It was all mere spite. Of

this there can be no doubt, for one of these refractory creatures, as it

transpired, was a cousin of the Marquis de Lauzun, my so-called victim;

while the other two were near relatives of Mademoiselle de Mauldon, an

intimate friend of M. de Meaux.

In spite of these three silly absentees, we enjoyed ourselves greatly,

and had much innocent amusement; while they, who could watch us from

their windows, were probably mad with rage to think they were not of our

number.

My sister complained of them to the Bishop of Poitiers, who severely

blamed them for such conduct; and seeing that he could not induce them to

offer me an apology, sent them away to three different convents.

CHAPTER LX.

The Page-Dauphin.--A Billet from the King.--Madame de Maintenon’s

Letter.--The King as Avenger.--His Sentence on the Murderers.

The great liberty which we enjoyed at Fontevrault, compared with the

interminable bondage of Saint Germain or Versailles, made the abbey ever

seem more agreeable to me; and Madame de Thianges asked me in sober

earnest “if I no longer loved the King.”

“Of course I do,” was my answer; “but may one not love oneself just a

little bit, too? To me, health is life; and I assure you, at

Fontevrault, my dear sister, I sleep most soundly, and have quite got rid

of all my nervous attacks and headaches.”

We were just talking thus when Madame de Mortemart entered my room, and

introduced young Chamilly, the Page-Dauphin,--[The chief page-in-waiting

bore the title of Page-Dauphin]--who brought with him a letter from the

King. He also had one for me from Madame de Maintenon, rallying me upon

my absence and giving me news of my children. The King’s letter was

quite short, but a king’s note such as that is worth a whole pile of

commonplace letters. I transcribe it here:

I am jealous; an unusual thing for me. And I am much vexed, I confess,

with Madame de Mortemart, who might have chosen a very different moment

to be ill. I am ignorant as to the nature of her malady, but if it be

serious, and of those which soon grow more dangerous, she has played me a

very sorry trick in sending for you to act as her nurse or her physician.

Pray tell her, madame, that you are no good whatever as a nurse, being

extremely hasty and impatient in everything; while as regards medical

skill, you are still further from the mark, since you have never yet been

able to understand your own ailments, nor even explain these with the

least clearness. I must ask the Abbess momentarily to suspend her

sufferings and come to Versailles, where all my physicians shall treat

her with infinite skill; and, to oblige me, will cure her, as they know

how much I esteem and like her. Farewell, my ladies three, who in your

friendship are but as one. I should like to be there to make a fourth.

Madame de Maintenon, who loves you sincerely, will give you news of your

little family and of Saint Germain. Her letter and mine will be brought

to you and delivered by the young Comte de Chamilly. Send him back to me

at once, and don’t let him, see your novices or your nuns, else he will

not want to return to me. LOUIS.

Madame de Maintenon’s letter was not couched in the same playfully

mocking tone; though a marquise, she felt the distance that there was

between herself and me; besides, she always knows exactly what is the

proper thing to do. The Abbess, who is an excellent judge, thought this

letter excellently written. She wanted to have a copy of it, which made

me determine to preserve it. Here it is, a somewhat more voluminous

epistle than that of the King:

I promised you, madame, that I would inform you as often as possible of

all that interests you here, and now I keep my promise, being glad to say

that I have only pleasant news to communicate. His Majesty is

wonderfully well, and though annoyed at your journey, he has hardly lost

any of his gaiety, as seemingly he hopes to have you back again in a day

or two.

Mademoiselle de Nantes declares that she would have behaved very well in

the coach, and that she is a nearer relation to you than the Duchesse de

Nevers, and that it was very unfair not to take her with you this time.

In order to comfort her, the Duc du Maine has discovered an expedient

which greatly amuses us, and never fails of its effect. He tells her how

absolutely necessary it is for her proper education that she should be

placed in a convent, and then adds in a serious tone that if she had been

taken to Fontevrault she would never have come back!

“Oh, if that is the case,” she answered, “why, I am not jealous of the

Duchesse de Nevers.”

The day after your departure the Court took up its quarters at Saint

Germain, where we shall probably remain for another week. You know,

madame, how fond his Majesty is of the Louis Treize Belvedere, and the

telescope erected by this monarch,--one of the best ever made hitherto.

As if by inspiration, the King turned this instrument to the left towards

that distant bend which the Seine makes round the verge of the Chatou

woods. His Majesty, who observes every thing, noticed two bathers in the

river, who apparently were trying to teach their much younger companion,

a lad of fourteen or fifteen, to swim; doubtless, they had hurt him, for

he got away from their grasp, and escaped to the river-bank, to reach his

clothes and dress himself. They tried to coax him back into the water,

but he did not relish such treatment; by his gestures it was plain that

he desired no further lessons. Then the two bathers jumped out of the

river, and as he was putting on his shirt, dragged him back into the

water, and forcibly held him under till he was drowned.

When they had committed this crime, and their victim was murdered, they

cast uneasy glances at either river-bank, and the heights of Saint

Germain. Believing that no one had knowledge of their deed, they put on

their clothes, and with all a murderer’s glee depicted on their evil

countenances, they walked along the bank in the direction of the castle.

The King instantly rode off in pursuit, accompanied by five or six

musketeers; he got ahead of them, and soon turned back and met them.

“Messieurs,” said he to them, “when you went away you were three in

number; what have you done with your comrade?” This question, asked in a

firm voice, disconcerted them somewhat at first, but they soon replied

that their companion wanted to have a swim in the river, and that they

had left him higher up the stream near the corner of the forest, close to

where his clothes and linen made a white spot on the bank.

On hearing this answer the King gave orders for them to be bound and

brought back by the soldiery to the old chateau, where they were shut up

in separate rooms. His Majesty, filled with indignation, sent for the

High Provost, and recounting to him what took place before his eyes,

requested him to try the culprits there and then. The Marquis, however,

is always scrupulous to excess; he begged the King to reflect that at

such a great distance, and viewed through a telescope, things might have

seemed somewhat different from what they actually were, and that, instead

of forcibly holding their companion under the water, perhaps the two

bathers were endeavouring to bring him to the surface.

“No, monsieur, no,” replied his Majesty; “they dragged him into the river

against his will, and I saw their struggles and his when they thrust him

under the water.”

“But, Sire,” replied this punctilious personage, “our criminal law

requires the testimony of two witnesses, and your Majesty, all-powerful

though you be, can only furnish that of one.”

“Monsieur,” replied the King gently, “I authorise you in passing sentence

to state that you heard the joint testimony of the King of France and the

King of Navarre.”

Seeing that this failed to convince the judge, his Majesty grew impatient

and said to the old Marquis, “King Louis IX., my ancestor, sometimes

administered justice himself in the wood at Vincennes; I will to-day

follow his august example and administer justice at Saint Germain.”

The throne-room was at once got ready by his order. Twenty notable

burgesses of the town were summoned to the castle, and the lords and

ladies sat with these upon the benches. The King, wearing his orders,

took his seat when the two prisoners were placed in the dock.

By their contradictory statements, ever-increasing embarrassment, and

unveracious assertions, the jury were soon convinced of their guilt. The

unhappy youth was their brother, and had inherited property from their

mother, he being her child by a second husband. So these monsters

murdered him for revenge and greed. The King sentenced them to be bound

hand and foot, and flung into the river in the selfsame place “where they

killed their young brother Abel.”

When they saw his Majesty leaving his throne, they threw themselves at

his feet, implored his pardon, and confessed their hideous crime. The

King, pausing a moment, thanked God that their conscience had forced such

confession from them, and then remitted the sentence of confiscation

only. They were executed before the setting of that sun which had

witnessed their crime, and the next day, that is, yesterday evening, the

three bodies, united once more by fate, were found floating about two

leagues from Saint Germain, under the willows at the edge of the river

near Poisay.

Orders were instantly given for their separate interment. The youngest

was brought back to Saint Germain, where the King wished him to have a

funeral befitting his innocence and untimely fate. All the military

attended it.

Forgive me, madams, for all these lengthy details; we have all been so

much upset by this dreadful occurrence, and can talk of nothing else,--in

fact, it will furnish matter for talk for a long while yet.

I sincerely hope that by this time Madame de Mortsmart has completely

recovered. I agree with his Majesty that, in doctoring, you have not had

much experience; still, friendship acts betimes as a most potent

talisman, and the heart of the Abbess is of those that in absence pines,

but which in the presence of some loved one revives.

She has deigned to grant me a little place in her esteem; pray tell her

that this first favour has somewhat spoiled me, and that now I ask for

more than this, for a place in her affections. Madame de Thianges and

Madame de Nevers are aware of my respect and attachment for them, and

they approve of this, for they have engraved their names and crests on my

plantain-trees at Maintenon. Such inscriptions are a bond to bind us,

and if no mischance befall, these trees, as I hope, will survive me.

I am, madame, etc., MAINTENON.

CHAPTER LXI.

Mademoiselle d’Amurande.--The Married Nun.--The Letter to the

Superior.--Monseigneur’s Discourse.--The Abduction.--A Letter from the

King.--Beware of the Governess.--We Leave Fontevrault.

Amoung the novices at Fontevrault there was a most interesting, charming

young person, who gave Madame de Mortemart a good deal of anxiety, as she

thought her still undecided as to the holy profession she was about to

adopt. This interested me greatly, and evoked my deepest sympathy.

The night of our concert and garden fete she sang to please the Abbess,

but there were tears in her voice. I was touched beyond expression, and

going up to her at the bend of one of the quickset-hedges, I said, “You

are unhappy, mademoiselle; I feel a deep interest for you. I will ask

Madame de Mortemart to let you come and read to me; then we can talk as

we like. I should like to help you if I can.”

She moved away at once, fearing to be observed, and the following day I

met her in my sister’s room.

“Your singing and articulation are wonderful, mademoiselle,” said I,

before the Abbess; “would you be willing to come and read to me for an

hour every day? I have left my secretary at Versailles, and I am

beginning to miss her much.”

Madame de Mortemart thanked me for my kindly intentions towards the young

novice, who, from that time forward, was placed at my disposal.

The reading had no other object than to gain her confidence, and as soon

as we were alone I bade her tell me all. After brief hesitation, the

poor child thus began:

“In a week’s time, a most awful ceremony takes place in this monastery.

The term of my novitiate has already expired, and had it not been for the

distractions caused by your visit, I should have already been obliged to

take this awful oath and make my vows.

“Madame de Mortemart is gentle and kind (no wonder! she is your sister),

but she has decided that I am to be one of her nuns, and nothing on earth

can induce her to change her mind. If this fatal decree be executed, I

shall never live to see this year of desolation reach its close. Perhaps

I may fall dead at the feet of the Bishop who ordains us.

“They would have me give to God--who does not need it--my whole life as a

sacrifice. But, madame, I cannot give my God this life of mine, as four

years ago I surrendered it wholly to some one else. Yes, madame,” said

she, bursting into tears, “I am the lawful wife of the Vicomte d’Olbruze,

my cousin german.

“Of this union, planned and approved by my dear mother herself, a child

was born, which my ruthless father refuses to recognise, and which kindly

peasants are bringing up in the depths of the woods.

“My dear, good mother was devotedly fond of my lover, who was her nephew.

From our very cradles she had always destined us for each other. And she

persisted in making this match, despite her husband, whose fortune she

had immensely increased, and one day during his absence we were legally

united by our family priest in the castle chapel. My father, who, was

away at sea, came back soon afterwards: He was enraged at my mother’s

disobedience, and in his fury attempted to stab her with his own hand. He

made several efforts to put an end to her existence, and the general

opinion in my home is that he was really the author of her death.

“Devotedly attached to my husband by ties of love no less than of duty, I

fled with him to his uncle’s, an old knight-commander of Malta, whose

sole heir he was. My father, with others, pursued us thither, and scaled

the walls of our retreat by night, resolved to kill his nephew first and

me afterwards. Roused by the noise of the ruffians, my husband seized

his firearms. Three of his assailants he shot from the balcony, and my

father, disguised as a common man, received a volley in the face, which

destroyed his eyesight. The Parliament of Rennes took up the matter. My

husband thought it best not to put in an appearance, and after the

evidence of sundry witnesses called at random, a warrant for his arrest

as a defaulter was issued, a death penalty being attached thereto.

“Ever since that time my husband has been wandering about in disguise

from province to province. Doomed to solitude in our once lovely

chateau, my father forced me to take the veil in this convent, promising

that if I did so, he would not bring my husband to justice.

“Perhaps, madame, if the King were truly and faithfully informed of all

these things, he would have compassion for my grief, and right the

injustice meted out to my unlucky husband.”

After hearing this sad story, I clearly saw that, in some way or other,

we should have to induce Madame de Mortemart to postpone the ceremony of

taking the vow, and I afterwards determined to put these vagaries on the

part of the law before my good friend President de Nesmond, who was the

very man to give us good advice, and suggest the right remedy.

As for the King, I did not deem it fit that he should be consulted in the

matter. Of course I look upon him as a just and wise prince, but he is

the slave of form. In great families, he does not like to hear of

marriages to which the father has not given formal consent; moreover, I

did not forget about the gun-shot which blinded the gentleman, and made

him useless for the rest of his life. The King, who is devoted to his

nobles, would never have pronounced in favour of the Vicomte, unless he

happened to be in a particularly good humour. Altogether, it was a risky

thing.

I deeply sympathised with Mademoiselle d’Amurande in her trouble, and

assured her of my good-will and protection, but I begged her to approve

my course of action, though taken independently of the King. She

willingly left her fate in my hands, and I bade her write my sister the

following note:

MADAME:--You know the vows that bind me; they are sacred, having been

plighted at the foot of the altar. Do not persist, I entreat you, do not

persist in claiming the solemn declaration of my vows. You are here to

command the Virgins of the Lord, but among these I have no right to a

place. I am a mother, although so young, and the Holy Scriptures tell me

every day that Hagar, the kindly hearted, may not forsaken her darling

Ishmael.

