There were always some moments of conversation before the Dauphin set

himself down at his bureau, and ordered me to place myself opposite him.

Having become more free with him, I took the liberty to say one day in

these first moments of our discourse, that he would do well to bolt the

door behind him, the door I mean of the Dauphine's chamber. He said that

the Dauphine would not come, it not being her hour. I replied that I did

not fear that princess herself, but the crowd that always accompanied

her. He was obstinate, and would not bolt the door. I did not dare to

press him more. He sat down before his bureau, and ordered me to sit

also. Our deliberation was long; afterwards we sorted our papers. Here

let me say this--Every time I went to see the Dauphin I garnished all my

pockets with papers, and I often smiled within myself passing through the

Salon, at seeing there many people who at that moment were in my pockets,

and who were far indeed from suspecting the important discussion that was

going to take place. To return: the Dauphin gave, me his papers to put

in my pockets, and kept mine. He locked up some in his cupboard, and

instead of locking up the others in his bureau, kept them out, and began

talking to me, his back to the chimney, his papers in one hand, his keys

in the other. I was standing at the bureau looking for some other

papers, when on a sudden the door in front of me opened, and the Dauphine

entered!

The first appearance of all three--for, thank God! she was alone--the

astonishment, the countenance of all have never left my memory. Our

fixed eyes, our statue-like immobility, and our embarrassment were all

alike, and lasted longer than a slow Pater-poster. The Princess spoke

first. She said to the Prince in a very ill-assured voice, that she had

not imagined him in such good company; smiling upon him and upon me. I

had scarce time to smile also and to lower my eyes, before the Dauphin

replied.

"Since you find me so," said he, smiling in turn, "leave me so."

For an instant she looked on him, he and she both smiling at each other

more; then she looked on me, still smiling with greater liberty than at

first, made a pirouette, went away and closed the door, beyond the

threshold of which she had not come.

Never have I seen woman so astonished; never man so taken aback, as the

Prince after the Dauphine's departure; and never man, to say truth, was

so afraid as I was at first, though I quickly reassured myself when I

found that our intruder was alone. As soon as she had closed the door,

"Well, Monsieur," said I to the Dauphin, "if you had drawn the bolt?"

"You were right," he replied, "and I was wrong. But no harm is done.

She was alone fortunately, and I guarantee to you her secrecy."

"I am not troubled," said I to him, (yet I was so mightily) "but it is a

miracle she was alone. With her suite you would have escaped with a

scolding perhaps but for me, I should have been utterly lost."

He admitted again he had, been wrong, and assure me more and more that

our secret was safe. The Dauphine had caught us, not only tete-a-tete--

of which no one had the least suspicion--she had caught us in the fact,

so to say, our crimes in out hands. I felt that she would not expose the

Dauphin, but I feared an after-revelation through some over-easy

confidant. Nevertheless our secret was so well kept if confided that it

never transpired. We finished, I to pocket, the Prince to lock up, the

papers. The rest of the conversation was short, and I withdrew by the

wardrobe as usual. M. de Beauvilliers, to whom I related this adventure

shortly afterwards, grew pale at first, but recovered when I said the

Dauphine was alone. He blamed the imprudence of the Dauphin, but assured

me my secret was safe. Ever since that adventure the Dauphine often

smiled upon me when we met, as if to remind me of it, and showed marked

attention to me.

No sooner did I feel myself pretty firmly established on this footing of

delicious intimacy with the Dauphin than I conceived the desire to unite

him with M. le Duc d'Orleans through the means of M. de Beauvilliers. At

the very outset, however, an obstacle arose in my path.

I have already said, that the friendship of M. d'Orleans for his

daughter, Madame la Duchesse de Berry, had given employment to the

tongues of Satan, set in Motion by hatred and jealousy. Evil reports

even reached M. le Duc de Berry, who on his part, wishing to enjoy the

society of his wife in full liberty, was importuned by the continual

presence near her, of her father. To ward off a quarrel between son-in-

law and father-in-law, based upon so false and so odious a foundation,

appeared to Madame de Saint-Simon and myself a pressing duty.

I had already tried to divert M. le Duc d'Orleans from an assiduity which

wearied M. le Duc de Berry; but I had not succeeded. I believed it my

duty then to return to the charge more hotly; and remembering my previous

ill-success, I prefaced properly, and then said what I had to say. M.

d'Orleans was astonished; he cried out against the horror of such a vile

imputation and the villainy that had carried it to M. le Duc de Berry.

He thanked me for having warned him of it, a service few besides myself

would have rendered him. I left him to draw the proper and natural

conclusion on the conduct he should pursue. This conversation passed one

day at Versailles about four o'clock in the afternoon.

On the morrow Madame de Saint-Simon related to me, that returning home

the previous evening, from the supper and the cabinet of the King with

Madame la Duchesse de Berry, the Duchess had passed straight into the

wardrobe and called her there; and then with a cold and angry air, said

she was very much astonished that I wished to get up a quarrel between

her and M. le Duc d'Orleans. Madame Saint-Simon exhibited surprise, but

Madame la Duchesse de Berry declared that nothing was so true; that I

wished to estrange M. d'Orleans from her, but that I should not succeed;

and immediately related all that I had just said to her father. He had

had the goodness to repeat it to her an hour afterwards! Madame de

Saint-Simon, still more surprised, listened attentively to the end, and

replied that this horrible report was public, that she herself could see

what consequences it would have, false and abominable as it might be, and

feel whether it was not important that M. le Duc d'Orleans should be

informed of it. She added, that I had shown such proofs of my attachment

for them and of my desire for their happiness, that I was above all

suspicion. Then she curtsied and leaving the Princess went to bed. This

scene appeared to me enormous.

For some time after this I ceased entirely to see Duc d'Orleans and

Madame la Duchesse de Berry. They cajoled me with all sorts of excuses,

apologies, and so forth, but I remained frozen. They redoubled their

excuses and their prayers. Friendship, I dare not say compassion,

seduced me, and I allowed myself to be led away. In a word, we were

reconciled. I kept aloof, however, from Madame la Duchesse de Berry as

much as possible, visiting her only for form's sake; and as long as she

lived never changed in this respect.

Being reconciled with M. d'Orleans, I again thought of my project of

uniting him to the Dauphin through M. de Beauvilliers. He had need of

some support, for on all sides he was sadly out of favour. His

debauchery and his impiety, which he had quitted for a time after

separating himself from Madame d'Argenton, his mistress, had now seized

on him again as firmly as ever. It seemed as though there were a wager

between him and his daughter, Madame la Duchesse de Berry, which should

cast most contempt on religion and good manners.

The King was nothing ignorant of the conduct of his nephew. He had been

much shocked with the return to debauchery and low company. The enemies

of M. d'Orleans, foremost among whom was M. du Maine, had therefore

everything in their favour. As I have said, without some support M.

d'Orleans seemed in danger of being utterly lost.

It was no easy matter to persuade M. de Beauvilliers to, fall in with the

plan I had concocted, and lend his aid to it. But I worked him hard. I

dwelt upon the taste of the Dauphin for history, science, and the arts,

and showed what a ripe knowledge of those subjects M. d'Orleans had, and

what agreeable conversation thereon they both might enjoy together. In

brief I won over M. de Beauvilliers to my scheme. M. D'Orleans, on his

side, saw without difficulty the advantage to him of union with the

Dauphin. To bring it about I laid before him two conditions. One, that

when in the presence of the Prince he should suppress that detestable

heroism of impiety he affected more than he felt, and allow no licentious

expressions to escape him. The second was to go less often into evil

company at Paris, and if he must continue his debauchery, to do so at the

least within closed doors, and avoid all public scandal. He promised

obedience, and was faithful to his promise. The Dauphin perceived and

approved the change; little by little the object of my desire was gained.

As I have already said, it would be impossible for me to express all the

joy I felt at my deliverance from the dangers I was threatened with

during the lifetime of Monseigneur. My respect, esteem, and admiration

for the Dauphin grew more and more day by day, as I saw his noble

qualities blossom out in richer luxuriance. My hopes, too, took a

brighter colour from the rising dawn of prosperity that was breaking

around me. Alas! that I should be compelled to relate the cruel manner

in which envious fortune took from me the cup of gladness just as I was

raising it to my lips.

CHAPTER LIX

On Monday, the 18th of January, 1712, after a visit to Versailles, the

King went to Marly. I mark expressly this journey. No sooner were we

settled there than Boudin, chief doctor of the Dauphine, warned her to

take care of herself, as he had received sure information that there was

a plot to poison her and the Dauphin, to whom he made a similar

communication. Not content with this he repeated it with a terrified

manner to everybody in the salon, and frightened all who listened to him.

The King spoke to him about it in private. Boudin declared that this

information was good, and yet that he did not know whence it came; and he

stuck to this contradiction. For, if he did not know where the

information came from how could he be assured it was trustworthy?

The most singular thing is, that twenty-four hours after Boudin had

uttered this warning, the Dauphin received a similar one from the King of

Spain, vague, and without mentioning whence obtained, and yet also

declared to be of good source. In this only the Dauphin was named

distinctly--the Dauphine obscurely and by implication--at least, so the

Dauphin explained the matter, and I never heard that he said otherwise.

People pretended to despise these stories of origin unknown, but they

were struck by them nevertheless, and in the midst of the amusements and

occupations of the Court, seriousness, silence, and consternation were

spread.

The King, as I have said, went to Marly on Monday, the 18th of January,

1712. The Dauphine came there early with a face very much swelled, and

went to bed at once; yet she rose at seven o'clock in the evening because

the King wished her to preside in the salon. She played there, in

morning-dress, with her head wrapped up, visited the King in the apartment

of Madame de Maintenon just before his supper, and then again went to

bed, where she supped. On the morrow, the 19th, she rose only to play in

the salon, and see the King, returning to her bed and supping there. On

the 20th, her swelling diminished, and she was better. She was subject

to this complaint, which was caused by her teeth. She passed the

following days as usual. On Monday, the 1st of February, the Court

returned to Versailles.

On Friday, the 5th of February, the Duc de Noailles gave a very fine box

full of excellent Spanish snuff to the Dauphine, who took some, and liked

it. This was towards the end of the morning. Upon entering her cabinet

(closed to everybody else), she put this box upon the table, and left it

there. Towards the evening she was seized with trembling fits of fever.

