incentive, remembered the offensive and mortifying pyramid; but Madame de
Maintenon reminded him that it was desirable to wait, for scoffers would
not be wanting to say that this demolition was one of the essential
conditions of the bargain.
The King relished this advice. At the Court one must make haste to
obtain anything; but to be forgotten, a few minutes’ delay is sufficient.
[This pyramid was taken down two or three years before the Revolution by
the wish of Louis XVI., after having stood for two hundred
years.--EDITOR’S NOTE.]
CHAPTER XLIII.
Little Opportune.--M. and Madame Bontems.--The Young Moor Weaned.--The
Good Cure.--The Blessed Virgin.--Opportune at the Augustinians of
Meaux.--Bossuet Director.--Mademoiselle Albanier and Leontine.--Flight of
Opportune.--Her Threats of Suicide.--Visit of the Marquise.--Prudence of
the Court.
The poor Queen had had several daughters, all divinely well made and
pretty as little Cupids. They kept in good health up to their third or
fourth year; they went no further. It was as though a fate was over
these charming creatures; so that the King and Queen trembled whenever
the accoucheurs announced a daughter instead of a son.
My readers remember the little negress who was born to the Queen in the
early days,--she whom no one wanted, who was dismissed, relegated,
disinherited, unacknowledged, deprived of her rank and name the very day
of her birth; and who, by a freak of destiny, enjoyed the finest health
in the world, and surmounted, without any precautions or care, all the
difficulties, perils, and ailments of infancy.
M. Bontems, first valet de chambre of the cabinets, served as her
guardian, or curator; even he acted only through the efforts and
movements of an intermediary. It was wished that this young Princess
should be ignorant of her birth, and in this I agree that, in the midst
of crying injustice, the King kept his natural humanity. This poor child
not being meant, and not being able, to appear at Court, it was better,
indeed, to keep her from all knowledge of her rights, in order to deprive
her, at one stroke, of the distress of her conformation, the hardship of
her repudiation, and the despair of captivity. The King destined her for
a convent when he saw her born, and M. Bontems promised that it should be
so.
At the age of three, she was withdrawn from the hands of her nurse, and
Madame Bontems put her to be weaned in her own part of the world.
Opportune,--[She was born on Sainte Opportune’s Day.]--clothed and
nourished like the other children of the farmer, who was her new patron,
played with them in the barns or amongst the snow; she followed them into
the orchards and fields; she filled, like them, her little basket with
acorns that had been left after the crop was over, or ears of corn that
the gleaners had neglected, or withered branches and twigs left by the
wood-cutters for the poor. Her nude, or semi-nude, arms grew rough in
the burning sun, and more so still in the frosts. Her pretty feet, so
long as the fine season lasted, did not worry about being shod, and when
November arrived with its terrors, Opportune took her little heeled
sabots like the other country children. M. and Madame Bontems wrote
every six months to inquire if she were dead, and each time the answer
came that the little Moor was in wonderful health.
The pastor of the neighbouring hamlet felt pity for this poor child, who
was sometimes tormented by her companions on account of her colour. The
good cure even went so far as to declare, one day when there was a
sermon, that the Virgin Mary, if one was to believe respectable books,
was black from head to foot, which did not prevent her from being most
beautiful in the sight of God and of men.
This good cure taught the gentle little orphan to read and pray. He often
came to her farm to visit her, and probably he knew her birth; he was in
advanced age, and he died. Then Opportune was placed with the
Augustinian ladies of Meaux, where Bossuet charged himself with the task
of instructing her well in religion and of making her take the veil.
The lot of this young victim of pride and vain prejudices touched me in
spite of myself, and often I made a firm resolution to take her away from
her oppressors and adopt her in spite of everybody. The poor Queen,
forgetting our rivalry, had taken all my children into her affections.
Why should not I have shown a just recognition by protecting an innocent
little creature animated with her breath, life, and blood,--a child whom
she would have loved, I do not doubt, if she had been permitted to see
and recognise her? This idea grew so fixed in my mind, that I resolved
to see Opportune and do her some good, if I were able.
The interest of my position had led me once to assure myself of the
neighbourhood of the King by certain little measures, not of curiosity
but of surveillance. I had put with M. Bontems a young man of
intelligence and devotion, who, without passing due limits, kept me
informed of many things which it is as well to know.
When I knew, without any doubt, the new abiding-place of Opportune, I
secretly sent to the Augustinians of Meaux the young and intelligent
sister of my woman of the bedchamber, who presented herself as an
aspirant for the novitiate. They were ignorant in the house of the
relations of Mademoiselle Albanier with her sister Leontine Osselin, so
that they wrote to each other, but by means of a cipher, and under seal,
addressing their missives to a relative.
Albanier lost no time in informing us that the little Opportune had begun
to give her her confidence, and that the nuns took it in very good part,
believing them both equally called to take the veil in their convent.
Opportune knew, though in a somewhat vague way, to what great personage
she owed her life, and it appeared that the good cure had informed her,
out of compassion, before he left this world. Albanier wrote to
Leontine:
“Tell Madame la Marquise that Opportune is full of wit; she resembles M.
le Duc du Maine as though she were his twin; her carriage is exactly that
of the King; her body is built to perfection, and were it not for her
colour, the black of which diminishes day by day, she would be one of the
loveliest persons in France; she is sad and melancholy by temperament,
but as I have succeeded in attracting her confidence, and diverting her
as much as one can do in a purgatory like this, we dance sometimes in
secret, and then you would think you saw Mademoiselle de Nantes dance and
pirouette.
“When any one pronounces the name of the King, she trembles. She asked
me to-day whether I had seen the King, if he were handsome, if he were
courteous and affable. It seemed to me as though she was already
revolving some great project in her brain, and if I am not mistaken, she
has quite decided to scale the fruit-trees against our garden wall and
escape across country.
“M. Bossuet, in his quality of Bishop of Meaux, has the right of entry
into this house; he has come here three times since my arrival; he has
given me each time a little tap on my check in token of goodwill, and
such as one gets at confirmation; he told me that he longs to see me take
the veil of the Ursulines, as well as my little scholar; it is by that
name he likes to call her.
“Opportune answers him with a stately air which would astound you; she
only calls him monsieur, and when told that she has made an error, and
that she should say monseigneur, she replies with great seriousness, ‘I
had forgotten it.’”