I happened to be with Madame de Mortemart when one of the aged sisters

brought her this letter. On reading it she was much affected. I feigned

ignorance, and asked her kindly what was the reason of her trouble. She

wished to hide it; but I insisted, and at last persuaded her to let me

see the note. I read it calmly and with reflection, and afterwards said

to the Abbess:

“What! You, sister, whose distress and horror I witnessed when our stern

parents shut you up in a cloister,--are you now going to impose like

fetters upon a young and interesting person, who dreads them, and rejects

them as once you rejected them?”

Madame de Mortemart replied, “I was young then, and without experience,

when I showed such childish repugnance as that of which you speak. At

that age one knows nothing of religion nor of the eternal verities. Only

the world, with its frivolous pleasures, is then before one’s eyes; and

the spectacle blinds our view, even our view of heaven. Later on I

deplored such resistance, which so grieved my family; and when I saw you

at Court, brilliant and adored, I assure you, my dear Marquise, that this

convent and its solitude seemed to me a thousand times more

desirable than the habitation of kings.”

“You speak thus philosophically,” I replied, “only because your lot

happens to have undergone such a change. From a slave, you have become

an absolute and sovereign mistress. The book of rules is in your hands;

you turn over its leaves wherever you like; you open it at whatever page

suits you; and if the book should chance to give you a severe rebuke, you

never let others know this. Human nature was ever thus. No, no, madame;

you can never make one believe that a religious life is in itself such an

attractive one that you would gladly resume it if the dignities of your

position as an abbess were suddenly wrested from you and given to some

one else.”

“Well, well, if that is so,” said the Abbess, reddening, “I am quite

ready to send in my resignation, and so return you your liberality.”

“I don’t ask you for an abbey which you got from the King,” I rejoined,

smiling; “but the favour, which I ask and solicit you can and ought to

grant. Mademoiselle d’Amurande points out to you in formal and

significant terms that she cannot enrol herself among the Virgins of the

Lord, and that the gentle Hagar of Holy Writ may not forsake Ishmael.

Such a confession plainly hints at an attachment which religion cannot

violate nor destroy, else our religion would be a barbarous one, and

contrary to nature.

“Since God has brought me to this convent, and by chance I have got to

know and appreciate this youthful victim, I shall give her my compassion

and help,--I, who have no necessity to make conversions by force in order

to add to the number of my community. If I have committed any grave

offence in the eyes of God, I trust that He will pardon me in

consideration of the good work that I desire to do. I shall write to the

King, and Mademoiselle d’Amurande shall not make her vows until his

Majesty commands her to do so.”

This last speech checkmated my sister. She at once became gentle,

sycophantic, almost caressing in manner, and assured me that the ceremony

of taking the vow would be indefinitely postponed, although the Bishop of

Lugon had already prepared his homily, and invitations had been issued to

the nobility.

Madame de Mortemart is the very embodiment of subtlety and cunning. I

saw that she only wanted to gain time in order to carry out her scheme. I

did not let myself be hoodwinked by her promises, but went straight to

work, being determined to have my own way.

Hearing from Mademoiselle d’Amurande that her friend and ally, the old

commander, was still living, I was glad to know that she had in him such

a stanch supporter. “It is the worthy commander,” said I, “who must be

as a father to you, until I have got the sentence of the first Parliament

cancelled.” Then we arranged that I should get her away with me from the

convent, as there seemed to be little or no difficulty about this.

Accordingly, three days afterwards I dressed her in a most elegant

costume of my niece’s. We went out in the morning for a drive, and the

nuns at the gateway bowed low, as usual, when my carriage passed, never

dreaming of such a thing as abduction.

That evening the whole convent seemed in a state of uproar. Madame de

Mortemart, with flaming visage, sought to stammer out her reproaches. But

as there was no law to prevent my action, she had to hide her vexation,

and behave as if nothing had happened.

The following year I wrote and told her that the judgment of the Rennes

Parliament had been cancelled by the Grand Council, as it was based on

conflicting evidence. The blind Comte d’Amurande had died of rage, and

the young couple, who came into all his property, were eternally grateful

to me, and forever showered blessings upon my head.

The Abbess wrote back to say that she shared my satisfaction at so happy

a conclusion, and that Madame d’Olbruse’s disappearance from Fontevrault

had scarcely been noticed.

The Marquise de Thianges, whose ideas regarding such matters were

precisely the same as my own, confined herself to stating that I had not

told her a word about it. She spoke the truth; for the enterprise was

not of such difficulty that I needed any one to help me.

On the twelfth day, as we were about to leave Fontevrault, I received

another letter from the King, which was as follows:

As the pain in your knee continues, and the Bourbonne waters have been

recommended to you, I beg you, madame, to profit by being in their

vicinity, and to go and try their effect. Mademoiselle de Nantes is in

fairly good health, yet it looks as if a return of her fluxion were

likely. Five or six pimples have appeared on her face, and there is the

same redness of the arms as last year. I shall send her to Bourbonne;

your maids and the governess will accompany her. The Prince de Conde,

who is in office there, will show you every attention. I would rather

see you a little later on in good health, than a little sooner, and

ailing.

My kindest messages to Madame de Thianges, the Abbess, and all those who

show you regard and sympathy. Madame de Nevers might invite you to stay

with her; on her return I will not forget such obligation.

LOUIS.

We left Fontevrault after a stay of fifteen days; to the nuns and novices

it seemed more like fifteen minutes, but to Madame de Mortemart, fifteen

long years. Yet that did not prevent her from tenderly embracing me, nor

from having tears in her eyes when the time came for us to take coach and

depart.

BOOK 5.

CHAPTER I.

The Prince de Mont-Beliard.--He Agrees to the Propositions Made Him.--The

King’s Note.--Diplomacy of the Chancellor of England.--Letter from the

Marquis de Montespan.--The Duchy in the Air.--The Domain of Navarre,

Belonging to the Prince de Bouillon, Promised to the Marquise.

There was but a small company this year at the Waters of Bourbonne,--to

begin with, at any rate; for afterwards there appeared to be many

arrivals, to see me, probably, and Mademoiselle de Nantes.

The Chancellor Hyde was already installed there, and his establishment

was one of the most agreeable and convenient; he was kind enough to

exchange it for mine. A few days afterwards he informed me of the

arrival of the Prince de Mont-Beliard, of Wurtemberg, who was anxious to

pay his respects to me, as though to the King’s daughter. In effect,

this royal prince came and paid me a visit; I thought him greatly changed

for such a short lapse of years.

We had seen each other--as, I believe, I have already told--at the time

of the King’s first journey in Flanders. He recalled all the

circumstances to me, and was amiable enough to tell me that, instead of

waning, my beauty had increased.

“It is you, Prince, who embellish everything,” I answered him. “I begin

to grow like a dilapidated house; I am only here to repair myself.”

Less than a year before, M. de Mont-Billiard had lost that amiable

princess, his wife; he had a lively sense of this loss, and never spoke

of it without tears in his eyes.

“You know, madame,” he told me, “my states are, at present, not entirely

administered, but occupied throughout by the officers of the King of

France. Those persons who have my interests at heart, as well as those

who delight at my fears, seem persuaded that this provisional occupation

will shortly become permanent. I dare not question you on this subject,

knowing how much discretion is required of you; but I confess that I

should pass quieter and more tranquil nights if you could reassure me up

to a certain point.”

“Prince,” I replied to him, “the King is never harsh except with those of

whom he has had reason to complain. M. le Duc de Neubourg, and certain

other of the Rhine princes, have been thick-witted enough to be disloyal

to him; he has punished them for it, as Caesar did, and as all great

princes after him will do. But you have never shown him either coldness,

or aversion, or indifference. He has commanded the Marechal de

Luxembourg to enter your territory to prevent the Prince of Orange from

reaching there before us, and your authority has been put, not under the

domination, but under the protection, of the King of France, who is

desirous of being able to pass from there into the Brisgau.”

Madame de Thianges, Madame de Nevers, and myself did all that lay in our

power to distract or relieve the sorrows of the Prince; but the loss of

Mademoiselle de Chatillon, his charming spouse, was much more present

with him than that of his states; the bitterness which he drew from it

was out of the retch of all consolation possible. The Marquise de

Thianges procured the Chancellor of England to approach the Prince, and

find out from him, to a certain extent, whether he would consent to

exchange the County of Mont-Beliard for some magnificent estates in

France, to which some millions in money would be added.

M. de Wurtemberg asked for a few days in which to reflect, and imagining

that these suggestions emanated from Versailles, he replied that he could

refuse nothing to the greatest of kings. My sister wrote on the day

following to the Marquis de Louvois, instead of asking it of the King in

person. M. de Luvois, who, probably, wished to despoil M. de

Mont-Beliard without undoing his purse-strings, put this overture before

the King maliciously, and the King wrote me immediately the following

letter:

Leave M. de Mont-Beliard alone, and do not speak to him again of his

estates. If the matter which occupies Madame de Thianges could be

arranged, it would be of the utmost propriety that a principality of such

importance rested in the Crown, at least as far as sovereignty. The case

of the Principality of Orange is a good enough lesson to me; there must

be one ruler only in an empire. As for you, my dear lady, feel no regret

for all that. You shall be a duchess, and I am pleased to give you this

title which you desire. Let M. de Montespan be informed that his

marquisate is to be elevated into a duchy with a peerage, and that I will

add to it the number of seigniories that is proper, as I do not wish to

deviate from the usage which has become a law, etc.

The prince’s decision was definite, and as his character was, there was

no wavering. I wrote to him immediately to express my lively gratitude,

and we considered, the Marquise and I, as to the intermediary to whom we

could entrust the unsavoury commission of approaching the Marquis de

Montespan. He hated all my family from his having obtained no

satisfaction from it for his wrath. We begged the Chancellor Hyde, a

personage of importance, to be good enough to accept this mission; he saw

no reason to refuse it, and, after ten or eleven days, he received the

following reply, with which he was moderately amused:

CHATEAU SAINT ELIX . . . . AT THE WORLD’S END.

I am sensible, my Lord, as I should be, of the honour which you have

wished to do me, whilst, notwithstanding, permit me to consider it

strange that a man of your importance has cared to meddle in such a

negotiation. His Majesty the King of France did not consult me when he

wished to make my wife his mistress; it is somewhat remarkable that so

great a prince expects my intervention today to recompense conduct that I

have disapproved, that I disapprove, and shall disapprove to my last

breath. His Majesty has got eight or ten children from my wife without

saying a word to me about it; this monarch can surely, therefore, make

her a present of a duchy without summoning me to his assistance.

According to all laws, human and divine, the King ought to punish Madame

de Montespan, and, instead of censuring her, he wishes to make her a

duchess! . . . Let him make her a princess, even a highness, if he

likes; he has all the power in his hands. I am only a twig; he is an

oak.

If madame is fostering ambition, mine has been satisfied for forty years;

I was born a marquis; a marquis--apart from some unforeseen

catastrophe--I will die; and Madame la Marquise, as long as she does not

alter her conduct, has no need to alter her degree.

I will, however, waive my severity, if M. le Duc du Maine will intervene

for his mother, and call me his father, however it may be. I am none the

less sensible, my lord, of the honour of your acquaintance, and since you

form one of the society of Madame la Marquise, endeavour to release

yourself from her charms, for she can be an enchantress when she

likes.... It is true that, from what they tell me, you were not quite

king in your England.

I am, from out my exile (almost as voluntary as yours), the most obliged

and grateful of your servants,

DE GONDRIN MONTESPAN.

The Marquise de Thianges felt a certain irritation at the reading of this

letter; she offered all our excuses for it to the English Chancellor, and

said to me: “I begin to fear that the King of Versailles is not acting

with good faith towards you, when he makes your advancement depend on the

Marquis de Montespan; it is as though he were giving you a duchy in the

moon.”

I sent word to the King that the Marquis refused to assist his generous

projects; he answered me:

“Very well, we must look somewhere else.”

Happily, this domestic humiliation did not transpire at Bourbonne; for M.

de la Bruyere had arrived there with Monsieur le Prince, and that model

satirist would unfailingly have made merry over it at my expense.

The best society lavished its attentions on me; Coulanges, whose

flatteries are so amusing, never left us for a moment.

The Prince, after the States were over, had come to relax himself at

Bourbonne, which was his property. After having done all in his power

formerly to dethrone his master, he is his enthusiastic servitor now that

he sees him so strong. He was fascinated with Mademoiselle de Nantes,

and asked my permission to seek her hand for the Duc de Bourbon, his

grandson; my reply was, that the alliance was desirable on both sides,

but that these arrangements were settled only by the King.

In spite of the insolent diatribe of M. de Montespan, the waters proved

good and favourable; my blood, little by little, grew calm; my pains,

passing from one knee to the other, insensibly faded away in both; and,

after having given a brilliant fete to the Prince de Mont-Beliard, the

English Chancellor, and our most distinguished bathers, I went back to

Versailles, where the work seemed to me to have singularly advanced.

The King went in advance of us to Corbeil; Madame de Maintenon, her

pretty nieces, and my children were in the carriage. The King received

me with his ordinary kindness, and yet said no word to me of the

harshness which I had suffered from my husband. Two or three months

afterwards he recollected his royal word, and gave me to understand that

the Prince de Bourbon was shortly going to give up Navarre, in Normandy,

and that this vast and magnificent estate would be raised to a duchy for

me.

It has not been yet, at the moment that I write. Perhaps it is written

above that I shall never be a duchess. In such a case, the King would

not deserve the inward reproaches that my sensibility addresses him,

since his good-will would be fettered by destiny.