She went to bed, and could not rise again even to go to the King's

cabinet after the supper. On Saturday, the 6th of February, the

Dauphine, who had had fever all night, did not fail to rise at her

ordinary hour, and to pass the day as usual; but in the evening the fever

returned. She was but middling all that night, a little worse the next

day; but towards ten o'clock at night she was suddenly seized by a sharp

pain under the temple. It did not extend to the dimensions of a ten sous

piece, but was so violent that she begged the King, who was coming to see

her, not to enter. This kind of madness of suffering lasted without

intermission until Monday, the 8th, and was proof against tobacco chewed

and smoked, a quantity of opium, and two bleedings in the arms. Fever

showed itself more then this pain was a little calmed; the Dauphine said

she had suffered more than in child-birth.

Such a violent illness filled the chamber with rumours concerning the

snuff-box given to the Dauphine by the Duc de Noailles. In going to bed

the day she had received it and was seized by fever, she spoke of the

snuff to her ladies, highly praising it and the box, which she told one

of them to go and look for upon the table in the cabinet, where, as I

have said, it had been left. The box could not be found, although looked

for high and low. This disappearance had seemed very extraordinary from

the first moment it became known. Now, joined to the grave illness with

which the Dauphine was so cruelly assailed, it aroused the most sombre

suspicions. Nothing, however, was breathed of these suspicions, beyond a

very restricted circle; for the Princess took snuff with the knowledge of

Madame de Maintenon, but without that of the King, who would have made a

fine scene if he had discovered it. This was what was feared, if the

singular loss of the box became divulged.

Let me here say, that although one of my friends, the Archbishop of

Rheims, believed to his dying day that the Duc de Noailles had poisoned

the Dauphine by means of this box of Spanish snuff, I never could induce

myself to believe so too. The Archbishop declared that in the manner of

the Duc de Noailles, after quitting the chamber of the Princess, there

was something which suggested both confusion and contentment. He brought

forward other proofs of guilt, but they made no impression upon me. I

endeavoured, on the contrary, to shake his belief, but my labour was in

vain. I entreated him, however, at least to maintain the most profound

silence upon this horrible thought, and he did so.

Those who afterwards knew the history of the box--and they were in good

number--were as inaccessible to suspicion as I; and nobody thought of

charging the Duc de Noailles with the offence it was said he had

committed. As for me, I believed in his guilt so little that our

intimacy remained the same; and although that intimacy grew even up to

the death of the King, we never spoke of this fatal snuff-box.

During the night, from Monday to Tuesday, the 9th of February, the

lethargy was great. During the day the King approached the bed many

times: the fever was strong, the awakenings were short; the head was

confused, and some marks upon the skin gave tokens of measles, because

they extended quickly, and because many people at Versailles and at Paris

were known to be, at this time, attacked with that disease. The night

from Tuesday to Wednesday passed so much the more badly, because the hope

of measles had already vanished. The King came in the morning to see

Madame la Dauphine, to whom an emetic had been given. It operated well,

but produced no relief. The Dauphin, who scarcely ever left the bedside

of his wife, was forced into the garden to take the air, of which he had

much need; but his disquiet led him back immediately into the chamber.

The malady increased towards the evening, and at eleven o'clock there was

a considerable augmentation of fever. The night was very bad.

On Thursday, the 11th of February, at nine o'clock in the morning, the

King entered the Dauphine's chamber, which Madame de Maintenon scarcely

ever left, except when he was in her apartments. The Princess was so ill

that it was resolved to speak to her of receiving the sacrament.

Prostrated though she was she was surprised at this. She put some

questions as to her state; replies as little terrifying as possible were

given to her, and little by little she was warned against delay.

Grateful for this advice, she said she would prepare herself.

After some time, accidents being feared, Father la Rue, her (Jesuit)

confessor, whom she had always appeared to like, approached her to exhort

her not to delay confession. She looked at him, replied that she

understood him, and then remained silent. Like a sensible man he saw

what was the matter, and at once said that if she had any objection to

confess to him to have no hesitation in admitting it. Thereupon she

indicated that she should like to have M. Bailly, priest of the mission

of the parish of Versailles. He was a man much esteemed, but not

altogether free from the suspicion of Jansenism. Bailly, as it happened,

had gone to Paris. This being told her, the Dauphine asked for Father

Noel, who was instantly sent for.

The excitement that this change of confessor made at a moment so critical

may be imagined. All the cruelty of the tyranny that the King never

ceased to exercise over every member of his family was now apparent.

They could not have a confessor not of his choosing! What was his

surprise and the surprise of all the Court, to find that in these last

terrible moments of life the Dauphine wished to change her confessor,

whose order even she repudiated!

Meanwhile the Dauphin had given way. He had hidden his own illness as

long as he could, so as not to leave the pillow of his Dauphine. Now the

fever he had was too strong to be dissimulated; and the doctors, who

wished to spare him the sight of the horrors they foresaw, forgot nothing

to induce him to stay in his chamber, where, to sustain him, false news

was, from time to time, brought him of the state of his spouse.

The confession of the Dauphine was long. Extreme unction was

administered immediately afterwards; and the holy viaticum directly.

An hour afterwards the Dauphine desired the prayers for the dying to be

said. They told her she was not yet in that state, and with words of

consolation exhorted her to try and get to sleep. Seven doctors of the

Court and of Paris were sent for. They consulted together in the

presence of the King and Madame de Maintenon. All with one voice were in

favour of bleeding at the foot; and in case it did not have the effect

desired, to give an emetic at the end of the night. The bleeding was

executed at seven o'clock in the evening. The return of the fever came

and was found less violent than the preceding. The night was cruel. The

King came early next morning to see the Dauphine. The emetic she took at

about nine o'clock had little effect. The day passed in symptoms each

more sad than the other; consciousness only at rare intervals. All at

once towards evening, the whole chamber fell into dismay. A number of

people were allowed to enter although the King was there. Just before

she expired he left, mounted into his coach at the foot of the grand

staircase, and with Madame de Maintenon and Madame de Caylus went away to

Marly. They were both in the most bitter grief, and had not the courage

to go to the Dauphin. Upon arriving at Marly the King supped in his own

room; and passed a short time with M. d'Orleans and his natural children.

M. le Duc de Berry, entirely occupied with his affliction, which was

great and real, had remained at Versailles with Madame la Duchesse de

Berry, who, transported with joy upon seeing herself delivered from a

powerful rival, to whom, however, she owed all, made her face do duty for

her heart.

Monseigneur le Dauphin, ill and agitated by the most bitter grief, kept

his chamber; but on Saturday morning the 13th, being pressed to go to

Marly to avoid the horror of the noise overhead where the Dauphine was

lying dead, he set out for that place at seven o'clock in the morning.

Shortly after arriving he heard mass in the chapel, and thence was

carried in a chair to the window of one of his rooms. Madame de

Maintenon came to see him there afterwards; the anguish of the interview

was speedily too much for her, and she went away. Early in the morning I

went uninvited to see M. le Dauphin. He showed me that he perceived this

with an air of gentleness and of affection which penetrated me. But I

was terrified with his looks, constrained, fixed and with something wild

about them, with the change in his face and with the marks there, livid

rather than red, that I observed in good number and large; marks observed

by the others also. The Dauphin was standing. In a few minutes he was

apprised that the King had awaked. The tears that he had restrained, now

rolled from his eyes; he turned round at the news but said nothing,

remaining stock still. His three attendants proposed to him, once or

twice, that he should go to the King. He neither spoke nor stirred. I

approached and made signs to him to go, then softly spoke to the same

effect. Seeing that he still remained speechless and motionless, I made

bold to take his arm, representing to him that sooner or later he must

see the King, who expected him, and assuredly with the desire to see and

embrace him; and pressing him in this manner, I took the liberty to

gently push him. He cast upon me a look that pierced my soul and went

away: I followed him some few steps and then withdrew to recover breath;

I never saw him again. May I, by the mercy of God, see him eternally

where God's goodness doubtless has placed him!

The Dauphin reached the chamber of the King, full just then of company.

As soon as, he appeared the King called him and embraced him tenderly

again and again. These first moments, so touching, passed in words

broken by sobs and tears.

Shortly afterwards the King looking at the Dauphin was terrified by the

same things that had previously struck me with affright. Everybody

around was so, also the doctors more than the others. The King ordered

them to feel his pulse; that they found bad, so they said afterwards; for

the time they contented themselves with saying it was not regular, and

that the Dauphin would do wisely to go to bed. The King embraced him

again, recommended him very tenderly to take care of himself, and ordered

him to go to bed. He obeyed and rose no more!

It was now late in the morning. The King had passed a cruel night and

had a bad headache; he saw at his dinner, the few courtiers who presented

themselves, and after dinner went to the Dauphin. The fever had

augmented: the pulse was worse than before. The King passed into the

apartments of Madame de Maintenon, and the Dauphin was left with his

attendants and his doctors. He spent the day in prayers and holy

reading.

On the morrow, Sunday, the uneasiness felt on account of the Dauphin

augmented. He himself did not conceal his belief that he should never

rise again, and that the plot Boudin had warned him of, had been

executed. He explained himself to this effect more than once, and always

with a disdain of earthly grandeur and an incomparable submission and

love of God. It is impossible to describe the general consternation. On

Monday the 15th, the King was bled. The Dauphin was no better than

before. The King and Madame de Maintenon saw him separately several

times during the day, which was passed in prayers and reading.

On Tuesday, the 16th, the Dauphin was worse. He felt himself devoured by

a consuming fire, which the external fever did not seem to justify; but

the pulse was very extraordinary and exceedingly menacing. This was a

deceptive day. The marks on the Dauphin's face extended over all the

body. They were regarded as the marks of measles. Hope arose thereon,

but the doctors and the most clear-sighted of the Court could not forget

that these same marks had shown themselves on the body of the Dauphine; a

fact unknown out of her chamber until after death.

On Wednesday, the 17th, the malady considerably increased. I had news at

all moments of the Dauphin's state from Cheverny, an excellent apothecary

of the King and of my family. He hid nothing from us. He had told us

what he thought of the Dauphine's illness; he told us now what he thought

of the Dauphin's. I no longer hoped therefore, or rather I hoped to the

end, against all hope.

On Wednesday the pains increased. They were like a devouring fire, but

more violent than ever. Very late into the evening the Dauphin sent to

the King for permission to receive the communion early the next morning,

without ceremony and without display, at the mass performed in his

chamber. Nobody heard of this, that evening; it was not known until the

following morning. I was in extreme desolation; I scarcely saw the King

once a day. I did nothing but go in quest of news several times a day,

and to the house of M. de Chevreuse, where I was completely free. M. de

Chevreuse--always calm, always sanguine--endeavoured to prove to us by

his medical reasonings that there was more reason to hope than to fear,

but he did so with a tranquillity that roused my impatience. I returned

home to pass a cruel night.

