The Prince de Conti lost, before this time, his son, Prince la Roche-sur-

Yon, who was only four years old. The King wore mourning for him,

although it was the custom not to do so for children under seven years of

age. But the King had already departed from this custom for one of the

children of M. du Maine, and he dared not afterwards act differently

towards the children of a prince of the blood. Just at the end of

September, M. du Maine lost another child, his only son. The King wept

very much, and, although the child was considerably under seven years of

age, wore mourning for it. The marriage of Mademoiselle to M. de

Lorraine was then just upon the point of taking place; and Monsieur

(father of Mademoiselle) begged that this mourning might be laid aside

when the marriage was celebrated. The King agreed, but Madame la

Duchesse and the Princesse de Conti believed it apparently beneath them

to render this respect to Monsieur, and refused to comply. The King

commanded them to do so, but they pushed the matter so far as to say that

they had no other clothes. Upon this, the King ordered them to send and

get some directly. They were obliged to obey, and admit themselves

vanquished; but they did so not without great vexation. M. de Cambrai’s

affairs still continued to make a great stir among the prelates and at

the Court. Madame Guyon was transferred from the Vincennes to the

Bastille, and it was believed she would remain there all her life. The

Ducs de Chevreuse and Beauvilliers lost all favour with M. de Maintenon,

and narrowly escaped losing the favour of the King. An attempt was in

fact made, which Madame de Maintenon strongly supported, to get them

disgraced; and, but for the Archbishop of Paris, this would have taken

place. But this prelate, thoroughly upright and conscientious,

counselled the King against such a step, to the great vexation of his

relations, who were the chief plotters in the conspiracy to overthrow the

two Dukes. As for M. de Cambrai’s book ‘Les Maxinies des Saints’, it was

as little liked as ever, and underwent rather a strong criticism at this

time from M. de La Trappe, which did not do much to improve its

reputation. At the commencement of the dispute M. de Meaux had sent a

copy of ‘Les Maximes des Saints’ to M. de La Trappe, asking as a friend

for his opinion of the work. M. de La Trappe read it, and was much

scandalized. The more he studied it, the more this sentiment penetrated

him. At last, after having well examined the book, he sent his opinion

to M. de Meaux, believing it would be considered as private, and not be

shown to anybody. He did not measure his words, therefore, but wrote

openly, that if M. de Cambrai was right he might burn the Evangelists,

and complain of Jesus Christ, who could have come into the world only to

deceive us. The frightful force of this phrase was so terrifying, that

M. de Meaux thought it worthy of being shown to Madame de Maintenon; and

she, seeking only to crush M. de Cambrai with all the authorities

possible, would insist upon this opinion of M. de La Trappe being

printed.

It may be imagined what triumphing there was on the one side, and what

piercing cries on the other. The friends of M. de Cambrai complained

most bitterly that M. de La Trappe had mixed himself up in the matter,

and had passed such a violent and cruel sentence upon a book then under

the consideration of the Pope. M. de La Trappe on his side was much

afflicted that his letter had been published. He wrote to M. de Meaux

protesting against this breach of confidence; and said that, although he

had only expressed what he really thought, he should have been careful to

use more measured language, had he supposed his letter would have seen

the light. He said all he could to heal the wounds his words had caused,

but M. de Cambrai and his friends never forgave him for having written

them.

This circumstance caused much discussion, and M. de La Trappe, to whom I

was passionately attached, was frequently spoken of in a manner that

caused me much annoyance. Riding out one day in a coach with some of my

friends, the conversation took this turn. I listened in silence for some

time, and then, feeling no longer able to support the discourse, desired

to be set down, so that my friends might talk at their ease, without pain

to me. They tried to retain me, but I insisted and carried my point.

Another time, Charost, one of my friends, spoke so disdainfully of M. de

La Trappe, and I replied to him with such warmth, that on the instant he

was seized with a fit, tottered, stammered, his throat swelled, his eyes

seemed starting from his head, and his tongue from his mouth. Madame de

Saint-Simon and the other ladies who were present flew to his assistance;

one unfastened his cravat and his shirt-collar, another threw a jug of

water over him and made him drink something; but as for me, I was struck

motionless at the sudden change brought about by an excess of anger and

infatuation. Charost was soon restored, and when he left I was taken to

task by the ladies. In reply I simply smiled. I gained this by the

occurrence, that Charost never committed himself again upon the subject

of M. de La Trappe.

Before quitting this theme, I will relate an anecdote which has found

belief. It has been said, that when M. de La Trappe was the Abbe de

Rance he was much in love with the beautiful Madame de Montbazon, and

that he was well treated by her. On one occasion after leaving her, in

perfect health, in order to go into the country, he learnt that she had

fallen ill. He hastened back, entered hurriedly into her chamber, and

the first sight he saw there was her head, that the surgeons, in opening

her, had separated from her body. It was the first intimation he had had

that she was dead, and the surprise and horror of the sight so converted

him that immediately afterwards he retired from the world. There is

nothing true in all this except the foundation upon which the fiction

arose. I have frankly asked M. de La Trappe upon this matter, and from

him I have learned that he was one of the friends of Madame de Montbazon,

but that so far from being ignorant of the time of her death, he was by

her side at the time, administered the sacrament to her, and had never

quitted her during the few days she was ill. The truth is, her sudden

death so touched him, that it made him carry out his intention of

retiring from the world--an intention, however, he had formed for many

years.

The affair of M. de Cambrai was not finally settled until the

commencement of the following year, 1699, but went on making more noise

day by day. At the date I have named the verdict from Rome arrived

Twenty-three propositions of the ‘Maximes des Saints’ were declared rash,

dangerous, erroneous--‘in globo’--and the Pope excommunicated those who

read the book or kept it in their houses. The King was much pleased with

this condemnation, and openly expressed his satisfaction. Madame de

Maintenon appeared at the summit of joy. As for M. de Cambrai, he learnt

his fate in a moment which would have overwhelmed a man with less

resources in himself. He was on the point of mounting into the pulpit:

he was by no means troubled; put aside the sermon he had prepared, and,

without delaying a moment, took for subject the submission due to the

Church; he treated this theme in a powerful and touching manner;

announced the condemnation of his book; retracted the opinions he had

professed; and concluded his sermon by a perfect acquiescence and

submission to the judgment the Pope had just pronounced. Two days

afterwards he published his retraction, condemned his book, prohibited

the reading of it, acquiesced and submitted himself anew to his

condemnation, and in the clearest terms took away from himself all means

of returning to his opinions. A submission so prompt, so clear, so

perfect, was generally admired, although there were not wanting censors

who wished he had shown less readiness in giving way. His friends

believed the submission would be so flattering to the Pope, that M. de

Cambrai might rely upon advancement to a cardinalship, and steps were

taken, but without any good result, to bring about that event.

CHAPTER XIII

About this time the King caused Charnace to be arrested in a province to

which he had been banished. He was accused of many wicked things, and;

amongst others, of coining. Charnace was a lad of spirit, who had been

page to the King and officer in the body-guard. Having retired to his

own house, he often played off many a prank. One of these I will

mention, as being full of wit and very laughable.

He had a very long and perfectly beautiful avenue before his house in

Anjou, but in the midst of it were the cottage and garden of a peasant;

and neither Charnace, nor his father before him, could prevail upon him

to remove, although they offered him large sums. Charnace at last

determined to gain his point by stratagem. The peasant was a tailor,

and lived all alone, without wife or child. One day Charnace sent for

him, said he wanted a Court suit in all haste, and, agreeing to lodge and

feed him, stipulated that he should not leave the house until it was

done. The tailor agreed, and set himself to the work. While he was thus

occupied, Charnace had the dimensions of his house and garden taken with

the utmost exactitude; made a plan of the interior, showing the precise

position of the furniture and the utensils; and, when all was done,

pulled down the house and removed it a short distance off.

Then it was arranged as before with a similar looking garden, and at the

same time the spot on which it had previously stood was smoothed and

levelled. All this was done before the suit was finished. The work

being at length over on both sides, Charnace amused the tailor until it

was quite dark, paid him, and dismissed him content. The man went on his

way down the avenue; but, finding the distance longer than usual, looked

about, and perceived he had gone too far. Returning, he searched

diligently for his house, but without being able to find it. The night

passed in this exercise. When the day came, he rubbed his eyes, thinking

they might have been in fault; but as he found them as clear as usual,

began to believe that the devil had carried away his house, garden and

all. By dint of wandering to and fro, and casting his eyes in every

direction, he saw at last a house which was as like to his as are two

drops of water to each other. Curiosity tempted him to go and examine

it. He did so, and became convinced it was his own. He entered, found

everything inside as he had left it, and then became quite persuaded he

had been tricked by a sorcerer. The day was not, however, very far

advanced before he learned the truth through the banter of his

neighbours. In fury he talked of going to law, or demanding justice, but

was laughed at everywhere. The King when he heard of it laughed also;

and Charnace had his avenue free. If he had never done anything worse

than this, he would have preserved his reputation and his liberty.

A strange scene happened at Meudon after supper one evening, towards the

end of July. The Prince de Conti and the Grand Prieur were playing, and

a dispute arose respecting the game. The Grand Prieur, inflated by pride

on account of the favours the King had showered upon him, and rendered

audacious by being placed almost on a level with the Princes of the

blood, used words which would have been too strong even towards an equal.

The Prince de Conti answered by a repartee, in which the other’s honesty

at play and his courage in war--both, in truth, little to boast about--

were attacked. Upon this the Grand Prieur flew into a passion, flung

away the cards, and demanded satisfaction, sword in hand. The Prince de

Conti, with a smile of contempt, reminded him that he was wanting in

respect, and at the same time said he could have the satisfaction he

asked for whenever he pleased. The arrival of Monseigneur, in his

dressing-gown, put an end to the fray. He ordered the Marquis de

Gesvres, who was one of the courtiers present, to report the whole affair

to the King, and that every one should go to bed. On the morrow the King

was informed of what had taken place, and immediately ordered the Grand

Prieur to go to the Bastille. He was obliged to obey, and remained in

confinement several days. The affair made a great stir at Court. The

Princes of the blood took a very high tone, and the illegitimates were

much embarrassed. At last, on the 7th of August, the affair was finally

accommodated through the intercession of Monseigneur. The Grand Prieur

demanded pardon of the Prince de Conti in the presence of his brother, M.

de Vendome, who was obliged to swallow this bitter draught, although

against his will, in order to appease the Princes of the blood, who were

extremely excited.

Nearly at the same time, that is to say, on the 29th of May, in the

morning Madame de Saint-Simon was happily delivered of a child. God did

us the grace to give us a son. He bore, as I had, the name of Vidame of

Chartres. I do not know why people have the fancy for these odd names,

but they seduce in all nations, and they who feel the triviality of them,

imitate them. It is true that the titles of Count and Marquis have

fallen into the dust because of the quantity of people without wealth,

and even without land, who usurp them; and that they have become so

worthless, that people of quality who are Marquises or Counts (if they

will permit me to say it) are silly enough to be annoyed if those titles

are given to them in conversation. It is certain, however, that these

titles emanated from landed creations, and that in their origin they had

functions attached to them, which, they have since outlived. The

vidames, on the contrary, were only principal officers of certain

bishops, with authority to lead all the rest of their seigneurs’ vassals

to the field, either to fight against other lords, or in the armies that

our kings used to assemble to combat their enemies before the creation of

a standing army put an end to the employment of vassals (there being no

further need for them), and to all the power and authority of the

seigneurs. There is thus no comparison between the title of vidame,

which only marks a vassal, and the titles which by fief emanate from the

King. Yet because the few Vidames who have been known were illustrious,

the name has appeared grand, and for this reason was given to me, and

afterwards by me to my son:

Some little time before this, the King resolved to show all Europe, which

believed his resources exhausted by a long war, that in the midst of

profound peace, he was as fully prepared as ever for arms. He wished at

the same time, to present a superb spectacle to Madame de Maintenon,

under pretext of teaching the young Duc de Bourgogne his first lesson in

war. He gave all the necessary orders, therefore, for forming a camp at

Compiegne, to be commanded by the Marechal de Boufflers under the young

Duke. On Thursday, the 28th of August, all the Court set out for the

camp. Sixty thousand men were assembled there. The King, as at the

marriage of the Duc de Bourgogne, had announced that he counted upon

seeing the troops look their best. The consequence of this was to excite

the army to an emulation that was repented of afterwards. Not only were

the troops in such beautiful order that it was impossible to give the

palm to any one corps, but their commanders added the finery and

magnificence of the Court to the majestic and warlike beauty of the men,

of the arms, and of the horses; and the officers exhausted their means in

uniforms which would have graced a fete.