It is my kindness which makes me speak so.

CHAPTER II.

The Venetian Drummer.--The Little Olivier.--Adriani’s Love.--His

Ingratitude.--His Punishment.--His Vengeance.--Complaint on This Account.

At the great slaughter of Candia, M. de Vivonne had the pleasure of

saving a young Venetian drummer whom he noticed all covered with blood,

and senseless, amongst the dead and dying, with whom the field was

covered far and wide. He had his wounds dressed and cared for by the

surgeons of the French navy, with the intention of giving him me, either

as a valet de chambre or a page, so handsome and agreeable this young

Italian was. Adriani was his name. He presented him to me after the

return of the expedition to France, and I was sensible of this amiable

attention of my brother, for truly the peer of this young drummer did not

exist.

Adrien was admirable to see in my livery, and when my carriage went out,

he attracted alone all the public attention. His figure was still not

all that it might be; it developed suddenly, and then one was not wrong

in comparing him with a perfect model for the Academy. He took small

time in losing the manners which he had brought with him from his

original calling. I discovered the best ‘ton’ in him; he would have been

far better seated in the interior than outside my equipage.

Unfortunately, this young impertinent gave himself airs of finding my

person agreeable, and of cherishing a passion for me; my first valet de

chambre told me of it at once. I gave him to the King, who had sometimes

noticed him in passing.

Adrien was inconsolable at first at this change, for which he was not

prepared, but his vanity soon came uppermost; he understood that it was

an advancement, and took himself for a great personage, since he had the

honour of approaching and serving the King.

The little Olivier--the first assistant in the shop of Madame Camille, my

dressmaker--saw Adrien, inspired him with love, and herself with much,

and they had to be married. I was good-natured enough to be interested

in this union, and as I had never any fault to find with the intelligent

services and attentions of the little modiste, I gave her two hundred

louis, that she might establish herself well and without any waiting.

She had a daughter whom she was anxious to call Athenais. I thought this

request excessive; I granted my name of Francoise only.

The young couple would have succeeded amply with their business, since my

confidence and favour were sufficient to give them vogue; but I was not

slow in learning that cruel discord had already penetrated to their

household, and that Adrien, in spite of his adopted country, had remained

at heart Italian. Jealous without motive, and almost without love, he

tormented with his suspicions, his reproaches, and his harshness, an

attentive and industrious young wife, who loved him with intense love,

and was unable to succeed in persuading him of it. From her condition, a

modiste cannot dispense with being amiable, gracious, engaging. The

little Olivier, as pretty as one can be, easily secured the homage of the

cavaliers. For all thanks she smiled at the gentlemen, as a well brought

up woman should do. Adrien disapproved these manners,--too French, in

his opinion. One day he dared to say to his wife, and that before

witnesses: “Because you have belonged to Madame de Montespan, do you

think you have the same rights that she has?” And with that he

administered a blow to her.

This indecency was reported to me. I did not take long in discovering

what it was right to do with Adrien. I had him sent to Clagny, where I

happened to be at the time.

“Monsieur the Venetian drummer,” I said to him, with the hauteur which it

was necessary to oppose to his audacity, “Monsieur le Marechal de

Vivonne, who is always too good, saved your life without knowing you. I

gave you to the King, imagining that I knew you. Now I am undeceived,

and I know, without the least possibility of doubt, that beneath the

appearance of a good heart you hide the ungrateful and insolent rogue.

The King needs persons more discreet, less violent, and more polite.

Madame de Montespan gave you up to the King; Madame de Montespan has

taken you back this morning to her service. You depend for the future on

nobody but Madame de Montespan, and it is her alone that you are bound to

obey. Your service in her house has commenced this morning; it will

finish this evening, and, before midnight, you will leave her for good

and all. I have known on all occasions how to pardon slight offences;

there are some that a person of my rank could not excuse; yours is of

that number. Go; make no answer! Obey, ingrate! Disappear, I command

you!”

At these words he tried to throw himself at my feet. “Go, wretched

fellow!” I cried to him; and, at my voice, my lackeys ran up and drove

him from the room and from the chateau.

Almost always these bad-natured folks have cowardly souls. Adrien, his

head in a whirl, presented himself to my Suisse at Versailles, who,

finding his look somewhat sinister, refused to receive him. He retired

to my hotel in Paris, where the Suisse, being less of a physiognomist,

delivered him the key of his old room, and was willing to allow him to

pass the night there.

Adrien, thinking of naught but how to harm me and give me a memorable

proof of his vengeance, ran and set fire to my two storehouses, and, to

put a crown on his rancour, went and hanged himself in an attic.

About two o’clock in the morning, a sick-nurse, having perceived the

flames, gave loud cries and succeeded in making herself heard. Public

help arrived; the fire was mastered. My Suisse sought everywhere for the

Italian, whom he thought to be in danger; he stumbled against his corpse.

What a scene! What an affliction! The commissary having had his room

opened, on a small bureau a letter was found which he had been at the

pains of writing, and in which he accused me of his despair and death.

The people of Paris have been at all times extravagance and credulity

itself. They looked upon this young villain as a martyr, and at once

dedicated an elegy to him, in which I was compared with Medea, Circe, and

Fredegonde.

It is precisely on account of this elegy that I have cared to set down

this cruel anecdote. My readers, to whom I have just narrated the facts

with entire frankness, can see well that, instead of having merited

reproaches, I should only have received praise for my restraint and

moderation.

It is, assuredly, most painful to have to suffer the abuse of those for

whom we have never done aught; but the outrages of those whom we have

succoured, maintained, and favoured are insupportable injuries.

CHAPTER III.

The Equipage at Full Speed.--The Poor Vine-grower.--Sensibility of Madame

de Maintenon.--Her Popularity.--One Has the Right to Crush a Man Who Will

Not Get Out of the Way.--What One Sees.--What They Tell You.--All Ends at

the Opera.--One Can Be Moved to Tears and Yet Like Chocolate.

Another event with a tragical issue, and one to which I contributed even

less, served to feed and foster that hatred, mixed with envy, which the

rabble populace guards always so persistently towards the favourites of

kings or fortune.

Naturally quick and impatient, I cannot endure to move with calm and

state along the roads. My postilions, my coachmen know it, driving in

such fashion that no equipage is ever met which cleaves the air like

mine.

I was descending one day the declivity of the Coeur-Volant, between Saint

Germain and Marly. The Marquises de Maintenon and d’Hudicourt were in my

carriage with M. le Duc du Maine, so far as I can remember. We were

going at the pace which I have just told, and my outriders, who rode in

advance, were clearing the way, as is customary. A vine-grower, laden

with sticks, chose this moment to cross the road, thinking himself, no

doubt, agile enough to escape my six horses. The cries of my people were

useless. The imprudent fellow took his own course, and my postilions, in

spite of their efforts with the reins, could not prevent themselves from

passing over his body; the wheels followed the horses; the poor man was

cut in pieces.

At the lamentations of the country folk and the horrified passers-by, we

stopped. Madame de Maintenon wished to alight, and when she perceived

the unfortunate vine-grower disfigured with his wounds, she clasped her

hands and fell to weeping. The Marquise d’Hudicourt, who was always

simplicity itself, followed her friend’s example; there was nothing but

groans and sorrowful exclamations. My coachman blamed the postilions,

the postilions the man’s obstinacy.

Madame de Maintenon, speaking as though she were the mistress, bade them

be silent, and dared to say to them before all the crowd: “If you

belonged to me, I would soon settle you.” At these words all the

spectators applauded, and cried: “Vive Madame de Maintenon!”

Irritated at what I had just heard, I put my head out of the door, and,

turning to these sentimental women, I said to them: “Be good enough to

get in, mesdames; are you determined to have me stoned?”

They mounted again, after having left my purse with the poor relations of

the dead man; and as far as Ruel, which was our destination, I was

compelled to listen to their complaints and litanies.

“Admit, madame,” I declared to Madame de Maintenon, “that any person

except myself could and would detest you for the harm you have done me.

Your part was to blame the postilions lightly and the rustic very

positively. My equipage did not come unexpectedly, and my two outriders

had signalled from their horses.”

“Madame,” she replied, “you have not seen, as I did, those eyes of the

unhappy man forced violently from their sockets, his poor crushed head,

his palpitating heart, from which the blood soaked the pavement; such a

sight has moved and broken my own heart. I was, as I am still, quite

beside myself, and, in such a situation, it is permissible to forget

discretion in one’s speech and the proprieties. I had no intention of

giving you pain; I am distressed at having done so. But as for your

coachmen I loathe them, and, since you undertake their defence, I shall

not for the future show myself in your equipage.”

[In one of her letters, Madame de Maintenon speaks of this accident, but

she does not give quite the same account of it. It is natural that

Madame de Montespan seeks to excuse her people and herself if she

can.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]

At Ruel, she dared take the same tone before the Duchesse de Richelieu,

who rebuked her for officiousness, and out of spite, or some other

reason, Madame de Maintenon refused to dine. She had two or three

swooning fits; her tears started afresh four or five times, and the

Marquise d’Hudicourt, who dined only by snatches, went into a corner to

sob and weep along with her.

“Admit, madame,” I said then to Madame de Maintenon, “your excessive

grief for an unknown man is singular. He was, perhaps, actually a

dishonest fellow. The accident which you come back to incessantly, and

which distresses me also, is doubtless deplorable; but, after all, it is

not a murder, an ambush, a premeditated assassination. I imagine that if

such a catastrophe had happened elsewhere, and been reported to us in a

gazette or a book, you would have read of it with interest and

commiseration; but we should not have seen you clasp your hands over your

head, turn red and pale, utter loud cries, shed tears, sob, and scold a

coachman, postilions, perhaps even me. The event, would, nevertheless,

be actually the same. Admit, then, madame, and you, too, Madame

d’Hudicourt, that there is an exaggeration in your sorrow, and that you

would have made, both of you, two excellent comedians.”

Madame de Maintenon, piqued at these last words, sought to make us

understand, and even make us admit, that there is a great difference

between an event narrated to you by a third party, and an event which one

has seen. Madame de Richelieu shut her mouth pleasantly with these

words: “We know, Madame la Marquise, how much eloquence and wit is yours.

We approve all your arguments, past and to be. Let us speak no further

of an accident which distresses you; and since you require to be

diverted, let us go to the Opera, which is only two leagues off.”

She consented to accompany us, for fear of proving herself entirely

ridiculous; but to delay us as much as possible, she required a cup of

chocolate, her favourite dish, her appetite having returned as soon as

she had exhausted the possibilities of her grief.

CHAPTER IV.

Charles II., King of England.--How Interest Can Give Memory.--His

Grievances against France.--The Two Daughters of the Duke of

York.--William of Orange Marries One, in Spite of the Opposition of the

King.--Great Joy of the Allies.--How the King of England Understands

Peace.--Saying of the King.--Preparations for War.

The King, Charles Stuart, who reigned in England since the death of the

usurper, Cromwell, was a grandson of Henri IV., just as much as our King.

Charles II. displayed the pronounced penchant of Henri IV. for the ladies

and for pleasure; but he had neither his energy, nor his genial temper,

nor his amiable frankness. After the death of Henrietta of England, his

beloved sister, he remained for some time longer our ally, but only to

take great advantage from our union and alliance. He had made use of it

against the Dutch, his naval and commercial rivals, and had compelled

them, by the aid of the King of France (then his friend), to reimburse

him a sum of twenty-six millions, and to pay him, further, an annual

tribute of twelve or fifteen thousand livres for the right of fishing

round his island domains.

All these things being obtained, he seemed to recollect that Cardinal de

Richelieu had not protected his father, Stuart; that the Cardinal Mazarin

had declared for Cromwell in his triumph; that the Court of France had

indecently gone into mourning for that robber; that there had been

granted neither guards, nor palace, nor homages of state to the Queen,

his mother, although daughter and sister of two French kings; that this

Queen, in a modest retirement--sometimes in a cell in the convent of

Chaillot, sometimes in her little pavilion at Colombesl--had died,

poisoned by her physician, without the orator, Bossuet, having even

frowned at it in the funeral oration; that the unfortunate Henrietta

daughter of this Queen and first wife of Monsieur had succumbed to the

horrible tortures of a poisoning even more visible and manifest; whilst

her poisoners, who were well known, had never been in the least blamed

or disgraced.

[Mademoiselle de Montpensier, in her Memoirs, says that this Queen,

already languishing, had lost her sleep, and was given soporific pills,

on account of which Henrietta of France awoke no more; but it is probable

that the servants, and not the doctors, committed this blunder.]

On all these arguments, with more or less foundation, Charles II. managed

to conclude that he ought to detach himself from France, who was not

helpful enough; and, by deserting us, he excited universal joy amongst

his subjects, who were constantly jealous of us.

Charles Stuart had had children by his mistresses; he had had none by the

Queen, his wife. The presumptive heir to the Crown was the Duke of York,

his Majesty’s only brother.

The Duke of York, son-in-law--as I have noticed already--of our good

Chancellor, Lord Hyde, had himself only two daughters, equally beautiful,

who, according to the laws of those islanders, would bear the sceptre in

turn.

Our King, who read in the future, was thinking of marrying these two

princesses conformably with our interests, when the Prince of Orange

crossed the sea, and went formally to ask the hand of the elder of his

uncle.

Informed of this proceeding, the King at once sent M. de Croissy-Colbert

to the Duke of York, to induce him to interfere and refuse his daughter;

but, in royal families, it is always the head who makes and decides

marriages. William of Orange obtained his charming cousin Mary, and

acquired that day the expectation of the Protestant throne, which was his

ambition.