Mademoiselle Albanier, out of kindness to me, passed nearly two years in
this house, which she always called her purgatory, but the endeavours of
the superior and of M. Bossuet becoming daily more pressing, and her
health, which had suffered, being unable to support the seclusion longer,
she made up her mind to retire.
Her departure was a terrible blow to the daughter of the Queen. This
young person, who was by nature affectionate, almost died of grief at the
separation. We learnt that, after having been ill and then ailing for
several weeks, she found the means of escaping from the convent, and of
taking refuge with some lordly chatelaine. M. de Meaux had her pursued,
but as she threatened to kill herself if she were taken back to the Abbey
of Notre Dame, the prelate wrote to M. Bontems, that is to say, to the
real father, and poor Opportune was taken to Moret, a convent of
Benedictines, in the forest of Fontainebleau. There they took the course
of lavishing care, and kindness, and attentions on her. But as her
destiny, written in her cradle, was an irrevocable sentence, she was
finally made to take the veil, which suited her admirably, and which she
wears with an infinite despair.
I disguised myself one day as a lady suitor who sought a lodging in the
house. I established myself there for a week, under the name of the
Comtesse de Clagny, and I saw, with my own eyes, a King’s daughter
reduced to singing matins. Her air of nobility and dignity struck me
with admiration and moved me to tears. I thought of her four sisters,
dead at such an early age, and deplored the cruelty of Fate, which had
spared her in her childhood to kill her slowly and by degrees.
I would have accosted her in the gardens, and insinuated myself into her
confidence, but the danger of these interviews, both for her and me,
restrained what had been an ill-judged kindness. We should both have
gone too far, and the monarch would have been able to think that I was
opposing him out of revenge, and to give him pain.
This consideration came and crushed all my projects of compassion and
kindness. There are situations in life where we are condemned to see
evil done in all liberty, without being able to call for succour or
complain.
CHAPTER XLIV.
The Aristocratic Republic of Genoa Offends the King.--Its
Punishment.--Reception of the Doge at Paris and Versailles.
M. de Louvois--by nature, as I have said, hard and despotic--was quite
satisfied to gain the same reputation for the King, in order to cover his
own violence and rigour beneath the authority of the monarch.
The King, I admit, did not like to be contradicted or opposed. He became
irritated if one was unfortunate enough to do so; but I know from long
experience that he readily accepted a good excuse, and by inclination
liked neither to punish nor blame. The Marquis de Louvois was
unceasingly occupied in exciting him against one Power and then another,
and his policy was to keep the prince in constant alarm of distrust in
order to perpetuate wars and dissensions. This order of things pleased
that minister, who dreaded intervals of calm and peace, when the King
came to examine expenses and to take account of the good or bad
employment of millions.
The Republic of Genoa, accustomed to build vessels for all nations, built
some of them, unfortunately, for the King’s enemies. These constructions
were paid for in advance. M. de Louvois, well-informed of what passed in
Genoa, waited till the last moment to oppose the departure of the four or
five new ships. The Genoese, promising to respect the King’s will in the
future, sent these vessels to their destination.
On the report and conclusions of M. de Louvois, his Majesty commanded the
senators of Genoa to hand over to his Minister of War the sums arising
from the sale of these, and to send their Doge and four of the most
distinguished senators to beg the King’s pardon in his palace at
Versailles.
The senate having replied that, by a fundamental law, a Doge could not
leave the city without instantly losing his power and dignity, the King
answered this message to the effect that the Doge would obey as an
extraordinary circumstance, that in this solitary case he would derogate
from the laws of the Genoese Republic, and that, the King’s will being
explicit and unalterable, the Doge would none the less maintain his
authority.
Whilst waiting, his Majesty sent a fleet into Italian waters, and the
city of Genoa immediately sustained the most terrible bombardment.
The flag of distress and submission having been flown from all the
towers, our admirals ceased, and the Doge set out for Versailles,
accompanied by the four oldest senators.
At the news of their approach, all Paris echoed the songs of triumph that
M. de Louvois had had composed. A spacious hotel was prepared to receive
these representatives of a noble, aristocratic republic; and, to withdraw
them from the insults of the populace, they were given guards and
archers.
Although the chateau of Versailles was in all the lustre of its novelty,
since it had been inhabited for only two years, I perceived that they had
even been adding to its magnificence, and that everywhere were new
curtains, new candelabra, new carpets. The throne on which the monarch
was to sit surpassed all that we had ever seen.
On the eve of the solemn presentation the astonished ambassadors appeared
incognito before the minister, who dictated to them their costumes, their
reverences, and all the substance of their address. The influx of
strangers and Parisians to Versailles, to be witnesses of such a
spectacle, was so extraordinary and prodigious that the hostels and other
public inns were insufficient, and they were obliged to light fires of
yew in all the gardens.
In the great apartments there were persons of the highest rank who sought
permission to pass the night on benches, so that they might be all there
and prepared on the following day. On the two sides of the great gallery
they had raised tribunes in steps, draped in ‘Cramoisi’ velvet. It was
on these steps, which were entirely new, that all the ladies were placed.
The lords stood upright below them, and formed a double hedge on each
side.
When his Majesty appeared on his throne, the fire of the diamonds with
which he was covered for a moment dazzled all eyes. The King seemed to
me less animated than was his wont; but his fine appearance, which never
quits him, rendered him sufficiently fit for such a representation and
his part in it.
The Doge of the humiliated Republic exhibited neither obsequiousness nor
pride. We found his demeanour that of a philosopher prepared for all
human events. His colleagues walked after him, but at a little distance.
When the Doge Lescaro had asked for pardon, as he had submitted to do,
two of his senators fell to weeping. The King, who noticed the general
emotion, descended from his throne and spoke for some minutes with the
five personages, and, smiling on them with his most seductive grace, he
once more drew all hearts to him.
I was placed at two paces from Madame de Maintenon. The Doge,--who was
never left by a master of ceremonies, who named the ladies to him,--in
passing before me, made a profound reverence. He then drew near Madame
de Maintenon, who heard all his compliments, said to him, in Italian, all
that could be said, and did him the honour to lean on his hand when
descending from her tribune to return to the King’s.
On the next day the Doge and senators came to present their homage to my
children, and did not forget me in their visits of ceremony.
CHAPTER XLV.
The Comte de Vermandois.--His Entrance into the World.--Quarrels with the
Dauphin.--Duel.--Siege of Courtrai.--The Cathedral of Arras.