Colonels, and even simple captains, kept open table; but the Marechal de

Boufflers outstripped everybody by his expenditure, by his magnificence,

and his good taste. Never was seen a spectacle so transcendent--so

dazzling--and (it must be said) so terrifying. At all hours, day or

night, the Marechal’s table was open to every comer--whether officer,

courtier, or spectator. All were welcomed and invited, with the utmost

civility and attention, to partake of the good things provided. There

was every kind of hot and cold liquors; everything which can be the most

widely and the most splendidly comprehended under the term refreshment:

French and foreign wines, and the rarest liqueurs in the utmost

abundance. Measures were so well taken that quantities of game and

venison arrived from all sides; and the seas of Normandy, of Holland, of

England, of Brittany, even the Mediterranean, furnished all they

contained--the most unheard-of, extraordinary, and most exquisite--at a

given day and hour with inimitable order, and by a prodigious number of

horsemen and little express carriages. Even the water was fetched from

Sainte Reine, from the Seine, and from sources the most esteemed; and it

is impossible to imagine anything of any kind which was not at once ready

for the obscurest as for the most distinguished visitor, the guest most

expected, and the guest not expected at all. Wooden houses and

magnificent tents stretched all around, in number sufficient to form a

camp of themselves, and were furnished in the most superb manner, like

the houses in Paris. Kitchens and rooms for every purpose were there,

and the whole was marked by an order and cleanliness that excited

surprise and admiration. The King, wishing that the magnificence of this

camp should be seen by the ambassadors, invited them there, and prepared

lodgings for them. But the ambassadors claimed a silly distinction,

which the King would not grant, and they refused his invitation. This

distinction I call silly because it brings no advantage with it of any

kind. I am ignorant of its origin, but this is what it consists in.

When, as upon such an occasion as this, lodgings are allotted to the

Court, the quartermaster writes in chalk, “for Monsieur Such-a-one,” upon

those intended for Princes of the blood, cardinals, and foreign princes;

but for none other. The King would not allow the “for” to be written

upon the lodgings of the ambassadors; and the ambassadors, therefore,

kept away. The King was much piqued at this, and I heard him say at

supper, that if he treated them as they deserved, he should only allow

them to come to Court at audience times, as was the custom everywhere

else.

The King arrived at the camp on Saturday, the 30th of August, and went

with the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne and others to the quarters of

Marechal de Boufflers, where a magnificent collation was served up to

them--so magnificent that when the King returned, he said it would be

useless for the Duc de Bourgogne to attempt anything so splendid; and

that whenever he went to the camp he ought to dine with Marechal de

Bouffiers. In effect, the King himself soon after dined there, and led

to the Marechal’s table the King of England, who was passing three or

four days in the camp.

On these occasions the King pressed Marechal de Boufflers to be seated.

He would never comply, but waited upon the King while the Duc de

Grammont, his brother-in-law, waited upon Monseigneur.

The King amused himself much in pointing out the disposition of the

troops to the ladies of the Court, and in the evening showed them a grand

review.

A very pleasant adventure happened at this review to Count Tesse, colonel

of dragoons. Two days previously M. de Lauzun, in the course of chit-

chat, asked him how he intended to dress at the review; and persuaded him

that, it being the custom, he must appear at the head of his troops in a

grey hat, or that he would assuredly displease the King. Tesse, grateful

for this information, and ashamed of his ignorance, thanked M. de Lauzun,

and sent off for a hat in all haste to Paris. The King, as M. de Lauzun

well knew, had an aversion to grey, and nobody had worn it for several

years. When, therefore, on the day of the review he saw Tesse in a hat

of that colour, with a black feather, and a huge cockade dangling and

flaunting above, he called to him, and asked him why he wore it. Tesse

replied that it was the privilege of the colonel-general to wear that day

a grey hat. “A grey hat,” replied the King; “where the devil did you

learn that?”

“From M. de, Lauzun, Sire, for whom you created the charge,” said Tesse,

all embarrassment. On the instant, the good Lauzun vanished, bursting

with laughter, and the King assured Tesse that M. de Lauzun had merely

been joking with him. I never saw a man so confounded as Tesse at this.

He remained with downcast eyes, looking at his hat, with a sadness and

confusion that rendered the scene perfect. He was obliged to treat the

matter as a joke, but was for a long time much tormented about it, and

much ashamed of it.

Nearly every day the Princes dined with Marechal de Boufflers, whose

splendour and abundance knew no end. Everybody who visited him, even the

humblest, was served with liberality and attention. All the villages and

farms for four leagues round Compiegne were filled with people, French,

and foreigners, yet there was no disorder. The gentlemen and valets at

the Marechal’s quarters were of themselves quite a world, each more

polite than his neighbour, and all incessantly engaged from five o’clock

in the morning until ten and eleven o’clock at night, doing the honours

to various guests. I return in spite of myself to the Marechal’s

liberality; because, who ever saw it, cannot forget, or ever cease to be

in a state of astonishment and admiration at its abundance and

sumptuousness, or at the order, never deranged for a moment at a single

point, that prevailed.

The King wished to show the Court all the manoeuvres of war; the siege of

Compiegne was therefore undertaken, according to due form, with lines,

trenches, batteries, mines, &c. On Saturday, the 13th of September, the

assault took place. To witness it, the King, Madame de Maintenon, all

the ladies of the Court, and a number of gentlemen, stationed themselves

upon an old rampart, from which the plain and all the disposition of the

troops could be seen. I was in the half circle very close to the King.

It was the most beautiful sight that can be imagined, to see all that

army, and the prodigious number of spectators on horse and foot, and that

game of attack and defence so cleverly conducted.

But a spectacle of another sort, that I could paint forty years hence as

well as to-day, so strongly did it strike me, was that which from the

summit of this rampart the King gave to all his army, and to the

innumerable crowd of spectators of all kinds in the plain below. Madame

de Maintenon faced the plain and the troops in her sedan-chair-alone,

between its three windows drawn up-her porters having retired to a

distance. On the left pole in front sat Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne;

and on the same side in a semicircle, standing, were Madame la Duchesse,

Madame la Princesse de Conti, and all the ladies, and behind them again,

many men. At the right window was the King, standing, and a little in

the rear, a semicircle of the most distinguished men of the Court. The

King was nearly always uncovered; and every now and then stooped to speak

to Madame de Maintenon, and explain to her what she saw, and the reason

of each movement. Each time that he did so she was obliging enough to

open the window four or five inches, but never half way; for I noticed

particularly, and I admit that I was more attentive to this spectacle

than to that of the troops. Sometimes she opened of her own accord to

ask some question of him, but generally it was he who, without waiting

for her, stooped down to instruct her of what was passing; and sometimes,

if she did not notice him, he tapped at the glass to make her open it.

He never spoke, save to her, except when he gave a few brief orders, or

just answered Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne, who wanted to make him

speak, and with whom Madame de Maintenon carried on a conversation by

signs, without opening the front window, through which the young Princess

screamed to her from time to time. I watched the countenance of every

one carefully; all expressed surprise tempered with prudence and shame,

that was, as it were, ashamed of itself: every one behind the chair and

in the semicircle watched this scene more than what was going on in the

army. The King often put his hat on the top of the chair in order to get

his head in to speak; and this continual exercise tired his loins very

much. Monseigneur was on horseback in the plain with the young Princes.

It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, and the weather was as

brilliant as could be desired.

Opposite the sedan-chair was an opening with some steps cut through the

wall, and communicating with the plain below. It had been made for the

purpose of fetching orders from the King, should they be necessary. The

case happened. Crenan, who commanded, sent Conillac, an officer in one

of the defending regiments, to ask for some instructions from the King.

Conillac had been stationed at the foot of the rampart, where what was

passing above could not be seen. He mounted the steps; and as soon as

his head and shoulders were at the top, caught sight of the chair, the

King, and all the assembled company. He was not prepared for such a

scene, and it struck him with such astonishment, that he stopped short,

with mouth and eyes wide open-surprise painted upon every feature. I see

him now as distinctly as I did then. The King, as well as all the rest

of the company, remarked the agitation of Conillac, and said to him with

emotion, “Well, Conillac! come up.” Conillac remained motionless, and

the King continued, “Come up. What is the matter?” Conillac, thus

addressed, finished his ascent, and came towards the King with slow and

trembling steps, rolling his eyes from right to left like one deranged.

Then he stammered something, but in a tone so low that it could not be

heard. “What do you say?” cried the King. “Speak up.” But Conillac was

unable; and the King, finding he could get nothing out of him, told him

to go away. He did not need to be told twice, but disappeared at once.

As soon as he was gone, the King, looking round, said, “I don’t know what

is the matter with Conillac. He has lost his wits; he did not remember

what he had to say to me.” No one answered.

Towards the moment of the capitulation, Madame de Maintenon apparently

asked permission to go away, for the King cried, “The chairmen of

Madame!” They came and took her away; in less than a quarter of an hour

afterwards the King retired also, and nearly everybody else. There was

much interchange of glances, nudging with elbows, and then whisperings in

the ear. Everybody was full of what had taken place on the ramparts

between the King and Madame de Maintenon. Even the soldiers asked what

meant that sedan-chair and the King every moment stooping to put his head

inside of it. It became necessary gently to silence these questions of

the troops. What effect this sight had upon foreigners present, and what

they said of it, may be imagined. All over Europe it was as much talked

of as the camp of Compiegne itself, with all its pomp and prodigious

splendour.

The last act of this great drama was a sham fight. The execution was

perfect; but the commander, Rose, who was supposed to be beaten, would

not yield. Marechal de Boufflers sent and told him more than once that

it was time. Rose flew into a passion, and would not obey. The King

laughed much at this, and said, “Rose does not like to be beaten.” At

last he himself sent the order for retreat. Rose was forced then to

comply; but he did it with a very bad grace, and abused the bearer of the

order.

The King left the camp on Monday the 22d of September, much pleased with

the troops. He gave, in parting, six hundred francs to each cavalry

captain, and three hundred francs to each captain of infantry. He gave

as much to the majors of all the regiments, and distributed some favours

to his household. To Marechal de Boufflers he presented one hundred

thousand francs. All these gifts together amounted to something: but

separately were as mere drops of water. There was not a single regiment

that was not ruined, officers and men, for several years. As for

Marechal de Boufflers, I leave it to be imagined what a hundred thousand

francs were to him whose magnificence astounded all Europe, described as

it was by foreigners who were witnesses of it, and who day after day

could scarcely believe their own eyes.

CHAPTER XIV

Here I will relate an adventure, which shows that, however wise and

enlightened a man may be, he is never infallible. M. de La Trappe had

selected from amongst his brethren one who was to be his successor. The

name of this monk was D. Francois Gervaise. He had been in the monastery

for some years, had lived regularly during that time, and had gained the

confidence of M. de La Trappe. As soon, however, as he received this

appointment, his manners began to change. He acted as though he were

already master, brought disorder and ill-feeling into the monastery, and

sorely grieved M. de La Trapp; who, however, looked upon this affliction

as the work of Heaven, and meekly resigned him self to it. At last,

Francois Gervaise was by the merest chance detected openly, under

circumstances which blasted his character for ever. His companion in

guilt was brought before M. de La Trappe, to leave no doubt upon the

matter. D. Francois Gervaise, utterly prostrated, resigned his office,

and left La Trappe. Yet, even after this, he had the hardihood to show

himself in the world, and to try and work himself into the favour of Pere

la Chaise. A discovery that was made, effectually stopped short his

hopes in this direction. A letter of his was found, written to a nun

with whom he had been intimate, whom he loved, and by whom he was

passionately loved. It was a tissue of filthiness and stark indecency,

enough to make the most abandoned tremble. The pleasures, the regrets,

the desires, the hopes of this precious pair, were all expressed in the

boldest language, and with the utmost licence. I believe that so many

abominations are not uttered in several days, even in the worst places.