On Thursday morning, the 18th of February, I learned that the Dauphin,

who had waited for midnight with impatience, had heard mass immediately

after the communion, had passed two hours in devout communication with

God, and that his reason then became embarrassed. Madame de Saint-Simon

told me afterwards that he had received extreme unction: in fine, that he

died at half-past eight. These memoirs are not written to describe my

private sentiments. But in reading them,--if, long after me, they shall

ever appear, my state and that of Madame de Saint-Simon will only too

keenly be felt. I will content myself with saying, that the first days

after the Dauphin's death scarcely appeared to us more than moments; that

I wished to quit all, to withdraw from the Court and the world, and that

I was only hindered by the wisdom, conduct, and power over me of Madame

de Saint-Simon, who yet had much trouble to subdue my sorrowful desires.

Let me say something now of the young prince and his spouse, whom we thus

lost in such quick succession.

Never did princess arrive amongst us so young with so much instruction,

or with such capacity to profit by instruction. Her skilful father, who

thoroughly knew our Court, had painted it to her, and had made her

acquainted with the only manner of making herself happy there. From the

first moment of her arrival she had acted upon his lessons. Gentle,

timid, but adroit, fearing to give the slightest pain to anybody, and

though all lightness and vivacity, very capable of far-stretching views;

constraint, even to annoyance, cost her nothing, though she felt all its

weight. Complacency was natural to her, flowed from her, and was

exhibited towards every member of the Court.

Regularly plain, with cheeks hanging, a forehead too prominent, a nose

without meaning, thick biting lips, hair and eye-brows of dark chestnut,

and well planted; the most speaking and most beautiful eyes in the world;

few teeth, and those all rotten, about which she was the first to talk

and jest; the most beautiful complexion and skin; not much bosom, but

what there was admirable; the throat long, with the suspicion of a

goitre, which did not ill become her; her head carried gallantly,

majestically, gracefully; her mien noble; her smile most expressive; her

figure long, round, slender, easy, perfectly-shaped; her walk that of a

goddess upon the clouds: with such qualifications she pleased supremely.

Grace accompanied her every step, and shone through her manners and her

most ordinary conversation. An air always simple and natural, often

naive, but seasoned with wit-this with the ease peculiar to her, charmed

all who approached her, and communicated itself to them. She wished to

please even the most useless and the most ordinary persons, and yet

without making an effort to do so. You were tempted to believe her

wholly and solely devoted to those with whom she found herself. Her

gaiety--young, quick, and active--animated all; and her nymph-like

lightness carried her everywhere, like a whirlwind which fills several

places at once, and gives them movement and life. She was the ornament

of all diversions, the life and soul of all pleasure, and at balls

ravished everybody by the justness and perfection of her dancing. She

could be amused by playing for small sums but liked high gambling better,

and was an excellent, good-tempered, and bold gamester.

She spared nothing, not even her health, to gain Madame de Maintenon, and

through her the King. Her suppleness towards them was without example,

and never for a moment was at fault. She accompanied it with all the

discretion that her knowledge of them, acquired by study and experience,

had given her, and could measure their dispositions to an inch. In this

way she had acquired a familiarity with them such as none of the King's

children, not even the bastards, had approached.

In public, serious, measured, with the King, and in timid decorum with

Madame de Maintenon, whom she never addressed except as my aunt, thus

prettily confounding friendship and rank. In private, prattling,

skipping, flying around them, now perched upon the sides of their arm-

chairs, now playing upon their knees, she clasped them round the neck,

embraced them, kissed them, caressed them, rumpled them, tickled them

under the chin, tormented them, rummaged their tables, their papers,

their letters, broke open the seals, and read the contents in spite of

opposition, if she saw that her waggeries were likely to be received in

good part. When the King was with his ministers, when he received

couriers, when the most important affairs were under discussion, she was

present, and with such liberty, that, hearing the King and Madame de

Maintenon speak one evening with affection of the Court of England, at

the time when peace was hoped for from Queen Anne, "My aunt," she said,

"you must admit that in England the queens govern better than the kings,

and do you know why, my aunt?" asked she, running about and gambolling

all the time, "because under kings it is women who govern, and men under

queens." The joke is that they both laughed, and said she was right.

The King really could not do without her. Everything went wrong with him

if she was not by; even at his public supper, if she were away an

additional cloud of seriousness and silence settled around him. She took

great care to see him every day upon arriving and departing; and if some

ball in winter, or some pleasure party in summer, made her lose half the

night, she nevertheless adjusted things so well that she went and

embraced the King the moment he was up, and amused him with a description

of the fete.

She was so far removed from the thoughts of death, that on Candlemas-day

she talked with Madame de Saint-Simon of people who had died since she

had been at Court, and of what she would herself do in old age, of the

life she would lead, and of such like matters. Alas! it pleased God,

for our misfortune, to dispose of her differently.

With all her coquetry--and she was not wanting in it--never woman seemed

to take less heed of her appearance; her toilette was finished in a

moment, she cared nothing for finery except at balls and fetes; if she

displayed a little at other times it was simply in order to please the

king. If the Court subsisted after her it was only to languish. Never

was princess so regretted, never one so worthy of it: regrets have not

yet passed away, the involuntary and secret bitterness they caused still

remain, with a frightful blank not yet filled up.

Let me now turn to the Dauphin.

The youth of this prince made every one tremble. Stern and choleric to

the last degree, and even against inanimate objects; impetuous with

frenzy, incapable of suffering the slightest resistance even from the

hours and the elements, without flying into a passion that threatened to

destroy his body; obstinate to excess; passionately fond of all kind of

voluptuousness, of women, with even a worse passion strongly developed at

the same time; fond not less of wine, good living, hunting, music, and

gaming, in which last he could not endure to be beaten; in fine,

abandoned to every passion, and transported by every pleasure; oftentimes

wild, naturally disposed towards cruelty; barbarous in raillery, and with

an all-powerful capacity for ridicule.

He looked down upon all men as from the sky, as atoms with whom he had

nothing in common; even his brothers scarcely appeared connecting links

between himself and human nature, although all had been educated together

in perfect equality. His sense and penetration shone through everything.

His replies, even in anger, astonished everybody. He amused himself with

the most abstract knowledge. The extent and vivacity of his intellect

were prodigious, and rendered him incapable of applying himself to one

study at a time.

So much intelligence and of such a kind, joined to such vivacity,

sensibility, and passion, rendered his education difficult. But God, who

is the master of all hearts, and whose divine spirit breathes where he

wishes, worked a miracle on this prince between his eighteenth and

twentieth years. From this abyss he came out affable, gentle, humane,

moderate, patient, modest, penitent, and humble; and austere, even more

than harmonised with his position. Devoted to his duties, feeling them

to be immense, he thought only how to unite the duties of son and subject

with those he saw to be destined for himself. The shortness of each day

was his only sorrow. All his force, all his consolation, was in prayer

and pious reading. He clung with joy to the cross of his Saviour,

repenting sincerely of his past pride. The King, with his outside

devotion, soon saw with secret displeasure his own life censured by that

of a prince so young, who refused himself a new desk in order to give the

money it would cost to the poor, and who did not care to accept some new

gilding with which it was proposed to furnish his little room.

Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne, alarmed at so austere a spouse, left

nothing undone in order to soften him. Her charms, with which he was

smitten, the cunning and the unbridled importunities of the young ladies

of her suite, disguised in a hundred different forms--the attraction of

parties and pleasures to which he was far from insensible, all were

displayed every day.. But for a long time he behaved not like a prince

but like a novice. On one occasion he refused to be present at a ball on

Twelfth Night, and in various ways made himself ridiculous at Court.

In due time, however, he comprehended that the faithful performance of

the duties proper to the state in which he had been placed, would be the

conduct most agreeable to God. The bark of the tree, little by little,

grew softer without affecting the solidity of the trunk. He applied

himself to the studies which were necessary, in order to instruct himself

in public affairs, and at the same time he lent himself more to the

world, doing so with so much grace, with such a natural air, that

everybody soon began to grow reconciled to him.

The discernment of this prince was such, that, like the bee, he gathered

the most perfect substance from the best and most beautiful flowers. He

tried to fathom men, to draw from them the instruction and the light that

he could hope for. He conferred sometimes, but rarely, with others

besides his chosen few. I was the only one, not of that number, who had

complete access to him; with me he opened his heart upon the present and

the future with confidence, with sageness, with discretion. A volume

would not describe sufficiently my private interviews with this prince,

what love of good! what forgetfulness of self! what researches! what

fruit! what purity of purpose!--May I say it? what reflection of the

divinity in that mind, candid, simple, strong, which as much as is

possible here below had preserved the image of its maker!

If you had business, and thought of opening it to him, say for a quarter

of an hour or half an hour, he gave you oftentimes two hours or more,

according as he found himself at liberty. Yet he was without verbiage,

compliments, prefaces, pleasantries, or other hindrances; went straight

to the point, and allowed you to go also.

His undue scruples of devotion diminished every day, as he found himself

face to face with the world; above all, he was well cured of the

inclination for piety in preference to talent, that is to say, for making

a man ambassador, minister, or general, rather on account of his

devotedness than of his capacity or experience. He saw the danger of

inducing hypocrisy by placing devotion too high as a qualification for

employ.

It was he who was not afraid to say publicly, in the Salon of Marly, that

"a king is made for his subjects, and not the subjects for him;" a remark

that, except under his own reign, which God did not permit, would have

been the most frightful blasphemy.

Great God! what a spectacle you gave to us in him. What tender but

tranquil views he had! What submission and love of God! What a

consciousness of his own nothingness, and of his sins! What a

magnificent idea of the infinite mercy! What religious and humble fear!

What tempered confidence! What patience!

What constant goodness for all who approached him! France fell, in fine,

under this last chastisement. God showed to her a prince she merited

not. The earth was not worthy of him; he was ripe already for the

blessed eternity!

CHAPTER LX

The consternation at the event that had taken place was real and general;

it penetrated to foreign lands and courts. Whilst the people wept for

him who thought only of their relief, and all France lamented a prince

who only wished to reign in order to render it flourishing and happy,

the sovereigns of Europe publicly lamented him whom they regarded as

their example, and whose virtues were preparing him to be their

arbitrator, and the peaceful and revered moderator of nations. The Pope

was so touched that he resolved of himself to set aside all rule and hold

expressly a consistory; deplored there the infinite loss the church and

all Christianity had sustained, and pronounced a complete eulogium of the

prince who caused the just regrets of all Europe.

On Saturday, the 13th, the corpse of the Dauphine was left in its bed

with uncovered face, and opened the same evening at eleven in presence of

all the faculty. On the 15th it was placed in the grand cabinet, where

masses were continually said.