When Madame de la Valliere (led by suggestions coming from the Most High)
left the Court and the world to shut herself up in a cloister, she
committed a great imprudence; I should not know how to repeat it: The
Carmelites in the Rue Saint Jacques could easily do without her; her two
poor little children could not. The King confided them, I am well aware,
to governors and governesses who were prudent, attentive, and capable;
but all the governors and preceptors in the world will never replace a
mother,--above all, in a place of dissipation, tumult, and carelessness
like the Court.
M. le Comte de Vermandois was only seven years old when exaggerated
scruples and bad advice deprived him of his mother. This amiable child,
who loved her, at first suffered much from her absence and departure. He
had to be taken to the Carmelites, where the sad metamorphosis of his
mother, whom he had seen so brilliant and alluring, made him start back
in fright.
He loved her always as much as he was loved by her, and in virtue of the
permission formally given by the Pope, he went every week to pass an hour
or two with her in the parlour. He regularly took there his singing and
flute lessons; these were two amiable talents in which he excelled.
About his twelfth year he was taken with the measles, and passed through
them fairly well. The smallpox came afterwards, but respected his
charming brown face. A severe shower of rain, which caught him in some
forest, made him take rheumatism; the waters of Vichy cured him; he
returned beaming with health and grace.
The King loved him tenderly, and everybody at Court shared this
predilection of the monarch. M. de Vermandois, of a stature less than
his father, was none the less one of the handsomest cavaliers at the
Court. To all the graces of his amiable mother he joined an ease of
manner, a mixture of nobility and modesty, which made him noticeable in
the midst of the most handsome and well made. I loved him with a
mother’s fondness, and, from all his ingenuous and gallant caresses, it
was easy to see that he made me a sincere return.
This poor Comte de Vermandois, about a year before the death of the
Queen, had a great and famous dispute with Monsieur le Dauphin, a jealous
prince, which brought him his first troubles, and deprived him suddenly
of the protecting favour of the Infanta-queen.
At a ball, at the Duchesse de Villeroi’s, all the Princes of the Blood
appeared. Monseigneur, who from childhood had had a fancy for
Mademoiselle de Blois, his legitimised sister, loved her far more
definitely since her marriage with M. le Prince de Conti. Monseigneur is
lacking in tact. At this ball he thought he could parade his sentiments,
which were visibly unpleasant, both to the young husband and to the
Princess herself. He danced, nevertheless, for some minutes with her;
but, suddenly, she feigned to be seized with a sharp pain in the spleen,
and was conducted to a sofa. The young Comte de Vermandois came and sat
there near her. They were both exhibiting signs of gaiety; their chatter
amused them, and they were seen to laugh with great freedom. Although
Monsieur le Dauphin was assuredly not in their thoughts, he thought they
were making merry at his expense. He came and sat at the right of the
Princess and said to her:
“Your brother is very ill-bred!”
“Do you think so?” the Princess answered immediately. “My brother is the
most amiable boy in the world. He is laughing at my talking to myself.
He assures me that my pain is in my knee instead of being in the spleen,
and that is what we were amusing ourselves at, quite innocently.”
“Your brother thinks himself my equal,” added the Prince; “in which he
certainly makes a mistake. All his diamonds prove nothing; I shall have,
when I like, those of the crown.”
“So much the worse, monsieur,” replied the Comte de Vermandois, quickly.
“Those diamonds should never change hands,--at least, for a very long
time.”
These words degenerating into an actual provocation, Monseigneur dared to
say to his young brother that, were it not for his affection for the
Princess, he would make him feel that he was----
“My elder brother,” resumed the Comte de Vermandois, “and nothing more, I
assure you.”
Before the ball was over, they met in an alcove and gave each other a
rendezvous not far from Marly. Both of them were punctual; but Monsieur
le Dauphin had given his orders, so that they were followed in order to
be separated.
The King was informed of this adventure; he immediately gave expression
to his extreme dissatisfaction, and said:
“What! is there hatred and discord already amongst my children?”
I spoke next to elucidate the facts, for I had learnt everything, and I
represented M. de Vermandois as unjustly provoked by his brother. His
Majesty replied that Monsieur le Dauphin was the second personage in the
Empire, and that all his brothers owed him respect up to a certain point.
“It was out of deference and respect that the Count accepted the
challenge,” said I to the King; “and here the offending party made the
double attack.”
“What a misfortune!” resumed the King. “I thought them as united amongst
themselves as they are in my heart. Vermandois is quick, and as
explosive as saltpetre; but he has the best nature in the world. I will
reconcile them; they will obey me.”
The scene took place in my apartment, owing to my Duc du Maine. “My
son,” said his Majesty to the child of the Carmelite, “I have learned
with pain what has passed at Madame de Villeroi’s and then in the Bois de
Marly. You will be pardoned for this imprudence because of your age; but
never forget that Monsieur le Dauphin is your superior in every respect,
and must succeed me some day.”
“Sire,” replied the Count, “I have never offended nor wished to offend
Monseigneur. Unhappily for me, he detests me, as though you had not the
right to love me.”
At these words Monsieur le Dauphin blushed, and the King hastened to
declare that he loved all his children with a kindness perfectly alike;
that rank and distinctions of honour had been regulated, many centuries
ago, by the supreme law of the State; that he desired union and concord
in the heart of the royal family; and he commanded the two brothers to
sacrifice for him all their petty grievances, and to embrace in his
presence.
Hearing these words, the Comte de Vermandois, with a bow to his father,
ran in front of Monseigneur, and, spreading out his arms, would have
embraced him. Monsieur le Dauphin remained cold and dumb; he received
this mark of good-will without returning it, and very obviously
displeased his father thereby.
These little family events were hushed up, and Monseigneur was almost
explicitly forbidden to entertain any other sentiments for Madame de
Conti than those of due friendship and esteem.
Some time after that, Messieurs de Conti, great lovers of festivity,
pleasure, and costly delights, which are suited only for people of their
kind, dragged the Comte de Vermandois, as a young debutant, into one of
those licentious parties where a young man is compelled to see things
which excite horror.
His first scruples overcome, M. de Vermandois, naturally disposed to what
is out of the common, wished to give guarantees of his loyalty and
courage; from a simple spectator he became, it is said, an accomplice.
There is always some false friend in these forbidden assemblies. The
King heard the details of an orgy so unpardonable, and the precocious
misconduct of his cherished son gave him so much pain, that I saw his
tears fall. The assistant governor of the young criminal was dismissed;
his valet de chambre was sent to prison; only three of his servants were
retained, and he himself was subjected to a state of penitence which
included general confessions and the most severe discipline. He resigned
himself sincerely to all these heavy punishments. He promised to
associate only with his mother, his new governor, his English horses, and
his books; and this manner of life, carried out with a grandeur of soul,
made of him in a few months a perfect gentleman, in the honourable and
assured position to which his great heart destined him.