For this offence Gervaise might have been confined in a dungeon all his

life, but he was allowed to go at large. He wandered from monastery to

monastery for five or six years, and always caused so much disorder

wherever he stopped, that at last the superiors thought it best to let

him live as he liked in a curacy of his brother’s. He never ceased

troubling La Trappe, to which he wished to return; so that at last I

obtained a ‘lettre de cachet’, which prohibited him from approaching

within thirty leagues of the abbey, and within twenty of Paris. It was I

who made known to him that his abominations had been discovered. He was

in no way disturbed, declared he was glad to be free, and assured me with

the hypocrisy which never left him, that in his solitude he was going to

occupy himself in studying the Holy Scriptures.

Bonnceil, introducer of the ambassadors, being dead, Breteuil obtained

his post. Breteuil was not without intellect, but aped courtly manners,

called himself Baron de Breteuil, and was much tormented and laughed at

by his friends. One day, dining at the house of Madame de Pontchartrain,

and, speaking very authoritatively, Madame de Pontchartrain disputed with

him, and, to test his knowledge, offered to make a bet that he did not

know who wrote the Lord’s Prayer. He defended himself as well as he was

able, and succeeded in leaving the table without being called upon to

decide the point. Caumartin, who saw his embarrassment, ran to him, and

kindly whispered in his ear that Moses was the author of the Lord’s

Prayer. Thus strengthened, Breteuil returned to the attack, brought,

while taking coffee, the conversation back again to the bet; and, after

reproaching Madame de Pontchartrain for supposing him ignorant upon such

a point, and declaring he was ashamed of being obliged to say such a

trivial thing, pronounced emphatically that it was Moses who had written

the Lord’s Prayer. The burst of laughter that, of course, followed this,

overwhelmed him with confusion. Poor Breteuil was for a long time at

loggerheads with his friend, and the Lord’s Prayer became a standing

reproach to him.

He had a friend, the Marquis de Gesvres, who, upon some points, was not

much better informed. Talking one day in the cabinet of the King, and

admiring in the tone of a connoisseur some fine paintings of the

Crucifixion by the first masters, he remarked that they were all by one

hand.

He was laughed at, and the different painters were named, as recognized

by their style.

“Not at all,” said the Marquis, “the painter is called INRI; do you not

see his name upon all the pictures?” What followed after such gross

stupidity and ignorance may be imagined.

At the end of this year the King resolved to undertake three grand

projects, which ought to have been carried out long before: the chapel of

Versailles, the Church of the Invalides, and the altar of Notre-Dame de

Paris. This last was a vow of Louis XIII., made when, he no longer was

able to accomplish it, and which he had left to his successor, who had

been more than fifty years without thinking of it.

On the 6th of January, upon the reception of the ambassadors at the house

of the Duchesse de Bourogogne, an adventure happened which I will here

relate. M. de Lorraine belonged to a family which had been noted for its

pretensions, and for the disputes of precedency in which it engaged. He

was as prone to this absurdity as the rest, and on this occasion incited

the Princesse d’Harcourt, one of his relations, to act in a manner that

scandalised all the Court. Entering the room in which the ambassadors

were to be received and where a large number of ladies were already

collected, she glided behind the Duchesse de Rohan, and told her to pass

to the left. The Duchesse de Rohan, much surprised, replied that she was

very well placed already. Whereupon, the Princesse d’Harcourt, who was

tall and strong, made no further ado, but with her two arms seized the

Duchesse de Rohan, turned her round, and sat down in her place. All the

ladies were strangely scandalised at this, but none dared say a word, not

even Madame de Lude, lady in waiting on the Duchesse de Bourgogne, who,

for her part also, felt the insolence of the act, but dared not speak,

being so young. As for the Duchesse de Rohan, feeling that opposition

must lead to fisticuffs, she curtseyed to the Duchess, and quietly

retired to another place. A few minutes after this, Madame de Saint-

Simon, who was then with child, feeling herself unwell, and tired of

standing, seated herself upon the first cushion she could find. It so

happened, that in the position she thus occupied, she had taken

precedence of Madame d’Armagnac by two degrees. Madame d’Armagnac,

perceiving it, spoke to her upon the subject. Madame de Saint-Simon, who

had only placed herself there for a moment, did not reply, but went

elsewhere.

As soon as I learnt of the first adventure, I thought it important that

such an insult should not be borne, and I went and conferred with M. de

la Rochefoucauld upon the subject, at the same time that Marechal de

Boufflers spoke of it to M. de Noailles. I called upon other of my

friends, and the opinion was that the Duc de Rohan should complain to the

King on the morrow of the treatment his wife had received.

In the evening while I was at the King’s supper, I was sent for by Madame

de Saint-Simon, who informed me that the Lorraines, afraid of the

complaints that would probably be addressed to the King upon what had

taken place between the Princesse d’Harcourt and the Duchesse de Rohan,

had availed themselves of what happened between Madame de Saint-Simon and

Madame d’Armagnac, in order to be the first to complain, so that one

might balance the other. Here was a specimen of the artifice of these

gentlemen, which much enraged me. On the instant I determined to lose no

time in speaking to the King; and that very evening I related what had

occurred, in so far as Madame de Saint-Simon was concerned, but made no

allusion to M. de Rohan’s affair, thinking it best to leave that to be

settled by itself on the morrow. The King replied to me very graciously,

and I retired, after assuring him that all I had said was true from

beginning to end.

The next day the Duc de Rohan made his complaint. The King, who had

already been fully informed of the matter, received him well, praised the

respect and moderation of Madame de Rohan, declared Madame d’Harcourt to

have been very impertinent, and said some very hard words upon the

Lorraines.

I found afterwards, that Madame de Maintenon, who much favoured Madame

d’Harcourt, had all the trouble in the world to persuade the King not to

exclude her from the next journey to Marly. She received a severe

reprimand from the King, a good scolding from Madame de Maintenon, and

was compelled publicly to ask pardon of the Duchesse de Rohan. This she

did; but with a crawling baseness equal to her previous audacity. Such

was the end of this strange history.

There appeared at this time a book entitled “Probleme,” but without name

of author, and directed against M. de Paris, declaring that he had

uttered sentiments favourable to the Jansenists being at Chalons, and

unfavourable being at Paris. The book came from the Jesuits, who could

not pardon M. de Paris for having become archbishop without their

assistance. It was condemned and burnt by decree of the Parliament, and

the Jesuits had to swallow all the shame of it. The author was soon

after discovered. He was named Boileau; not the friend of Bontems, who

so often preached before the King, and still less the celebrated poet and

author of the ‘Flagellants’, but a doctor of much wit and learning whom

M. de Paris had taken into his favour and treated like a brother. Who

would have believed that “Probleme” could spring from such a man? M. de

Paris was much hurt; but instead of imprisoning Boileau for the rest of

his days, as he might have done, he acted the part of a great bishop, and

gave him a good canonical of Saint Honore, which became vacant a few days

afterwards. Boileau, who was quite without means, completed his

dishonour by accepting it.

The honest people of the Court regretted a cynic who died at this time,

I mean the Chevalier de Coislin. He was a most extraordinary man, very

splenetic, and very difficult to deal with. He rarely left Versailles,

and never went to see the king. I have seen him get out of the way not

to meet him. He lived with Cardinal Coislin, his brother. If anybody

displeased him, he would go and sulk in his own room; and if, whilst at

table, any one came whom he did not like, he would throw away his plate,

go off to sulk, or to finish his dinner all alone. One circumstance will

paint him completely. Being on a journey once with his brothers, the Duc

de Coislin and the Cardinal de Coislin, the party rested for the night at

the house of a vivacious and very pretty bourgeoise. The Duc de Coislin

was an exceedingly polite man, and bestowed amiable compliments and

civilities upon their hostess, much to the disgust of the Chevalier. At

parting, the Duke renewed the politeness he had displayed so abundantly

the previous evening, and delayed the others by his long-winded

flatteries. When, at last, they left the house, and were two or three

leagues away from it, the Chevalier de Coislin said, that, in spite of

all this politeness, he had reason to believe that their pretty hostess

would not long be pleased with the Duke. The Duke, disturbed, asked his

reason for thinking so. “Do you wish to learn it?” said the Chevalier;

“well, then, you must know that, disgusted by your compliments, I went up

into the bedroom in which you slept, and made a filthy mess on the floor,

which the landlady will no doubt attribute to you, despite all your fine

speeches.”

At this there was loud laughter, but the Duke was in fury, and wished to

return in order to clear up his character. Although it rained hard, they

had all the pains in the world to hinder him, and still more to bring

about a reconciliation. Nothing was more pleasant than to hear the

brothers relate this adventure each in his own way.

Two cruel effects of gambling were noticed at this time. Reineville, a

lieutenant of the body-guard, a general officer distinguished in war,

very well treated by the King, and much esteemed by the captain of the

Guards, suddenly disappeared, and could not be found anywhere, although

the utmost care was taken to search for him. He loved gaming. He had

lost what he could not pay. He was a man of honour, and could not

sustain his misfortune. Twelve or fifteen years afterwards he was

recognised among the Bavarian troops, in which he was serving in order to

gain his bread and to live unknown. The other case was still worse.

Permillac, a man of much intelligence and talent, had lost more than he

possessed, and blew his brains out one morning in bed. He was much liked

throughout the army; had taken a friendship for me, and I for him.

Everybody pitied him, and I much regretted him.

Nearly at the same time we lost the celebrated Racine, so known by his

beautiful plays. No one possessed a greater talent or a more agreeable

mien. There was nothing of the poet in his manners: he had the air of a

well-bred and modest man, and at last that of a good man. He had

friends, the most illustrious, at the Court as well as among men of

letters. I leave it to the latter to speak of him in a better way than I

can. He wrote, for the amusement of the King and Madame de Maintenon,

and to exercise the young ladies of Saint Cyr, two dramatic masterpieces,

Esther and Athalie. They were very difficult to write, because there

could be no love in them, and because they are sacred tragedies, in

which, from respect to the Holy Scriptures, it was necessary rigidly to

keep to the historical truth. They were several times played at Saint

Cyr before a select Court. Racine was charged with the history of the

King, conjointly with Despreaux, his friend. This employment, the pieces

I have just spoken of, and his friends, gained for Racine some special

favours: It sometimes happened that the King had no ministers with him,

as on Fridays, and, above all, when the bad weather of winter rendered

the sittings very long; then he would send for Racine to amuse him and

Madame de Maintenon. Unfortunately the poet was oftentimes very absent.

It happened one evening that, talking with Racine upon the theatre, the

King asked why comedy was so much out of fashion. Racine gave several

reasons, and concluded by naming the principal,--namely, that for want of

new pieces the comedians gave old ones, and, amongst others, those of

Scarron, which were worth nothing, and which found no favour with

anybody. At this the poor widow blushed, not for the reputation of the

cripple attacked, but at hearing his name uttered in presence of his

successor! The King was also embarrassed, and the unhappy Racine, by the

silence which followed, felt what a slip he had made. He remained the

most confounded of the three, without daring to raise his eyes or to open

his mouth. This silence did not terminate for several moments, so heavy

and profound was the surprise. The end was that the King sent away

Racine, saying he was going to work. The poet never afterwards recovered

his position. Neither the King nor Madame de Maintenon ever spoke to him

again, or even looked at him; and he conceived so much sorrow at this,

that he fell into a languor, and died two years afterwards. At his

death, Valincourt was chosen to work in his place with Despreaux upon the

history of the King.

The King, who had just paid the heavy gaming and tradesmen’s debts of

Madame la Duchesse, paid also those of Monseigneur, which amounted to

fifty thousand francs, undertook the payment of the buildings at Meudon,

and, in lieu of fifteen hundred pistoles a month which he had allowed

Monseigneur, gave him fifty thousand crowns. M. de la Rochefoucauld,

always necessitous and pitiful in the midst of riches, a prey to his

servants, obtained an increase of forty-two thousand francs a-year upon

the salary he received as Grand Veneur, although it was but a short time

since the King had paid his debts. The King gave also, but in secret,

twenty thousand francs a-year to M. de Chartres, who had spent so much in

journeys and building that he feared he should be unable to pay his

debts. He had asked for an abbey; but as he had already one, the King

did not like to give him another, lest it should be thought too much.

M. de Vendome began at last to think about his health, which his

debauches had thrown into a very bad state. He took public leave of the

King and of all the Court before going away, to put himself in the hands

of the doctors. It was the first and only example of such impudence.