At the news of this marriage, the allies, that is to say, all the King’s

enemies, had an outburst of satisfaction, and gave themselves up to

puerile jubilations. The King of Great Britain stood definitely on their

side; he made common cause with them, and soon there appeared in the

political world an audacious document signed by this prince, in which,

from the retreat of his island, the empire of fogs, he dared to demand

peace from Louis of Bourbon, his ancient ally and his cousin german,

imposing on him the most revolting conditions.

According to the English monarch, France ought to restore to the

Spaniards, first Sicily, and, further, the towns of Charleroi, Ath,

Courtrai, Condo, Saint Guilain, Tournai, and Valenciennes, as a condition

of retaining Franche-Comte; moreover, France was compelled to give up

Lorraine to the Duke Charles, and places in German Alsace to the Emperor.

The King replied that “too much was too much.” He referred the decision

of his difficulties to the fortune of war, and collected fresh soldiers.

Then, without further delay, England and the States General signed a

particular treaty at La Hague, to constrain France (or, rather, her

ruler) to accept the propositions that his pride refused to hear.

CHAPTER V.

The Great Mademoiselle Buys Choisy.--The President Gonthier.--The

Indemnity.--The Salmon.--The Harangue as It Is Not Done in the Academy.

The King had only caused against his own desire the extreme grief which

Mademoiselle felt at the imprisonment of Lauzun. His Majesty was

sensible of the wisdom of the resolution which she had made not to break

with the Court, and to show herself at Saint Germain, or at Versailles,

from time to time, as her rank, her near kinship, her birth demanded. He

said to me one day: “My cousin is beginning to look up. I see with

pleasure that her complexion is clearing, that she laughs willingly at

this and that, and that her good-will for me is restored. I am told that

she is occupied in building a country-house above Vitry. Let us go

to-day and surprise her, and see what this house of Choisy is like.”

We arrived at a sufficiently early hour, and had time to see everything.

The King found the situation most agreeable; those lovely gardens united

high up above the Seine, those woods full of broad walks, of light and

air, those points of view happily chosen and arranged, gave a charming

effect; the house of one story, raised on steps of sixteen stairs,

appeared to us elegant from its novelty; but the King blamed his cousin

for not having put a little architecture and ornament on the facade.

“Princes,” said he, “have no right to be careless; since universal

agreement has made us Highnesses, we must know how to carry our burden,

and to lay it down at no time, and in no place.”

Mademoiselle excused herself on the ground of her remoteness from the

world, and on the expense, which she wished to keep down.

“From the sight of the country,” said the King, “you must have a hundred

to a hundred and twelve, acres here.”

“A hundred and nine,” she answered.

“Have you paid dear for this property?” went on the King. “It is the

President Gonthier who has sold it?”

“I paid for this site, and the old house which no longer exists, forty

thousand livres,” she said.

“Forty thousand livres!” cried the King. “Oh, my cousin, there is no

such thing as conscience! You have not paid for the ground. I was

assured that poor President Gonthier had only got rid of his house at

Choisy because his affairs were embarrassed; you must indemnify him, or

rather I will indemnify him myself, by giving him a pension.”

Mademoiselle bit her lip and added:

“The President asked sixty thousand first; my men of business offered him

forty, and he accepted it.”

Mademoiselle has no generosity, although she is immensely rich; she

pretended not to hear, and it was M. Colbert who sent by order the twenty

thousand livres to the President.

Mademoiselle, vain and petty, as though she were a bourgeoise of

yesterday, showed us her gallery, where she had already collected the

selected portraits of all her ancestors, relations, and kindred; she

pointed out to us in her winter salon the portrait of the little Comte de

Toulouse, painted, not as an admiral, but as God of the Sea, floating on

a pearl shell; and his brother, the Duc du Maine, as Colonel-General of

the Swiss and Grisons. The full-length portrait of the King was visible

on three chimneypieces; she was at great pains to make a merit of it, and

call for thanks.

Having followed her into her state chamber, where she had stolen in

privately, I saw that she was taking away the portrait of Lauzun. I went

and told it to the King, who shrugged his shoulders and fell to laughing.

“She is fifty-two years old,” he said to me.

A very pretty collation of confitures and fruits was served us, to which

the King prayed her to add a ragout of peas and a roasted fowl.

During the repast, he said to her: “For the rest, I have not noticed the

portrait of Gaston, your father; is it a distraction on my part, or an

omission on yours?”

“It will be put there later,” she answered. “It is not time.”

“What! your father!” added the King. “You do not think that, cousin!”

“All my actions,” added the Princess, “are weighed in the balance

beforehand; if I were to exhibit the portrait of my father at the head of

these various pictures, I should have to put my stepmother, his wife,

there too, as a necessary pendant. The harm which she has done me does

not permit of that complacence. One opens one’s house only to one’s

friends.”

“Your stepmother has never done you any other harm,” replied the King,

“than to reclaim for her children the funds or the furniture left by your

father. The character of Margaret of Lorraine has always been sweetness

itself; seeing your irritation, she begged me to arbitrate myself; and

you know all that M. Colbert and the Chancellor did to satisfy you under

the circumstances. But let us speak of something else, and cease these

discussions. I have a service to ask of you: here is M. le Duc du Maine

already big; everybody knows of your affection for him, and I have seen

his portrait with pleasure, in one of your salons. I am going to

establish him; would it be agreeable to you if I give him your livery?”

“M. le Duc du Maine,” said the Princess, “is the type of what is

gracious, and noble, and beautiful; he can only do honour to my livery; I

grant it him with all my heart, since you do me the favour of desiring

it. Would I were in a position to do more for him!”

The King perfectly understood these last words; he made no reply to them,

but he understood all that he was meant to understand. We went down

again into the gardens.

The fishermen of Choisy had just caught a salmon of enormous size, which

they had been pursuing for four or five days; they had intended to offer

it to Mademoiselle; the presence of the King inspired them with another

design. They wove with great diligence a large and pretty basket of

reeds, garnished it with foliage, young grass, and flowers, and came and

presented to the King their salmon, all leaping in the basket.

The fisherman charged with the address only uttered a few words; they

were quite evidently improvised, so that they gave more pleasure and

effect than those of academicians, or persons of importance. The

fisherman expressed himself thus:

“You have brought us good fortune, Sire, by your presence, as you bring

fortune to your generals. You arrive on the Monday; on the Tuesday the

town is taken. We come to offer to the greatest of kings the greatest

salmon that can be caught.”

The King desired this speech to be instantly transcribed; and, after

having bountifully rewarded the sailors, his Majesty said to

Mademoiselle:

“This man was born to be a wit; if he were younger, I would place him in

a college. There is wit at Choisy in every rank of life.”

CHAPTER VI.

Departure of the King.--Ghent Reduced in Five Days.--Taking of

Ypres.--Peace Signed.--The Prince of Orange Is at Pains Not to Know of

It.--Horrible Cruelties.

I have related in what manner Charles II., suddenly pronouncing in favour

of his nephew, the Prince of Orange, had signed a league with his old

enemies, the Dutch, in order to counteract the success of the King of

France and compel him to sign a humiliating and entirely inadmissible

peace.

The King left Versailles suddenly on the 4th of February, 1678, taking,

with his whole Court, the road to Lorraine, while waiting for the troops

which had wintered on the frontiers, and were investing at once

Luxembourg, Charlemont, Namur, Mons, and Ypres, five of the strongest and

best provisioned places in the Low Countries. By this march and

manoeuvre, he wished to hoodwink the allied generals, who were very far

from imagining that Ghent was the point towards which the Conqueror’s

intentions were directed.

In effect, hardly had the King seen them occupied in preparing the

defence of the above named places, when, leaving the Queen and the ladies

in the agreeable town of Metz, he rapidly traversed sixty leagues of

country, and laid siege to the town of Ghent, which was scarcely

expecting him.

The Spanish governor, Don Francisco de Pardo, having but a weak garrison

and little artillery, decided upon releasing the waters and inundating

the country; but certain heights remained which could not be covered, and

from here the French artillery started to storm the ramparts and the

fort.

The siege was commenced on the 4th of March; upon the 9th the town opened

its gates, and two days later the citadel. Ypres was carried at the end

of a week, in spite of the most obstinate resistance. Our grenadiers

performed prodigies, and lost all their officers, without exception. I

lost there one of my nephews, the one hope of his family; my compliments

to the King, therefore, were soon made.

He went to Versailles to take back the Queen, and returned to Ghent with

the speed and promptitude of lightning. The same evening he sent an

order to a detachment of the garrison of Maestricht to hasten and seize

the town and citadel of Leuwe, in Brabant, which was executed on the

instant. It was then that the Dutch sent their deputation, charged to

plead for a suspension of hostilities for six weeks. The King granted

it, although these blunderers hardly merited it. They undertook that

Spain should join them in the peace, and finally, after some

difficulties, settled more or less rightly, the treaty was signed on the

10th of August, just as the six weeks were about to expire.

The Prince of Orange, naturally bellicose, and, above all things,

passionately hostile to France, pretended to ignore the existence of this

peace, which he disapproved. The Marechal de Luxembourg, informed of the

treaty, gave himself up to the security of the moment; he was actually at

table with his numerous officers when he was warned that the Prince of

Orange was advancing against him. The alarm was quickly sounded; such

troops and cavalry as could be were assembled, and a terrible action

ensued.

At first we were repulsed, but soon the Marshal rallied his men; he

excited their indignation by exposing to them the atrocity of M.

d’Orange, and after a terrible massacre, in which two thousand English

bit the dust, the Marechal de Luxembourg remained master of the field.

He was victorious, but in this unfortunate action we lost, ourselves, the

entire regiment of guards, that of Feuquieres, and several others

besides, with an incredible quantity of officers, killed or wounded.

The name of the Prince of Orange, since that day, was held in horror in

both armies, and he would have fallen into disgrace with the States

General themselves had it not been for the protection of the King of

England, to whom the Dutch were greatly bound.

On the following day, this monster sent a parliamentary officer to the

French generals to inform them that during the night official news of the

peace had reached him.

CHAPTER VII.

Mission of Madame de Maintenon to Choisy.--Mademoiselle Gives the

Principalities of Eu and Dombes in Exchange for M. de Lauzun.--He Is Set

at Liberty.

The four or five words which had escaped Mademoiselle de Montpensier had

remained in the King’s recollection. He said to me: “If you had more

patience, and a sweeter and more pliant temper, I would employ you to go

and have a little talk with Mademoiselle, in order to induce her to

explain what intentions she may have relative to my son.”

“I admit, Sire,” I answered him, “that I am not the person required for

affairs of that sort. Your cousin is proud and cutting; I would not

endure what she has made others endure. I cannot accept such a

commission. But Madame de Maintenon, who is gentleness itself, is

suitable--no one more so for this mission; she is at once insinuating and

respectful; she is attached to the Duc du Maine. The interests of my son

could not be in better hands.”

The King agreed with me, and both he and I begged the Marquise to conduct

M. du Maine to Choisy.

Mademoiselle de Montpensier received him with rapture. He thanked her

for what she had done for him, in granting him her colours, and upon that

Mademoiselle asked his permission to embrace him, and to tell him how

amiable and worthy of belonging to the King she found him. She led him

to the hall, in which he was to be seen represented as a colonel-general

of Swiss.

“I have always loved the Swiss,” she said, “because of their great

bravery, their fidelity, and their excellent discipline. The Marechal de

Bassompierre made his corps the perfection which it is; it is for you, my

cousin, to maintain it.”

She passed into another apartment, where she was to be seen represented

as Bellona. Two Loves were presenting her, one with his helm adorned

with martial plumes, the other with his buckler of gold, with the

Orleans-Montpensier arms. The laurel crown, with which Triumphs were

ornamenting her head, and the scaled cuirass of Pallas completed her

decoration. M. le Duc du Maine praised, without affectation, the

intelligence of the artist; and as for the figure and the likeness, he

said to the Princess: “You are good, but you are better.” The calm and

the naivety of this compliment made Mademoiselle shed tears. Her emotion

was visible; she embraced my son anew.

“You have brought him up perfectly,” she said to Madame de Maintenon.

“His urbanity is of good origin; that is how a king’s son ought to act

and speak:

“His Majesty,” said Madame de Maintenon, “has been enchanted with your

country-house; he spoke of it all the evening. He even added that you

had ordered it all yourself, without an architect, and that M. le Notre

would not have done better.”

“M. le Notre,” replied the Princess, “came here for a little; he wanted

to cut and destroy, and upset and disarrange, as with the King at

Versailles. But I am of a different mould to my cousin; I am not to be

surprised with big words. I saw that Le Notre thought only of

expenditure and tyranny; I thanked him for his good intentions, and

prayed him not to put himself out for me. I found there thickets already

made, of an indescribable charm; he wanted, on the instant, to clear them

away, so that one could testify that all this new park was his. If you

please, madame, tell his Majesty that M. le Notre is the sworn enemy of

Nature; that he sees only the pleasures of proprietorship in the future,

and promises us cover and shade just at that epoch of our life when we

shall only ask for sunshine in which to warm ourselves.”

She next led her guests towards the large apartments. When she had come

to her bedroom, she showed the Marquise the mysterious portrait, and

asked if she recognised it.

“Ah, my God! ‘tis himself!” said Madame de Maintenon at once. “He sees,

he breathes, he regards us; one might believe one heard him speak. Why

do you give yourself this torture?” continued the ambassadress. “The

continual presence of an unhappy and beloved being feeds your grief, and

this grief insensibly undermines you. In your place, Princess, I should

put him elsewhere until a happier and more favourable hour.”

“That hour will never come,” cried Mademoiselle.