The King, satisfied with this trial, allowed him to go and prove his
valour at the sieges of Digmude and Courtrai. All the staff officers
recognised soon in his conversation, his zeal, his methods, a worthy
rival of the Vendomes. They wrote charming things of him to the Court. A
few days afterwards we learned at Versailles that M. de Vermandois was
dead, in consequence of an indisposition caught whilst bivouacking, which
at first had not seemed dangerous.
The King deplored this loss, as a statesman and a good father. I was a
witness of his affliction; it seemed to me extreme. One knew not whom to
approach to break the news to the poor Carmelite. The Bishop of Meaux,
sturdy personage, voluntarily undertook the mission, and went to it with
a tranquil brow, for he loved such tasks.
To his hoarse and funereal voice Soeur Louise only replied with groans
and tears. She fell upon the floor without consciousness, and M. Bossuet
went on obstinately preaching Christian resignation and stoicism to a
senseless mother who heard him not.
About a fortnight after the obsequies of the Prince (which I, too, had
celebrated in my church of Saint Joseph), the underprioress of that
little community begged me to come to Paris for a brief time and
consecrate half an hour to her. I responded to her invitation. This is
the important secret which the good nun had to confide to me: Before
expiring; the young Prince had found time to interview his faithful valet
de chambre behind his curtains. “After my death,” said he, “you will
repair, not to the King, my father, but to Madame la Marquise de
Montespan, who has given me a thousand proofs of kindness in my behalf.
You will remit to her my casket, in which all my private papers are kept.
She will be kind enough to destroy all which ought not to survive me, and
to hand over the remainder, not to my good mother, who will have only too
much sorrow, but to Madame la Princesse de Conti, whose indulgence and
kindness are known to me.”
Sydney, this valet de chambre, informed me that the Count was dead, not
through excessive brandy, as the Dauphin’s people spread abroad, but from
a cerebral fever, which a copious bleeding would have dissipated at once.
All the soldiers wept for this young Prince, whose generous affability
had charmed them. Sydney had just accompanied his body to Arras, where,
by royal command, it had been laid in a vault of the cathedral. I opened
his pretty casket of citron wood, with locks of steel and silver. The
first object which met my eyes was a fine and charming portrait of Madame
de la Valliere. The face was smiling in the midst of this great tragedy,
and that upset me entirely, and made my tears flow again. Five or six
tales of M. la Fontaine had been imitated most elegantly by the young
Prince himself, and to these rather frivolous verses he had joined some
songs and madrigals. All these little relics of a youth so eager to live
betokened a mind that was agreeable, and not libertine. In any case the
sacrifice was accomplished; reflections were in vain. I burned these
papers, and all those which seemed to me without direct importance or
striking interest. That was not the case with a correspondence, full of
wit, tenderness, and fire, of whose origin the good Sydney pretended
ignorance, but which two or three anecdotes that were related
sufficiently revealed to me. The handsome Comte de Vermandois, barely
seventeen years old, had won the heart of a fair lady, of about his own
age, who expressed her passion for him with an energy, a delicacy, and a
talent far beyond all that we admire in books.
I knew her; the King loved her. Her husband, a most distinguished
field-officer, cherished her and believed her to be faithful. I burned
this dangerous correspondence, for M. de Vermandois, barely adolescent,
was already a father, and his mistress gloried in it.
On receiving this casket, in which she saw once more the portraits of her
mother, her brother, and her husband, Madame la Princesse de Conti felt
the most sorrowful emotion. I told her that I had acquitted myself, out
of kindness and respect, of a commission almost beyond my strength, and I
begged her never to mention it to the King, who, perhaps, would have
liked to see and judge himself all that I had destroyed.
M. le Comte de Vermandois left by his death the post of High Admiral
vacant. The King begged me to bring him my little Comte de Toulouse; and
passing round his neck a fine chain of coral mixed with pearls, to which
a diamond anchor was attached, he invested him with the dignity of High
Admiral of France. “Be ever prudent and good, my amiable child,” he said
to him, raising his voice, which had grown weak; “be happier than your
predecessor, and never give me the grief of mourning your loss.”
I thanked the King for my son, who looked at his decoration of brilliants
and did not feel its importance. I hope that he will feel that later,
and prove himself worthy of it.
CHAPTER XLVI.
The House of Saint Cyr.--Petition of the Monks of Saint Denis to the
King, against the Plan of Madame de Maintenon.--Madame de Maintenon
Summons Them and Sends Them Away with Small Consolation.
At the time when I founded my little community of Saint Joseph, Madame de
Maintenon had already collected near her chateau at Rueil a certain
number of well-born but poor young persons, to whom she was giving a good
education, proportioned to their present condition and their birth. She
had charged herself with the maintenance of two former nuns, noble and
well educated, who, at the fall of their community, had been recommended,
or had procured a recommendation, to her. Mesdames de Brinon and du
Basque were these two vagrant nuns. Madame de Maintenon, instinctively
attracted to this sort of persons, welcomed and protected them.
The little pension or community of Rueil, having soon become known,
several families who had fallen into distress or difficulty solicited the
kindness of the directress towards their daughters, and Madame de
Maintenon admitted more inmates than the space allowed. A more roomy
habitation was bought nearer Versailles, which was still only temporary
and the King, having been taken into confidence with regard to these
little girls, who mostly belonged to his own impoverished officers,
judged that the moment had come to found a fine and large educational
establishment for the young ladies of his nobility.
He bought, at the entrance to the village of Saint Cyr, in close
proximity to Versailles, a large old chateau, belonging to M. Seguier;
and on the site of this chateau, which he pulled down, the royal house of
Saint Cyr was speedily erected. I will not go into the nature and aim of
a foundation which is known nowadays through the whole of Europe. I will
content myself with observing that if Madame de Maintenon conceived the
first idea of it, it is the great benefactions of the monarch and the
profound recognition of the nobility which have given stability and
renown to this house.
Madame de Maintenon received much praise and incense as the foundress of
this community. It has been quite easy for her to found so vast an
establishment with the treasures of France, since she herself had
remained poor, by her own confession, and had neither to sell nor
encumber Maintenon, her sole property.
