It is now time that I should say something of the infamous bull
'Unigenitus', which by the unsurpassed audacity and scheming of Father Le
Tellier and his friends was forced upon the Pope and the world.
I need not enter into a very lengthy account of the celebrated Papal
decree which has made so many martyrs, depopulated our schools,
introduced ignorance, fanaticism, and misrule, rewarded vice, thrown the
whole community into the greatest confusion, caused disorder everywhere,
and established the most arbitrary and the most barbarous inquisition;
evils which have doubled within the last thirty years. I will content
myself with a word or two, and will not blacken further the pages of my
Memoirs. Many pens have been occupied, and will be occupied, with this
subject. It is not the apostleship of Jesus Christ that is in question,
but that of the reverend fathers and their ambitious clients.
It is enough to say that the new bull condemned in set terms the
doctrines of Saint-Paul (respected like oracles of the Holy Spirit ever
since the time of our Saviour), and also those of Saint-Augustin, and of
other fathers; doctrines which have always been adopted by the Popes, by
the Councils, and by the Church itself. The bull, as soon as published,
met with a violent opposition in Rome from the cardinals there, who went
by sixes, by eights, and by tens, to complain of it to the Pope. They
might well do so, for they had not been consulted in any way upon this
new constitution. Father Tellier and his friends had had the art and the
audacity to obtain the publication of it without submitting it to them.
The Pope, as I have said, had been forced into acquiescence, and now, all
confused, knew not what to say. He protested, however, that the
publication had been made without his knowledge, and put off the
cardinals with compliments, excuses, and tears, which last he could
always command.
The constitution had the same fate in France as in Rome. The cry against
it was universal. The cardinals protested that it would never be
received. They were shocked by its condemnation of the doctrines of
Saint-Augustin and of the other fathers; terrified at its condemnation of
Saint-Paul. There were not two opinions upon this terrible constitution.
The Court, the city, and the provinces, as soon as they knew the nature
of it, rose against it like one man.
In addition to the articles of this constitution which I have already
named, there was one which excited infinite alarm and indignation, for it
rendered the Pope master of every crown! As is well known, there is a
doctrine of the Church, which says:
"An unjust excommunication ought got to hinder [us] from doing our duty."
The new constitution condemned this doctrine, and consequently proclaimed
that:
"An unjust excommunication ought to hinder [us] from doing our duty."
The enormity of this last is more striking than the simple truth of the
proposition condemned. The second is a shadow which better throws up the
light of the first. The results and the frightful consequences of the
condemnation are as clear as day.
I think I have before said that Father Tellier, without any advances on
my part, without, in fact, encouragement of any kind, insisted upon
keeping up an intimacy with me, which I could not well repel, for it came
from a man whom it would have been very dangerous indeed to have for an-
enemy. As soon as this matter of the constitution was in the wind, he
came to me to talk about it. I did not disguise my opinion from him, nor
did he disguise in any way from me the unscrupulous means he meant to
employ in order to get this bull accepted by the clergy. Indeed, he was
so free with me, showed me so plainly his knavery and cunning, that I
was, as it were, transformed with astonishment and fright. I never could
comprehend this openness in a man so false, so artificial, so profound,
or see in what manner it could be useful to him.
One day he came to me by appointment, with a copy of the constitution in
his hand in order that we might thoroughly discuss it. I was at
Versailles. In order to understand what I am going to relate, I must
give some account of my apartments there. Let me say, then, that I had a
little back cabinet, leading out of another cabinet, but so arranged that
you would not have thought it was there. It received no light except
from the outer cabinet, its own windows being boarded up. In this back
cabinet I had a bureau, some chairs, books, and all I needed; my friends
called it my "shop," and in truth it did not ill resemble one.
Father Tellier came at the hour he had fixed. As chance would have it,
M. le Duc and Madame la Duchesse de Berry had invited themselves to a
collation with Madame de Saint-Simon that morning. I knew that when they
arrived I should no longer be master of my chamber or of my cabinet. I
told Father Tellier this, and he was much vexed. He begged me so hard to
find some place where we might be inaccessible to the company, that at
last, pressed by him to excess, I said I knew of only one expedient by
which we might become free: and I told him that he must dismiss his
'vatble' (as the brother who always accompanies a monk is called), and
that then, furnished with candles, we would go and shut ourselves up in
my back cabinet, where we could neither be seen nor heard, if we took
care not to speak loud when anybody approached. He thought the expedient
admirable, dismissed his companion, and we sat down opposite each other,
the bureau between us, with two candles alight upon it.