On Friday, the 19th, the corpse of Monseigneur le Dauphin was opened, a

little more than twenty-four hours after his death, also in presence of

all the faculty. His heart was immediately carried to Versailles, and

placed by the side of that of Madame la Dauphine. Both were afterwards

taken to the Val de Grace. They arrived at midnight with a numerous

cortege. All was finished in two hours. The corpse of Monseigneur le

Dauphin was afterwards carried from Marly to Versailles, and placed by

the side of Madame la Dauphine on the same estrade.

On Tuesday, the 23rd February, the two bodies were taken from Versailles

to Saint-Denis in the same chariot. The procession began to enter Paris

by the Porte Saint-Honore at two o'clock in the morning, and arrived

between seven and eight o'clock in the morning at Saint-Denis. There was

great order in Paris, and no confusion.

On Tuesday, the 8th March, Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne, eldest son of

Monsieur le Dauphin, who had succeeded to the name and rank of his

father, being then only five years and some months old, and who had been

seized with measles within a few days, expired, in spite of all the

remedies given him. His brother, M. le Duc d'Anjou, who still sucked,

was taken ill at the same time, but thanks to the care of the Duchesse de

Ventadour, whom in after life he never forgot, and who administered an

antidote, escaped, and is now King.

Thus three Dauphins died in less than a year, and father, mother, and

eldest son in twenty-four days! On Wednesday, the 9th of March, the

corpse of the little Dauphin was opened at night, and without any

ceremony his heart was taken to the Val de Grace, his body to Saint-

Denis, and placed by the side of those of his father and mother. M. le

Duc d'Anjou, now, sole remaining child, succeeded to the title and to the

rank of Dauphin.

I have said that the bodies of the Dauphin and the Dauphine were opened

in presence of all the faculty. The report made upon the opening of the

latter was not consolatory. Only one of the doctors declared there were

no signs of poison; the rest were of the opposite opinion. When the body

of the Dauphin was opened, everybody was terrified. His viscera were

all dissolved; his heart had no consistency; its substance flowed through

the hands of those who tried to hold it; an intolerable odour, too,

filled the apartment. The majority of the doctors declared they saw in

all this the effect of a very subtle and very violent poison, which had

consumed all the interior of the body, like a burning fire. As before,

there was one of their number who held different views, but this was

Marechal, who declared that to persuade the King of the existence of

secret enemies of his family would be to kill him by degrees.

This medical opinion that the cause of the Dauphin's and the Dauphine's

death was poison, soon spread like wildfire over the Court and the city.

Public indignation fell upon M. d'Orleans, who was at once pointed out as

the poisoner. The rapidity with which this rumour filled the Court,

Paris, the provinces, the least frequented places, the most isolated

monasteries, the most deserted solitudes, all foreign countries and all

the peoples of Europe, recalled to me the efforts of the cabal, which had

previously spread such black reports against the honour of him whom all

the world now wept, and showed that the cabal, though dispersed, was not

dissolved.

In effect M. du Maine, now the head of the cabal, who had all to gain and

nothing to lose by the death of the Dauphin and Dauphine, from both of

whom he had studiously held aloof, and who thoroughly disliked M.

d'Orleans, did all in his power to circulate this odious report. He

communicated it to Madame de Maintenon, by whom it reached the King. In

a short time all the Court, down to the meanest valets, publicly cried

vengeance upon M. d'Orleans, with an air of the most unbridled

indignation and of perfect security.

M. d'Orleans, with respect to the two losses that afflicted the public,

had an interest the most directly opposite to that of M. du Maine; he had

everything to gain by the life of the Dauphin and Dauphine, and unless he

had been a monster vomited forth from hell he could not have been guilty

of the crime with which he was charged. Nevertheless, the odious

accusation flew from mouth to mouth, and took refuge in every breast.

Let us compare the interest M. d'Orleans had in the life of the Dauphin

with the interest M. du Maine had in his death, and then look about for

the poisoner. But this is not all. Let us remember how M. le Duc

d'Orleans was treated by Monseigneur, and yet what genuine grief he

displayed at the death of that prince. What a contrast was this conduct

with that of M. du Maine at another time, who, after leaving the King

(Louis XIV.) at the point of death, delivered over to an ignorant

peasant, imitated that peasant so naturally and so pleasantly, that

bursts of laughter extended to the gallery, and scandalized the passers-

by. This is a celebrated and very characteristic fact, which will find

its proper place if I live long enough to carry these memoirs up to the

death of the King.

M. d'Orleans was, however, already in such bad odour, that people were

ready to believe anything to his discredit. They drank in this new

report so rapidly, that on the 17th of February, as he went with Madame

to give the holy water to the corpse of the Dauphine, the crowd of the

people threw out all sorts of accusations against him, which both he and

Madame very distinctly heard, without daring to show it, and were in

trouble, embarrassment, and indignation, as may be imagined. There was

even ground for fearing worse from an excited and credulous populace when

M. d'Orleans went alone to give the holy water to the corpse of the

Dauphin. For he had to endure on his passage atrocious insults from a

populace which uttered aloud the most frightful observations, which

pointed the finger at him with the coarsest epithets, and which believed

it was doing him a favour in not falling upon him and tearing him to

pieces!

Similar circumstances took place at the funeral procession. The streets

resounded more with cries of indignation against M. d'Orleans and abuse

of him than with grief. Silent precautions were not forgotten in Paris

in order to check the public fury, the boiling over of which was feared

at different moments. The people recompensed themselves by gestures,

cries, and other atrocities, vomited against M. d'Orleans. Near the

Palais Royal, before which the procession passed, the increase of shouts,

of cries, of abuse, was so great, that for some minutes everything was to

be feared.

It may be imagined what use M. du Maine contrived to make of the public

folly, the rumours of the Paris cafes, the feeling of the salon of Marly,

that of the Parliament, the reports that arrived from the provinces and

foreign countries. In a short time so overpowered was M. d'Orleans by

the feeling against him everywhere exhibited, that acting upon very ill-

judged advice he spoke to the King upon the subject, and begged to be

allowed to surrender himself as a prisoner at the Bastille, until his

character was cleared from stain.

I was terribly annoyed when I heard that M. d'Orleans had taken this

step, which could not possibly lead to good. I had quite another sort of

scheme in my head which I should have proposed to him had I known of his

resolve. Fortunately, however, the King was persuaded not to grant M.

d'Orleans' request, out of which therefore nothing came. The Duke

meanwhile lived more abandoned by everybody than ever; if in the salon he

approached a group of courtiers, each, without the least hesitation,

turned to the right or to the left and went elsewhere, so that it was

impossible for him to accost anybody except by surprise, and if he did

so, he was left alone directly after with the most marked indecency.

In a word, I was the only person, I say distinctly, the only person,

who spoke to M. d'Orleans as before. Whether in his own house or in the

palace I conversed with him, seated myself by his side in a corner of the

salon, where assuredly we had no third person to fear, and walked with

him in the gardens under the very windows of the King and of Madame de

Maintenon.

Nevertheless, all my friends warned me that if I pursued this conduct so

opposite to that in vogue, I should assuredly fall into disgrace. I held

firm. I thought that when we did not believe our friends guilty we ought

not to desert them, but, on the contrary, to draw closer to them, as by

honour bound, give them the consolation due from us, and show thus to the

world our hatred for calumny. My friends insisted; gave me to understand

that the King disapproved my conduct, that Madame de Maintenon was

annoyed at it: they forgot nothing to awaken my fears. But I was

insensible to all they said to me, and did not omit seeing M. d'Orleans a

single day; often stopping with him two and three hours at a time.

A few weeks had passed over thus, when one morning M. de Beauvilliers

called upon me, and urged me to plead business, and at once withdraw to

La Ferme; intimating that if I did not do so of my own accord, I should

be compelled by an order from the King. He never explained himself more

fully, but I have always remained persuaded that the King or Madame de

Maintenon had sent him to me, and had told him that I should be banished

if I did not banish myself. Neither my absence nor my departure made any

stir; nobody suspected anything. I was carefully informed, without

knowing by whom, when my exile was likely to end: and I returned, after a

month or five weeks, straight to the Court, where I kept up the same

intimacy with M. d'Orleans as before.

But he was not yet at the end of his misfortunes. The Princesse des

Ursins had not forgiven him his pleasantry at her expense. Chalais, one

of her most useful agents, was despatched by her on a journey so

mysterious that its obscurity has never been illuminated. He was

eighteen days on the road, unknown, concealing his name, and passing

within two leagues of Chalais, where his father and mother lived, without

giving them any signs of life, although all were on very good terms. He

loitered secretly in Poitou, and at last arrested there a Cordelier monk,

of middle age, in the convent of Bressuire, who cried, "Ah! I am lost!"

upon being caught. Chalais conducted him to the prison of Poitiers,

whence he despatched to Madrid an officer of dragoons he had brought with

him, and who knew this Cordelier, whose name has never transpired,

although it is certain he was really a Cordelier, and that he was

returning from as journey in Italy and Germany that had extended as far

as Vienna. Chalais pushed on to Paris, and came to Marly on the 27th of

April, a day on which the King had taken medicine. After dinner he was

taken by Torcy to the King, with whom he remained half an hour, delaying

thus the Council of State for the same time, and then returned

immediately to Paris. So much trouble had not been taken for no purpose:

and Chalais had not prostituted himself to play the part of prevot to a

miserable monk without expecting good winnings from the game.

Immediately afterwards the most dreadful rumours were everywhere in

circulation against M. d'Orleans, who, it was said, had poisoned the

Dauphin and Dauphine by means of this monk, who, nevertheless, was far

enough away from our Prince and Princess at the time of their death. In

an instant Paris resounded with these horrors; the provinces were

inundated with them, and immediately afterwards foreign countries--this

too with an incredible rapidity, which plainly showed how well the plot

had been prepared--and a publicity that reached the very caverns of the

earth. Madame des Ursins was not less served in Spain than M. du Maine

and Madame de Maintenon in France. The anger of the public was doubled.

The Cordelier was brought, bound hand and foot, to the Bastille, and

delivered up to D'Argenson, Lieutenant of Police.

This D'Argenson rendered an account to the King of many things which

Pontchartrain, as Secretary of State, considered to belong to his

department. Pontchartrain was vexed beyond measure at this, and could

not see without despair his subaltern become a kind of minister more

feared, more valued, more in consideration than he, and conduct himself

always in such manner that he gained many powerful friends, and made but

few enemies, and those of but little moment. M. d'Orleans bowed before

the storm that he could not avert; it could not increase the general

desertion; he had accustomed himself to his solitude, and, as he had

never heard this monk spoken of, had not the slightest fear on his

account. D'Argenson, who questioned the Cordelier several times, and

carried his replies daily to the King, was sufficiently adroit to pay his

court to M. d'Orleans, by telling him that the prisoner had uttered

nothing which concerned him, and by representing the services he did M.

d'Orleans with the King. Like a sagacious man, D'Argenson saw the

madness of popular anger devoid of all foundation, and which could not

hinder M. d'Orleans from being a very considerable person in France,

during a minority that--the age of the King showed to be pretty near.