In founding my community of Saint Joseph, I was neither seconded nor
aided by anybody. Saint Joseph springs entirely from myself, from good
intentions, without noise or display. Saint Joseph is one of my good
actions, and although it makes no great noise in the world, I would
rather have founded it than Saint Cyr, where the most exalted houses
procure admission for their children with false certificates of poverty.
The buildings of Saint Cyr, in spite of all the sums they have absorbed,
have no external nobility or grandeur. The foundress put upon it the
seal of her parsimony, or, rather, of her general timidity. She is like
Moliere’s Harpagon, who would like to do great things for little money.
[Here Madame de Montespan forgets what she has just said, that Saint-Cyr
cost “immense sums,”--an ordinary effect of passion.--ED. NOTE]
The only beauty about the house is in the laundry and gardens. All the
rest reminds you of a convent of Capuchins. The chapel has not even
necessary and indispensable dignity; it is a long, narrow barn, without
arches, pillars, or decorations. The King, having wished to know
beforehand what revenue would be needed for a community of four hundred
persons, consulted M. de Louvois. That minister, accustomed to calculate
open-handedly, put in an estimate of five hundred thousand livres a year.
The foundress presented hers, which came to no more than twenty-five
thousand crowns. His Majesty adopted a middle course, and assigned a
revenue of three hundred thousand livres to his Royal House of Saint Cyr.
The foundress, foreseeing the financial embarrassments which have
supervened later, conceived the idea of making the clergy (who are
childless) support the education of these three hundred and fifty young
ladies. In consequence, she cast her eyes upon the rich abbey of Saint
Denis, then vacant, and suggested it to the King, as being almost
sufficient to provide for the new establishment.
This idea astonished the prince. He found it, at first, audacious, not
to say perilous; but, on further reflection, considering that the monks
of Saint Denis live under the rule of a prior, and never see their abbot,
who is almost always a great noble and a man of the world, his Majesty
consented to suppress the said abbey in order to provide for the
children.
The monks of Saint Denis, alarmed at such an innovation (which did not,
however, affect their own goods and revenues), composed a petition in the
form of the factum that our advocates draw up in a suit. They exclaimed
in this document “on the disrepute which this innovation would bring upon
their ancient, respectable, and illustrious community. In suppressing
the title of Abbot of Saint Denis,” they said further, “your Majesty, in
reality, suppresses our abbey; and if our abbey is reduced to nothing,
our basilica, where the Kings, your ancestors, lie, will be no more than
a royal church, and will cease to be abbatial.”
Further on, this petition said: “Sire, may it please your Majesty, whose
eyes can see so far, to appreciate this innovation in all its terrible
consequences. By striking to-day dissolution and death into the first
abbey of your kingdom, do you not fear to leave behind you a great and
sinister precedent? . . . What Louis the Great has looked upon as
possible will seem righteous and necessary to your successors; and it
will happen, maybe, before long, that the thirst for conquests and the
needs of the State (those constant and familiar pretexts of ministers)
will authorise some political Attila to extend your work, and wreak
destruction upon the tabernacle by depriving it of the splendour which is
its due, and which sustains it.”
Madame de Maintenon, to whom this affair was entrusted, summoned the
administrative monks of Saint Denis to Versailles. She received them
with her agreeable and seductive courtesy, and, putting on her dulcet and
fluted voice, said to them that their alarm was without foundation; that
his Majesty did not suppress their abbey; that he simply took it from the
male sex to give it to the female, seeing that the Salic law never
included the dignities of the Church nor her revenues.
“The King leaves you,” she added, “those immense and prodigious treasures
of Saint Denis, more ancient, perhaps, than the Oriflamme. That is your
finest property, your true and illustrious glory. In general, your
abbots have been, to this very day, unknown to you. Do you find,
gentlemen, that religion was more honoured and respected when men of
battle, covered with murders and other crimes, were called Abbots of
Saint Denis? Beneath the government of the King such nominations would
never have affected the Church; and after the present M. le Chevalier de
Lorraine, we shall hear no more of nominating an abbot-commandant on the
steps of the Opera.
“Our little girls are cherubim and seraphim, occupied unceasingly with
the praise of the Lord. I recommend them to your holy prayers, and you
can count on theirs.”
With this compliment she dismissed the monks, and what she had resolved
on was carried out.
The King, who all his life had loved children greatly, did not take long
to contract an affection for this budding colony. He liked to assist
sometimes at their recreations and exercises, and, as though Versailles
had been at the other end of the world, he had a magnificent apartment
built at Saint Cyr. This fine armorial pavilion decorates the first long
court in the centre. The mere buildings announce a king; the royal crown
surmounts them.
At first the education of Saint Cyr had been entrusted to canonesses; but
a canoness only takes annual vows; that term expired, she is at liberty
to retire and marry. Several of these ladies having proved thus
irresolute as to their estate, and the house being afraid that a greater
number would follow, the Abbe de Fenelon, who cannot endure limited or
temporary devotion, thought fit to introduce fixed and perpetual vows
into Saint Cyr, and that willynilly.
This elegant abbe says all that he means, and resolutely means all that
he can say. By means of his lectures, a mixed and facile form of
eloquence, which is his glory, he easily proved to these poor canonesses
that streams and rivers flow ever since the world began, and never think
of suspending their current or abandoning their direction. He reminded
them that the sun, which is always in its place and always active, never
dreams of abandoning its functions, either from inconstancy or caprice.
He told them that wise kings are never seized with the idea or temptation
of abdicating their crown, and that God, who serves them as a model and
example, is ceaselessly occupied, with relation to the world, in
preserving, reanimating, and maintaining it. Starting from there, the
ingenious man made them confess that they ought to remain at their post
and bind themselves to it by a perpetual vow.
The first effect of this fine oration having been a little dissipated,
objections broke out. One young and lovely canoness dared to maintain
the rights of her freedom, even in the face of her most amiable enemy.
Madame de Maintenon rushed to the succour of the Abbe of Saint Sulpice,
and half by wheedling, half by tyranny, obtained the cloister and
perpetual vows.
I must render this justice to the King; he never would pronounce or
intervene in this pathetic struggle. His royal hand profited, no doubt,
by a submission which the Abbe de Fenelon imposed upon timidity,
credulity, and obedience. The House of Saint Cyr profited thereby; but
the King only regretted a new religious convent, for, as a rule, he liked
them not. How many times has he unburdened himself before me on the
subject.
CHAPTER XLVII.
Final Rupture.--Terrible Scene.--Madame de Maintenon in the Brocaded
Chair.