He immediately began to sing the praises of the Constitution Unigenitus,
a copy of which he placed on the table. I interrupted him so as to come
at once to the excommunication proposition. We discussed it with much
politeness, but with little accord. I shall not pretend to report our
dispute. It was warm and long. I pointed out to Father Tellier, that
supposing the King and the little Dauphin were both to die, and this was
a misfortune which might happen, the crown of France would by right of
birth belong to the King of Spain; but according to the renunciation just
made, it would belong to M. le Duc de Berry and his branch, or in default
to M. le Duc d'Orleans. "Now," said I, "if the two brothers dispute the
crown, and the Pope favouring the one should excommunicate the other, it
follows, according to our new constitution, that the excommunicated must
abandon all his claims, all his partisans, all his forces, and go over to
the other side. For you say, an unjust excommunication ought to hinder
us from doing our duty. So that in one fashion or another the Pope is
master of all the crowns in his communion, is at liberty to take them
away or to give them as he pleases, a liberty so many Popes have claimed
and so many have tried to put in action."
My argument was simple, applicable, natural, and pressing: it offered
itself, of itself. Wherefore, the confessor was amazed by it; he
blushed, he beat about the bush, he could not collect himself. By
degrees he did so, and replied to me in a manner that he doubtless
thought would convince me at once. "If the case you suggest were to
happen," he said, "and the Pope declaring for one disputant were to
excommunicate the other and all his followers, such excommunication would
not merely be unjust, it would be false; and it has never been decided
that a false excommunication should hinder us from doing our duty."
"Ah! my father," I said, "your distinction is subtle and clever, I admit.
I admit, too, I did not expect it, but permit me some few more
objections, I beseech you. Will the Ultramontanes admit the nullity of
the excommunication? Is it not null as soon as it is unjust? If the
Pope has the power to excommunicate unjustly, and to enforce obedience to
his excommunication, who can limit power so unlimited, and why should not
his false (or nullified) excommunication be as much obeyed and respected
as his unjust excommunication? Suppose the case I have imagined were to
happen. Suppose the Pope were to excommunicate one of the two brothers.
Do you think it would be easy to make your subtle distinction between a
false and an unjust excommunication understood by the people, the
soldiers, the bourgeois, the officers, the lords, the women, at the very
moment when they would be preparing to act and to take up arms? You see
I point out great inconveniences that may arise if the new doctrine be
accepted, and if the Pope should claim the power of deposing kings,
disposing of their crowns, and releasing their subjects from the oath of
fidelity in opposition to the formal words of Jesus Christ and of all the
Scripture."
My words transported the Jesuit, for I had touched the right spring in
spite of his effort to hide it. He said nothing personal to me, but he
fumed. The more he restrained himself for me the less he did so for the
matter in hand. As though to indemnify himself for his moderation on my,
account, he launched out the more, upon the subject we were discussing.
In his heat, no longer master of himself, many things escaped him,
silence upon which I am sure he would afterwards have bought very dearly.
He told me so many things of the violence that would be used to make his
constitution accepted, things so monstrous, so atrocious, so terrible,
and with such extreme passion that I fell into a veritable syncope. I
saw him right in front of me between two candles, only the width of the
table between us (I have described elsewhere his horrible physiognomy).
My hearing and my sight became bewildered. I was seized, while he was
speaking, with the full idea of what a Jesuit was. Here was a man who,
by his state and his vows, could hope for nothing for his family or for
himself; who could not expect an apple or a glass of wine more than his
brethren; who was approaching an age when he would have to render account
of all things to God, and who, with studied deliberation and mighty
artifice, was going to throw the state and religion into the most
terrible flames, and commence a most frightful persecution for questions
which affected him in nothing, nor touched in any way the honour of the
School of Molina!
His profundities, the violence he spoke of--all this together, threw me
into such an ecstasy, that suddenly I interrupted him by saying:
"My father, how old are you?"
The extreme surprise which painted itself upon his face as I looked at
him with all my eyes, fetched back my senses, and his reply brought me
completely to myself. "Why do you ask?" he replied, smiling. The effort
that I made over myself to escape such a unique 'proposito', the terrible
value of which I fully appreciated, furnished me an issue. "Because,"
said I, "never have I looked at you so long as I have now, you in front
of me, these two candles between us, and your face is so fresh and so
healthy, with all your labours, that I am surprised at it."
He swallowed the answer, or so well pretended to do so, that he said
nothing of it then nor since, never ceasing when he met me to speak to me
as openly, and as frequently as before, I seeking him as little as ever.