He took care, therefore, to avail himself of the mystery which surrounded

his office, to ingratiate himself more and more with M. d'Orleans, whom

he had always carefully though secretly served; and his conduct, as will

be seen in due time, procured him a large fortune.

But I have gone too far. I must retrace my steps, to speak of things I

have omitted to notice in their proper place.

The two Dauphins and the Dauphine were interred at Saint-Denis, on

Monday, the 18th of April. The funeral oration was pronounced by Maboul,

Bishop of Aleth, and pleased; M. de Metz, chief chaplain, officiated; the

service commenced at about eleven o'clock. As it was very long, it was

thought well to have at hand a large vase of vinegar, in case anybody

should be ill. M. de Metz having taken the first oblation, and observing

that very little wine was left for the second, asked for more. This

large vase of vinegar was supposed to be wine, and M. de Metz, who wished

to strengthen himself, said, washing his fingers over the chalice, "fill

right up." He swallowed all at a draught, and did not perceive until the

end that he had drunk vinegar; his grimace and his complaint caused some

little laughter round him; and he often related this adventure, which

much soured him. On Monday, the 20th of May, the funeral service for the

Dauphin and Dauphine was performed at Notre Dame.

Let me here say, that before the Prince and his spouse were buried, that

is to say, the 6th of April, the King gave orders for the recommencement

of the usual play at Marly; and that M. le Duc de Berry and Madame la

Duchesse de Berry presided in the salon at the public lansquenet and

brelan; and the different gaming tables for all the Court. In a short

time the King dined in Madame de Maintenon's apartments once or twice a

week, and had music there. And all this, as I have remarked, with the

corpse of the Dauphin and that of the Dauphine still above ground.

The gap left by the death of the Dauphine could not, however, be easily

filled up. Some months after her loss, the King began to feel great

ennui steal upon him in the hours when he had no work with his ministers.

The few ladies admitted into the apartments of Madame de Maintenon when

he was there, were unable to entertain him. Music, frequently

introduced, languished from that cause. Detached scenes from the

comedies of Moliere were thought of, and were played by the King's

musicians, comedians for the nonce. Madame de Maintenon introduced, too,

the Marechal de Villeroy, to amuse the King by relating their youthful

adventures.

Evening amusements became more and more frequent in Madame de Maintenon's

apartments, where, however, nothing could fill up the void left by the

poor Dauphine.

I have said little of the grief I felt at the loss of the prince whom

everybody so deeply regretted. As will be believed, it was bitter and

profound. The day of his death, I barricaded myself in my own house, and

only left it for one instant in order to join the King at his promenade

in the gardens. The vexation I felt upon seeing him followed almost as

usual, did not permit me to stop more than an instant. All the rest of

the stay at Versailles, I scarcely left my room, except to visit M. de

Beauvilliers. I will admit that, to reach M. de Beauvilliers' house, I

made a circuit between the canal and the gardens of Versailles, so as to

spare myself the sight of the chamber of death, which I had not force

enough to approach. I admit that I was weak. I was sustained neither by

the piety, superior to all things, of M. de Beauvilliers, nor by that of

Madame de Saint-Simon, who nevertheless not the less suffered. The truth

is, I was in despair. To those who know my position, this will appear

less strange than my being able to support at all so complete a

misfortune. I experienced this sadness precisely at the same age as that

of my father when he lost Louis XIII.; but he at least had enjoyed the

results of favour, whilst I, 'Gustavi paululum mellis, et ecce morior.'

Yet this was not all.

In the casket of the Dauphin there were several papers he had asked me

for. I had drawn them up in all confidence; he had preserved them in the

same manner. There was one, very large, in my hand, which if seen by the

King, would have robbed me of his favour for ever; ruined me without hope

of return. We do not think in time of such catastrophes. The King knew

my handwriting; he did not know my mode of thought, but might pretty well

have guessed it. I had sometimes supplied him with means to do so; my

good friends of the Court had done the rest. The King when he discovered

my paper would also discover on what close terms of intimacy I had been

with the Dauphin, of which he had no suspicion. My anguish was then

cruel, and there seemed every reason to believe that if my secret was

found out, I should be disgraced and exiled during all the rest of the

King's reign.

What a contrast between the bright heaven I had so recently gazed upon

and the abyss now yawning at my feet! But so it is in the Court and the

world! I felt then the nothingness of even the most desirable future, by

an inward sentiment, which, nevertheless, indicates how we cling to it.

Fear on account of the contents of the casket had scarcely any power over

me. I was obliged to reflect in order to return to it from time to time.

Regret for this incomparable Dauphin pierced my heart, and suspended all

the faculties of my soul. For a long time I wished to fly from the

Court, so that I might never again see the deceitful face of the world;

and it was some time before prudence and honour got the upper hand.

It so happened that the, Duc de Beauvilliers himself was able to carry

this casket to the King, who had the key of it. M. de Beauvilliers in

fact resolved not to trust it out of his own hands, but to wait until he

was well enough to take it to the King, so that he might then try to hide

my papers from view. This task was difficult, for he did not know the

position in the casket of these dangerous documents, and yet it was our

only resource. This terrible uncertainty lasted more than a fortnight.

On Tuesday, the 1st of March, M. de Beauvilliers carried the casket to

the King. He came to me shortly after, and before sitting down,

indicated by signs that there was no further occasion for fear. He then

related to me that he had found the casket full of a mass of documents,

finance projects, reports from the provinces, papers of all kinds, that

he had read some of them to the King on purpose to weary him, and had

succeeded so well that the King soon was satisfied by hearing only the

titles; and, at last, tired out by not finding anything important, said

it was not worth while to read more, and that there was nothing to do but

to throw everything into the fire. The Duke assured me that he did not

wait to be told twice, being all the more anxious to comply, because at

the bottom of the casket he had seen some of my handwriting, which he had

promptly covered up in taking other papers to read their titles to the

King; and that immediately the word "fire" was uttered, he confusedly

threw all the papers into the casket, and then emptied it near the fire,

betweein the King and Madame de Maintenon, taking good care as he did so

that my documents should not be seen,--even cautiously using the tongs in

order to prevent any piece flying away, and not quitting the fireplace

until he had seen every page consumed. We embraced each other, in the

relief we reciprocally felt, relief proportioned to the danger we had

run.

VOLUME 9.

CHAPTER LXI

Let me here relate an incident which should have found a place earlier,

but which has been omitted in order that what has gone before might be

uninterrupted. On the 16th of the previous July the King made a journey

to Fontainebleau, where he remained until the 14th of September. I

should suppress the bagatelle which happened on the occasion of this

journey, if it did not serve more and more to characterize the King.

Madame la Duchesse de Berry was in the family way for the first time,

had been so for nearly three months, was much inconvenienced, and had a

pretty strong fever. M. Fagon, the doctor, thought it would be imprudent

for her not to put off travelling for a day or two. Neither she nor M,

d'Orleans dared to speak about it. M. le Duc de Berry timidly hazarded a

word, and was ill received. Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans more timid

still, addressed herself to Madame, and to Madame de Maintenon, who,

indifferent as they might be respecting Madame la Duchesse de Berry,

thought her departure so hazardous that, supported by Fagon, they spoke

of it to the King. It was useless. They were not daunted, however, and

this dispute lasted three or four days. The end of it was, that the King

grew thoroughly angry and agreed, by way of capitulation, that the

journey should be performed in a boat instead of a coach.

It was arranged that Madame la Duchesse de Berry should leave Marly,

where the King then was, on the 13th, sleep at the Palais Royal that

night and repose herself there all the next day and night, that on the

15th she should set out for Petit-Bourg, where the King was to halt for

the night, and arrive like him, on the 16th, at Fontainebleau, the whole

journey to be by the river. M. le Duc de Berry had permission to

accompany his wife; but during the two nights they were to rest in Paris

the King angrily forbade them to go anywhere, even to the Opera, although

that building joined the Palais Royal, and M. d'Orleans' box could be

reached without going out of the palace.

On the 14th the King, under pretence of inquiry after them, repeated this

prohibition to M. le Duc de Berry and Madame his wife, and also to M.

d'Orleans and Madame d'Orleans, who had been included in it. He carried

his caution so far as to enjoin Madame de Saint-Simon to see that Madame

la Duchesse de Berry obeyed the instructions she had received. As may be

believed, his orders were punctually obeyed. Madame de Saint-Simon could

not refuse to remain and sleep in the Palais Royal, where the apartment

of the queen-mother was given to her. All the while the party was shut

up there was a good deal of gaming in order to console M. le Duc de Berry

for his confinement.

The provost of the merchants had orders to prepare boats for the trip to

Fontainebleau. He had so little time that they were ill chosen. Madame

la Duchesse de Berry embarked, however, on the 15th, and arrived, with

fever, at ten o'clock at night at Petit-Bourg, where the King appeared

rejoiced by an obedience so exact.

On the morrow the journey recommenced. In passing Melun, the boat of

Madame la Duchesse de Berry struck against the bridge, was nearly

capsized, and almost swamped, so that they were all in great danger.

They got off, however, with fear and a delay. Disembarking in great

disorder at Valvin, where their equipages were waiting for there, they

arrived at Fontainebleau two hours after midnight. The King, pleased

beyond measure, went the next morning to see Madame la Duchesse de Berry

in the beautiful apartment of the queen-mother that had been given to

her. From the moment of her arrival she had been forced to keep her bed,

and at six o'clock in the morning of the 21st of July she miscarried and

was delivered of a daughter, still-born. Madame de Saint-Simon ran to

tell the King; he did not appear much moved; he had been obeyed! The

Duchesse de Beauvilliers and the Marquise de Chatillon were named by the

King to carry the embryo to Saint-Denis. As it was only a girl, and as

the miscarriage had no ill effect, consolation soon came.