From this time he lost ground. The King said, at parting, that he hoped

he would come back in such a state that people might kiss him without

danger! His going in triumph, where another would have gone in shame and

secrecy, was startling and disgusting. He was nearly three months under

the most skilful treatment-and returned to the Court with half his nose,

his teeth out, and a physiognomy entirely changed, almost idiotic. The

King was so much struck by this change, that he recommended the courtiers

not to appear to notice it, for fear of afflicting M. de Vendome. That

was taking much interest in him assuredly. As, moreover, he had departed

in triumph upon this medical expedition, so he returned triumphant by the

reception of the King, which was imitated by all the Court. He remained

only a few days, and then, his mirror telling sad tales, went away to

Anet, to see if nose and teeth would come back to him with his hair.

A strange adventure, which happened at this time, terrified everybody,

and gave rise to many surmises. Savary was found assassinated in his

house at Paris he kept only a valet and a maid-servant, and they were

discovered murdered at the same time, quite dressed, like their master,

and in different parts of the house. It appeared by writings found

there, that the crime was one of revenge: it was supposed to have been

committed in broad daylight. Savary was a citizen of Paris, very rich,

without occupation, and lived like an epicurean. He had some friends of

the highest rank, and gave parties, of all kinds of pleasure, at his

house, politics sometimes being discussed. The cause of this

assassination was never known; but so much of it was found out, that no

one dared to search for more. Few doubted but that the deed had been

done by a very ugly little man, but of a blood so highly respected, that

all forms were dispensed with, in the fear lest it should be brought home

to him; and, after the first excitement, everybody ceased to speak of

this tragic history.

On the night between the 3rd and 4th of June, a daring robbery was

effected at the grand stables of Versailles. All the horse-cloths and

trappings, worth at least fifty thousand crowns, were carried off, and so

cleverly and with such speed, although the night was short, that no

traces of them could ever afterwards be found. This theft reminds me of

another which took place a little before the commencement of these

memoirs. The grand apartment at Versailles, that is to say, from the

gallery to the tribune, was hung with crimson velvet, trimmed and fringed

with gold. One fine morning the fringe and trimmings were all found to

have been cut away. This appeared extraordinary in a place so frequented

all day, so well closed at night, and so well guarded at all times.

Bontems, the King’s valet, was in despair, and did his utmost to discover

the thieves, but without success.

Five or six days afterwards, I was at the King’s supper, with nobody but

Daqum, chief physician, between the King and me, and nobody at all

between one and the table. Suddenly I perceived a large black form in

the air, but before I could tell what it was, it fell upon the end of the

King’s table just before the cover which had been laid for Monseigneur

and Madame. By the noise it made in falling, and the weight of the thing

itself, it seemed as though the table must be broken. The plates jumped

up, but none were upset, and the thing, as luck would have it, did not

fall upon any of them, but simply upon the cloth. The King moved his

head half round, and without being moved in any way said, “I think that

is my fringe!”

It was indeed a bundle, larger than a flat-brimmed priest’s hat, about

two feet in height, and shaped like a pyramid. It had come from behind

me, from towards the middle door of the two ante-chambers, and a piece of

fringe getting loose in the air, had fallen upon the King’s wig, from

which it was removed by Livry, a gentleman-in-waiting. Livry also opened

the bundle, and saw that it did indeed contain the fringes all twisted

up, and everybody saw likewise. A murmur was heard. Livry wishing to

take away the bundle found a paper attached to it. He took the paper and

left the bundle. The King stretched out his hand and said, “Let us see.”

Livry, and with reason, would not give up the paper, but stepped back,

read it, and then passed it to Daquin, in whose hands I read it. The

writing, counterfeited and long like that of a woman, was in these

words:--“Take back your fringes, Bontems; they are not worth the trouble

of keeping--my compliments to the King.”

The paper was rolled up, not folded: the King wished to take it from

Daquin, who, after much hesitation, allowed him to read it, but did not

let it out of his hands. “Well, that is very insolent!” said the King,

but in quite a placid unmoved tone--as it were, an historical tone.

Afterwards he ordered the bundle to be taken away. Livry found it so

heavy that he could scarcely lift it from the table, and gave it to an

attendant who presented himself. The King spoke no more of this matter,

nobody else dared to do so; and the supper finished as though nothing had

happened.

Besides the excess of insolence and impudence of this act, it was so

perilous as to be scarcely understood. How could any one, without being

seconded by accomplices, throw a bundle of this weight and volume in the

midst of a crowd such as was always present at the supper of the King, so

dense that it could with difficulty be passed through? How, in spite of

a circle of accomplices, could a movement of the arms necessary for such

a throw escape all eyes? The Duc de Gesvres was in waiting. Neither he

nor anybody else thought of closing the doors until the King had left the

table. It may be guessed whether the guilty parties remained until then,

having had more than three-quarters of an hour to escape, and every issue

being free. Only one person was discovered, who was not known, but he

proved to be a very honest man, and was dismissed after a short

detention. Nothing has since been discovered respecting this theft or

its bold restitution.

CHAPTER XV

On the 12th August, Madame de Saint-Simon was happily delivered of a

second son, who bore the name of Marquis de Ruffec. A singular event

which happened soon after, made all the world marvel.

There arrived at Versailles a farrier, from the little town of Salon, in

Provence, who asked to see the King in private. In spite of the rebuffs

he met with, he persisted in his request, so that at last it got to the

ears of the King. The King sent word that he was not accustomed to grant

such audiences to whoever liked to ask for them. Thereupon the farrier

declared that if he was allowed to see the King he would tell him things

so secret and so unknown to everybody else that he would be persuaded of

their importance, demanding, if the King would not see him, to be sent to

a minister of state. Upon this the King allowed him to have an interview

with one of his secretaries, Barbezieux. But Barbezieux was not a

minister of state, and to the great surprise of everybody, the farrier,

who had only just arrived from the country, and who had never before left

it or his trade, replied, that not being a minister of state he would not

speak with him. Upon this he was allowed to see Pomponne, and converse

with him; and this is the story he told:

He said, that returning home late one evening he found himself surrounded

by a great light, close against a tree and near Salon. A woman clad in

white--but altogether in a royal manner, and beautiful, fair, and very

dazzling--called him by his name, commanded him to listen to her, and

spake to him more than half-an-hour. She told him she was the Queen,

who had been the wife of the King; to whom she ordered him to go and say

what she had communicated; assuring him that God would assist him through

all the journey, and that upon a secret thing he should say, the King,

who alone knew that secret, would recognise the truth of all he uttered.

She said that in case he could not see the King he was to speak with a

minister of state, telling him certain things, but reserving certain

others for the King alone. She told him, moreover, to set out at once,

assuring him he would be punished with death if he neglected to acquit

himself of his commission. The farrier promised to obey her in

everything, and the queen then disappeared. He found himself in darkness

near the tree. He lay down and passed the night there, scarcely knowing

whether he was awake or asleep. In the morning he went home, persuaded

that what he had seen was a mere delusion and folly, and said nothing

about it to a living soul.

Two days afterwards he was passing by the same place when the same vision

appeared to him, and he was addressed in the same terms. Fresh threats

of punishment were uttered if he did not comply, and he was ordered to go

at once to the Intendant of the province, who would assuredly furnish him

with money, after saying what he had seen. This time the farrier was

convinced there was no delusion in the matter; but, halting between his

fears and doubts, knew not what to do, told no one what had passed,

and was in great perplexity. He remained thus eight days, and at last

had resolved not to make the journey; when, passing by the same spot,

he saw and heard the same vision, which bestowed upon him so many

dreadful menaces that he no longer thought of anything but setting out

immediately. In two days from that time he presented himself, at Aix,

to the Intendant of the province, who, without a moment’s hesitation,

urged him to pursue his journey, and gave him sufficient money to travel

by a public conveyance. Nothing more of the story was ever known.

The farrier had three interviews with M. de Pomponne, each of two hours’

length. M. de Pomponne rendered, in private, an account of these to the

King, who desired him to speak more fully upon the point in a council

composed of the Ducs de Beauvilliers, Pontchartrain, Torcy, and Pomponne

himself; Monseigneur to be excluded. This council sat very long, perhaps

because other things were spoken of. Be that as it may, the King after

this wished to converse with the farrier, and did so in his cabinet. Two

days afterwards he saw the man again; at each time was nearly an hour

with him, and was careful that no one was within hearing.

The day after the first interview, as the King was descending the

staircase, to go a-hunting, M. de Duras, who was in waiting, and who was

upon such a footing that he said almost what he liked, began to speak of

this farrier with contempt, and, quoting the bad proverb, said, “The man

was mad, or the King was not noble.” At this the King stopped, and,

turning round, a thing he scarcely ever did in walking, replied, “If that

be so, I am not noble, for I have discoursed with him long, he has spoken

to me with much good sense, and I assure you he is far from being mad.”

These last words were pronounced with a sustained gravity which greatly

surprised those near, and which in the midst of deep silence opened all

eyes and ears. After the second interview the King felt persuaded that

one circumstance had been related to him by the farrier, which he alone

knew, and which had happened more than twenty years before. It was that

he had seen a phantom in the forest of Saint Germains. Of this phantom

he had never breathed a syllable to anybody.

The King on several other occasions spoke favourably of the farrier;

moreover, he paid all the expenses the man had been put to, gave him a

gratuity, sent him back free, and wrote to the Intendant of the province

to take particular care of him, and never to let him want for anything

all his life.

The most surprising thing of all this is, that none of the ministers

could be induced to speak a word upon the occurrence. Their most

intimate friends continually questioned them, but without being able to

draw forth a syllable. The ministers either affected to laugh at the

matter or answered evasively. This was the case whenever I questioned

M. de Beauvilliers or M. de Pontchartrain, and I knew from their most

intimate friends that nothing more could ever be obtained from M. de

Pomponne or M. de Torcy. As for the farrier himself, he was equally

reserved. He was a simple, honest, and modest man, about fifty years of

age. Whenever addressed upon this subject, he cut short all discourse by

saying, “I am not allowed to speak,” and nothing more could be extracted

from him. When he returned to his home he conducted himself just as

before, gave himself no airs, and never boasted of the interview he had

had with the King and his ministers. He went back to his trade, and

worked at it as usual.

Such is the singular story which filled everybody with astonishment, but

which nobody could understand. It is true that some people persuaded

themselves, and tried to persuade others, that the whole affair was a

clever trick, of which the simple farrier had been the dupe. They said

that a certain Madame Arnoul, who passed for a witch, and who, having

known Madame de Maintenon when she was Madame Scarron, still kept up a

secret intimacy with her, had caused the three visions to appear to the

farrier, in order to oblige the King to declare Madame de Maintenon

queen. But the truth of the matter was never known.

The King bestowed at this time some more distinctions on his illegitimate

children. M. du Maine, as grand-master of the artillery, had to be

received at the Chambre des Comptes; and his place ought to have been,

according to custom, immediately above that of the senior member. But

the King wished him to be put between the first and second presidents;

and this was done. The King accorded also to the Princesse de Conti that

her two ladies of honour should be allowed to sit at the Duchesse de

Bourgogne’s table. It was a privilege that no lady of honour to a

Princess of the blood had ever been allowed. But the King gave these

distinctions to the ladies of his illegitimate children, and refused it

to those of the Princesses of the blood.

In thus according honours, the King seemed to merit some new ones

himself. But nothing fresh could be thought of. What had been done

therefore at his statue in the Place des Victoires, was done over again

in the Place Vendome on the 13th August, after midday. Another statue

which had been erected there was uncovered. The Duc de Gesvres, Governor

of Paris, was in attendance on horseback, at the head of the city troops,

and made turns, and reverences, and other ceremonies, imitated from those

in use at the consecration of the Roman Emperors. There were, it is

true, no incense and no victims: something more in harmony with the title

of Christian King was necessary. In the evening, there was upon the

river a fine illumination, which Monsieur and Madame went to see.

A difficulty arose soon after this with Denmark. The Prince Royal had

become King, and announced the circumstance to our King, but would not

receive the reply sent him because he was not styled in it “Majesty.”

We had never accorded to the Kings of Denmark this title, and they had

always been contented with that of “Serenity.” The King in his turn

would not wear mourning for the King of Denmark, just dead, although he

always did so for any crowned head, whether related to him or not. This

state of things lasted some months; until, in the end, the new King of

Denmark gave way, received the reply as it had been first sent, and our

King wore mourning as if the time for it had not long since passed.