To-day, when time and reflection, and, perhaps, that fund of contempt
which is so useful, have finally revealed to me the insurmountable
necessities of life, I can look with a certain amount of composure at
the injury which the King did me. I had at first resolved to conclude,
with the chapter which you have just read, my narrative of the more or
less important things which have passed or been unfolded before my eyes.
For long I did not feel myself strong enough to approach a narrative
which might open up all my old wounds and make my blood boil again; but I
finished by considering that our monarch’s reign will be necessarily the
subject of a multitude of commentaries, journals, and memoirs. All these
confidential writings will speak of me to the generations to be; some
will paint me as one paints an object whom one loves; others, as the
object one detests. The latter, to render me more odious, will probably
revile my character, and, perhaps, represent me as a cowardly and
despairing mistress, who has descended even to supplications!! It is my
part, therefore, to retrace with a firm and vigorous hand this important
epoch of my life, where my destiny, at once kind and cruel, reduced me to
treat the greatest of all Kings both as my equal and as an inconstant
friend, as a treacherous enemy, and as my inferior or subject. He had,
at first, the intention of putting me to death,--of that I am
persuaded,--but soon his natural gentleness got the better of his pride.
He grasped the wounds in my heart from the deplorable commotion of my
face. If his former friend was guilty in her speech, he was far more
guilty by his actions. Like an equitable judge he pardoned neither of
us; he did not forgive himself and he dared not condemn me.
Since this sad time of desertion and sorrow, into which the new state of
things had brought me, MM. de Mortemart, de Nevers, and de Vivonne had
been glad to avoid me. They found my humour altered, and I admit that a
woman who sulks, scolds, or complains is not very attractive company.
One day the poor Marechal de Vivonne came to see me; he opened my
shutters to call my attention to the beauty of the sky, and, my health
seeming to him a trifle poor, he suggested to me to embark at once in his
carriage and to go and dine at Clagny. I had no will left that day, so I
accompanied my brother.
Being come to Clagny, the Marshal, having shut himself up with me in his
closet, said to me the words which follow:
“You know, my sister, how all along you have been dear to me; the grief
which is wearing you out does me almost as much harm as you. To-day I
wish to hurt you for your own good; and get you away from this locality
in spite of yourself. Kings are not to be opposed as we oppose our
equals; our King, whom you know by heart, has never suffered
contradiction. He has had you asked, two or three times already, to
leave his palace and to go and live on your estates. Why do you delay to
satisfy him, and to withdraw from so many eyes which watch you with
pity?”
“The King, I am very sure, would like to see me away,” I replied to the
Marshal, “but he has never formally expressed himself, and it is untrue
that any such wish has been intimated or insinuated to me.”
“What! you did not receive two letters last year, which invited you to
make up your mind and retire!”
“I received two anonymous letters; nothing is more true. Could those two
letters have been sent to me by the King himself?”
“The Marquis de Chamarante wrote them to you, but beneath the eyes, and
at the dictation, of his Majesty.”
“All, God! What is it you tell me? What! the Marquis de Chamarante,
whom I thought one of my friends, has lent himself to such an embassy!”
“The Marquis is a good man, a man of honour; and his essential duty is to
please his sovereign, his master. Moreover, at the time when the letters
were sent you, time remained to you for deliberation. To-day, all time
for delay has expired; you must go away of your own free will, or receive
the affront of a command, and a ‘lettre de cachet’ in form.”
“A ‘lettre de cachet’ for me! for the mother of the Duc du Maine and the
Comte de Toulouse! We shall see that, my brother! We shall see!”
“There is nothing to see or do but to summon here all your people, and
leave to-morrow, either for my chateau of Roissy, or for your palace at
Petit-Bourg; things are pressing, and the day after to-morrow I will
explain all without any secrecy.”
“Explain it to me at once, my brother, and I promise to satisfy you.”
“Do you give me your word?”
“I give it you, my good and dear friend, with pleasure. Inform me of
what is in progress.”
“Madame de Maintenon, whom, having loved once greatly, you no longer
love, had the kindness to have me summoned to her this morning.”
“The kindness!”
“Do not interrupt me--yes, the kindness. From the moment that she is in
favour, all that comes from her requires consideration. She had me taken
into her small salon, and there she charged me to tell you that she has
always loved you, that she always will; that your rupture with her has
displeased the King; that for a long time, and on a thousand occasions,
she has excused you to his Majesty, but that things are now hopeless;
that your retreat is required at all costs, and that it will be joined
with an annual pension of six hundred thousand livres.”
“And you advise me--?” I said to my brother.
“I advise you, I implore you, I conjure you, to accept these propositions
which save everything.”
My course was clear to me on the instant. Wishing to be relieved of the
importunities of the Marshal (a courtier, if ever there was one), I
embraced him with tears in my eyes. I assured him that, for the honour
of the family and out of complacence, I accepted his propositions. I
begged him to take me back to Versailles, where I had to gather together
my money, jewels, and papers.
The Duc de Vivonne, well as he knew me, did not suspect my trickery; he
applied a score of kisses to my “pretty little white hands,” and his
postilions, giving free play to their reins, speedily brought us back to
the chateau.
All beaming with joy and satisfaction, he went to convey his reply to
Madame de Maintenon, who was probably expecting him. Twenty minutes
hardly elapsed. The King himself entered my apartment.
He came towards me with a friendly air, and, hardly remarking my
agitation, which I was suppressing, he dared to address the following
words to me:
“The shortest follies are the best, dear Marquise; you see things at last
as they should be seen. Your determination, which the Marechal de
Vivonne has just informed me of, gives me inexpressible pleasure; you are
going to take the step of a clever woman, and everybody will applaud you
for it. It will be eighteen years to-morrow since we took a fancy for
each other. We were then in that period of life when one sees only that
which flatters, and the satisfaction of the heart surpasses everything.
Our attachment, if it had been right and legitimate, might have begun
with the same ardour, but it could not have endured so long; that is the
property of all contested affections.
“From our union amiable children have been born, for whom I have done,
and will do, all that a father with good intentions can do. The Act
which acknowledged them in full Parliament has not named you as their
mother, because your bonds prevented it, but these respectful children
know that they owe you their existence, and not one of them shall forget
it while I live.
“You have charmed by your wit and the liveliness of your character the
busiest years of my life and reign. That pleasant memory will never
leave me, and separated though we be, as good sense and propriety of
every kind demands, we shall still belong to each other in thought.