It was some little time after this occurrence, that we heard of the

defeat of the Czar by the Grand Vizier upon the Pruth. The Czar, annoyed

by the protection the Porte had accorded to the King of Sweden (in

retirement at Bender), made an appeal to arms, and fell into the same

error as that which had occasioned the defeat of the King of Sweden by

him. The Turks drew him to the Pruth across deserts supplied with

nothing; if he did not risk all, by a very unequal battle, he must

perish. The Czar was at the head of sixty thousand men: he lost more

than thirty thousand on the Pruth, the rest were dying of hunger and

misery; and he, without any resources, could scarcely avoid surrendering

himself and his forces to the Turks. In this pressing extremity, a

common woman whom he had taken away from her husband, a drummer in the

army, and whom he had publicly espoused after having repudiated and

confined his own wife in a convent,--proposed that he should try by

bribery to induce the Grand Vizier to allow him and the wreck of his

forces to retreat The Czar approved of the proposition, without hoping

for success from it. He sent to the Grand Vizier and ordered him to be

spoken to in secret. The Vizier was dazzled by the gold, the precious

stones, and several valuable things that were offered to him. He

accepted and received them; and signed a treaty by which the Czar was

permitted to retire, with all who accompanied him, into his own states by

the shortest road, the Turks to furnish him with provisions, with which

he was entirely unprovided. The Czar, on his side, agreed to give up

Azof as soon as he returned; destroy all the forts and burn all the

vessels that he had upon the Black Sea; allow the King of Sweden to

return by Pomerania; and to pay the Turks and their Prince all the

expenses of the war.

The Grand Vizier found such an opposition in the Divan to this treaty,

and such boldness in the minister of the King of Sweden, who accompanied

him, in exciting against him all the chiefs of the army, that it was

within an ace of being broken; and the Czar, with every one left to him,

of being made prisoner. The latter was in no condition to make even the

least resistance. The Grand Vizier had only to will it, in order to

execute it on the spot. In addition to the glory of leading captive to

Constantinople the Czar, his Court, and his troops, there would have been

his ransom, which must have cost not a little. But if he had been thus

stripped of his riches, they would have been for the Sultan, and the

Grand Vizier preferred having them for himself. He braved it then with

authority and menaces, and hastened the Czar's departure and his own.

The Swedish minister, charged with protests from the principal Turkish

chiefs, hurried to Constantinople, where the Grand Vizier was strangled

upon arriving.

The Czar never forgot this service of his wife, by whose courage and

presence of mind he had been saved. The esteem he conceived for her,

joined to his friendship, induced him to crown her Czarina, and to

consult her upon all his affairs and all his schemes. Escaped from

danger, he was a long time without giving up Azof, or demolishing his

forts on the Black Sea. As for his vessels, he kept them nearly all, and

would not allow the King of Sweden to return into Germany, as he had

agreed, thus almost lighting up a fresh war with the Turk.

On the 6th of November, 1711, at about eight o'clock in the evening, the

shock of an earthquake was felt in Paris and at Versailles; but it was so

slight that few people perceived it. In several places towards Touraine

and Poitou, in Saxony, and in some of the German towns near, it was very

perceptible at the same day and hour. At this date a new tontine was

established in Paris.

I have so often spoken of Marshal Catinat, of his virtue, wisdom,

modesty, and disinterestedness; of the rare superiority of his

sentiments, and of his great qualities as captain, that nothing remains

for me to say except that he died at this time very advanced in years,

at his little house of Saint-Gratien, near Saint-Denis, where he had

retired, and which he seldom quitted, although receiving there but few

friends. By his simplicity and frugality, his contempt for worldly

distinction, and his uniformity of conduct, he recalled the memory of

those great men who, after the best-merited triumphs, peacefully returned

to the plough, still loving their country and but little offended by the

ingratitude of the Rome they had so well served. Catinat placed his

philosophy at the service of his piety. He had intelligence, good sense,

ripe reflection; and he never forgot his origin; his dress, his

equipages, his furniture, all were of the greatest simplicity. His air

and his deportment were so also. He was tall, dark, and thin; had an

aspect pensive, slow, and somewhat mean; with very fine and expressive

eyes. He deplored the signal faults that he saw succeed each other

unceasingly; the gradual extinction of all emulation; the luxury, the

emptiness, the ignorance, the confusion of ranks; the inquisition in the

place of the police: he saw all the signs of destruction, and he used to

say it was only a climax of dangerous disorder that could restore order

to the realm.

Vendome was one of the few to whom the death of the Dauphin and the

Dauphine brought hope and joy. He had deemed himself expatriated for the

rest of his life. He saw, now, good chances before him of returning to

our Court, and of playing a part there again. He had obtained some

honour in Spain; he aimed at others even higher, and hoped to return to

France with all the honours of a Prince of the Blood. His idleness, his

free living, his debauchery, had prolonged his stay upon the frontier,

where he had more facilities for gratifying his tastes than at Madrid.

In that city, it is true, he did not much constrain himself, but he was

forced to do so to some extent by courtly usages. He was, then, quite at

home on the frontier; there was nothing to do; for the Austrians,

weakened by the departure of the English, were quite unable to attack;

and Vendome, floating upon the delights of his new dignities, thought

only of enjoying himself in the midst of profound idleness, under pretext

that operations could not at once be commenced.

In order to be more at liberty he separated from the general officers,

and established himself with his valets and two or three of his most

familiar friends, cherished companions everywhere, at Vignarez, a little

isolated hamlet, almost deserted, on the sea-shore and in the kingdom of

Valencia. His object was to eat fish there to his heart's content. He

carried out that object, and filled himself to repletion for nearly a

month. He became unwell--his diet, as may be believed, was enough to

cause this--but his illness increased so rapidly, and in so strange a

manner, after having for a long time seemed nothing that the few around

him suspected poison, and sent on all sides for assistance. But the

malady would not wait; it augmented rapidly with strange symptoms.

Vendome could not sign a will that was presented to him; nor a letter to

the King, its which he asked that his brother might be permitted to

return to Court. Everybody near flew from him and abandoned him, so that

he remained in the hands of three or four of the meanest valets, whilst

the rest robbed him of everything and decamped. He passed thus the last

two or three days of his life, without a priest,--no mention even had

been made of one,--without other help than that of a single surgeon.

The three or four valets who remained near him, seeing him at his last

extremity, seized hold of the few things he still possessed, and for want

of better plunder, dragged off his bedclothes and the mattress from under

him. He piteously cried to them at least not to leave him to die naked

upon the bare bed. I know not whether they listened to him.

Thus died on Friday, the 10th of June, 1712, the haughtiest of men; and

the happiest, except in the later years of his life. After having been

obliged to speak of him so often, I get rid of him now, once and for

ever. He was fifty-eight years old; but in spite of the blind and

prodigious favour he had enjoyed, that favour had never been able to make

ought but a cabal hero out of a captain who was a very bad general, and a

man whose vices were the shame of humanity. His death restored life and

joy to all Spain.

Aguilar, a friend of the Duc de Noailles, was accused of having poisoned

him; but took little pains to defend himself, inasmuch as little pains

were taken to substantiate the accusation. The Princesse des Ursins, who

had so well profited by his life in order to increase her own greatness,

did not profit less by his death. She felt her deliverance from a new

Don Juan of Spain who had ceased to be supple in her hands, and who might

have revived, in the course of time, all the power and authority he had

formerly enjoyed in France. She was not shocked them by the joy which

burst out without constraint; nor by the free talk of the Court, the

city, the army, of all Spain. But in order to sustain what she had done,

and cheaply pay her court to M. du Maine, Madame de Maintenon, and even

to the King, she ordered that the corpse of this hideous monster of

greatness and of fortune should be carried to the Escurial. This was

crowning the glory of M. de Vendome in good earnest; for no private

persons are buried in the Escurial, although several are to be found in

Saint-Denis. But meanwhile, until I speak of the visit I made to the

Escurial--I shall do so if I live long enough to carry these memoirs up

to the death of M. d'Orleans,--let me say something of that illustrious

sepulchre.

The Pantheon is the place where only the bodies of kings and queens who

have had posterity are admitted. In a separate place, near, though not

on the same floor, and resembling a library, the bodies of children, and

of queens who have had no posterity, are ranged. A third place, a sort

of antechamber to the last named, is rightly called "the rotting room;"

whilst the other improperly bears the same name. In whilst third room,

there is nothing to be seen but four bare walls and a table in the

middle. The walls being very thick, openings are made in them in which

the bodies are placed. Each body has an opening to itself, which is

afterwards walled up, so that nothing is seen. When it is thought that

the corpse has been closed up sufficiently long to be free from odour the

wall is opened, the body taken out, and put in a coffin which allows a

portion of it to be seen towards the feet. This coffin is covered with a

rich stuff and carried into an adjoining room.

The body of the Duc de Vendome had been walled up nine years when I

entered the Escurial. I was shown the place it occupied, smooth like

every part of the four walls and without mark. I gently asked the monks

who did me the honours of the place, when the body would be removed to

the other chamber. They would not satisfy my curiosity, showed some

indignation, and plainly intimated that this removal was not dreamt of,

and that as M. de Vendome had been so carefully walled up he might remain

so!

Harlay, formerly chief-president, of whom I have so often had occasion to

speak, died a short time after M. de Vendome. I have already made him

known. I will simply add an account of the humiliation to which this

haughty cynic was reduced. He hired a house in the Rue de l'Universite

with a partition wall between his garden and that of the Jacobins of the

Faubourg Saint-Germain. The house did not belong to the Jacobins, like

the houses of the Rue Saint-Dominique, and the Rue du Bac, which, in

order that they might command higher rents, were put in connection with

the convent garden. These mendicant Jacobins thus derive fifty thousand

livres a-year. Harlay, accustomed to exercise authority, asked them for

a door into their garden. He was refused. He insisted, had them spoken

to, and succeeded no better. Nevertheless the Jacobins comprehended that

although this magistrate, recently so powerful, was now nothing by

himself, he had a son and a cousin, Councillors of State, whom they might

some day have to do with, and who for pride's sake might make themselves

very disagreeable. The argument of interest is the best of all with

monks. The Jacobins changed their mind. The Prior, accompanied by some

of the notabilities of the convent, went to Harlay with excuses, and said

he was at liberty, if he liked, to make the door. Harlay, true to his

character, looked at them askance, and replied, that he had changed his

mind and would do without it. The monks, much troubled by his refusal,

insisted; he interrupted them and said, "Look you, my fathers, I am

grandson of Achille du Harlay, Chief-President of the Parliament, who so

well served the State and the Kingdom, and who for his support of the

public cause was dragged to the Bastille, where he expected to be hanged

by those rascally Leaguers; it would ill become me, therefore, to enter

the house, or pray to God there, of folks of the same stamp as that

Jacques Clement." And he immediately turned his back upon them, leaving

them confounded. This was his last act of vigour. He took it into his

head afterwards to go out visiting a good deal, and as he preserved all

his old unpleasant manners, he afflicted all he visited; he went even to

persons who had often cooled their heels in his antechambers. By

degrees, slight but frequent attacks of apoplexy troubled his speech, so

that people had great difficulty in understanding him, and he in

speaking. In this state he did not cease his visits and could not

perceive that many doors were closed to him. He died in this misery, and

this neglect, to the great relief of the few who by relationship were

obliged to see him, above all of his son and his domestic.