Boucherat, chancellor and keeper of the seals, died on the 2nd of

September. Harlay, as I have previously said, had been promised this

appointment when it became vacant. But the part he had taken in our case

with M. de Luxembourg had made him so lose ground, that the appointment

was not given to him. M. de la Rochefoucauld, above all, had undermined

him in the favour of the King; and none of us had lost an opportunity of

assisting in this work. Our joy, therefore, was extreme when we saw all

Harlay’s hopes frustrated, and we did not fail to let it burst forth.

The vexation that Harlay conceived was so great, that he became

absolutely intractable, and often cried out with a bitterness he could

not contain, that he should be left to die in the dust of the palace.

His weakness was such, that he could not prevent himself six weeks after

from complaining to the King at Fontainebleau, where he was playing the

valet with his accustomed suppleness and deceit. The King put him off

with fine speeches, and by appointing him to take part in a commission

then sitting for the purpose of bringing about a reduction in the price

of corn in Paris and the suburbs, where it had become very dear. Harlay

made a semblance of being contented, but remained not the less annoyed.

His health and his head were at last so much attacked that he was forced

to quit his post: he then fell into contempt after having excited so much

hatred. The chancellorship was given to Pontchartrain, and the office of

comptroller-general, which became vacant at the same time, was given to

Chamillart; a very honest man, who owed his first advancement to his

skill at billiards, of which game the King was formerly very fond.

It was while Chamillart was accustomed to play billiards with the King,

at least three times a week, that an incident happened which ought not to

be forgotten. Chamillart was Counsellor of the Parliament at that time.

He had just reported on a case that had been submitted to him.

The losing party came to him, and complained that he had omitted to bring

forward a document that had been given into his hands, and that would

assuredly have turned the verdict. Chamillart searched for the document,

found it, and saw that the complainer was right. He said so, and added,

--“I do not know how the document escaped me, but it decides in your

favour. You claimed twenty thousand francs, and it is my fault you did

not get them. Come to-morrow, and I will pay you.” Chamillart, although

then by no means rich, scraped together all the money he had, borrowing

the rest, and paid the man as he had promised, only demanding that the

matter should be kept a secret. But after this, feeling that billiards

three times a week interfered with his legal duties, he surrendered part

of them, and thus left himself more free for other charges he was obliged

to attend to.

The Comtesse de Fiesque died very aged, while the Court was at

Fontainebleau this year. She had passed her life with the most frivolous

of the great world. Two incidents amongst a thousand will characterise

her. She was very straitened in means, because she had frittered away

all her substance, or allowed herself to be pillaged by her business

people. When those beautiful mirrors were first introduced she obtained

one, although they were then very dear and very rare. “Ah, Countess!”

said her friends, “where did you find that?”

“Oh!” replied she, “I had a miserable piece of land, which only yielded

me corn; I have sold it, and I have this mirror instead. Is not this

excellent? Who would hesitate between corn and this beautiful mirror?”

On another occasion she harangued with her son, who was as poor as a rat,

for the purpose of persuading him to make a good match and thus enrich

himself. Her son, who had no desire to marry, allowed her to talk on,

and pretended to listen to her reasons: She was delighted--entered into a

description of the wife she destined for him, painting her as young,

rich, an only child, beautiful, well-educated, and with parents who would

be delighted to agree to the marriage. When she had finished, he pressed

her for the name of this charming and desirable person. The Countess

said she was the daughter of Jacquier, a man well known to everybody,

and who had been a contractor of provisions to the armies of M. de

Turenne. Upon this, her son burst out into a hearty laugh, and she in

anger demanded why he did so and what he found so ridiculous in the

match.

The truth was, Jacquier had no children, as the Countess soon remembered.

At which she said it was a great pity, since no marriage would have

better suited all parties. She was full of such oddities, which she

persisted in for some time with anger, but at which she was the first to

laugh. People said of her that she had never been more than eighteen

years old. The memoirs of Mademoiselle paint her well. She lived with

Mademoiselle, and passed all her life in quarrels about trifles.

It was immediately after leaving Fontainebleau that the marriage between

the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne was consummated. It was upon this

occasion that the King named four gentlemen to wait upon the Duke,--

four who in truth could not have been more badly chosen. One of them,

Gamaches, was a gossip; who never knew what he was doing or saying--

who knew nothing of the world, or the Court, or of war, although he had

always been in the army. D’O was another; but of him I have spoken.

Cheverny was the third, and Saumery the fourth. Saumery had been raised

out of obscurity by M. de Beauvilliers. Never was man so intriguing, so

truckling, so mean, so boastful, so ambitious, so intent upon fortune,

and all this without disguise, without veil, without shame! Saumery had

been wounded, and no man ever made so much of such a mishap. I used to

say of him that he limped audaciously, and it was true. He would speak

of personages the most distinguished, whose ante-chambers even he had

scarcely seen, as though he spoke of his equals or of his particular

friends. He related what he had heard, and was not ashamed to say before

people who at least had common sense, “Poor Mons. Turenne said to me,”

M. de Turenne never having probably heard of his existence. With

Monsieur in full he honoured nobody. It was Mons. de Beauvilliers, Mons.

de Chevreuse, and so on; except with those whose names he clipped off

short, as he frequently would even with Princes of the blood. I have

heard him say many times, “the Princesse de Conti,” in speaking of the

daughter of the King; and “the Prince de Conti,” in speaking of Monsieur

her brother-in-law! As for the chief nobles of the Court, it was rare

for him to give them the Monsieur or the Mons. It was Marechal

d’Humieres, and so on with the others. Fatuity and insolence were united

in him, and by dint of mounting a hundred staircases a day, and bowing

and scraping everywhere, he had gained the ear of I know not how many

people. His wife was a tall creature, as impertinent as he, who wore the

breeches, and before whom he dared not breathe. Her effrontery blushed

at nothing, and after many gallantries she had linked herself on to M. de

Duras, whom she governed, and of whom she was publicly and absolutely the

mistress, living at his expense. Children, friends, servants, all were

at her mercy; even Madame de Duras herself when she came, which was but

seldom, from the country.

Such were the people whom the King placed near M. le Duc de Bourgogne.

The Duc de Gesvres, a malicious old man, a cruel husband and unnatural

father, sadly annoyed Marechal de Villeroy towards the end of this year,

having previously treated me very scurvily for some advice I gave him

respecting the ceremonies to be observed at the reception by the King of

M. de Lorraine as Duc de Bar. M. de Gesvres and M. de Villeroy had both

had fathers who made large fortunes and who became secretaries of state.

One morning M. de Gesvres was waiting for the King, with a number of

other courtiers, when M. de Villeroy arrived, with all that noise and

those airs he had long assumed, and which his favour and his appointments

rendered more superb. I know not whether this annoyed De Gesvres, more

than usual, but as soon as the other had placed himself, he said,

“Monsieur le Marechal, it must be admitted that you and I are very

lucky.” The Marechal, surprised at a remark which seemed to be suggested

by nothing, assented with a modest air, and, shaking his head and his

wig, began to talk to some one else. But M. de Gesvres had not commenced

without a purpose. He went on, addressed M. de Villeroy point-blank,

admiring their mutual good fortune, but when he came to speak of the

father of each, “Let us go no further,” said he, “for what did our

fathers spring from? From tradesmen; even tradesmen they were

themselves. Yours was the son of a dealer in fresh fish at the markets,

and mine of a pedlar, or, perhaps, worse. Gentlemen,” said he,

addressing the company, “have we not reason to think our fortune

prodigious--the Marechal and I?” The Marechal would have liked to

strangle M. de Gesvres, or to see him dead--but what can be done with a

man who, in order to say something cutting to you, says it to himself

first? Everybody was silent, and all eyes were lowered. Many, however,

were not sorry to see M. de Villeroy so pleasantly humiliated. The King

came and put an end to the scene, which was the talk of the Court for

several days.

Omissions must be repaired as soon as they are perceived. Other matters

have carried me away. At the commencement of April, Ticquet, Counsellor

at the Parliament, was assassinated in his own house; and if he did not

die, it was not the fault of his porter, or of the soldier who had

attempted to kill him, and who left him for dead, disturbed by a noise

they heard. This councillor, who was a very poor man, had complained to

the King, the preceding year, of the conduct of his wife with

Montgeorges, captain in the Guards, and much esteemed. The King

prohibited Montgeorges from seeing the wife of the councillor again.

Such having been the case, when the crime was attempted, suspicion fell

upon Montgeorges and the wife of Ticquet, a beautiful, gallant, and bold

woman, who took a very high tone in the matter. She was advised to fly,

and one of my friends offered to assist her to do so, maintaining that in

all such cases it is safer to be far off than close at hand. The woman

would listen to no such advice, and in a few days she was no longer able.

The porter and the soldier were arrested and tortured, and Madame

Ticquet, who was foolish enough to allow herself to be arrested, also

underwent the same examination, and avowed all. She was condemned to

lose her head, and her accomplice to be broken on the wheel. Montgeorges

managed so well, that he was not legally criminated. When Ticquet heard

the sentence, he came with all his family to the King, and sued for

mercy. But the King would not listen to him, and the execution took

place on Wednesday, the 17th of June, after mid-day, at the Greve. All

the windows of the Hotel de Ville, and of the houses in the Place de

Greve, in the streets that lead to it from the Conciergerie of the palace

where Madame Ticquet was confined, were filled with spectators, men and

women, many of title and distinction. There were even friends of both

sexes of this unhappy woman, who felt no shame or horror in going there.

In the streets the crowd was so great that it could not be passed

through. In general, pity was felt for the culprit; people hoped she

would be pardoned, and it was because they hoped so, that they went to

see her die. But such is the world; so unreasoning, and so little in

accord with itself.

CHAPTER XVI

The year 1700 commenced by a reform. The King declared that he would no

longer bear the expense of the changes that the courtiers introduced into

their apartments. It had cost him more than sixty thousand francs since

the Court left Fontainebleau. It is believed that Madame de Mailly was

the cause of this determination of the King; for during the last two or

three years she had made changes in her apartments every year.

A difficulty occurred at this time which much mortified the King. Little

by little he had taken all the ambassadors to visit Messieurs du Maine

and de Toulouse, as though they were Princes of the blood. The nuncio,

Cavallerini, visited them thus, but upon his return to Rome was so taken

to task for it, that his successor, Delfini, did not dare to imitate him.

The cardinals considered that they had lowered themselves, since

Richelieu and Mazarm, by treating even the Princes of the blood on terms

of equality, and giving them their hand, which had not been customary m

the time of the two first ministers just named. To do so to the

illegitimate offspring of the King, and on occasions of ceremony,

appeared to them monstrous. Negotiations were carried on for a month,

but Delfini would not bend, and although in every other respect he had

afforded great satisfaction during his nunciature, no farewell audience

was given to him; nor even a secret audience. He was deprived of the

gift of a silver vessel worth eighteen hundred francs, that it was

customary to present to the cardinal nuncios at their departure: and he

went away without saying adieu to anybody.

Some time before, M. de Monaco had been sent as ambassador to Rome. He

claimed to be addressed by the title of “Highness,” and persisted in it

with so much obstinacy that he isolated, himself from almost everybody,

and brought the affairs of his embassy nearly to a standstill by the

fetters he imposed upon them in the most necessary transactions. Tired

at last of the resistance he met with, he determined to refuse the title

of “Excellence,” although it might fairly belong to them, to all who

refused to address him as “Highness.” This finished his affair; for

after that determination no one would see him, and the business of the

embassy suffered even more than before. It is difficult to comprehend

why the King permitted such a man to remain as his representative at a

foreign Court.

Madame de Navailles died on the 14th of February: Her mother, Madame de

Neuillant, who became a widow, was avarice itself. I cannot say by what

accident or chance it was that Madame de Maintenon in returning young and

poor from America, where she had lost her father and mother, fell in

landing at Rochelle into the hands of Madame de Neuillant, who lived in

Poitou. Madame de Neuillant took home Madame de Maintenon, but could not

resolve to feed her without making her do something in return. Madame de

Maintenon was charged therefore with the key of the granary, had to

measure out the corn and to see that it was given to the horses. It was

Madame de Neuillant who brought Madame de Maintenon to Paris, and to get

rid of her married her to Scarron, and then retired into Poitou.

