PARIS, Sunday, April 26, 1671.
This is Sunday, April 26th, and this letter will not go out till
Wednesday; but it is not so much a letter as a narrative that I
have just learned from Moreuil, of what passed at Chantilly with
regard to poor Vatel. I wrote to you last Friday that he had stabbed
himself--these are the particulars of the affair: The king arrived
there on Thursday night; the walk, and the collation, which was served
in a place set apart for the purpose, and strewed with jonquils, were
just as they should be. Supper was served, but there was no roast meat
at one or two of the tables, on account of Vatel’s having been obliged
to provide several dinners more than were expected. This affected
his spirits, and he was heard to say, several times: “I have lost my
honor! I can not bear this disgrace!” “My head is quite bewildered,”
said he to Gourville. “I have not had a wink of sleep these twelve
nights; I wish you would assist me in giving orders.” Gourville did
all he could to comfort and assist him; but the failure of the roast
meat (which, however, did not happen at the king’s table, but at some
of the other twenty-five), was always uppermost with him. Gourville
mentioned it to the prince, who went directly to Vatel’s apartment, and
said to him: “Every thing is extremely well conducted, Vatel; nothing
could be more admirable than his majesty’s supper.” “Your highness’s
goodness,” replied he, “overwhelms me; I am sensible that there was a
deficiency of roast meat at two tables.” “Not at all,” said the prince;
“do not perplex yourself, and all will go well.” Midnight came: the
fire-works did not succeed, they were covered with a thick cloud; they
cost sixteen thousand francs. At four o’clock in the morning Vatel went
round and found every body asleep; he met one of the under-purveyors,
who was just come in with only two loads of fish. “What!” said he,
“is this all?” “Yes, sir,” said the man, not knowing that Vatel had
dispatched other people to all the sea-ports around. Vatel waited
for some time; the other purveyors did not arrive; his head grew
distracted; he thought there was no more fish to be had. He flew to
Gourville: “Sir,” said he, “I can not outlive this disgrace.” Gourville
laughed at him. Vatel, however, went to his apartment, and setting the
hilt of his sword against the door, after two ineffectual attempts,
succeeded in the third, in forcing his sword through his heart. At
that instant the carriers arrived with the fish; Vatel was inquired
after to distribute it. They ran to his apartment, knocked at the
door, but received no answer, upon which they broke it open, and found
him weltering in his blood. A messenger was immediately dispatched
to acquaint the prince with what had happened, who was like a man in
despair. The duke wept, for his Burgundy journey depended upon Vatel.
The prince related the whole affair to his majesty with an expression
of great concern; it was considered as the consequence of too nice a
sense of honor; some blamed, others praised him for his courage. The
king said he had put off this excursion for more than five years,
because he was aware that it would be attended with infinite trouble,
and told the prince that he ought to have had but two tables, and not
have been at the expense of so many, and declared he would never suffer
him to do so again; but all this was too late for poor Vatel. However,
Gourville attempted to supply the loss of Vatel, which he did in great
measure. The dinner was elegant, the collation was the same. They
supped, they walked, they hunted; all was perfumed with jonquils, all
was enchantment. Yesterday, which was Saturday, the same entertainments
were renewed, and in the evening the king set out for Liancourt,
where he had ordered a _media-noche_;[31] he is to stay there three
days. This is what Moreuil has told me, hoping I should acquaint you
with it. I wash my hands of the rest, for I know nothing about it. M.
D’Hacqueville, who was present at the scene, will, no doubt, give you a
faithful account of all that passed; but, because his hand-writing is
not quite so legible as mine, I write too; if I am circumstantial, it
is because, on such an occasion, I should like circumstantiality myself.
[31] _Media-noche_ is a flesh-meal just after midnight, among the
Roman Catholics.