Athenais will always be to me the mother of my dear children. I have
been mindful up to this day, to increase at different moments the amount
of your fortune: I believe it to be considerable, and wish, nevertheless,
to add to it even more. If the pension that Vivonne had just suggested
to you appear insufficient, two lines from your pen will notify me that I
must increase it.
“Your children being proclaimed Princes of France, the Court will be
their customary residence, but you will see them frequently, and can
count on my commands. Here they are coming,--not to say good-bye to you,
but, as of old, to embrace you on the eve of a journey.
“If you are prudent, you will write first to the Marquis de Montespan,
not to annul and revoke the judicial and legal separation which exists,
but to inform him of your return to reasonable ideas, and of your resolve
to be reconciled with the public.”
With these words the King ceased speaking. I looked at him with a fixed
gaze; a long sigh escaped from my heaving breast, and I had with him, as
nearly as I can remember, the following conversation:
“I admire the sang-froid with which a prince who believes himself, and is
believed by the whole universe, to be magnanimous, gives the word of
dismissal to the tender friend of his youth,--to that friend who, by a
misfortune which is too well known, knew how to leave all and love him
alone.
“From the day when the friendship which had united us cooled and was
dissipated, you have resumed with regard to me that distance which your
rank authorises you, and on my side, I have submitted to see in you only
my King. This revolution has taken effect without any shock, or noise,
or scandal. It has continued for two years already; why should it not
continue in the same manner until the moment when my last two children no
longer require my eyes, and presence, and care? What sudden cause, what
urgent motive, can determine you to exclude me? Does not, then, the
humiliation which I have suffered for two years any longer satisfy your
aversion?”
“What!” cried the prince, in consternation, “is your resolution no longer
the same? Do you go back upon what you promised to your brother?”
“I do not change my resolution,” I resumed at once; “the places which you
inhabit have neither charm nor attraction for my heart, which has always
detested treachery and falseness. I consent to withdraw myself from your
person, but on condition that the odious intriguer who has supplanted me
shall follow the unhappy benefactress who once opened to her the doors of
this palace. I took her from a state of misery, and she plunges daggers
into my breast.”
“The Kings of Europe,” said the prince, white with agitation and anger,
“have not yet laid down the law to me in my palace; you shall not make me
submit to yours, madame. The person whom, for far too long, you have
been offending and humiliating before my eyes, has ancestors who yield in
nothing to your forefathers, and if you have introduced her to this
palace, you have introduced here goodness, sweetness, talent, and virtue
itself. This enemy, whom you defame in every quarter, and who every day
excuses and justifies you, will abide near this throne, which her fathers
have defended and which her good counsel now defends. In sending you
today from a Court where your presence is without motive and pretext, I
wished to keep from your knowledge, and in kindness withdraw from your
eyes an event likely to irritate you, since everything irritates you.
Stay, madame, stay, since great catastrophes appeal to and amuse you;
after to-morrow you will be more than ever a supernumerary in this
chateau.”
At these words I realised that it was a question of the public triumph of
my rival. All my firmness vanished; my heart was, as it were, distorted
with the most rapid palpitations. I felt an icy coldness run through my
veins, and I fell unconscious upon my carpet.
My woman cameo to bring me help, and when my senses returned, I heard the
King saying to my intendant: “All this wearies me beyond endurance; she
must go this very day.”
“Yes, I will go,” I cried, seizing a dessert-knife which was on my
bureau. I rushed forward with a mechanical movement upon my little Comte
de Toulouse, whom I snatched from the hands of his father, and I was on
the verge of sacrificing this child.
I shudder every time I think of that terrible and desperate scene. But
reason had left me; sorrow filled my soul; I was no longer myself. My
reader must be penetrated by my misfortune and have compassion on me.
Madame de Maintenon, informed probably of this storm, arrived and
suddenly showed herself. To rush forward, snatch away the dagger and my
child was but one movement for her. Her tears coursed in abundance; and
the King, leaning on the marble of my chimney-piece, shed tears and
seemed to feel a sort of suffocation.
My women had removed my children. My intendant alone had remained in the
deep embrasure of a shutter; the poor man had affliction and terror
painted on his face. Madame de Maintenon had slightly wounded herself in
seizing my knife. I saw her tearing her handkerchief, putting on
lavender water in order to moisten the bandage. As she left me she took
my hand with an air of kindness, and her tears began again.
The King, seeing her go out, retired without addressing me a word. I
might call as much as I would; he did not return.
Until nightfall I seemed to be in a state of paralysis. My arms were
like lead; my will could no longer stir them. I was distressed at first,
and then I thanked God, who was delivering me from the torments of
existence. All night my body and soul moved in the torrent and waves of
a fever handed over to phantoms; I saw in turn the smiling plains of
Paradise and the dire domain of Hell. My children, covered with wounds,
asked me for pardon, kneeling before me; and Madame de Maintenon, one
mass of blood, reproached me for having killed her.
On the following day a copious blood-letting, prescribed by my doctor,
relieved my head and heart.
The following week Madame de Maintenon, entirely cured of her scratch,
consented to the King’s will, which she had opposed in order to excite
it, and in the presence of the Marquis and Marquise de Montchevreuil, the
Duc de Noailles, the Marquis de Chamarante, M. Bontems, and Mademoiselle
Ninon, her permanent chambermaid, was married to the King of France and
Navarre in the chapel of the chateau.
The Abbe de Harlay, Archbishop of Paris, assisted by the Bishop of
Chartres and Pere de la Chaise, had the honour of blessing this marriage
and presenting the rings of gold. After the ceremony, which took place
at an early hour, and even by torchlight, there was a slight repast in
the small apartments. The same persons, taking carriages, then repaired
to Maintenon, where the great ceremony, the mass, and all that is
customary in such cases were celebrated.
At her return, Madame de Maintenon took possession of an extremely
sumptuous apartment that had been carefully arranged and furnished for
her. Her people continued to wear her livery, but she scarcely ever rode
any more except in the great carriage of the King, where we saw her in
the place which had been occupied by the Queen. In her interior the
title of Majesty was given her; and the King, when he had to speak of
her, only used the word Madame, without adding Maintenon, that having
become too familiar and trivial.
He was desirous of proclaiming her; she consistently opposed it, and this
prudent and wise conduct regained for her, little by little, the opinions
which had been shocked.