Madame de Navailles was the eldest daughter of this Madame de Neuillant,

and it was her husband, M. de Navailles, who, serving under M. le Prince

in Flanders, received from that General a strong reprimand for his

ignorance. M. le Prince wanted to find the exact position of a little

brook which his maps did not mark. To assist him in the search, M. de

Navailles brought a map of the world! On another occasion, visiting

M. Colbert, at Sceaux, the only thing M. de Navailles could find to

praise was the endive of the kitchen garden: and when on the occasion of

the Huguenots the difficulty of changing religion was spoken of, he

declared that if God had been good enough to make him a Turk, he should

have remained so.

Madame de Navailles had been lady of honour to the Queen-mother, and lost

that place by a strange adventure.

She was a woman of spirit and of virtue, and the young ladies of honour

were put under her charge. The King was at this time young and gallant.

So long as he held aloof from the chamber of the young ladies, Madame de

Navailles meddled not, but she kept her eye fixed upon all that she

controlled. She soon perceived that the King was beginning to amuse

himself, and immediately after she found that a door had secretly been

made into the chamber of the young ladies; that this door communicated

with a staircase by which the King mounted into the room at night, and

was hidden during the day by the back of a bed placed against it. Upon

this Madame de Navailles held counsel with her husband. On one side was

virtue and honour, on the other, the King’s anger, disgrace, and exile.

The husband and wife did not long hesitate. Madame de Navailles at once

took her measures, and so well, that in a few hours one evening the door

was entirely closed up. During the same night the King, thinking to

enter as usual by the little staircase, was much surprised to no longer

find a door. He groped, he searched, he could not comprehend the

disappearance of the door, or by what means it had become wall again.

Anger seized him; he doubted not that the door had been closed by Madame

de Navailles and her husband. He soon found that such was the case, and

on the instant stripped them of almost all their offices, and exiled them

from the Court. The exile was not long; the Queen-mother on her death-

bed implored him to receive back Monsieur and Madame de Navailles, and he

could not refuse. They returned, and M. de Navailles nine years

afterwards was made Marechal of France. After this Madame de Navailles

rarely appeared at the Court. Madame de Maintenon could not refuse her

distinctions and special favours, but they were accorded rarely and by

moments. The King always remembered his door; Madame de Maintenon always

remembered the hay and barley of Madame de Neuillant, and neither years

nor devotion could deaden the bitterness of the recollection.

From just before Candlemas-day to Easter of this year, nothing was heard

of but balls and pleasures of the Court. The King gave at Versailles and

at Marly several masquerades, by which he was much amused, under pretext

of amusing the Duchesse de Bourgogne. At one of these balls at Marly a

ridiculous scene occurred. Dancers were wanting and Madame de Luxembourg

on account of this obtained an invitation, but with great difficulty, for

she lived in such a fashion that no woman would see her. Monsieur de

Luxembourg was perhaps the only person in France who was ignorant of

Madame de Luxembourg’s conduct. He lived with his wife on apparently

good terms and as though he had not the slightest mistrust of her. On

this occasion, because of the want of dancers, the King made older people

dance than was customary, and among others M. de Luxembourg. Everybody

was compelled to be masked. M. de Luxembourg spoke on this subject to

M. le Prince, who, malicious as any monkey, determined to divert all the

Court and himself at the Duke’s expense. He invited M. de Luxembourg to

supper, and after that meal was over, masked him according to his fancy.

Soon after my arrival at the ball, I saw a figure strangely clad in long

flowing muslin, and with a headdress on which was fixed the horns of a

stag, so high that they became entangled in the chandelier. Of course

everybody was much astonished at so strange a sight, and all thought that

that mask must be very sure of his wife to deck himself so. Suddenly the

mask turned round and showed us M. de Luxembourg. The burst of laughter

at this was scandalous. Good M. de Luxembourg, who never was very

remarkable for wit, benignly took all this laughter as having been

excited simply by the singularity of his costume, and to the questions

addressed him, replied quite simply that his dress had been arranged by

M. le Prince; then, turning to the right and to the left, he admired

himself and strutted with pleasure at having been masked by M. le Prince.

In a moment more the ladies arrived, and the King immediately after them.

The laughter commenced anew as loudly as ever, and M. de Luxembourg

presented himself to the company with a confidence that was ravishing.

His wife had heard nothing of this masquerading, and when she saw it,

lost countenance, brazen as she was. Everybody stared at her and her

husband, and seemed dying of laughter. M. le Prince looked at the scene

from behind the King, and inwardly laughed at his malicious trick. This

amusement lasted throughout all the ball, and the King, self-contained as

he usually was, laughed also; people were never tired of admiring an

invention so, cruelly ridiculous, and spoke of it for several days.

No evening passed on which there was not a ball. The chancellor’s wife

gave one which was a fete the most gallant and the most magnificent

possible. There were different rooms for the fancy-dress ball, for the

masqueraders, for a superb collation, for shops of all countries,

Chinese, Japanese, &c., where many singular and beautiful things were

sold, but no money taken; they were presents for the Duchesse de

Bourgogne and the ladies. Everybody was especially diverted at this

entertainment, which did not finish until eight o’clock in the morning.

Madame de Saint-Simon and I passed the last three weeks of this time

without ever seeing the day. Certain dancers were only allowed to leave

off dancing at the same time as the Duchesse de Bourgogne. One morning,

at Marty, wishing to escape too early, the Duchess caused me to be

forbidden to pass the doors of the salon; several of us had the same

fate. I was delighted when Ash Wednesday arrived; and I remained a day

or two dead beat, and Madame de Saint-Simon could not get over Shrove

Tuesday.

La Bourlie, brother of Guiscard, after having quitted the service, had

retired to his estate near Cevennes, where he led a life of much licence.

About this time a robbery was committed in his house; he suspected one of

the servants, and on his own authority put the man to the torture. This

circumstance could not remain so secret but that complaints spread

abroad. The offence was a capital one. La Bourlie fled from the realm,

and did many strange things until his death, which was still more

strange; but of which it is not yet time to speak.

Madame la Duchesse, whose heavy tradesmen’s debts the King had paid not

long since, had not dared to speak of her gambling debts, also very

heavy. They increased, and, entirely unable to pay them, she found

herself in the greatest embarrassment. She feared, above all things,

lest M. le Prince or M. le Duc should hear of this. In this extremity

she addressed herself to Madame de Maintenon, laying bare the state of

her finances, without the slightest disguise. Madame de Maintenon had

pity on her situation, and arranged that the King should pay her debts,

abstain from scolding her, and keep her secret. Thus, in a few weeks,

Madame la Duchesse found herself free of debts, without anybody whom she

feared having known even of their existence.

Langlee was entrusted with the payment and arrangement of these debts.

He was a singular kind of man at the Court, and deserves a word. Born of

obscure parents, who had enriched themselves, he had early been

introduced into the great world, and had devoted himself to play, gaining

an immense fortune; but without being accused of the least unfairness.

With but little or no wit, but much knowledge of the world, he had

succeeded in securing many friends, and in making his way at the Court.

He joined in all the King’s parties, at the time of his mistresses.

Similarity of tastes attached Langlee to Monsieur, but he never lost

sight of the King. At all the fetes Langlee was present, he took part in

the journeys, he was invited to Marly, was intimate with all the King’s

mistresses; then with all the daughters of the King, with whom indeed he

was so familiar that he often spoke to them with the utmost freedom. He

had become such a master of fashions and of fetes that none of the latter

were given, even by Princes of the blood, except under his directions;

and no houses were bought, built, furnished, or ornamented, without his

taste being consulted. There were no marriages of which the dresses and

the presents were not chosen, or at least approved, by him. He was on

intimate terms with the most distinguished people of the Court; and often

took improper advantage of his position. To the daughters of the King

and to a number of female friends he said horribly filthy things, and

that too in their own houses, at St. Cloud or at Marly. He was often

made a confidant in matters of gallantry, and continued to be made so all

his life. For he was a sure man, had nothing disagreeable about him, was

obliging, always ready to serve others with his purse or his influence,

and was on bad terms with no one.

While everybody, during all this winter, was at balls and amusements,

the beautiful Madame de Soubise--for she was so still--employed herself

with more serious matters. She had just bought, very cheap, the immense

Hotel de Guise, that the King assisted her to pay for. Assisted also by

the King, she took steps to make her bastard son canon of Strasbourg;

intrigued so well that his birth was made to pass muster, although among

Germans there is a great horror of illegitimacy, and he was received into

the chapter. This point gained, she laid her plans for carrying out

another, and a higher one, nothing less than that of making her son

Archbishop of Strasbourg.

But there was an obstacle, in the way. This obstacle was the Abbe

d’Auvergne (nephew of Cardinal de Bouillon), who had the highest position

in the chapter, that of Grand Prevot, had been there much longer than the

Abbe de Soubise, was older, and of more consequence. His reputation,

however, was against him; his habits were publicly known to be those of

the Greeks, whilst his intellect resembled theirs in no way. By his

stupidity he published his bad conduct, his perfect ignorance, his

dissipation, his ambition; and to sustain himself he had only a low,

stinking, continual vanity, which drew upon him as much disdain as did

his habits, alienated him from all the world, and constantly subjected

him to ridicule.

The Abbe de Soubise had, on the contrary, everything smiling in his

favour, even his exterior, which showed that he was born of the tenderest

amours. Upon the farms of the Sorbonne he had much distinguished

himself. He had been made Prior of Sorbonne, and had shone conspicuously

in that position, gaining eulogies of the most flattering kind from

everybody, and highly pleasing the King. After this, he entered the

seminary of Saint Magloire, then much in vogue, and gained the good

graces of the Archbishop of Paris, by whom that seminary was favoured.

On every side the Abbe de Soubise was regarded, either as a marvel of

learning, or a miracle of piety and purity of manners. He had made

himself loved everywhere, and his gentleness, his politeness, his

intelligence, his graces, and his talent for securing friends, confirmed

more and more the reputation he had established.

The Abbe d’Auvergne had a relative, the Cardinal de Furstenberg, who also

had two nephews, canons of Strasbourg, and in a position to become

claimants to the bishopric. Madame de Soubise rightly thought that her

first step must be to gain over the Cardinal to her side. There was a

channel through which this could be done which at once suggested itself

to her mind. Cardinal Furstenberg, it was said, had been much enamoured

of the Comtesse de La Marck, and had married her to one of his nephews,

in order that he might thus see her more easily. It was also said that

he had been well treated, and it is certain that nothing was so striking

as the resemblance, feature for feature, of the Comte de La Marck to

Cardinal de Furstenberg. If the Count was not the son of the Cardinal he

was nothing to him. The attachment of Cardinal Furstenberg for the

Comtesse de La Marck did not abate when she became by her marriage

Comtesse de Furstenberg; indeed he could not exist without her; she lived

and reigned in his house. Her son, the Comte de La Marck, lived there

also, and her dominion over the Cardinal was so public, that whoever had

affairs with him spoke to the Countess, if he wished to succeed. She had

been very beautiful, and at fifty-two years of age, still showed it,

although tall, stout, and coarse featured as a Swiss guard in woman’s

clothes. She was, moreover, bold, audacious, talking loudly and always

with authority; was polished, however, and of good manners when she

pleased. Being the most imperious woman in the world, the Cardinal was

fairly tied to her apron-strings, and scarcely dared to breathe in her

presence. In dress and finery she spent like a prodigal, played every

night, and lost large sums, oftentimes staking her jewels and her various

ornaments. She was a woman who loved herself alone, who wished for

everything, and who refused herself nothing, not even, it was said,

certain gallantries which the poor Cardinal was obliged to pay for, as

for everything else. Her extravagance was such, that she was obliged to

pass six or seven months of the year in the country, in order to have

enough to spend in Paris during the remainder of the year.

It was to the Comtesse de Furstenberg, therefore, that Madame de Soubise

addressed herself in order to gain over the support of Cardinal de

Furstenberg, in behalf of her son. Rumour said, and it was never

contradicted, that Madame de Soubise paid much money to the Cardinal

through the Countess, in order to carry this point. It is certain that

in addition to the prodigious pensions the Cardinal drew from the King,

he touched at this time a gratification of forty thousand crowns, that it

was pretended had been long promised him.

Madame de Soubise having thus assured herself of the Countess and the

Cardinal (and they having been privately thanked by the King), she caused

an order to be sent to Cardinal de Bouillon, who was then at Rome,

requesting him to ask the Pope in the name of the King, for a bull

summoning the Chapter of Strasbourg to meet and elect a coadjutor and a

declaration of the eligibility of the Abbe de Soubise.