He replied at that time that he was seventy-four years old; that in truth
he was very well; that he had accustomed himself, from his earliest
years, to a hard life and to labour; and then went back to the point at
which I had interrupted him. We were compelled, however, to be silent
for a time, because people came into my cabinet, and Madame de Saint-
Simon, who knew of our interview, had some difficulty to keep the coast
clear.
For more than two hours we continued our discussion, he trying to put me
off with his subtleties and authoritativeness, I offering but little
opposition to him, feeling that opposition was of no use, all his plans
being already decided. We separated without having persuaded each other,
he with many flatteries upon my intelligence, praying me to reflect well
upon the matter; I replying that my reflections were all made, and that
my capacity could not go farther. I let him out by the little back door
of my cabinet, so that nobody perceived him, and as soon as I had closed
it, I threw myself into a chair like a man out of breath, and I remained
there a long time alone, reflecting upon the strange kind of ecstasy I
had been in, and the horror it had caused me.
The results of this constitution were, as I have said, terrible to the
last degree; every artifice, every cruelty was used, in order to force it
down the throats of the clergy; and hence the confusion and sore trouble
which arose all over the realm. But it is time now for me to touch upon
other matters.
Towards the close of this year, 1713, peace with the Emperor seemed so
certain, that the King disbanded sixty Battalions and eighteen men per
company of the regiment of the guards, and one hundred and six squadrons;
of which squadrons twenty-seven were dragoons. At peace now with the
rest of Europe he had no need of so many troops, even although the war
Against the Empire had continued; fortunately, however it did not.
Negotiations were set on foot, and on the 6th of March of the following
year, 1714, after much debate, they ended successfully. On that day, in
fact, peace was signed at Rastadt. It was shortly afterwards published
at Paris, a Te Deum sung, and bonfires lighted at night; a grand
collation was given at the Hotel de Ville by the Duc de Tresmes, who at
midnight also gave, in his own house, a splendid banquet, at which were
present many ladies, foreigners, and courtiers.
This winter was fertile in balls at the Court; there were several, fancy-
dress and masked, given by M. le Duc de Berry, by Madame la Duchesse de
Berry, M. le Duc, and others. There were some also at Paris, and at
Sceaux, where Madame du Maine gave many fetes and played many comedies,
everybody going there from Paris and the Court--M. du Maine doing the
Honours. Madame la Duchesse de Berry was in the family way, and went to
no dances out of her own house. The King permitted her, on account of
her condition, to sup with him in a robe de chambre, as under similar
circumstances he had permitted the two Dauphines to do.
At the opera, one night this winter, the Abbe Servien, not liking certain
praises of the King contained in a Prologue, let slip a bitter joke in
ridicule of them. The pit took it up, repeated it, and applauded it.
Two days afterwards, the Abbe Servien was arrested and taken to
Vincennes, forbidden to speak to anybody and allowed no servant to wait
upon him. For form's sake seals were put upon his papers, but he was not
a man likely to have any fit for aught else than to light the fire.
Though more than sixty-five years old, he was strangely debauched.
The Duc de la Rochefoucauld died on Thursday, the 11th of January, at
Versailles, seventy-nine years of age, and blind. I have spoken of him
so frequently in the course of these memoirs, that I will do nothing more
now than relate a few particulars respecting him, which will serve in
some sort to form his portrait.
He had much honour, worth, and probity. He was noble, good, magnificent,
ever willing to serve his friends; a little too much so, for he
oftentimes wearied the King with importunities on their behalf. Without
any intellect or discernment he was proud to excess, coarse and rough in
his manners--disagreeable even, and embarrassed with all except his
flatterers; like a man who does not know how to receive a visit, enter or
leave a room. He scarcely went anywhere except to pay the indispensable
compliments demanded by marriage, death, etc., and even then as little as
he could. He lived in his own house so shut up that no, one went to see
him except on these same occasions. He gave himself up almost entirely
to his valets, who mixed themselves in the conversation; and you were
obliged to treat them with all sorts of attentions if you wished to
become a frequenter of the house.
I shall never forget what happened to us at the death of the Prince of
Vaudemont's son, by which M. de la Rochefoucauld's family came in for a
good inheritance. We were at Marly. The King had been stag-hunting.
M. de Chevreuse, whom I found when the King was being unbooted, proposed
that we should go and pay our compliments to M. de la Rochefoucauld.
