incessantly intriguing against her. She was clever enough to destroy all
proofs of her manoeuvres, but she could not so easily prevent suspicion.
Her intimate connection with M. d'Argenson gave offence to Madame, and,
for some time, she was more reserved with her. She, afterwards, did a
thing which justly irritated the King and Madame. The King, who wrote a
great deal, had written to Madame de Pompadour a long letter concerning
an assembly of the Chambers of Parliament, and had enclosed a letter of
M. Berrien. Madame was ill, and laid those letters on a little table by
her bedside. M. de Gontaut came in, and gossipped about trifles, as
usual. Madame d'Amblimont also came, and stayed but very little time.
Just as I was going to resume a book which I had been reading to Madame,
the Comtesse d'Estrades entered, placed herself near Madame's bed, and
talked to her for some time. As soon as she was gone, Madame called me,
asked what was o'clock, and said, "Order my door to be shut, the King
will soon be here." I gave the order, and returned; and Madame told me
to give her the King's letter, which was on the table with some other
papers. I gave her the papers, and told her there was nothing else. She
was very uneasy at not finding the letter, and, after enumerating the
persons who had been in the room, she said, "It cannot be the little
Countess, nor Gontaut, who has taken this letter. It can only be the
Comtesse d'Estrades;--and that is too bad." The King came, and was
extremely angry, as Madame told me. Two days afterwards, he sent Madame
d'Estrades into exile. There was no doubt that she took the letter; the
King's handwriting had probably awakened her curiosity. This occurrence
gave great pain to M. d'Argenson, who was bound to her, as Madame de
Pompadour said, by his love of intrigue. This redoubled his hatred of
Madame, and she accused him of favouring the publication of a libel, in
which she was represented as a worn-out mistress, reduced to the vile
occupation of providing new objects to please her lover's appetite. She
was characterised as superintendent of the Parc-aux-cerfs, which was said
to cost hundreds of thousands of louis a year. Madame de Pompadour did,
indeed, try to conceal some of the King's weaknesses, but she never knew
one of the sultanas of that seraglio. There were, however, scarcely ever
more than two at once, and often only one. When they married, they
received some jewels, and four thousand louis. The Parc-aux-cerfs was
sometimes vacant for five or six months. I was surprised, some time
after, at seeing the Duchesse de Luynes, Lady of Honour to the Queen,
come privately to see Madame de Pompadour. She afterwards came openly.
One evening, after Madame was in bed, she called me, and said, "My dear,
you will be delighted; the Queen has given me the place of Lady of the
Palace; tomorrow I am to be presented to her: you must make me look
well." I knew that the King was not so well pleased at this as she was;
he was afraid that it would give rise to scandal, and that it might be
thought he had forced this nomination upon the Queen. He had, however,
done no such thing. It had been represented to the Queen that it was an
act of heroism on her part to forget the past; that all scandal would be
obliterated when Madame de Pompadour was seen to belong to the Court in
an honourable manner; and that it would be the best proof that nothing
more than friendship now subsisted between the King and the favourite.
The Queen received her very graciously. The devotees flattered
themselves they should be protected by Madame, and, for some time, were
full of her praises. Several of the Dauphin's friends came in private to
see her, and some obtained promotion. The Chevalier du Muy, however,
refused to come. The King had the greatest possible contempt for them,
and granted them nothing with a good grace. He, one day, said of a man
of great family, who wished to be made Captain of the Guards, "He is a
double spy, who wants to be paid on both sides." This was the moment at
which Madame de Pompadour seemed to me to enjoy the most complete
satisfaction. The devotees came to visit her without scruple, and did
not forget to make use of every opportunity of serving themselves. Madame
de Lu----- had set them the example. The Doctor laughed at this change
in affairs, and was very merry at the expense of the saints. "You must
allow, however, that they are consistent," said I, "and may be sincere."
"Yes," said he; "but then they should not ask for anything."
One day, I was at Doctor Quesnay's, whilst Madame de Pompadour was at the
theatre. The Marquis de Mirabeau
[The author of "L'Ami des Hommes," one of the leaders of the sect of
Economistes, and father of the celebrated Mirabeau. After the death of
Quesnay, the Grand Master of the Order, the Marquis de Mirabeau was
unanimously elected his successor. Mirabeau was not deficient in a
certain enlargement of mind, nor in acquirements, nor even in patriotism;
but his writings are enthusiastical, and show that he had little more
than glimpses of the truth. The Friend of Man was the enemy of all his
family. He beat his servants, and did not pay them. The reports of the
lawsuit with his wife, in 1775, prove that this philosopher possessed, in
the highest possible degree, all the anti-conjugal qualities. It is said
that his eldest son wrote two contradictory depositions, and was paid by
both sides.]
came in, and the conversation was, for some time, extremely tedious to
me, running entirely on 'net produce'; at length, they talked of other
things.