On the 17th July, a truce between France and England was published in

Flanders, at the head of the troops of the two crowns. The Emperor,

however, was not yet inclined for peace and his forces under Prince

Eugene continued to oppose us in Flanders, where, however, the tide at

last turned in our favour. The King was so flattered by the overflow of

joy that took place at Fontainebleau on account of our successes, that he

thanked the country for it, for the first time in his life. Prince

Eugene, in want of bread and of everything, raised the siege of

Landrecies, which he had been conducting, and terrible desertion took

place among his troops.

About this time, there was an irruption of wolves, which caused great

disorders in the Orleannais; the King's wolf-hunters were sent there, and

the people were authorised to take arms and make a number of grand

battues.

CHAPTER LXII.

Peace was now all but concluded between France and England. There was,

however, one great obstacle still in its way. Queen Anne and her Council

were stopped by the consideration that the king of Spain would claim to

succeed to the Crown of France, if the little Dauphin should die.

Neither England nor any of the other powers at war would consent to see

the two principal crowns of Europe upon the same head. It was necessary,

then, above all things to get rid of this difficulty, and so arrange the

order of succession to our throne, that the case to be provided against

could never happen. Treaties, renunciations, and oaths, all of which the

King had already broken, appeared feeble guarantees in the eyes of

Europe. Something stronger was sought for. It could not be found;

because there is nothing more sacred among men than engagements which

they consider binding on each other. What was wanting then in mere forms

it was now thought could be supplied by giving to those forms the

greatest possible solemnity.

It was a long time before we could get over the difficulty. The King

would accord nothing except promises in order to guarantee to Europe that

the two crowns should never be united upon the same head. His authority

was wounded at the idea of being called upon to admit, as it were, a

rival near it. Absolute without reply, as he had become, he had

extinguished and absorbed even the minutest trace, idea, and recollection

of all other authority, all other power in France except that which

emanated from himself alone. The English, little accustomed to such

maxims, proposed that the States-General should assemble in order to give

weight to the renunciations to be made. They said, and with reason, that

it was not enough that the King of Spain should renounce France unless

France renounced Spain; and that this formality was necessary in order to

break the double bonds which attached Spain to France, as France was

attached to Spain. Accustomed to their parliaments, which are in effect

their States-General, they believed ours preserved the same authority,

and they thought such authority the greatest to be obtained and the best

capable of solidly supporting that of the King.

The effect of this upon the mind of a Prince almost deified in his own

eyes, and habituated to the most unlimited despotism, cannot be

expressed. To show him that the authority of his subjects was thought

necessary in order to confirm his own, wounded him in his most delicate

part. The English were made to understand the weakness and the

uselessness of what they asked; for the powerlessness of our States-

General was explained to them, and they saw at once how vain their help

would be, even if accorded.

For a long time nothing was done; France saying that a treaty of

renunciation and an express confirmatory declaration of the King,

registered in the Parliament, were sufficient; the English replying by

reference to the fate of past treaties. Peace meanwhile was arranged

with the English, and much beyond our hopes remained undisturbed.

In due time matters were so far advanced in spite of obstacles thrown in

the way by the allies, that the Duc d'Aumont was sent as ambassador into

England; and the Duke of Hamilton was named as ambassador for France.

This last, however, losing his life in a duel with Lord Mohun, the Duke

of Shrewsbury was appointed in his stead.

At the commencement of the new year [1713] the Duke and Duchess of

Shrewsbury arrived in Paris. The Duchess was a great fat masculine

creature, more than past the meridian, who had been beautiful and who

affected to be so still; bare bosomed; her hair behind her ears; covered

with rouge and patches, and full of finicking ways. All her manners were

that of a mad thing, but her play, her taste, her magnificence, even her

general familiarity, made her the fashion. She soon declared the women's

head-dresses ridiculous, as indeed they were. They were edifices of

brass wire, ribbons, hair, and all sorts of tawdry rubbish more than two

feet high, making women's faces seem in the middle of their bodies. The

old ladies wore the same, but made of black gauze. If they moved ever so

lightly the edifice trembled and the inconvenience was extreme. The King

could not endure them, but master as he was of everything was unable to

banish them. They lasted for ten years and more, despite all he could

say and do. What this monarch had been unable to perform, the taste and

example of a silly foreigner accomplished with the most surprising

rapidity. From extreme height, the ladies descended to extreme lowness,

and these head-dresses, more simple; more convenient, and more becoming,

last even now. Reasonable people wait with impatience for some other mad

stranger who will strip our dames of these immense baskets, thoroughly

insupportable to themselves and to others.

Shortly after the Duke of Shrewsbury arrived in Paris, the Hotel de Powis

in London, occupied by our ambassador the Duc d'Aumont, was burnt to the

ground. A neighbouring house was pulled down to prevent others catching

fire. The plate of M. d'Aumont was saved. He pretended to have lost

everything else. He pretended also to have received several warnings

that his house was to be burnt and himself assassinated, and that the

Queen, to whom he had mentioned these warnings, offered to give him a

guard. People judged otherwise in London and Paris, and felt persuaded

he himself had been the incendiary in order to draw money from the King

and also to conceal some monstrous smuggling operations, by which he

gained enormously, and which the English had complained of ever since his

arrival. This is at least what was publicly said in the two courts and

cities, and nearly everybody believed it.

But to return to the peace. The renunciations were ready, towards the

middle of March, and were agreed upon. The King was invited to sign them

by his own most pressing interest; and the Court of England, to which we

owed all, was not less interested in consummating this grand work, so as

to enjoy, with the glory of having imposed it upon all the powers, that

domestic repose which was unceasingly disturbed by the party opposed to

the government, which party, excited by the enemies of peace abroad,

could not cease to cause disquiet to the Queen's minister, while, by

delay in signing, vain hopes of disturbing the peace or hindering its

ratification existed in people's minds. The King of Spain had made his

renunciations with all the solidity and solemnity which could be desired

from the laws, customs, and usages of Spain. It only remained for France

to imitate him.

For the ceremony that was to take place, all that could be obtained in

order to render it more solemn was the presence of the peers. But the

King was so jealous of his authority, and so little inclined to pay

attention to that of others, that he wished to content himself with

merely saying in a general way that he hoped to find all the peers at the

Parliament when the renunciations were made. I told M. d'Orleans that if

the King thought such an announcement as this was enough he might rely

upon finding not a single peer at the Parliament. I added, that if the

King did not himself invite each peer, the master of the ceremonies ought

to do so for him, according to the custom always followed. This warning

had its effect. We all received written invitations, immediately.

Wednesday, the 18th of May, was fixed for the ceremony.

At six o'clock on the morning of that day I went to the apartments of M.

le Duc de Berry, in parliamentary dress, and shortly afterwards M.

d'Orleans came there also, with a grand suite. It had been arranged that

the ceremony was to commence by a compliment from the Chief-President de

Mesmes to M. le Duc de Berry, who was to reply to it. He was much

troubled at this. Madame de Saint-Simon, to whom he unbosomed himself;

found means, through a subaltern, to obtain the discourse of the Chief-

President, and gave it to M. le Duc de Berry, to regulate his reply by.

This, however, seemed too much for him; he admitted so to Madame de

Saint-Simon, and that he knew not what to do. She proposed that I should

take the work off his hands; and he was delighted with the expedient.

I wrote, therefore, a page and a half full of common-sized paper in an

ordinary handwriting. M. le Duc de Berry liked it, but thought it too

long to be learnt. I abridged it; he wished it to be still shorter, so

that at last there was not more than three-quarters of a page. He had

learned it by heart, and repeated it in his cabinet the night before the

ceremony to Madame de Saint-Simon, who encouraged him as much as she

could.

At about half-past six o'clock we set out--M. le Duc d'Orleans, M. le Duc

de Berry, myself, and M. le Duc de Saint-Aignan, in one coach, several

other coaches following. M. le Duc de Berry was very silent all the

journey, appearing to be much occupied with the speech he had learned by

heart. M. d'Orleans, on the contrary, was full of gaiety, and related

some of his youthful adventures, and his wild doings by night in the

streets of Paris. We arrived gently at the Porte de la Conference, that

is to say--for it is now pulled down--at the end of the terrace, and of

the Quai of the Tuileries.

We found there the trumpeters and drummers of M. le Duc de Berry's guard,

who made a great noise all the rest of our journey, which ended at the

Palais de justice. Thence we went to the Sainte-Chapelle to hear mass.

The Chapelle was filled with company, among which were many people of

quality. The crowd of people from this building to the grand chamber was

so great that a pin could not have fallen to the ground. On all sides,

too, folks had climbed up to see what passed.

All the Princes of the blood, the bastards, the peers and the parliament,

were assembled in the palace. When M. le Duc de Berry entered,

everything was ready. Silence having with difficulty been obtained, the

Chief-President paid his compliment to the Prince. When he had finished,

it was for M. le Duc de Berry to reply. He half took off his hat,

immediately put it back again, looked at the Chief-President, and said,

"Monsieur;" after a moment's pause he repeated "Monsieur." Then he

looked at the assembly, and again said, "Monsieur." Afterwards he

turned towards M. d'Orleans, who, like himself, was as red as fire, next

to the Chief-President, and finally stopped short, nothing else than

"Monsieur" having been able to issue from his mouth.

I saw distinctly the confusion of M. le Duc de Berry, and sweated at it;

but what could be done? The Duke turned again towards M. d'Orleans, who

lowered his head. Both were dismayed. At last the Chief-President,

seeing there was no other resource, finished this cruel scene by taking

off his cap to M. le Duc de Berry, and inclining himself very low, as if

the response was finished. Immediately afterwards he told the King's

people to begin. The embarrassment of all the courtiers and the surprise

of the magistracy may be imagined.

The renunciations were then read; and by these the King of Spain and his

posterity gave up all claim to the throne of France, and M. le Duc

d'Orleans, and M. le Duc de Berry to succeed to that of Spain. These and

other forms occupied a long time. The chamber was all the while crowded

to excess. There was not room for a single other person to enter. It

was very late when all was over.

When everything was at an end M. de Saint-Aignan and I accompanied M. le

Duc de Berry and M. le Duc d'Orleans in a coach to the Palais Royal. On

the way the conversation was very quiet. M. le Duc de Berry appeared

dispirited, embarrassed, and vexed. Even after we had partaken of a

splendid and delicate dinner, to which an immense number of other guests

sat down, he did not improve. We were conducted to the Porte Saint-

Honore with the same pomp as that in the midst, of which we had entered

Paris. During the rest of the journey to Versailles M. le Duc de Berry

was as silent as ever.