“Pardon me,” resumed Madame de Maintenon; “the King is never inhuman and

inexorable; you should know that better than any one. He punishes only

against the protests of his heart, and, as soon as he can relent without

impropriety or danger, he pardons. M. de Lauzun, by refusing haughtily

the marshal’s baton, which was offered him in despite of his youth,

deeply offended the King, and the disturbance he allowed himself to make

at Madame de Montespan’s depicted him as a dangerous and wrong-headed

man. Those are his sins. Rest assured, Princess, that I am well

informed. But as I know, at the same time, that the King was much

attached to him,--and is still so, to some extent, and that a captivity

of ten years is a rough school, I have the assurance that your Highness

will not be thought importunate if you make today some slight attempt

towards a clemency.”

“I will do everything they like,” Mademoiselle de Montpensier said then;

“but shall I have any one near his Majesty to assist and support my

undertaking? I have no more trust in Madame de Montespan; she has

betrayed us, she will betray us again; the offence of M. de Lauzun is

always present in her memory, and she is a lady who does not easily

forgive. As for you, madame, I know that the King considers you for the

invaluable services of the education given to his children. Deign to

speak and act in favour of my unhappy husband, and I will make you a

present of one of my fine titled territories.”

Madame de Maintenon was too acute to accept anything in such a case; she

answered the Princess that her generosities, to please the King, should

be offered to M. le Duc du Maine, and that, by assuring a part of her

succession to that young prince, she had a sure method of moving the

monarch, and of turning his paternal gratitude to the most favourable

concessions. The Princess, enchanted, then said to the negotiatrix:

“Be good enough to inform his Majesty, this evening, that I offer to

give, at once, to his dear and amiable child the County of Eu and my

Sovereignty of Dombes, adding the revenues to them if it is necessary.”

Madame de Maintenon, who worships her pupil, kissed the hand of

Mademoiselle, and promised to return and see her immediately.

That very evening she gave an account to the King of her embassy; she

solicited the liberty of the Marquis de Lauzun, and the King commenced by

granting “the authorisation of mineral waters.”

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle, presented by Madame de Maintenon, went to take

counsel with the King. She made a formal donation of the two

principalities which I have named. His Majesty, out of courtesy, left

her the revenues, and, in fine, she was permitted to marry her M. de

Lauzun, and to assure him, by contract, fifty thousand livres of income.

CHAPTER VIII.

M. de Brisacier and King Casimir.--One Is Never so Well Praised as by

Oneself.--He Is Sent to Get Himself Made a Duke Elsewhere.

The Abbe de Brisacier, the famous director of consciences, possessed

enough friends and credit to advance young Brisacier, his nephew, to the

Queen’s household, to whom he had been made private secretary. Slanderers

or impostors had persuaded this young coxcomb that Casimir, the King of

Poland, whilst dwelling in Paris in the quality of a simple gentleman,

had shown himself most assiduous to Madame Brisacier, and that he,

Brisacier of France, was born of these assiduities of the Polish prince.

When he saw the Comte Casimir raised to the elective throne of Poland, he

considered himself as the issue of royal blood, and it seemed to him that

his position with the Queen, Maria Theresa, was a great injustice of

fortune; he thought, nevertheless, that he ought to remain some time

longer in this post of inferiority, in order to use it as a ladder of

ascent.

The Queen wrote quantities of letters to different countries, and

especially to Spain, but never, or hardly ever, in her own hand. One

day, whilst handling all this correspondence for the princess’s

signature, the private secretary slipped one in, addressed to Casimir,

the Polish King.

In this letter, which from one end to the other sang the praises of the

Seigneur Brisacier, the Queen had the extreme kindness to remind the

Northern monarch of his old liaison with the respectable mother of the

young man, and her Majesty begged the prince to solicit from the King of

France the title and rank of duke for so excellent a subject.

King Casimir was not, as one knows, distrust and prudence personified; he

walked blindfold into the trap; he wrote with his royal hand to his

brother, the King of France, and asked him a brevet as duke for young

Brisacier. Our King, who did not throw duchies at people’s heads, read

and re-read the strange missive with astonishment and suspicion. He

wrote in his turn to the suppliant King, and begged him to send him the

why and the wherefore of this hieroglyphic adventure. The good prince,

ignorant of ruses, sent the letter of the Queen herself.

Had this princess ever given any reason to be talked about, there is no

doubt that she would have been lost on this occasion; but there was

nothing to excite suspicion. The King, no less, approached her with

precaution, in order to observe the first results of her answers.

“Madame,” he said, “are you still quite satisfied with young Brisacier,

your private secretary?”

“More or less,” replied the Infanta; “a little light, a little absent;

but, on the whole, a good enough young man.”

“Why have you recommended him to the King of Poland, instead of

recommending him to me directly?”

“To the King of Poland!--I? I have not written to him since I

congratulated him on his succession.”

“Then, madame, you have been deceived in this matter, since I have your

last letter in my hands. Here it is; I return it to you.”

The princess read the letter with attention; her astonishment was

immense.

“My signature has been used without authority,” she said. “Brisacier

alone can be guilty, being the only one interested.”

This new kind of ambitious man was summoned; he was easily confounded.

The King ordered him to prison, wishing to frighten him for a punishment,

and at the end of some days he was commanded to quit France and go and be

made duke somewhere else.

This event threw such ridicule upon pretenders to the ducal state, that I

no longer dared speak further to the King of the hopes which he had held

out to me; moreover, the things which supervened left me quite convinced

of the small success which would attend my efforts.

CHAPTER IX.

Compliment from Monsieur to the New Prince de Dombes.--Roman

History.--The Emperors Trajan, Marcus Aurelius, and Verus.--The Danger of

Erudition.

Monsieur, having learnt what his cousin of Montpensier had just done for

my Duc du Maine, felt all possible grief and envy at it. He had always

looked to inherit from her, and the harshest enemy whom M. de Lauzun met

with at his wedding was, undoubtedly, Monsieur. When M. le Duc du Maine

received the congratulations of all the Court on the ground of his new

dignity of Prince de Dombes, his uncle was the last to appear; even so he

could not refrain from making him hear these disobliging words,--who

would believe it?--“If I, too, were to give you my congratulation, it

would be scarcely sincere; what will be left for my children?”

Madame de Maintenon, who is never at a loss, replied: “There will be left

always, Monseigneur, the remembrance of your virtues; that is a fair

enough inheritance.”

We complained of it to the King; he reprimanded him in a fine fashion. “I

gave you a condition so considerable,” said he, “that the Queen, our

mother, herself thought it exaggerated and dangerous in your hands. You

have no liking for my children, although you feign a passionate affection

for their father; the result of your misbehaviour will be that I shall

grow cool to your line, and that your daughter, however beautiful and

amiable she may be, will not marry my Dauphin.”

At this threat Monsieur was quite overcome, and anxious to make his

apologies to the King; he assured him of his tender affection for M. le

Duc du Maine, and would give him to understand that Madame de Maintenon

had misunderstood him.

“It is not from her that your compliment came to us; it is from M. le Duc

du Maine, who is uprightness itself, and whose mouth has never lied.”

Monsieur then started playing at distraction and puerility; the

medal-case was standing opened, his gaze was turned to it. Then he came

to me and said in a whisper: “I pray you, come and look at the coin of

Marcus Aurelius; do you not find that the King resembles that emperor in

every feature?”

“You are joking,” I answered him. “His Majesty is as much like him as

you are like me.”

He insisted, and his brother, who witnessed our argument, wished to know

the reason. When he understood, he said to Monsieur: “Madame de

Montespan is right; I am not in the least like that Roman prince in face.

The one to whom I should wish to be like in merit is Trajan.”

“Trajan had fine qualities,” replied Monsieur; “that does not prevent me

from preferring Marcus Aurelius.”

“On what grounds?” asked his Majesty.

“On the grounds that he shared his throne with Verus,” replied Monsieur,

unhesitatingly.

The King flushed at this reply, and answered in few words: “Marcus

Aurelius’s action to his brother may, be called generous; it was none the

less inconsiderate. By his own confession, the Emperor Verus proved, by

his debauchery and his vices, unworthy, of the honour which had been done

him. Happily, he died from his excesses during the Pannonian War, and

Marcus Aurelius could only do well from that day on.”

Monsieur, annoyed with his erudition and confused at his escapade, sought

to change the conversation. The King, passing into his cabinet, left him

entirely, in my charge. I scolded him for his inconsequences, and he

dared to implore me to put his daughter “in the right way,” to become one

day Queen of France by marrying Monsieur le Dauphin, whom she loved

already with her whole heart.

CHAPTER X.

The Benedictines of Fontevrault.--The Head in the Basin.--The

Unfortunate Delivery.--The Baptism of the Monster.--The Courageous

Marriage.--Foundation of the Royal Abbey of Fontevrault.

Two or three days after our arrival at Fontevrault, the King, who loves

to know all the geographical details of important places, asked me of the

form and particulars of the celebrated abbey. I gave him a natural

description of it.

“They are two vast communities,” I told him, “which the founder, for some

inexplicable whim, united in one domain, of an extent which astonishes

the imagination.”

The Community of Benedictine Nuns is regarded as the first, because of

the abbotorial dignity it possesses. The Community of Benedictine Monks

is only second,--a fact which surprises greatly strangers and visitors.

Both in the monastery and the convent the buildings are huge and

magnificent, the courts spacious, the woods and streams well distributed

and well kept.

“Every morning you may see a hundred and fifty to two hundred ploughs

issue from both establishments; these spread over the plain and till an

immense expanse of land. Carts drawn by bullocks, big mules, or superb

horses are ceaselessly exporting the products of the fields, the meadows,

or the orchards. Innumerable cows cover the pastures, and legions of

women and herds are employed to look after these estates.

“The aspect of Fontevrault gives an exact idea of the ancient homes of

the Patriarchs, in their remote periods of early civilisation, which saw

the great proprietors delighting in their natal hearth, and finding their

glory, as well as their happiness, in fertilising or assisting nature.

“The abbess rules like a sovereign over her companion nuns, and over the

monks, her neighbours. She appoints their officers and their temporal

prince. It is she who admits postulants, who fixes the dates of

ordinations, pronounces interdictions, graces, and penances. They render

her an account of their administration and the employment of their

revenues, from which she subtracts carefully her third share, as the

essential right of her crosier of authority.”

“Have you invited the Benedictine Fathers to your fete in the wood?” the

King asked me, smiling.

“We had no power, Sire,” I answered. “There are many young ladies being

educated with the nuns of Fontevrault. The parents of these young ladies

respectful as they are to these monks, would have looked askance at the

innovation. The Fathers never go in there. They are to be seen at the

abbey church, where they sing and say their offices. Only the three

secular chaplains of the abbess penetrate into the house of the nuns; the

youngest of the three cannot be less than fifty.

“The night of the feast the monks draw near our cloister by means of a

wooden theatre, which forms a terrace, and from this elevation they

participate by the eye and ear in our amusements; that is enough.”

“Has Madame de Mortemart ever related to you the origin of her abbey?”

resumed the King. “Perhaps she is ignorant of it. I am going to tell

you of it, for it is extremely curious; it is not as it is related in the

books, and I take the facts from good authority. You must hear of it,

and you will see.

“There was once a Comtesse de Poitiers, named Honorinde, to whom fate had

given for a husband the greatest hunter in the world. This man would

have willingly passed his life in the woods, where he hunted, night and

day, what we call, in hunter’s parlance, ‘big game.’ Having won the

victory over a monstrous boar, he cut off the head himself, and this

quivering and bleeding mask he went to offer to his lady in a basin. The

young woman was in the first month of her pregnancy. She was filled with

repugnance and fright at the sight of this still-threatening head; it

troubled her to the prejudice of her fruit.

“Eight, or seven and a half, months afterwards, she brought into the

world a girl who was human in her whole body, but above had the horrible

head of a wild boar! Imagine what cries, what grief, what despair! The

cure of the place refused baptism, and the Count, broken down and

desolate, ordered the child to be drowned.

“Instead of throwing it into the water, his servant scrupulously went

straight to the monastery where your sister rules. He laid down his

closed packet in the church of the monks, and then returned to his lord,

who never had any other child.

“The religious Benedictines, not knowing whence this monster came,

believed there was some prodigy in it. They baptised in this little

person all that was not boar, and left the surplus to Providence. They

brought up the singular creature in the greatest secrecy; it drank and

lapped after the manner of its kind. As it grew up it walked on its

feet, and that without the least imperfection; it could sit down, go on

its knees, and even make a courtesy. But it never articulated any

distinct words, and it had always a harsh and rough voice which howled

and grunted. Its intelligence never reached the knowledge of reading or

writing; but it understood easily all that could be said to it, and the

proof was that it replied by its actions.

“The Comte de Poitiers having died whilst hunting, Honorinde learnt of

her old serving-man in what refuge, in what asylum, he had long ago

deposited the little one. This good mother proceeded there, and the

monks, after some hesitation, confessed what had become of it. She

wished to see it; they showed it her. At its aspect she felt the same

inward commotion which had, years before, perverted nature. She groaned,

fainted, burst into tears, and never had the courage and firmness to

embrace what she had seen.

“Her gratitude was not less lively and sincere; she handed a considerable

sum to the Benedictines of Fontevrault, charging them to continue their

good work and charity.

“The reverend Prior, reflecting that his hideous inmate came of a great

family, and of a family of great property, resolved to procure it as a

wife for his nephew. He sounded the young man, who looked fixedly at his

future bride, and avowed that he was satisfied.

“She is a good Christian,” he replied to his uncle, since you have

baptised her here. She is of a good family, since Honorinde has

recognised her. There are many as ugly as she is to be seen who still

find husbands. I will put a pretty mask on her, and the mask will give

me sufficient illusion. Benedicte, so far as she goes, is well-made; I

hope to have fine children who will talk.

“The Prior commenced by marrying them; he then confided in Honorinde,

who, not daring to noise abroad this existence, was compelled to submit

to what had been done.