Mirabeau said, "I think the King looks ill, he grows old."--"So much the
worse, a thousand times so much the worse," said Quesnay; "it would be
the greatest possible loss to France if he died;" and he raised his
hands, and sighed deeply. "I do not doubt that you are attached to the
King, and with reason," said Mirabeau: "I am attached to him too; but I
never saw you so much moved."--"Ah!" said Quesnay, "I think of what would
follow."--"Well, the Dauphin is virtuous."--"Yes; and full of good
intentions; nor is he deficient in understanding; but canting hypocrites
would possess an absolute empire over a Prince who regards them as
oracles. The Jesuits would govern the kingdom, as they did at the end of
Louis XIV.'s reign: and you would see the fanatical Bishop of Verdun
Prime Minister, and La Vauguyon all-powerful under some other title. The
Parliaments must then mind how they behave; they will not be better
treated than my friends the philosophers."--"But they go too far," said
Mirabeau; "why openly attack religion?"--"I allow that," replied the
Doctor; "but how is it possible not to be rendered indignant by the
fanaticism of others, and by recollecting all the blood that has flowed
during the last two hundred years? You must not then again irritate
them, and revive in France the time of Mary in England. But what is done
is done, and I often exhort them to be moderate; I wish they would follow
the example of our friend Duclos."--"You are right," replied Mirabeau;
"he said to me a few days ago, 'These philosophers are going on at such a
rate that they will force me to go to vespers and high mass;' but, in
fine, the Dauphin is virtuous, well-informed, and intellectual."--"It is
the commencement of his reign, I fear," said Quesnay, "when the imprudent
proceedings of our friends will be represented to him in the most
unfavourable point of view; when the Jansenists and Molinists will make
common cause, and be strongly supported by the Dauphine. I thought that
M. de Muy was moderate, and that he would temper the headlong fury of the
others; but I heard him say that Voltaire merited condign punishment. Be
assured, sir, that the times of John Huss and Jerome of Prague will
return; but I hope not to live to see it. I approve of Voltaire having
hunted down the Pompignans: were it not for the ridicule with which he
covered them, that bourgeois Marquis would have been preceptor to the
young Princes, and, aided by his brother, would have succeeded in again
lighting the faggots of persecution."--"What ought to give you confidence
in the Dauphin," said Mirabeau, "is, that, notwithstanding the devotion
of Pompignan, he turns him into ridicule. A short time back, seeing him
strutting about with an air of inflated pride, he said to a person, who
told it to me, 'Our friend Pompignan thinks that he is something.'" On
returning home, I wrote down this conversation.
I, one day, found Quesnay in great distress. "Mirabeau," said he, "is
sent to Vincennes, for his work on taxation. The Farmers General have
denounced him, and procured his arrest; his wife is going to throw
herself at the feet of Madame de Pompadour to-day." A few minutes
afterwards, I went into Madame's apartment, to assist at her toilet, and
the Doctor came in. Madame said to him, "You must be much concerned at
the disgrace of your friend Mirabeau. I am sorry for it too, for I like
his brother." Quesnay replied, "I am very far from believing him to be
actuated by bad intentions, Madame; he loves the King and the people."
"Yes," said she; "his 'Ami des Hommes' did him great honour." At this
moment the Lieutenant of Police entered, and Madame said to him, "Have
you seen M. de Mirabeau's book?"--"Yes, Madame; but it was not I who
denounced it?"--"What do you think of it?"--"I think he might have said
almost all it contains with impunity, if he had been more circumspect as
to the manner; there is, among other objectionable passages, this, which
occurs at the beginning: Your Majesty has about twenty millions of
subjects; it is only by means of money that you can obtain their
services, and there is no money."--"What, is there really that, Doctor?"
said Madame. "It is true, they are the first lines in the book, and I
confess that they are imprudent; but, in reading the work, it is clear
that he laments that patriotism is extinct in the hearts of his
fellow-citizens, and that he desires to rekindle it." The King entered:
we went out, and I wrote down on Quesnay's table what I had just heard.
I them returned to finish dressing Madame de Pompadour: she said to me,
"The King is extremely angry with Mirabeau; but I tried to soften him,
and so did the Lieutenant of Police. This will increase Quesnay's fears.