But here a new obstacle arose in the path of Madame de Soubise. Cardinal

de Bouillon, a man of excessive pride and pretension, who upon reaching

Rome claimed to be addressed as “Most Eminent Highness,” and obtaining

this title from nobody except his servants, set himself at loggerheads

with all the city--Cardinal de Bouillon, I say, was himself canon of

Strasbourg, and uncle of the Abbe d’Auvergne. So anxious was the

Cardinal to secure the advancement of the Abbe d’Auvergne, that he had

already made a daring and fraudulent attempt to procure for him a

cardinalship. But the false representations which he made in order to

carry his point, having been seen through, his attempt came to nothing,

and he himself lost all favour with the King for his deceit. He,

however; hoped to make the Abbe d’Auvergne bishop of Strasbourg, and was

overpowered, therefore, when he saw this magnificent prey about to escape

him. The news came upon him like a thunderbolt. It was bad enough to

see his hopes trampled under foot; it was insupportable to be obliged to

aid in crushing them. Vexation so transported and blinded him, that he

forgot the relative positions of himself and of Madame de Soubise, and

imagined that he should be able to make the King break a resolution he

had taken, and an engagement he had entered into. He sent therefore, as

though he had been a great man, a letter to the King, telling him that he

had not thought sufficiently upon this matter, and raising scruples

against it. At the same time he despatched a letter to the canons of

Strasbourg, full of gall and compliments, trying to persuade them that

the Abbe de Soubise was too young for the honour intended him, and

plainly intimating that the Cardinal de Furstenberg had been gained over

by a heavy bribe paid to the Comtesse de Furstenberg. These letters.

made a terrible uproar.

I was at the palace on Tuesday, March 30th, and after supper I saw Madame

de Soubise arrive, leading the Comtesse de Furstenberg, both of whom

posted themselves at the door of the King’s cabinet. It was not that

Madame de Soubise had not the privilege of entering if she pleased, but

she preferred making her complaint as public as the charges made against

her by Cardinal de Bouillon had become. I approached in order to witness

the scene. Madame de Soubise appeared scarcely able to contain herself,

and the Countess seemed furious. As the King passed, they stopped him.

Madame de Soubise said two words in a low tone. The Countess in a louder

strain demanded justice against the Cardinal de Bouillon, who, she said,

not content in his pride and ambition with disregarding the orders of the

King, had calumniated her and Cardinal de Furstenberg in the most

atrocious manner, and had not even spared Madame de Soubise herself. The

King replied to her with much politeness, assured her she should be

contented, and passed on.

Madame de Soubise was so much the more piqued because Cardinal de

Bouillon had acquainted the King with the simony she had committed,

and assuredly if he had not been ignorant of this he would never have

supported her in the affair. She hastened therefore to secure the

success of her son, and was so well served by the whispered authority of

the King, and the money she had spent, that the Abbe de Soubise was

elected by unanimity Coadjutor of Strasbourg.

As for the Cardinal de Bouillon, foiled in all his attempts to prevent

the election, he wrote a second letter to the King, more foolish than the

first. This filled the cup to overflowing. For reply, he received

orders, by a courier, to quit Rome immediately and to retire to Cluni or

to Tournus, at his choice, until further orders. This order appeared so

cruel to him that he could not make up his mind to obey. He was

underdoyen of the sacred college. Cibo, the doyen, was no longer able to

leave his bed. To become doyen, it was necessary to be in Rome when the

appointment became vacant. Cardinal de Bouillon wrote therefore to the

King, begging to be allowed to stay a short time, in order to pray the

Pope to set aside this rule, and give him permission to succeed to the

doyenship, even although absent from Rome when it became vacant. He knew

he should not obtain this permission, but he asked for it in order to

gain time, hoping that in the meanwhile Cardinal Cibo might die, or even

the Pope himself, whose health had been threatened with ruin for some

time. This request of the Cardinal de Bouillon was refused. There

seemed nothing for him but to comply with the orders he had received.

But he had evaded them so long that he thought he might continue to do

so. He wrote to Pere la Chaise, begging him to ask the King for

permission to remain at Rome until the death of Cardinal Cibo, adding

that he would wait for a reply at Caprarole, a magnificent house of the

Duke of Parma, at eight leagues from Rome. He addressed himself to Pere

la Chaise, because M. de Torcy, to whom he had previously written, had

been forbidden to open his letters, and had sent him word to that effect.

Having, too, been always on the best of terms with the Jesuits, he hoped

for good assistance from Pere la Chaise. But he found this door closed

like that of M. de Torcy. Pere la Chaise wrote to Cardinal de Bouillon

that he too was prohibited from opening his letters. At the same time a

new order was sent to the Cardinal to set out immediately. Just after he

had read it Cardinal Cibo died, and the Cardinal de Bouillon hastened at

once to Rome to secure the doyenship, writing to the King to say that he

had done so, that he would depart in twenty-four hours, and expressing a

hope that this delay would not be refused him. This was laughing at the

King and his orders, and becoming doyen in spite of him. The King,

therefore, displayed his anger immediately he learnt this last act of

disobedience. He sent word immediately to M. de Monaco to command the

Cardinal de Bouillon to surrender his charge of grand chaplain, to give

up his cordon bleu, and to take down the arms of France from the door of

his palace; M. de Monaco was also ordered to prohibit all French people

in Rome from seeing Cardinal de Bouillon, or from having any

communication with him. M. de Monaco, who hated the Cardinal, hastened

willingly to obey these instructions. The Cardinal appeared overwhelmed,

but he did not even then give in. He pretended that his charge of grand

chaplain was a crown office, of which he could not be dispossessed,

without resigning. The King, out of all patience with a disobedience so

stubborn and so marked, ordered, by a decree in council, on the 12th

September, the seizure of all the Cardinal’s estates, laical and

ecclesiastical, the latter to be confiscated to the state, the former to

be divided into three portions, and applied to various uses. The same

day the charge of grand chaplain was given to Cardinal Coislin, and that

of chief chaplain to the Bishop of Metz. The despair of the Cardinal

de Bouillon, on hearing of this decree, was extreme. Pride had hitherto

hindered him from believing that matters would be pushed so far against

him. He sent in his resignation only when it was no longer needed of

him. His order he would not give up. M. de Monaco warned him that,

in case of refusal, he had orders to snatch it from his neck. Upon this

the Cardinal saw the folly of holding out against the orders of the King.

He quitted then the marks of the order, but he was pitiful enough to wear

a narrow blue ribbon, with a cross of gold attached, under his cassock,

and tried from time to time to show a little of the blue. A short time

afterwards, to make the best of a bad bargain, he tried to persuade

himself and others, that no cardinal was at liberty to wear the orders of

any prince. But it was rather late in the day to think of this, after

having worn the order of the King for thirty years, as grand chaplain;

and everybody thought so, and laughed at the idea.

CHAPTER XVII

Chateauneuf, Secretary of State, died about this time. He had asked that

his son, La Vrilliere, might be allowed to succeed him, and was much

vexed that the King refused this favour. The news of Chateauneuf’s death

was brought to La Vrilliere by a courier, at five o’clock in the morning.

He did not lose his wits at the news, but at once sent and woke up the

Princesse d’Harcourt, and begged her to come and see him instantly.

Opening his purse, he prayed her to go and see Madame de Maintenon as

soon as she got up, and propose his marriage with Mademoiselle de Mailly,

whom he would take without dowry, if the King gave him his father’s

appointments. The Princesse d’Harcourt, whose habit it was to accept any

sum, from a crown upwards, willingly undertook this strange business.

She went upon her errand immediately, and then repaired to Madame de

Mailly, who without property, and burdened with a troop of children--sons

and daughters, was in no way averse to the marriage.

The King, upon getting up, was duly made acquainted with La Vrilliere’s

proposal, and at once agreed to it. There was only one person opposed to

the marriage, and that was Mademoiselle de Mailly. She was not quite

twelve years of age. She burst out a-crying, and declared she was very

unhappy, that she would not mind marrying a poor man, if necessary,

provided he was a gentleman, but that to marry a paltry bourgeois, in

order to make his fortune, was odious to her. She was furious against

her mother and against Madame de Maintenon. She could not be kept quiet

or appeased, or hindered from making grimaces at La Vrilliere and all his

family, who came to see her and her mother.

They felt it; but the bargain was made, and was too good to be broken.

They thought Mademoiselle de Mailly’s annoyance would pass with her

youth--but they were mistaken. Mademoiselle de Mailly always was sore at

having been made Madame de la Vrilliere, and people often observed it.

At the marriage of Monseigneur the Duc de Bourgogne, the King had offered

to augment considerably his monthly income. The young Prince, who found

it sufficient, replied with thanks, and said that if money failed him at

any time he would take the liberty, of asking the King for more. Finding

himself short just now, he was as good as his word. The King praised him

highly, and told him to ask whenever he wanted money, not through a third

person, but direct, as he had done in this instance. The King, moreover,

told the Duc de Bourgogne to play without fear, for it was of no

consequence how much such persons as he might lose. The King was pleased

with confidence, but liked not less to see himself feared; and when timid

people who spoke to him discovered themselves, and grew embarrassed in

their discourse, nothing better made their court, or advanced their

interests.

The Archbishop of Rheims presided this year over the assembly of the

clergy, which was held every five years. It took place on this occasion

at Saint Germains, although the King of England occupied the chateau. M.

de Rheims kept open table there, and had some champagne that was much

vaunted. The King of England, who drank scarcely any other wine, heard

of this and asked for some. The Archbishop sent him six bottles. Some

time after, the King of England, who had much relished the wine, sent and

asked for more. The Archbishop, more sparing of his wine than of his

money, bluntly sent word that his wine was not mad, and did not run

through the streets; and sent none. However accustomed people might be

to the rudeness of the Archbishop, this appeared so strange that it was

much spoken of: but that was all.

M. de Vendome took another public leave of the King, the Princes, and the

Princesses, in order to place himself again under the doctor’s hands.

He perceived at last that he was not cured, and that it would be long

before he was; so went to Anet to try and recover his health, but without

success better than before. He brought back a face upon which his state

was still more plainly printed than at first. Madame d’Uzes, only

daughter of the Prince de Monaco, died of this disease. She was a woman

of merit--very virtuous and unhappy--who merited a better fate.

M. d’Uzes was an obscure man, who frequented the lowest society, and

suffered less from its effects than his wife, who was much pitied and

regretted. Her children perished of the same disease, and she left none

behind her.--[Syphilis. D.W.]

Soon after this the King ordered the Comtes d’Uzes and d’Albert to go to

the Conciergerie for having fought a duel against the Comtes de Rontzau,

a Dane, and Schwartzenberg, an Austrian. Uzes gave himself up, but the

Comte d’Albert did not do so for a long Time, and was broken for his

disobedience. He had been on more than good terms with Madame de

Luxembourg--the Comte de Rontzau also: hence the quarrel; the cause of

which was known by everybody, and made a great stir. Everybody knew it,

at least, except M. de Luxembourg, and said nothing, but was glad of it;

and yet in every direction he asked the reason; but, as may be imagined,

could find nobody to tell him, so that he went over and over again to M.

le Prince de Conti, his most intimate friend, praying him for information

upon the subject. M. de Conti related to me that on one occasion, coming

from Meudon, he was so solicited by M. de Luxembourg on this account,

that he was completely embarrassed, and never suffered to such an extent

in all his life. He contrived to put off M. de Luxembourg, and said

nothing, but was glad indeed to get away from him at the end of the

journey.

Le Notre died about this time, after having been eighty-eight years in

perfect health, and with all his faculties and good taste to the very

last. He was illustrious, as having been the first designer of those

beautiful gardens which adorn France, and which, indeed, have so

surpassed the gardens of Italy, that the most famous masters of that

country come here to admire and learn. Le Notre had a probity, an

exactitude, and an uprightness which made him esteemed and loved by

everybody. He never forgot his position, and was always perfectly

disinterested. He worked for private people as for the King, and with

the same application--seeking only to aid nature, and to attain the

beautiful by the shortest road. He was of a charming simplicity and

truthfulness. The Pope, upon one occasion, begged the King to lend him

Le Notre for some months. On entering the Pope’s chamber, instead of

going down upon his knees, Le Notre ran to the Holy Father, clasped him

round the neck, kissed him on the two cheeks, and said--“Good morning,

Reverend Father; how well you look, and how glad I am to see you in such

good health.”