“The marriage of the young she-monster was not happy. She bit her

husband from morning to night. She did not know how to sit at table, and

would only eat out of a trough. She needed neither an armchair, a sofa,

nor a couch; she stretched herself out on the sand or on the pavement.

“Her husband, in despair, demanded the nullification of his marriage; and

as the courts did not proceed fast enough for his impatience, he killed

his companion, Benedicte, with a pistol-shot, at the moment when she was

biting and tearing him before witnesses.

“Honorinde had her buried at Fontevrault, and over her tomb, at the end

of the year, she built a convent, to which her immense property was

given, where she retired herself as a simple nun, and of which she was

appointed first abbess by the Pope who reigned at the time.

“There, madame,” added the King, “is the somewhat singular origin of the

illustrious abbey which your sister rules with such eclat. You must have

remarked the boar’s head, perfectly imitated in sculpture, in the dome;

that mask is the speaking history of the noble community of Fontevrault,

where more than a hundred Benedictine monks obey an abbess.”

CHAPTER XI.

Fine Couples Make Fine Children.--The Dauphine of Bavaria.--She

Displeases Madame de Montespan.--First Debut Relating to Madame de

Maintenon, Appointed Lady-in-waiting.--Conversation between the Two

Marquises.

The King, in his moments of effusion and abandonment (then so full of

pleasantness), had said more than once: “If I have any physical beauty, I

owe it to the Queen, my mother; if my daughters have any beauty, they owe

it to me: it is only fine couples who get fine children.”

When I saw him decided upon marrying Monseigneur le Dauphin, I reminded

him of his maxim. He fell to smiling, and answered me: “Chance, too,

sometimes works its miracles. My choice for my son is a decided thing;

my politics come before my taste, and I have asked for the daughter of

the Elector of Bavaria, whose portrait I will show you. She is not

beautiful, like you; she is prettier than Benedicte, and I hope that she

will not bite Monseigneur le Dauphin in her capricious transports.”

The portrait that the King showed me was a flattering one, as are, in

general, all these preliminary samples. For all that, the Princess

seemed to me hideous, and even disagreeable, especially about her eyes,

that portion of the face which confirms the physiognomy and decides

everything.

“Monseigneur will never love that woman,” I said to the King. “That

constrained look in the pupil, those drooping eyes,--they make my heart

ache.”

“My son, happily,” his Majesty answered, “is not so difficult as you and

I. He has already seen this likeness, and at the second look he was

taken; and as we have assured him that the young person is well made, he

cries quits with her face, and proposes to love her as soon as he gets

her.”

“God grant it!” I added; and the King told me, more or less in detail, of

what important personages he was going to compose his household. The

eternal Abbe Bossuet was to become first chaplain, as being the

tutor-in-chief to the Dauphin; the Duchesse de Richelieu, for her great

name, was going to be lady of honour; and the two posts of ladies in

waiting were destined for the Marquise de Rochefort, wife of the Marshal,

and for Madame de Maintenon, ex-governess of the Duc du Maine. The

gesture of disapproval which escaped me gave his Majesty pain.

“Why this air of contempt or aversion?” he said, changing colour. “Is it

to the Marechale de Rochefort or the Marquise de Maintenon that you

object? I esteem both the one and the other, and I am sorry for you if

you do not esteem them too.”

“The Marechale de Rochefort,” I replied, without taking any fright, “is

aged, and almost always sick; a lady of honour having her appearance will

make a contrast with her office. As to the other, she still has beauty

and elegance; but do you imagine, Sire, that the Court of Bavaria and the

Court of France have forgotten, in so short a time, the pleasant and

burlesque name of the poet Scarron?”

“Every one ought to forget what I have forgotten,” replied the King, “and

what my gratitude will not, and cannot forget, I am surprised that you,

madame, should take pleasure in forgetting.”

“She has taken care of my children since the cradle, I admit it with

pleasure,” said I to his Majesty, without changing my tone; “you have

given her a marquisate for recompense, and a superb hotel completely

furnished at Versailles. I do not see that she has any cause for

complaint, nor that after such bounty there is more to add.”

“Of eight children that you have brought into the world, madame, she has

reared and attended perfectly to six,” replied the King. “The estate of

Maintenon has, at the most, recompensed the education of the Comtes de

Vegin, whose childhood was so onerous. And for the remainder of my

little family, what have I yet done that deserves mention?”

“Give her a second estate and money,” I cried, quite out of patience,

“since it is money which pays all services of that nature; but what need

have you to raise her to great office, and keep her at Court? She dotes,

she says, on her old chateau of Maintenon; do not deprive her of this

delight. By making her lady in waiting, you would be disobliging her.”

“She will accept out of courtesy,” he said to me, putting on an air of

mockery. And as the time for the Council was noted by him on my clock,

he went away without adding more.

Since M. le Duc du Maine had grown up, and Mademoiselle de Nantes had

been confided to the Marquise de Montchevreuil, Madame de Maintenon

continued to occupy her handsome apartment on the Princes’ Court. There

she received innumerable visits, she paid assiduous court to the Queen,

who had suddenly formed a taste for her, and took her on her walks and

her visits to the communities; but this new Marquise saw me rarely. Since

the affair of the vine-grower, killed on the road, she declared that I

had insulted her before everybody, and that I had ordered her imperiously

to return to my carriage, as though she had been a waiting-maid, or some

other menial. Her excessive sensibility readily afforded her this

pretext, so that she neglected and visibly overlooked me.

As she did not come to me, I betook myself to her at a tolerably early

hour, before the flood of visitors, and started her on the history of the

lady in waiting.

“His Majesty has spoken of it to me,” she said, “as of a thing possible;

but I do not think there is anything settled yet in the matter.”

“Will you accept,” I asked her, “supposing the King to insist?”

“I should like a hundred times better,” she replied, “to go and live in

independence in my little kingdom of Maintenon, and with my own hands

gather on my walls those velvet, brilliant peaches, which grow so fine in

those districts. But if the King commands me to remain at Court, and

form our young Bavarian Princess in the manners of this country, have I

the right, in good conscience, to refuse?”

“Your long services have gained you the right to desire and take your

retirement,” I said to her; “in your place, I should insist upon the

necessities of my health. And the Court of France will not fall nor

change its physiognomy, even if a German or Iroquois Dauphine should

courtesy awry, or in bad taste.”

Madame de Maintenon began to laugh, and assured me that “her post as lady

in waiting would be an actual burden, if the King had destined her for it

in spite of herself, and there should be no means of withdrawing from

it.”

At this speech I saw clearly that things were already fixed. Not wishing

to call upon me the reproaches of my lord, I carried the conversation no

further.

CHAPTER XII.

The “Powder of Inheritance.”--The Chambre Ardente.--The Comtesse de

Soissons’s Arrest Decreed.--The Marquise de Montespan Buys Her

Superintendence of the Queen’s Council.--Madame de Soubise.--Madame de

Maintenon and the King.

At the time of the poisonings committed by Madame de Brinvilliers, the

Government obtained evidence that a powder, called “the powder of

inheritance,” was being sold in Paris, by means of which impatient heirs

shortened the days of unfortunate holders, and entered into possession

before their time.

Two obscure women, called La Vigoureuse and La Voisine, were arrested,

having been caught redhanded. Submitted to the question, they confessed

their crime, and mentioned several persons, whom they qualified as

“having bought and made use of the said powder of inheritance.”

We saw suddenly the arrest of the Marechal de Luxembourg, the Princesse

de Tingry, and many others. The ‘Chambre Ardente’--[The French Star

Chamber.]--issued a warrant also to seize the person of the Duchesse de

Bouillon and the Comtesse de Soissons, the celebrated nieces of the

Cardinal Mazarin, sisters-in-law, both, of my niece De Nevers, who was

dutifully afflicted thereby.

The Comtesse de Soissons had possessed hitherto an important office,

whose functions suited me in every respect,--that of the superintendence

of the Queen’s household and council. I bought this post at a

considerable price. The Queen, who had never cared for the Countess, did

me the honour of assuring me that she preferred me to the other, when I

came to take my oath in her presence.

Madame la Princesse de Rohan-Soubise had wished to supplant me at that

time, and I was aware of her constant desire to obtain a fine post at

Court. She loved the King, who had shown her his favours in more than

one circumstance; but, as she had a place neither in his esteem nor in

his affection, I did not fear her. I despatched to her, very adroitly, a

person of her acquaintance, who spoke to her of the new household of a

Dauphine, and gave her the idea of soliciting for herself the place of

lady in waiting, destined for Madame de Maintenon.

The Princesse de Soubise put herself immediately amongst the candidates.

She wrote to the King, her friend, a pressing and affectionate letter, to

which he did not even reply. She wrote one next in a more majestic and

appropriate style. It was notified to her that she was forbidden to

reappear at Court.

The prince had resolutely taken his course. He wished to put Madame de

Maintenon in evidence, and what he has once decided he abandons never.

I was soon aware that costumes of an unheard-of magnificence were being

executed for the Marquise. Gold, silver, precious stones abounded. I was

offered a secret view of her robe of ceremony, with a long mantle train.

I saw this extraordinarily rich garment, and was sorry in advance for the

young stranger, whose lady in waiting could not fail to eclipse her in

everything.

I then put some questions to myself,--asked myself severely if my

disapproval sprang from natural haughtiness, which would have been

possible, and even excusable, or whether, mingled with all that, was some

little agitation of jealousy and emulation.

I collected together a crowd of slight and scattered circumstances; and

in this union of several small facts, at first neglected and almost

unperceived, I distinguished on the part of the King a gradual and

increasing attachment for the governess, and at the same time a

negligence in regard to me,--a coldness, a cooling-down, at least, and

that sort of familiarity, close parent of weariness, which comes to sight

in the midst of courtesies and attentions the most satisfying and the

most frequent.

The King, in the old days, never glanced towards my clock till as late as

possible, and always at the last moment, at the last extremity. Now he

cast his eyes on it a score of times in half an hour. He contradicted me

about trifles. He explained to me ingeniously the faults, or alleged

faults, of my temper and character. If it was a question of Madame de

Maintenon, she was of a birth equal and almost superior to the rest of

the Court. He forgot himself so far as to quote before me the subtilty

of her answers or the delight of her most intimate conversation. Did he

wish to describe a noble carriage, an attitude at once easy and

distinguished, it was Madame de Maintenon’s. She possessed this, she

possessed that, she possessed everything.

Soon there was not the slightest doubt left to me; and I knew, as did the

whole Court, that he openly visited the Marquise, and was glad to pass

some moments there.

These things, in truth, never lacked some plausible pretext, and he chose

the time when Madame de Montchevreuil and Mademoiselle de Nantes were

presenting their homages to Madame de Maintenon.

CHAPTER XIII.

Marie Louise, Daughter of Henrietta of England, Betrothed to the King of

Spain.--Her Affliction.--Jealousy of the King, Her Husband.

The unfortunate lady, Henrietta of England, had left, at her death, two

extremely young girls, one of them, indeed, being still in the cradle.

The new Madame was seized with good-will for these two orphans to such an

extent as to complain to the King. They were brought up with the

greatest care; they were, both of them, pretty and charming.

The elder was named Marie Louise. It was this one whom Monsieur destined

in his own mind for Monseigneur le Dauphin; and the Princess, accustomed

early to this prospect, had insensibly adapted to it her mind and hope.

Young, beautiful, agreeable, and charming as her mother, she created

already the keenest sensation at Court, and the King felt an inclination

to cherish her as much as he had loved Madame. But the excessive freedom

which this alliance would not have failed to give his brother, both with

his son-in-law and nephew, and with the Ministry, prevented his Majesty

from giving way to this penchunt for Marie Louise. On the contrary, he

consented to her marriage with the King of Spain, and the news of it was

accordingly carried to Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans. He and his wife felt

much annoyance at it. But after communications of that kind there was

scarcely any course open to be taken than that of acquiescence. Monsieur

conveyed the news to his beloved daughter, and, on hearing that she was

to be made Queen of Spain, this amiable child uttered loud lamentations.

When she went to Versailles to thank the King, her uncle, her fine eyes

were still suffused with tears. The few words which she uttered were

mingled with sighing and weeping; and when she saw the indifference of

her cousin, who felicitated her like the rest, she almost fainted with

grief and regret.

“My dear cousin,” said this dull-witted young lord, “I shall count the

hours until you go to Spain. You will send me some ‘touru’, for I am

very fond of it?”

The King could not but find this reflection of his son very silly and out

of place. But intelligence is neither to be given nor communicated by

example. His Majesty had to support to the end this son, legitimate as

much as you like, but altogether in degree, and with a person which

formed a perpetual contrast with the person of the King. It was my Duc

du Maine who should have been in the eminent position of Monseigneur.

Nature willed it so. She had proved it sufficiently by lavishing all her

favours on him, all her graces; but the laws of convention and usage

would not have it. His Majesty has made this same reflection, groaning,

more than once.

Marie Louise, having been married by proxy, in the great Chapel of Saint

Germain, where the Cardinal de Bouillon blessed the ring in his quality

of Grand Almoner of France, left for that Spain which her young heart

distrusted.

Her beauty and charms rendered her precious to the monarch, utterly

melancholy and devout as he was. He did not delay subjecting her to the

wretched, petty, tiresome, and absurd etiquette of that Gothic Court.

Mademoiselle submitted to all these nothings, seeing she had been able to

submit to separation from France. She condemned herself to the most

fastidious observances and the most sore privations, which did not much

ameliorate her lot.

A young Castilian lord, almost mad himself, thought fit to find this

Queen pretty, and publicly testify his love for her. The jealousy of the

religious King flared up like a funeral torch. He conceived a hatred of

his wife, reserved and innocent though she was. She died cruelly by

poison. And Monseigneur le Dauphin probably cried, after his manner:

“What a great pity! She won’t send me the touru!”