Do you know what he said to me to-day? The King had been talking to him
in my room, and the Doctor appeared timid and agitated. After the King
was gone, I said to him, 'You always seem so embarrassed in the King's
presence, and yet he is so good-natured.'--'I Madame,' said he, 'I left
my native village at the age of forty, and I have very little experience
of the world, nor can I accustom myself to its usages without great
difficulty. When I am in a room with the King, I say to myself, This is
a man who can order my head to be cut off; and that idea embarrasses
me.'--'But do not the King's justice and kindness set you at
ease?'--'That is very true in reasoning,' said he; 'but the sentiment is
more prompt, and inspires me with fear before I have time to say to
myself all that is calculated to allay it.'"
I got her to repeat this conversation, and wrote it down immediately,
that I might not forget it.
An anonymous letter was addressed to the King and Madame de Pompadour;
and, as the author was very anxious that it should not miscarry, he sent
copies to the Lieutenant of Police, sealed and directed to the King, to
Madame de Pompadour, and to M. de Marigny. This letter produced a strong
impression on Madame, and on the King, and still more, I believe, on the
Duc de Choiseul, who had received a similar one. I went on my knees to
M. de Marigny, to prevail on him to allow me to copy it, that I might
show it to the Doctor. It is as follows:
"Sire--It is a zealous servant who writes to Your Majesty. Truth is
always better, particularly to Kings; habituated to flattery, they see
objects only under those colours most likely to please them. I have
reflected, and read much; and here is what my meditations have suggested
to me to lay before Your Majesty. They have accustomed you to be
invisible, and inspired you with a timidity which prevents you from
speaking; thus all direct communication is cut off between the master and
his subjects. Shut up in the interior of your palace, you are becoming
every day like the Emperors of the East; but see, Sire, their fate! 'I
have troops,' Your Majesty will say; such, also, is their support: but,
when the only security of a King rests upon his troops; when he is only,
as one may say, a King of the soldiers, these latter feel their own
strength, and abuse it. Your finances are in the greatest disorder, and
the great majority of states have perished through this cause. A
patriotic spirit sustained the ancient states, and united all classes for
the safety of their country. In the present times, money has taken the
place of this spirit; it has become the universal lever, and you are in
want of it. A spirit of finance affects every department of the state;
it reigns triumphant at Court; all have become venal; and all distinction
of rank is broken up. Your Ministers are without genius and capacity
since the dismissal of MM. d'Argenson and de Machault. You alone cannot
judge of their incapacity, because they lay before you what has been
prepared by skilful clerks, but which they pass as their own. They
provide only for the necessity of the day, but there is no spirit of
government in their acts. The military changes that have taken place
disgust the troops, and cause the most deserving officers to resign; a
seditious flame has sprung up in the very bosom of the Parliaments; you
seek to corrupt them, and the remedy is worse than the disease. It is
introducing vice into the sanctuary of justice, and gangrene into the
vital parts of the commonwealth. Would a corrupted Parliament have
braved the fury of the League, in order to preserve the crown for the
legitimate sovereign? Forgetting the maxims of Louis XIV., who well
understood the danger of confiding the administration to noblemen, you
have chosen M. de Choiseul, and even given him three departments; which
is a much heavier burden than that which he would have to support as
Prime Minister, because the latter has only to oversee the details
executed by the Secretaries of State. The public fully appreciate this
dazzling Minister. He is nothing more than a 'petit-maitre', without
talents or information, who has a little phosphorus in his mind. There
is a thing well worthy of remark, Sire; that is, the open war carried on
against religion. Henceforward there can spring up no new sects, because
the general belief has been shaken, that no one feels inclined to occupy
himself with difference of sentiment upon some of the articles. The
Encyclopedists, under pretence of enlightening mankind, are sapping the
foundations of religion. All the different kinds of liberty are
connected; the Philosophers and the Protestants tend towards
republicanism, as well as the Jansenists. The Philosophers strike at the
root, the others lop the branches; and their efforts, without being
concerted, will one day lay the tree low. Add to these the Economists;
whose object is political liberty, as that of the others is liberty of
worship, and the Government may find itself, in twenty or thirty years,
undermined in every direction, and will then fall with a crash. If Your
Majesty, struck by this picture, but too true, should ask me for a
remedy, I should say, that it is necessary to bring back the Government
to its principles, and, above all, to lose no time in restoring order to
the state of the finances, because the embarrassments incident to a
country in a state of debt necessitate fresh taxes, which, after grinding
the people, induce them towards revolt. It is my opinion that Your
Majesty would do well to appear more among your people; to shew your
approbation of useful services, and your displeasure of errors and
prevarications, and neglect of duty: in a word, to let it be seen that
rewards and punishments, appointments and dismissals, proceed from
yourself. You will then inspire gratitude by your favours, and fear by
your reproaches; you will then be the object of immediate and personal
attachment, instead of which, everything is now referred to your
Ministers. The confidence in the King, which is habitual to your people,
is shewn by the exclamation, so common among them, 'Ah! if the King knew
it' They love to believe that the King would remedy all their evils, if
he knew of them. But, on the other hand, what sort of ideas must they
form of kings, whose duty it is to be informed of everything, and to
superintend everything, that concerns the public, but who are,
nevertheless, ignorant of everything which the discharge of their
functions requires them to know? 'Rex, roi, regere, regar, conduire'--to
rule, to conduct--these words sufficiently denote their duties. What
would be said of a father who got rid of the charge of his children as of
a burthen?