The Pope, who was Clement X., Altieri, burst out laughing with all his

might. He was delighted with this odd salutation, and showed his

friendship towards the gardener in a thousand ways. Upon Le Notre’s

return, the King led him into the gardens of Versailles, and showed him

what had been done in his absence. About the Colonnade he said nothing.

The King pressed him to give his opinion thereupon.

“Why, sire,” said Le Notre, “what can I say? Of a mason you have made a

gardener, and he has given you a sample of his trade.”

The King kept silence and everybody laughed; and it was true that this

morsel of architecture, which was anything but a fountain, and yet which

was intended to be one, was much out of place in a garden. A month

before Le Notre’s death, the King, who liked to see him and to make him

talk, led him into the gardens, and on account of his great age, placed

him in a wheeled chair, by the side of his own. Upon this Le Notre said,

“Ah, my poor father, if you were living and could see a simple gardener

like me, your son, wheeled along in a chair by the side of the greatest

King in the world, nothing would be wanting to my joy!”

Le Notre was Overseer of the Public Buildings, and lodged at the

Tuileries, the garden of which (his design), together with the Palace,

being under his charge. All that he did is still much superior to

everything that has been done since, whatever care may have been taken to

imitate and follow him as closely as possible. He used to say of flower-

beds that they were only good for nurses, who, not being able to quit the

children, walked on them with their eyes, and admired them from the

second floor. He excelled, nevertheless, in flowerbeds, as in everything

concerning gardens; but he made little account of them, and he was right,

for they are the spots upon which people never walk.

The King of England (William III.) lost the Duke of Gloucester, heir-

presumptive to the crown. He was eleven years of age, and was the only

son of the Princess of Denmark, sister of the defunct Queen Mary, wife of

William. His preceptor was Doctor Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury, who was

in the secret of the invasion, and who passed into England with the

Prince of Orange at the Revolution, of which Revolution he has left a

very fraudulent history, and many other works of as little truth and good

faith. The underpreceptor was the famous Vassor, author of the “History

of Louis XIII.,” which would be read with more pleasure if there were

less spite against the Catholic religion, and less passion against the

King. With those exceptions it is excellent and true. Vassor must have

been singularly well informed of the anecdotes that he relates, and which

escape almost all historians. I have found there, for instance, the Day

of the Dupes related precisely as my father has related it to me, and

several other curious things not less exact. This author has made such a

stir that it is worth while to say something about him. He was a priest

of the Oratory, and in much estimation as a man whose manners were

without reproach. After a time, however, he was found to have disclosed

a secret that had been entrusted to him, and to have acted the spy on

behalf of the Jesuits. The proofs of his treason were found upon his

table, and were so conclusive that there was nothing for him but to leave

the Oratory. He did so, and being deserted by his Jesuit employers,

threw himself into La Trappe. But he did not enter the place in a proper

spirit, and in a few days withdrew. After this he went to the Abbey of

Perseigne, hired a lodging there, and remained several months. But he

was continually at loggerheads with the monks. Their garden was separate

from his only by a thick hedge; their fowls could jump over it. He laid

the blame upon the monks, and one day caught as many of their fowls as he

could; cut off their beaks and their spurs with a cleaver, and threw them

back again over the hedge. This was cruelty so marked that I could not

refrain from relating it.

Vassor did not long remain in this retreat, but returned to Paris, and

still being unable to gain a living, passed into Holland, from rage and

hunger became a Protestant, and set himself to work to live by his pen.

His knowledge, talent, and intelligence procured him many friends, and

his reputation reached England, into which country he passed, hoping to

gain there more fortune than in Holland. Burnet received him with open

arms, and obtained for him the post of under-preceptor to the Duke of

Gloucester. It would have been difficult to have found two instructors

so opposed to the Catholics and to France, or so well suited to the King

as teachers of his successor.

Among so many things which paved the way for the greatest events, a very

strange one happened, which from its singularity merits a short recital.

For many years the Comtesse de Verrue lived at Turin, mistress, publicly,

of M. de Savoie. The Comtesse de Verrue was daughter of the Duc de

Luynes, and had been married in Piedmont, when she was only fourteen

years of age, to the Comte de Verrue, young, handsome, rich, and honest;

whose mother was lady of honour to Madame de Savoie.

M. de Savoie often met the Comtesse de Verrue, and soon found her much to

his taste. She saw this, and said so to her husband and her mother-in-

law. They praised her, but took no further notice of the matter. M. de

Savoie redoubled his attentions, and, contrary to his usual custom, gave

fetes, which the Comtesse de Verrue felt were for her. She did all she

could not to attend them, but her mother-in-law quarrelled with her, said

she wished to play the important, and that it was her vanity which gave

her these ideas. Her husband, more gentle, desired her to attend these

fetes, saying that even if M. de Savoie were really in love with her, it

would not do to fail in anything towards him. Soon after M. de Savoie

spoke to the Comtesse de Verrue. She told her husband and her mother-in-

law, and used every entreaty in order to prevail upon them to let her go

and pass some time in the country. They would not listen to her, and

seeing no other course open, she feigned to be ill, and had herself sent

to the waters of Bourbon. She wrote to her father, the Duc de Luynes, to

meet her there, and set out under the charge of the Abbe de Verrue; uncle

of her husband. As soon as the Duc de Luynes arrived at Bourbon, and

became acquainted with the danger which threatened his daughter; he

conferred with the Abbe as to the best course to adopt, and agreed with

him that the Countess should remain away from Turin some time, in order

that M. de Savoie might get cured of his passion. M. de Luynes little

thought that he had conferred with a wolf who wished to carry off his

lamb. The Abbe de Verrue, it seems, was himself violently in love with

the Countess, and directly her father had gone declared the state of his

heart. Finding himself only repulsed, the miserable old man turned his

love into hate; ill-treated the Countess, and upon her return to Turin,

lost no opportunity of injuring her in the eyes of her husband and her

mother-in-law.

The Comtesse de Verrue suffered this for some time, but at last her

virtue yielded to the bad treatment she received. She listened to M. de

Savoie, and delivered herself up to him in order to free herself from

persecution. Is not this a real romance? But it happened in our own

time, under the eyes and to the knowledge of everybody.

When the truth became known, the Verrues were in despair, although they

had only themselves to blame for what had happened. Soon the new

mistress ruled all the Court of Savoy, whose sovereign was at her feet as

before a goddess. She disposed of the favours of her lover, and was

feared and courted by the ministry. Her haughtiness made her hated; she

was poisoned; M. de Savoie gave her a subtle antidote, which fortunately

cured her, and without injury to her beauty. Her reign still lasted.

After a while she had the small-pox. M. de Savoie tended her during this

illness, as though he had been a nurse; and although her face suffered a

little by it, he loved her not the less. But he loved her after his own

fashion. He kept her shut up from view, and at last she grew so tired of

her restraint that she determined to fly. She conferred with her

brother, the Chevalier de Luynes, who served with much distinction in the

navy, and together they arranged the matter.

They seized an opportunity when M. de Savoie had gone on a tour to

Chambery, and departed furtively. Crossing our frontier, they arrived m

Paris, where the Comtesse de Verrue, who had grown very rich, took a

house, and by degrees succeeded in getting people to come and see her,

though, at first, owing to the scandal of her life, this was difficult.

In the end, her opulence gained her a large number of friends, and she

availed herself so well of her opportunities, that she became of much

importance, and influenced strongly the government. But that time goes

beyond my memoirs. She left in Turin a son and a daughter, both

recognised by M. de Savoie, after the manner of our King. He loved

passionately these, illegitimate children, and married the daughter to

the Prince de Carignan.

Mademoiselle de Conde died at Paris on October 24th, after a long

illness, from a disease in the chest, which consumed her less than the

torments she experienced without end from M. le Prince, her father, whose

continual caprices were the plague of all those over whom he could

exercise them. Almost all the children of M. le Prince were little

bigger than dwarfs, which caused M. le Prince, who was tall, to say in

pleasantry, that if his race went on always thus diminishing it would

come to nothing. People attributed the cause to a dwarf that Madame la

Princesse had had for a long time near her.

At the funeral of Mademoiselle de Conde, a very indecorous incident

happened. My mother, who was invited to take part in the ceremony, went

to the Hotel de Conde, in a coach and six horses, to join Mademoiselle

d’Enghien. When the procession was about to start the Duchesse de

Chatillon tried to take precedence of my mother. But my mother called

upon Mademoiselle d’Enghien to prevent this, or else to allow her to

return. Madame de Chatillon persisted in her attempt, saying that

relationship decided the question of precedence on these occasions, and

that she was a nearer relative to the deceased than my mother. My

mother, in a cold but haughty tone, replied that she could pardon this

mistake on account of the youth and ignorance of Madame de Chatillon; but

that in all such cases it was rank and not relationship which decided the

point. The dispute was at last put to an end by Madame de Chatillon

giving way. But when the procession started an attempt was made by her

coachman to drive before the coach of my mother, and one of the company

had to descend and decide the dispute. On the morrow M. le Prince sent

to apologise to my mother for the occurrence that had taken place, and

came himself shortly afterwards full of compliments and excuses. I never

could understand what induced Madame de Chatillon to take this fancy into

her head; but she was much ashamed of it afterwards, and made many

excuses to my mother.

I experienced, shortly after this, at Fontainebleau, one of the greatest

afflictions I had ever endured. I mean the loss of M. de La Trappe,

These Memoirs are too profane to treat slightly of a life so sublimely

holy, and of a death so glorious and precious before God. I will content

myself with saying here that praises of M. de La Trappe were so much the

more great and prolonged because the King eulogised him in public; that

he wished to see narrations of his death; and that he spoke more than

once of it to his grandsons by way of instruction. In every part of

Europe this great loss was severely felt. The Church wept for him, and

the world even rendered him justice. His death, so happy for him and so

sad for his friends, happened on the 26th of October, towards half-past

twelve, in the arms of his bishop, and in presence of his community, at

the age of nearly seventy-seven years, and after nearly forty years of

the most prodigious penance. I cannot omit, however, the most touching

and the most honourable mark of his friendship. Lying upon the ground,

on straw and ashes, in order to die like all the brethren of La Trappe,

he deigned, of his own accord, to recollect me, and charged the Abbe La

Trappe to send word to me, on his part, that as he was quite sure of my

affection for him, he reckoned that I should not doubt of his tenderness

for me. I check myself at this point; everything I could add would be

too much out of place here.

VOLUME 3.

CHAPTER XVIII

For the last two or three years the King of Spain had been in very weak

health, and in danger of his life several times. He had no children, and

no hope of having any. The question, therefore, of the succession to his

vast empire began now to agitate every European Court. The King of

England (William III.), who since his usurpation had much augmented his

credit by the grand alliance he had formed against France, and of which

he had been the soul and the chief up to the Peace of Ryswick, undertook

to arrange this question in a manner that should prevent war when the

King of Spain died. His plan was to give Spain, the Indies, the Low

Countries, and the title of King of Spain to the Archduke, second son of

the Emperor; Guipuscoa, Naples, Sicily, and Lorraine to France; and the

Milanese to M. de Lorraine, as compensation for taking away from him his

territory.

The King of England made this proposition first of all to our King; who,

tired of war, and anxious for repose, as was natural at his age, made few

difficulties, and soon accepted. M. de Lorraine was not in a position to

refuse his consent to a change recommended by England, France, and

Holland. Thus much being settled, the Emperor was next applied to. But

he was not so easy to persuade: he wished to inherit the entire

succession, and would not brook the idea of seeing the House of Austria

driven from Italy, as it would have been if the King of England’s

proposal had been carried out. He therefore declared it was altogether

unheard of and unnatural to divide a succession under such circumstances,

and that he would hear nothing upon the subject until after the death of

the King of Spain. The resistance he made caused the whole scheme to

come to the ears of the King of Spain, instead of remaining a secret, as

was intended.

The King of Spain made a great stir in consequence of what had taken

place, as though the project had been formed to strip him, during his

lifetime, of his realm. His ambassador in England spoke so insolently

that he was ordered to leave the country by William, and retired to

Flanders. The Emperor, who did not wish to quarrel with England,

intervened at this point, and brought about a reconciliation between the

two powers. The Spanish ambassador returned to London.