CHAPTER XIV.

The Dauphine of Bavaria.--The Confessor with Spurs.--Madame de Maintenon

Disputes with Bossuet.--He Opposes to Her Past Ages and History.--The

Military Absolution.

Eight months after the wedding of Marie Louise, we witnessed the arrival

of Anne Marie Christine, Princess of Bavaria, daughter of the Elector

Ferdinand. The King and Monseigneur went to receive her at

Vitry-le-Francais, and then escorted her to Chalons, where the Queen was

awaiting her.

The Cardinal de Bouillon celebrated the marriage in the cathedral church

of this third-class town. The festivities and jubilations there lasted a

week.

The King had been very willing to charge me with the arrangement of the

baskets of presents destined for the Dauphine; I acquitted myself of this

commission with French taste and a sentiment of what was proper. When

the Queen saw all these magnificent gifts placed and spread out in a

gallery, she cried out, and said:

“Things were not done so nobly for me; and yet, I can say without vanity,

I was of a better house than she.”

This remark paints the Queen, Maria Theresa, better than anything which

could be said. Can one wonder, after that, that she should have brought

into the world an hereditary prince who so keenly loves ‘touru’, and asks

for it!

Madame de Maintenon and M. Bossuet had gone to receive the Princess of

Schelestadt. When she was on her husband’s territory, and it was

necessary, to confess her for the sacrament of matrimony, she was

strangely embarrassed. They had not remembered to bring a chaplain of

her own nation for her; and she could not confess except in the German

tongue.

Madame de Maintenon, who is skilled in all matters of religion, said to

the prelate: “I really think, monsieur, that, having educated Monsieur le

Dauphin, you ought to know a little German,--you who have composed the

treatise on universal history.”

The Bishop of Meaux excused himself, saying that he knew Greek, Syriac,

and even Hebrew; but that, through a fatality, he was ignorant of the

German language. A trumpeter was then sent out to ask if there was not

in the country a Catholic priest who was a German, or acquainted with the

German tongue. Luckily one was found, and Madame de Maintenon, who is

very, pedantic, even in the matter of toilet and ornaments, trembled with

joy and thanked God for it. But what was her astonishment when they came

to bring her the priest! He was in coloured clothes, a silk doublet,

flowing peruke, and boots and spurs. The lady in waiting rated him

severely, and was tempted to send him back. But Bossuet--a far greater

casuist than she--decided that in these urgent cases one need hold much

less to forms. They were contented with taking away the spurs from this

amphibious personage; they pushed him into a confessional,--the curtain

of which he was careful to draw before himself,--and they brought the

Bavarian Princess, who, not knowing the circumstances, confessed the sins

of her whole life to this sort of soldier.

Madame de Maintenon always had this general confession on her conscience;

she scolded Bossuet for it as a sort of sacrilege, and the latter, who

was only difficult and particular with simple folk, quoted historical

examples in which soldiers, on the eve of battle, had confessed to their

general.

“Yes,” said the King, on hearing these quotations from the imperturbable

man; “that must have been to the Bishop of Puy or the Bishop of Orange,

who, in effect, donned the shield and cuirass at the time of the crusades

against the Saracens; or perhaps, again, to the Cardinal de la Valette

d’Epernon, who commanded our armies under Richelieu successfully.”

“No, Sire,” replied the Bishop; “to generals who were simply soldiers.”

“But,” said the King, “were the confessions, then, null?”

“Sire,” added the Bishop of Meaux, “circumstances decide everything. Of

old, in the time of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, and much later still,

confessions of Christians were public,--made in a loud voice; sometimes a

number together, and always in the open air. Those of soldiers that I

have quoted to madame were somewhat of the kind of these confessions of

the primitive Church; and to-day, still, at the moment when battle is

announced, a military almoner gives the signal for confession. The

regiments confess on their knees before the Most High, who hears them;

and the almoner, raised aloft on a pile of drums, holds the crucifix in

one hand, and with the other gives the general absolution to eighty

thousand soldiers at once.”

This clear and precise explanation somewhat calmed Madame de Maintenon,

and Madame la Dauphine,--displeased at what she had done on arriving,--in

order to be regular, learned to confess in French.

CHAPTER XV.

Pere de la Chaise.--The Jesuits.--The Pavilion of Belleville.--The

Handkerchief.

Pere de la Chaise has never done me good or ill; I have no motives for

conciliating him, no reason to slander him. I am ignorant if he were the

least in the world concerned, at the epoch of the Grand Jubilee, with

those ecclesiastical attempts of which Bossuet had constituted himself

spokesman. Pere de la Chaise has in his favour a great evenness of

temper and character; an excellent tone, which comes to him from his

birth; a conciliatory philosophy, which renders him always master of his

condition and of his metier. He is, in a single individual, the happy

combination of several men, that is to say, he is by turns, and as it may

be needful, a man indulgent or severe in his preaching; a man of

abstinence, or a good feeder; a man of the world, or a cenobite; a man of

his breviary, or a courtier. He knows that the sins of woodcutters and

the sins of kings are not of the same family, and that copper and gold

are not weighed in the same scales.

He is a Jesuit by his garb; he is much more so than they are by his

‘savoir-vivre’. His companions love the King because he is the King; he

loves him, and pities him because he sees his weakness. He shows for his

penitent the circumspection and tenderness of a father, and in the long

run he has made of him a spoiled child.

This Pere de la Chaise fell suddenly ill, and with symptoms so alarming

that the cabals each wished to appropriate this essential post of

confessor.

The Jansenists would have been quite willing to lay hold of it. The

Jesuits, and principally the cordons bleus, did not quit the pillow of

the sick man for an instant.

The King had himself informed of his condition every half-hour. There

was a bulletin, as there is for potentates. One evening, when the

doctors were grave on his account, I saw anxiety and affliction painted

on the visage of his Majesty.

“Where shall I find his like?” said he to me. “Where shall I find such

knowledge, such indulgence, such kindness? The Pere de la Chaise knew

the bottom of my heart; he knew, as an intelligent man, how to reconcile

religion with nature; and when duty brings me to the foot of his

tribunal, as a humble Christian, he never forgets that royalty, cannot be

long on its knees, and he accompanies with his attentions and with

deference the religious commands which he is bound to impose on me.”

“I hope that God will preserve him to you,” I replied to his Majesty;

“but let us suppose the case in which this useful and precious man should

see his career come to an end; will you grant still this mark of

confidence and favour to the Jesuits? All the French being your

subjects, would it not be fitting to grant this distinction sometimes to

the one and sometimes to the other? You would, perhaps, extinguish by

this that hate or animosity by which the Jesuits see themselves assailed,

which your preference draws upon them.”

“I do not love the Jesuits with that affection that you seem to suggest,”

replied the monarch. “I look upon them as men of instruction, as a

learned and well-governed corporation; but as for their attachment for

me, I know how to estimate it. This kind of people, strangers to the

soft emotions of nature, have no affection or love for anything. Before

the triumph of the King my grandfather, they intrigued and exerted

themselves to bring about his fall; he opened the gates of Paris, and the

Jesuits, like the Capuchins, at once recognised him and bowed down before

him. King Henri, who knew what men are, pretended to forget the past; he

pronounced himself decidedly in favour of the Jesuits because this body

of teachers, numerous, rich, and of good credit, had just pronounced

itself in favour of him.

“It was, then, a reconciliation between power and power, and the politics

of my grandfather were to survive him and become mine, since the same

elements exist and I am encamped on the same ground. If God takes away

from me my poor Pere de la Chaise, I shall feel this misfortune deeply,

because I shall lose in him, not a Jesuit, not a priest, but a good

companion, a trusty and proved friend. If I lose him, I shall assuredly

be inconsolable for him; but it will be very necessary for me to take his

successor from the Grand Monastery of the Rue Saint Antoine. This

community knows me by heart, and I do not like innovations.”

The successor of the Pere de la Chaise was already settled with the

Jesuit Fathers; but this man of the vanguard was spared marching and

meeting danger. The Court was not condemned to see and salute a new

face; the old confessor recovered his health. His Majesty experienced a

veritable joy at it, a joy as real as if the Prince of Orange had died.

Wishing to prove to the good convalescent how dear his preservation was

to him, the King released him from his function for the rest of the year,

and begged him to watch over his health, the most important of his duties

and his possessions.

Having learnt that they had neither terraces nor gardens at the grand

monastery of the Rue Saint Antoine, his Majesty made a present to his

confessor of a very agreeable house in the district of Belleville, and

caused to be transported thither all kinds of orange-trees, rare shrubs,

and flowers from Versailles. These tasteful attentions, these filial

cares, diverted the capital somewhat; but Paris is a rich soil, where the

strangest things are easily received and naturalised without an effort.

The Pare de la Chaise had his chariot with his arms on it, and his family

livery; and as the income from his benefices remained to him, joined to

his office of confessor, he continued to have every day a numerous court

of young abbes, priests well on in years, barons, countesses, marquises,

magistrates and colonels, who came to Belleville in anxiety about his

health, to congratulate themselves upon his convalescence, to ask of him,

with submission and reverence, a bishopric, an archbishopric, a

cardinal’s hat, an important priory, a canonry, or an abbey.

Having myself to place the three daughters of one of my relatives, I went

to see the noble confessor at his pavilion of Belleville. He received me

with the most marked distinction, and was lavish in acts of gratitude for

all the benefits of the King.

As he crossed his salon, in order to accompany me and escort me out, he

let his white handkerchief fall; three bishops at once flung themselves

upon it, and there was a struggle as to who should pick it up to give it

back to him.

I related to the King what I had seen. He said to me: “These prelates

honour my confessor, looking upon him as a second me.” In fact, the sins

of the King could only throw his confessor into relief and add to his

merit.

CHAPTER XVI.

Mademoiselle de Fontanges.--The Pavilions of the Garden of Flora.--Rapid

Triumph of the Favourite.--Her Retreat to Val-de-grace.--Her Death.

Madame de Maintenon was already forty-four years old, and appeared to be

only thirty. This freshness, that she owed either to painstaking care or

to her happy and quite peculiar constitution, gave her that air of youth

which fascinated the eyes of the courtiers and those of the monarch

himself. I wished one day to annoy her by bringing the conversation on

this subject, which could not be diverting to her. I began by putting

the question generally, and I then named several of our superannuated

beauties who still fluttered in the smiling gardens of Flora without

having the youth of butterflies.

“There are butterflies of every age and colour in the gardens of Flora,”

said she, catching the ball on the rebound. “There are presumptuous

ones, whom the first breath of the zephyr despoils of their plumage and

discolours; others, more reserved and less frivolous, keep their glamour

and prestige for a much longer time. For the rest, the latter seem to me

to rejoice without being vain in their advantages. And at bottom, what

should any insect gain by being proud?”

“Very little,” I answered her, “since being dressed as a butterfly does

not prevent one from being an insect, and the best sustained preservation

lasts at most till the day after to-morrow.”

The King entered. I started speaking of a young person, extremely

beautiful, who had just appeared at Court, and would eclipse, in my

opinion, all who had shone there before her.

“What do you call her?” asked his Majesty. “To what family does she

belong?”

“She comes from the provinces,” I continued, “just like silk, silver, and

gold. Her parents desire to place her among the maids of honour of the

Queen. Her name is Fontanges, and God has never made anything so

beautiful.”

As I said these words I watched the face of the Marquise. She listened

to this portrayal with attention, but without appearing moved by it, such

is her power of suppressing her natural feeling. The King only added

these words:

“This young person needs be quite extraordinary, since Madame de

Montespan praises her, and praises her with so much vivacity. However,

we shall see.”

Two days afterwards, Mademoiselle de Fontanges was seen in the salon of

the grand table. The King, in spite of his composure, had looks and

attentions for no one else.

This excessive preoccupation struck the Queen, who, marking the

blandishments of the young coquette and the King’s response, guessed the

whole future of this encounter; and in her heart was almost glad at it,

seeing that my turn had come.

Mademoiselle de Fontanges, given to the King by her shameless family,

feigned love and passion for the monarch, as though he had returned by

enchantment to his twentieth year.

As for him, he too appeared to us to forget all dates. I know that he

was only now forty-one years old, and having been the finest man in the

world, he could not but preserve agreeable vestiges of a once striking

beauty. But his young conquest had hardly entered on her eighteenth

year, and this difference could not fail to be plain to the most

inattentive, or most indulgent eyes.

The King, with a sort of anticipatory resignation, had for six or seven

years greatly simplified his appearance. We had seen him, little by

little, reform that Spanish and chivalric costume with which he once

embellished his first loves. The flowing plumes no longer floated over

his forehead, which had become pensive and quite serious. The diagonal,

scarf was suppressed, and the long boots, with gold and silver

embroidery, were no longer seen. To please his new divinity, the monarch

suddenly enough rejuvenated his attire. The most elegant stuffs became

the substance of his garments; feathers reappeared. He joined to them

emeralds and diamonds.

Allegorical comedies, concerts on the waters recommenced. Triumphant

horse-races set the whole Court abob and in movement. There was a fresh

carousal; there was all that resembles the enthusiasms of youthful

affection, and the deliriums of youth. The youth alone was not there, at

least in proportion, assortment, and similarity.

All that I was soliciting for twelve years, Mademoiselle de Fontanges had

only to desire for a week. She was created duchess at her debut; and the

lozenge of her escutcheon was of a sudden adorned with a ducal coronet,

and a peer’s mantle.

I did not deign to pay attention to this outrage; at least, I made a

formal resolution never to say a single word on it.

The King came no less from time to time, to pay me a visit, and to talk

to me, as of old, of operas and his hunting. I endured his conversation

with a philosophical phlegm. He scarcely suspected the change in me.