To add to his vexation, as soon as he arrived at Versailles the Princesse

de Montauban, without knowing a word of what had passed, set herself to

exclaim, with her usual flattery, that she was charmed with the grace and

the appropriate eloquence with which he had spoken at the Parliament, and

paraphrased this theme with all the praises of which it was susceptible.

M. le Duc de Berry blushed with vexation without saying a word; she

recommenced extolling his modesty, he blushing the more, and saying

nothing. When at last he had got rid of her, he went to his own

apartments, said not, a word to the persons he found there, scarcely one

to Madame his wife, but taking Madame de Saint-Simon with him, went into

his library, and shut himself up alone there with her.

Throwing himself into an armchair he cried out that he was dishonoured,

and wept scalding tears. Then he related to Madame de Saint-Simon, in

the midst of sobs, how he had stuck fast at the Parliament, without being

able to utter a word, said that he should everywhere be regarded as an

ass and a blockhead, and repeated the compliments he had received from

Madame de Montauban, who, he said, had laughed at and insulted him,

knowing well what had happened; then, infuriated against her to the last

degree, he called her by all sots of names. Madame de Saint-Simon spared

no exertion in order to calm M. de Berry, assuring him that it was

impossible Madame de Montauban could know what had taken place at the

Parliament, the news not having then reached Versailles, and that she had

had no other object than flattery in addressing him. Nothing availed.

Complaints and silence succeeded each other in the midst of tears. Then,

suddenly falling upon the Duc de Beauvilliers and the King, and accusing

the defects of his education: "They thought only;" he exclaimed,

"of making me stupid, and of stifling all my powers. I was a younger

son. I coped with my brother. They feared the consequences; they

annihilated me. I was taught only to play and to hunt,: and they have

succeeded in making me a fool and an ass, incapable of anything, the

laughing-stock and disdain of everybody." Madame de Saint-Simon was

overpowered with compassion, and did everything to calm M. de Berry.

Their strange tete-a-tete lasted nearly two hours, and resumed the next

day but with less violence. By degrees M. le Duc de Berry became

consoled, but never afterwards did any one dare to speak to him of his

misadventure at the peace ceremony.

Let me here say that, the ceremony over, peace was signed at Utrecht on

the 20th April, 1713, at a late hour of the night. It was published in

Paris with great solemnity on the 22nd. Monsieur and Madame du Maine,

who wished to render themselves popular, came from Sceaux to see the

ceremony in the Place Royale, showed themselves on a balcony to the

people, to whom they threw some money--a liberality that the King would

not have permitted in anybody else. At night fires were lighted before

the houses, several of which were illuminated: On the 25th a Te Deum was

sung at Notre Dame, and in the evening there was a grand display of

fireworks at the Grave, which was followed by a superb banquet given at

the Hotel de Ville by the Duc de Tresmes, the Governor of Paris, to a

large number of distinguished persons of both sexes of the Court and the

city, twenty-four violins playing during the repast.

I have omitted to mention the death of M. de Chevreise, which took place

between seven and eight o'clock in the morning on Saturday, the 5th of

November; of the previous year (1712). I have so often alluded to M. de

Chevreuse in the course of these pages, that I will content myself with

relating here two anecdotes of him, which serve to paint a part of his

character.

He was very forgetful, and adventures often happened to him in

consequence, which diverted us amazingly. Sometimes his horses were put

to and kept waiting for him twelve or fifteen hours at a time. Upon one

occasion in summer this happened at Vaucresson, whence he was going to

dine at Dampierre. The coachman, first, then the postilion, grew tired

of looking after the horses, and left them. Towards six o'clock at night

the horses themselves were in their turn worn out, bolted, and a din was

heard which shook the house. Everybody ran out, the coach was found

smashed, the large door shivered in pieces; the garden railings, which

enclosed both sides of the court, broken down; the gates in pieces; in

short, damage was done that took a long time to repair. M. de Chevreuse,

who had not been disturbed by this uproar even for an instant, was quite

astonished when he heard of it. M. de Beauvilliers amused himself for a

long time by reproaching him with it, and by asking the expense.

Another adventure happened to him also at Vaucresson, and covered him

with real confusion, comical to see, every time it was mentioned. About

ten o'clock one morning a M. Sconin, who had formerly been his steward,

was announced. "Let him take a turn in the garden," said M. de

Chevreuse, "and come back in half an hour." He continued what he was

doing, and completely forgot his man. Towards seven o'clock in the

evening Sconin was again announced. "In a moment," replied M. de

Chevreuse, without disturbing himself. A quarter of an hour afterwards

he called Sconin, and admitted him. "Ah, my poor Sconin!" said he,

"I must offer you a thousand excuses for having caused you to lose your

day."

"Not at all, Monseigneur," replied Sconin. "As I have had the honour of

knowing you for many years, I comprehended this morning that the half-

hour might be long, so I went to Paris, did some business there, before

and after dinner, and here I am again."

M. de Chevreuse was confounded. Sconin did not keep silence, nor did the

servants of the house. M. de Beauvilliers made merry with the adventure

when he heard of it, and accustomed as M. de Chevreuse might be to his

raillery, he could not bear to have this subject alluded to. I have

selected two anecdotes out of a hundred others of the same kind, because

they characterise the man.

The liberality of M. du Maine which we have related on the occasion of

the proclamation of peace at Paris, and which was so popular, and so

surprising when viewed in connection with the disposition of the King,

soon took new development. The Jesuits, so skilful in detecting the

foibles of monarchs, and so clever in seizing hold of everything which

can protect themselves and answer their ends, showed to what extent they

were masters of these arts. A new and assuredly a very original History

of France, in three large folio volumes, appeared under the name of

Father Daniel, who lived at Paris in the establishment of the Jesuits.

The paper and the printing of the work were excellent; the style was

admirable. Never was French so clear, so pure, so flowing, with such

happy transitions; in a word, everything to charm and entice the reader;

admirable preface, magnificent promises, short, learned dissertations, a

pomp, an authority of the most seductive kind. As for the history, there

was much romance in the first race, much in the second, and much.

mistiness in the early times of the third. In a word, all the work

evidently appeared composed in order to persuade people--under the simple

air of a man who set aside prejudices with discernment, and who only

seeks the truth--that the majority of the Kings of the first race,

several of the second, some even of the third, were, bastards, whom this

defect did not exclude from the throne, or affect in any way.

I say bluntly here what was very delicately veiled in the work, and yet

plainly seen. The effect of the book was great; its vogue such, that

everybody, even women, asked for it. The King spoke of it to several of

his Court, asked if they had read it; the most sagacious early saw how

much it was protected; it was the sole historical book the King and

Madame de Maintenon had ever spoken of. Thus the work appeared at

Versailles upon every table, nothing else was talked about, marvellous

eulogies were lavished upon it, which were sometimes comical in the

mouths of persons either very ignorant, or who, incapable of reading,

pretended to read and relish this book.

But this surprising success did not last. People perceived that this

history, which so cleverly unravelled the remote part, gave but a meagre

account of modern days, except in so far as their military operations

were concerned; of which even the minutest details were recorded. Of

negotiations, cabals, Court intrigues, portraits, elevations, falls, and

the main springs of events, there was not a word in all the work, except

briefly, dryly, and with precision as in the gazettes, often more

superficially. Upon legal matters, public ceremonies, fetes of different

times, there was also silence at the best, the same laconism; and when we

come to the affairs of Rome and of the League, it is a pleasure to see

the author glide over that dangerous ice on his Jesuit skates!

In due time critics condemned the work which, after so much applause, was

recognised as a very wretched history, which had very industriously and

very fraudulently answered the purpose for which it was written. It fell

to the ground then; learned men wrote against it; but the principal and

delicate point of the work was scarcely touched in France with the pen,

so great was the danger.

Father Daniel obtained two thousand francs' pension for his history,--

a prodigious recompense,--with a title of Historiographer of France. He

enjoyed the fruits of his falsehood, and laughed at those who attacked

him. Foreign countries did not swallow quite so readily these stories

that declared such a number of our early kings bastards; but great care

was taken not to let France be infected by the disagreeable truths

therein published.

CHAPTER LXIII

It is now time that I should say something of the infamous bull

'Unigenitus', which by the unsurpassed audacity and scheming of Father Le

Tellier and his friends was forced upon the Pope and the world.

I need not enter into a very lengthy account of the celebrated Papal

decree which has made so many martyrs, depopulated our schools,

introduced ignorance, fanaticism, and misrule, rewarded vice, thrown the

whole community into the greatest confusion, caused disorder everywhere,

and established the most arbitrary and the most barbarous inquisition;

evils which have doubled within the last thirty years. I will content

myself with a word or two, and will not blacken further the pages of my

Memoirs. Many pens have been occupied, and will be occupied, with this

subject. It is not the apostleship of Jesus Christ that is in question,

but that of the reverend fathers and their ambitious clients.

It is enough to say that the new bull condemned in set terms the

doctrines of Saint-Paul (respected like oracles of the Holy Spirit ever

since the time of our Saviour), and also those of Saint-Augustin, and of

other fathers; doctrines which have always been adopted by the Popes, by

the Councils, and by the Church itself. The bull, as soon as published,

met with a violent opposition in Rome from the cardinals there, who went

by sixes, by eights, and by tens, to complain of it to the Pope. They

might well do so, for they had not been consulted in any way upon this

new constitution. Father Tellier and his friends had had the art and the

audacity to obtain the publication of it without submitting it to them.

The Pope, as I have said, had been forced into acquiescence, and now, all

confused, knew not what to say. He protested, however, that the

publication had been made without his knowledge, and put off the

cardinals with compliments, excuses, and tears, which last he could

always command.

The constitution had the same fate in France as in Rome. The cry against

it was universal. The cardinals protested that it would never be

received. They were shocked by its condemnation of the doctrines of

Saint-Augustin and of the other fathers; terrified at its condemnation of

Saint-Paul. There were not two opinions upon this terrible constitution.

The Court, the city, and the provinces, as soon as they knew the nature

of it, rose against it like one man.

In addition to the articles of this constitution which I have already

named, there was one which excited infinite alarm and indignation, for it

rendered the Pope master of every crown! As is well known, there is a

doctrine of the Church, which says:

"An unjust excommunication ought got to hinder [us] from doing our duty."

The new constitution condemned this doctrine, and consequently proclaimed

that:

"An unjust excommunication ought to hinder [us] from doing our duty."

The enormity of this last is more striking than the simple truth of the

proposition condemned. The second is a shadow which better throws up the

light of the first. The results and the frightful consequences of the

condemnation are as clear as day.