A few days after the marriage, my health being somewhat reestablished, I
went to Petit-Bourg; but the Marechal de Vivonne, his son Louis de
Vivonne, all the Mortemarts, all the Rochehouarts, Thianges, Damas,
Seignelays, Blainvilles, and Colberts,--in a word, counts, marquises,
barons, prelates, and duchesses, came to find me and attack me in my
desert, in order to represent to me that, since Madame de Maintenon was
the wife of the monarch, I owed her my homage and respectful compliments.
The whole family has done so, said these cruel relations; you only have
not yet fulfilled this duty. You must do it, in God’s name. She has
neither airs nor hauteur; you will be marvellously well received. Your
resistance would compromise us all.
Not desiring to harm or displease my family, and wishing, above all, to
reinstate myself somewhat in the King’s mind, I resolutely prepared for
this distressing journey, and God gave me the necessary strength to
execute it.
I appeared in a long robe of gold and silver before the new spouse of the
monarch. The King, who was sitting at a table, rose for a moment and
encouraged me by his greeting. I made the three pauses and three
reverences as I gradually approached Madame de Maintenon, who occupied a
large and rich armchair of brocade. She did not rise; etiquette forbade
it, and principally the presence of the all-powerful King of kings. Her
complexion, ordinarily pale, and with a very slight tone of pink, was
animated suddenly, and took all the colours of the rose. She made me a
sign to seat myself on a stool, and it seemed to me that her amiable gaze
apologised to me. She spoke to me of Petit-Bourg, of the waters of
Bourbon, of her country-place, of my children, and said to me, smiling
kindly: “I am going to confide in you. Monsieur le Prince has already
asked Mademoiselle de Names for his grandson, M. le Duc de Bourbon, and
his Highness promises us his granddaughter for our Duc du Maine. Two or
three years more, and we shall see all that.”
After half an hour spent thus, I rose from this uncomfortable stool and
made my farewell reverences. Madame de Maintenon, profiting by the King
having leaned over to write, rose five or six inches in her chair, and
said to me these words: “Do not let us cease to love one another, I
implore you.”
I went to rest myself in the poor apartment which was still mine, since
the keys had not yet been returned, and I sent for M. le Duc du Maine,
who said to me coldly: “I have much pleasure in seeing you again; we were
going to write to you.”
I had come out from Madame de Maintenon by the door of mirrors, which
leads to the great gallery. There was much company there at the moment;
M. le Prince de Salm came to me and said: “Go and put on your peignoir;
you are flushed, and I can perfectly well understand why.” He pressed my
hand affectionately. In all the salons they were eager to see me pass.
Some courageous persons came even within touch of my fan; and all were
more or less pleased with my mishap and downfall. I had seen all these
figures at my feet, and almost all were under obligations to me. I left
Versailles again very early. When I was seated in my carriage I noticed
the King, who, from the height of his balcony in the court of marble,
watched me set off and disappear.
I settled at Paris, where my personal interest and my great fortune gave
me an existence which many might have envied. I never returned to
Versailles, except for the weddings of my eldest daughter, and of my son,
the Serious;--[Louis Augusts de Bourbon, Duc du Maine, a good man,
somewhat devout and melancholy. (See the Memoirs of Dubois and
Richelieu.)--EDITOR’S NOTE.]--I always loved him better than he did me.
Pere de Latour, my director, obtained from me then, what I had refused
hitherto to everybody, a letter of reconciliation to M. le Marquis de
Montespan: I had foreseen the reply, which was that of an obstinate,
ill-bred, and evil man.
Pere de Latour, going further, wished to impose hard, not to say
murderous, penances on me; I begged him to keep within bounds, and not to
make me impatient. This Oratorian and his admirers have stated that I
wore a hair shirt and shroud. Pious slanders, every word of them! I give
many pensions and alms, that is to say, I do good to several families;
the good that I bestow about me will be more agreeable to God than any
harm I could do myself, and that I maintain.
The Marquis d’Antin, my son, since my disgrace.......
HERE END THE MEMOIRS OF MADAME DE MONTESPAN.
THE ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
All the death-in-life of a convent
Always sold at a loss which must be sold at a given moment
Ambition puts a thick bandage over the eyes
And then he would go off, laughing in his sleeve
Armed with beauty and sarcasm
Cannot reconcile themselves to what exists
Conduct of the sort which cements and revives attachments
Console me on the morrow for what had troubled me to-day
Cuddlings and caresses of decrepitude
Depicting other figures she really portrays her own
Domestics included two nurses, a waiting-maid, a physician
Extravagant, without the means to be so
Grow like a dilapidated house; I am only here to repair myself
Happy with him as a woman who takes her husband’s place can be
Hate me, but fear me
He contradicted me about trifles
He was not fool enough for his place
I myself being the first to make merry at it (my plainness)
In the great world, a vague promise is the same as a refusal
In Rome justice and religion always rank second to politics
In ill-assorted unions, good sense or good nature must intervene
In England a man is the absolute proprietor of his wife
Intimacy, once broken, cannot be renewed
It is easier to offend me than to deceive me
Jealous without motive, and almost without love
Kings only desire to be obeyed when they command
Knew how to point the Bastille cannon at the troops of the King
Laws will only be as so many black lines on white paper
Love-affair between Mademoiselle de la Valliere and the King
Madame de Sevigne
Madame de Montespan had died of an attack of coquetry
Not show it off was as if one only possessed a kennel
Permissible neither to applaud nor to hiss
Poetry without rhapsody
Present princes and let those be scandalised who will!
Respectful without servility
Satire without bitterness
Says all that he means, and resolutely means all that he can say
She awaits your replies without interruption
Situations in life where we are condemned to see evil done
Talent without artifice
That Which Often It is Best to Ignore
The King replied that “too much was too much”
The monarch suddenly enough rejuvenated his attire
The pulpit is in want of comedians; they work wonders there
Then comes discouragement; after that, habit
There is an exaggeration in your sorrow
These liars in surplice, in black cassock, or in purple
Time, the irresistible healer
Trust not in kings
Violent passion had changed to mere friendship
Weeping just as if princes had not got to die like anybody else
Went so far as to shed tears, his most difficult feat of all
What they need is abstinence, prohibitions, thwartings
When women rule their reign is always stormy and troublous
When one has seen him, everything is excusable
When one has been pretty, one imagines that one is still so
Wife: property or of furniture, useful to his house
Wish you had the generosity to show, now and again, less wit
Women who misconduct themselves are pitiless and severe
Won for himself a great name and great wealth by words
Would you like to be a cardinal? I can manage that
You know, madame, that he generally gets everything he wants