At the chase, one day, his nymph, whom nothing could stop, had her knot

of riband caught and held by a branch; the royal lover compelled the

branch to restore the knot, and went and offered it to his Amazon.

Singular and sparkling, although lacking in intelligence, she carried

herself this knot of riband to the top of her hair, and fixed it there

with a long pin.

Fortune willed it that this coiffure, without order or arrangement,

suited her face, and suited it greatly. The King was the first to

congratulate her on it; all the courtiers applauded it, and this coiffure

of the chase became the fashion of the day.

All the ladies, and the Queen herself, found themselves obliged to adopt

it. Madame de Maintenon submitted herself to it, like the others. I

alone refused to sacrifice to the idol, and my knee, being once more

painful, would not bend before Baal.

With the exception of the general duties of the sovereignty, the prince

appeared to have forgotten everything for his flame. The Pere de la

Chaise, who had returned to his post, regarded this fresh incident with

his philosophic calm, and congratulated himself on seeing the monarch

healed of at least one of his passions.

I had always taken the greatest care to respect the Queen; and since my

star condemned me to stand in her shoes, I did not spare myself the

general attentions which two well-born people owe one another, and which,

at least, prove a lofty education.

The Duchesse de Fontanges, doubtless, believed herself Queen, because she

had the public homage and the King. This imprudent and conceited

schoolgirl had the face to pass before her sovereign without stopping,

and without troubling to courtesy.

The Infanta reddened with disapproval, and persuaded herself, by way of

consolation, that Fontanges had lost her senses or was on the road to

madness.

Beautiful and brilliant as the flowers, the Duchess, like them, passed

swiftly away. Her pregnancy, by reason of toilsome rides, hunting

parties, and other agitations, became complicated. From the eighth month

she fell into a fever, into exhaustion and languor. The terror that took

possession of her imagination caused her to desire a sojourn in a convent

as a refuge of health, where God would see her nearer and, perhaps, come

to her aid.

She had herself transported during the night to the House of the Ladies

of Val-de-Grace, and desired that they should place in her chamber

several relics from their altars.

Her confinement was not less laboured and sinister. When she saw that

all the assistance of art could not stop the bleeding, with which her

deep bed was flooded, she caused the King to be summoned, embraced him

tenderly, in the midst of sobs and tears, and died in the night,

pronouncing the name of God and the name of the King, the objects of her

love and of fears.

CHAPTER XVII.

Madame de Sevigne.--Madame de Grignan.--Madame de Montespan at the

Carmelites.--Madame de la Valliere.--These Two Great Ruins Console One

Another.--An Angel of Sweetness, Goodness, and Kindness.

Fifteen or twenty days before the death of Mademoiselle de Fontanges, my

sister and I were taking a walk in the new woods of Versailles. We met

the Marquise de Sevigne near the canal; she was showing these marvellous

constructions to her daughter, the Comtesse de Grignan. They greeted us

with their charming amiability, and, after having spoken of several

indifferent matters, the Marquise said to me: “We saw, five or six days

ago, a person, madame, of whom you were formerly very fond, and who

charged us to recall her to the memory of her friends. You are still of

that number,--I like to think so, and our commission holds good where you

are concerned, if you will allow it.”

Then she mentioned to me that poor Duchesse de la Valliere, to whom I was

once compelled by my unhappy star to give umbrage, and whom, in my fatal

thoughtlessness, I had afflicted without desiring it.

Tears came into my eyes; Madame de Sevigne saw them, and expressed her

regret at having caused me pain. Madame de Thianges and I asked her if

my old friend was much changed. She and Madame de Grignan assured us

that she was fresh, in good health, and that her face appeared more

beautiful. On the next day I wished absolutely to see her, and drove to

the Carmelites.

On seeing my pretty cripple, who hobbled among us with so great a charm,

I uttered a cry, which for a moment troubled her. She sank down to

salute the crucifix, as custom demands, and, after her short prayer, she

came to me. “I did not mention your name to Mesdames de Sevigne,” said

she; “but, however, I am obliged to them, since they have been able to

procure me the pleasure of seeing you once more.”

“The general opinion of the Court, and in the world, my dear Duchess,”

answered I, “is that I brought about your disgrace myself; and the

public, that loved you, has not ceased to reproach me with your

misfortune.”

“The public is very kind still to occupy itself with me,” she answered;

“but it is wrong in that, as in so many other matters. My retirement

from the world is not a misfortune, and I never suspected that the soul

could find such peace and satisfaction in these silent solitudes.

“The first days were painful to me, I admit it, owing to the

inexpressible difference which struck me between what I found here and

what I had left elsewhere. But just as the eye accustoms itself, little

by little, to the feeble glimmer of a vault, in the same way my body has

accustomed itself to the roughness of my new existence, and my heart to

all its great privations.

“If life had not to finish, in fulfilment of a solemn, universal, and

inevitable decree, the constraint that I have put upon myself might at

length become oppressive, and my yoke prove somewhat heavy. But all that

will finish soon, for all undertakings come to an end. I left you young,

beautiful, adored, and triumphant in the land of enchantments. But six

years have passed, and they assure me that your own afflictions have

come, and that you, yourself, have been forced to drink the bitter cup of

deprivation.”

At these words, pronounced in a melancholy and celestial voice, I felt as

though my heart were broken, and burst into tears.

“I pity you, Athenais,” she resumed. “Is, then, what I have been told

lightly, and almost in haste, only too certain for you? How is it you

did not expect it? How could you believe him constant and immutable,

after what happened to me?

“To-day, I make no secret to you of it, and I say it with the peaceful

indifference which God has generously granted me, after such dolorous

tribulations. I make no secret of it to you, Athenais; a thousand times

you plunged the sword and dagger into my heart, when, profiting by my

confidence in you, by my sense of entire security, you permitted your own

inclination to substitute itself for mine, and a young man seething with

desires to be attracted by your charms. These unlimited sufferings

exhausted, I must believe, all the sensibility of my soul. And when this

corrosive flame had completely devoured my grief, a new existence grew up

in me; I no longer saw in the father of my children other than a young

prince, accustomed to see his dominating will fulfilled in everything.

Knowing how little in this matter he is master of himself, he who knows

so well how to be master of himself in everything to do with his numerous

inferiors, I deplored the facility he enjoys from his attractions, from

his wealth, from his power to dazzle the hearts which he desires to move

and subdue.

“Recognise these truths, my dear Marquise,” she added, “and gain, for it

is time, a just idea of your position. After the unhappiness I felt at

being loved no longer, I should have quitted the Court that very instant,

if I had been permitted to bring up and tend my poor children. They were

too young to abandon! I stayed still in the midst of you, as the swallow

hovers and flits among the smoke of the fire, in order to watch over and

save her little ones. Do not wait till disdain or authority mingles in

the matter. Do not come to the sad necessity of resisting a monarch, and

of detesting to the point of scandal that which you have so publicly

loved; pity him, but depart. This kind of intimacy, once broken, cannot

be renewed. However skilfully it may be patched up, the rent always

reappears.”

“My good Louise,” I replied to the amiable Carmelite, “your wise counsels

touch me, persuade me, and are nothing but the truth. But in listening

to you I feel overwhelmed; and that strength which you knew how to gain,

and show to the world, your former companion will never possess.

“I see with astonished eyes the supernatural calm which reigns in your

countenance; your health seems to me a prodigy, your beauty was never so

ravishing; but this barbarous garb pierces me to the heart.

“The King does not yet hate me; he shows me even a remnant of respect,

with which he would colour his indifference. Permit me to ask from him

for you an abbey like that of Fontevrault, where the felicities of

sanctuary and of the world are all in the power of my sister. He will

ask nothing better than to take you out, be assured.”

“Speak to him of me,” answered Louise; “I do not oppose that; but leave

me until the end the role of obedience and humility that his fault and

mine impose on me. Why should he wish that I should command others,--I

who did not know how to command myself at an epoch when my innocence was

so dear to me, and when I knew that, in losing that, one is lost?”

As she said these words two nuns came to announce her Serene Highness,

that is to say, her daughter, the Princesse de Conti. I prayed Madame de

la Valliere to keep between ourselves the communications that had just

taken place in the intimacy of confidence. She promised me with her

usual candour. I made a profound reverence to the daughter, embraced the

mother weeping, and regained my carriage, which the Princess must have

remarked on entering.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Reflections.--The Future.--The Refuge of Foresight.--Community of Saint

Joseph.--Wicked Saying of Bossuet.

I wept much during the journey; and to save the spectacle of my grief

from the passers-by, I was at the pains to lower the curtains. I passed

over in my mind all that the Duchess had said to me. It was very easy

for me to understand that the monarch’s heart had escaped me, and that,

owing to his character, all resistance, all contradiction would be vain.

The figure, as it had been supernumerary and on sufferance, which the

Duchess had made in the midst of the Court when she ceased to be loved,

returned to my memory completely, and I felt I had not the courage to

drink a similar cup of humiliation.

I reminded myself of what the prince had told me several times in those

days when his keen affection for me led him to wish for my happiness,

even in the future,--even after his death, if I were destined to survive

him.

“You ought,” he said to me, at those moments, “you ought to choose and

assure yourself beforehand of an honourable retreat; for it is rarely

that a king accords his respect or his good-will to the beloved

confidante of his predecessor.”

Not wishing to ask a refuge of any one, but, on the contrary, being

greatly set upon ruling in my own house, I resolved to build myself, not

a formal convent like Val-de-Grace or Fontevrault, but a pretty little

community, whose nuns, few in number, would owe me their entire

existence, which would necessarily attach them to all my interests. I

held to this idea. I charged my intendant to seek for me a site spacious

enough for my enterprise; and when he had found it, had showed it to me,

and had satisfied me with it, I had what rambling buildings there were

pulled down, and began, with a sort of joy, the excavations and

foundations.

The first blow of the hammer was struck, by some inconceivable fortuity,

at the moment when the Duchesse de Fontanges expired. Her death did not

weaken my resolutions nor slacken my ardour. I got away quite often to

cast an eye over the work, and ordered my architect to second my

impatience and spur on the numerous workmen.

The rumour was current in Paris that the example of “Soeur Louise” had

touched me, and that I was going to take the veil in my convent. I took

no notice of this fickle public, and persisted wisely in my plan.

The unexpected and almost sudden decease of Mademoiselle de Fontanges had

singularly moved the King. Extraordinary and almost incredible to

relate, he was for a whole week absent from the Council. His eyes had

shed so many tears that they were swollen and unrecognisable. He shunned

the occasions when there was an assembly, buried himself in his private

apartments or in his groves, and resembled, in every trait, Orpheus

weeping for his fair Eurydice, and refusing to be consoled.

I should be false to others and to myself if I were to say that his

extreme grief excited my compassion; but I should equally belie the truth

if I gave it to be understood that his “widowhood” gave me pleasure, and

that I congratulated myself on his sorrow and bitterness.

He came to see me when he found himself presentable, and, for the first

few days, I abstained from all reprisal and any allusion. The

innumerable labours of his State soon threw him, in spite of himself,

into those manifold distractions which, in their nature, despise or

absorb the sensibilities of the soul. He resumed, little by little, his

accustomed serenity, and, at the end of the month, appeared to have got

over it.

“What,” he asked me, “are those buildings with which you are busy in

Paris, opposite the Ladies of Belle-Chasse? I hear of a convent; is it

your intention to retire?”

“It is a ‘refuge of foresight,’” I answered him. “Who can count upon the

morrow? And after what has befallen Mademoiselle de Fontanges, we must

consider ourselves as persons already numbered, who wait only for the

call.”

He sighed, and soon spoke of something else.

I reminded myself that, to speak correctly, I had in Paris no habitation

worthy of my children and of my quality. That little hotel in the Rue

Saint Andre-des-Arcs I could count for no more than a little box. I

sought amongst my papers for a design of a magnificent hotel which I had

obtained from the famous Blondel. I found it without difficulty, with

full elevations and sections. The artist had adroitly imitated in it the

beautiful architecture of the Louvre; this fair palace would suit me in

every respect.

My architect, at a cursory glance, judged that the construction and

completion of this edifice would easily cost as much as eighteen hundred

thousand livres. This expense being no more than I could afford, I

commissioned him to choose me a spacious site for the buildings and

gardens over by Roule and La Pepiniere.

Not caring to superintend several undertakings at once, I desired, before

everything, that my house in the Faubourg Saint Germain should be

complete and when the building and the chapel were in a condition to

receive the little colony, I dedicated my “refuge of foresight” to Saint

Joseph, the respectful spouse of the Holy Virgin and foster-father of the

Child Jesus. This agreeable mansion lacked a large garden. I felt a

sensible regret for this, especially for the sake of my inmates; but

there was a little open space furnished with vines and fruit-walls, and

one of the largest courtyards in the whole of the Faubourg Saint Germain.

Having always loved society, I had multiplied in the two principal blocks

of the sleeping-rooms and the entrance-hall complete apartments for the

lady inmates. And a proof that I was neither detested by the world nor

unconsidered is that all these apartments were sought after and occupied

as soon as the windows were put in and the painting done. My own

apartment was simple, but of a majestic dignity. It communicated with

the chapel, where my tribune, closed with a handsome window, was in face

of the altar.

I decided, once for all, that the Superior should be my nomination whilst

God should leave me in this world, but that this right should not pass on

to my heirs. The bell of honour rang for twenty minutes every time I

paid a visit to these ladies; and I only had incense at high mass, and at

the Magnificat, in my quality of foundress.

I went from time to time to make retreats, or, to be more accurate,

vacations, in my House of Saint Joseph. M. Bossuet solicited the favour

of being allowed to preach there on the day of the solemn consecration. I

begged him to preserve himself for my funeral oration. He answered

cruelly that there was nothing he could refuse me.

BOOK 6.