We went. Upon entering, what was our surprise, nay, our shame, to find
M. de la Rochefoucauld playing at chess with one of his servants in
livery, seated opposite to him! Speech failed us. M. de la
Rochefoucauld perceived it, and remained confounded himself. He
stammered, he grew confused, he tried to excuse what we had seen, saying
that this lackey played very well, and that chess-players played with
everybody. M. de Chevreuse had not come to contradict him; neither had
I; we turned the conversation, therefore, and left as soon as possible.
As soon as we were outside we opened our minds to each other, and said
what we thought of this rare meeting, which, however, we did not make
public.
M. de Rochefoucauld, towards the end of his career at Court, became so
importunate, as I have said, for his friends, that the King was much
relieved by his death. Such have been his sentiments at the death of
nearly all those whom he had liked and favoured.
Of the courage of M. de la Rochefoucauld, courtier as he was, in speaking
to the King, I will relate an instance. It was during one of the visits
at Marly, in the gardens of which the King was amusing himself with a
fountain that he set at work. I know not what led to it, but the King,
usually so reserved, spoke with him of the bishop of Saint-Pons, then in
disgrace on account of the affairs of Port Royal. M. de la Rochefoucauld
let him speak on to the end, and then began to praise the bishop. The
discouraging silence of the King warned him; he persisted, however, and
related how the bishop, mounted upon a mule, and visiting one day his
diocese, found himself in a path which grew narrower at every step; and
which ended in a precipice. There were no means of getting out of it
except by going back, but this was impossible, there not being enough
space to turn round or to alight. The holy bishop (for such was his term
as I well remarked) lifted his eyes to Heaven, let go the bridle, and
abandoned himself to Providence. Immediately his mule rose up upon its
hind legs, and thus upright, the bishop still astride, turned round until
its head was where its tail had been. The beast thereupon returned along
the path until it found an opening into a good road. Everybody around
the King imitated his silence, which excited the Duke to comment upon
what he had just related. This generosity charmed me, and surprised all
who were witness of it.
The day after the death of M. de la Rochefoucauld, the Chancellor took
part in a very tragic scene. A Vice-bailli of Alencon had just lost a
trial, in which, apparently, his honour, or his property, was much
interested. He came to Pontchartrain's, where the Chancellor was at the
moment, and waited until he came out into the court to get into his
carriage. The Vice-bailli then asked him for a revision of the verdict.
The Chancellor, with much gentleness and goodness represented to the man
that the law courts were open to him if he insisted to appeal, but that
as to a revision of the verdict; it was contrary to usage; and turned to
get into his coach. While he was getting in; the unhappy bailli said
there was a shorter way of escaping from trouble, and stabbed himself
twice with a poniard. At the dies of the domestics the Chancellor
descended from the coach, had the man carried into a room, and sent for a
doctor, and a confessor. The bailli made confession very peacefully, and
died an hour afterwards.
I have spoken in its time of the exile of Charmel and its causes, of
which the chief was his obstinate refusal to present himself before the
King. The vexation of the King against people who withdrew from him was
always very great. In this case, it never passed away, but hardened into
a strange cruelty, to speak within limits. Charmel, attacked with the
stone, asked permission to come to Paris to undergo an operation. The
permission was positively refused. Time pressed. The operation was
obliged to be done in the country. It was so severe, and perhaps so
badly done, that Charmel died three days afterwards full of penitence and
piety. He had led a life remarkable for its goodness, was without
education, but had religious fervour that supplied the want of it. He
was sixty-eight years of age.
The Marechale de la Ferme died at Paris, at the same time, more than
eighty years old. She was sister of the Comtesse d'Olonne, very rich and
a widow. The beauty of the two sisters, and the excesses of their lives,
made a great stir. No women, not even those most stigmatized for their
gallantry, dared to see them, or to be seen anywhere with them. That was
the way then; the fashion has changed since. When they were old and
nobody cared for them, they tried to become devout. They lodged
together, and one Ash Wednesday went and heard a sermon. This sermon,
which was upon fasting and penitence, terrified them.
"My sister," they said to each other on their return, "it was all true;
there was no joke about it; we must do penance, or we are lost. But, my
sister, what shall we do?" After having well turned it over: "My
sister," said Madame d'Olonne, "this is what we must do; we must make our
servants fast." Madame d'Olonne thought she had very well met the
difficulty. However, at last she set herself to work in earnest, at
piety and penitence, and died three months after her sister, the
Marechale de la Ferme. It will not be forgotten, that it was under cover
of the Marechale that a natural child was first legitimated without
naming the mother, in order that by this example, the King's natural
children might be similarly honoured, without naming Madame de Montespan,
as I have related in its place.