"A time will come, Sire, when the people shall be enlightened--and that
time is probably approaching. Resume the reins of government, hold them
with a firm hand, and act, so that it cannot be said of you, 'Faeminas et
scorta volvit ammo et haec principatus praemia putat':--Sire, if I see
that my sincere advice should have produced any change, I shall continue
it, and enter into more details; if not, I shall remain silent."
Now that I am upon the subject of anonymous letters to the King, I must
just mention that it is impossible to conceive how frequent they were.
People were extremely assiduous in telling either unpleasant truths, or
alarming lies, with a view to injure others. As an instance, I shall
transcribe one concerning Voltaire, who paid great court to Madame de
Pompadour when he was in France. This letter was written long after the
former.
"Madame--M. de Voltaire has just dedicated his tragedy of Tancred to you;
this ought to be an offering of respect and gratitude; but it is, in
fact, an insult, and you will form the same opinion of it as the public
has done if you read it with attention. You will see that this
distinguished writer appears to betray a consciousness that the subject
of his encomiums is not worthy of them, and to endeavour to excuse
himself for them to the public. These are his words: 'I have seen your
graces and talents unfold themselves from your infancy. At all periods
of your life I have received proofs of your uniform and unchanging
kindness. If any critic be found to censure the homage I pay you, he
must have a heart formed for ingratitude. I am under great obligations
to you, Madame, and these obligations it is my duty to proclaim.'
"What do these words really signify, unless that Voltaire feels it may be
thought extraordinary that he should dedicate his work to a woman who
possesses but a small share of the public esteem, and that the sentiment
of gratitude must plead his excuse? Why should he suppose that the
homage he pays you will be censured, whilst we daily see dedications
addressed to silly gossips who have neither rank nor celebrity, or to
women of exceptional conduct, without any censure being attracted by it?"
M. de Marigny, and Colin, Madame de Pompadour's steward, were of the same
opinion as Quesnay, that the author of this letter was extremely
malicious; that he insulted Madame, and tried to injure Voltaire; but
that he was, in fact, right. Voltaire, from that moment, was entirely
out of favour with Madame, and with the King, and he certainly never
discovered the cause.
The King, who admired everything of the age of Louis XIV., and
recollected that the Boileaus and Racines had been protected by that
monarch, who was indebted to them, in part, for the lustre of his reign,
was flattered at having such a man as Voltaire among his subjects. But
still he feared him, and had but little esteem for him. He could not
help saying, "Moreover, I have treated him as well as Louis XIV. treated
Racine and Boileau. I have given him, as Louis XIV. gave to Racine, some
pensions, and a place of gentleman in ordinary. It is not my fault if he
has committed absurdities, and has had the pretension to become a
chamberlain, to wear an order, and sup with a King. It is not the
fashion in France; and, as there are here a few more men of wit and
noblemen than in Prussia, it would require that I should have a very
large table to assemble them all at it." And then he reckoned upon his
fingers, Maupertuis, Fontenelle, La Mothe, Voltaire, Piron, Destouches,
Montesquieu, the Cardinal Polignac. "Your Majesty forgets," said some
one, "D'Alembert and Clairaut."--"And Crebillon," said he. "And la
Chaussee, and the younger Crebillon," said some one. "He ought to be
more agreeable than his father."--"And there are also the Abbes Prevot
and d'Olivet."--"Pretty well," said the King; "and for the last twenty
years all that (tout cela) would have dined and supped at my table."
Madame de Pompadour repeated to me this conversation, which I wrote down
the same evening. M. de Marigny, also, talked to me about it.
"Voltaire," said he, "has always had a fancy for being Ambassador, and he
did all he could to make the people believe that he was charged with some
political mission, the first time he visited Prussia."
The people heard of the attempt on the King's life with transports of
fury, and with the greatest distress. Their cries were heard under the
windows of Madame de Pompadour's apartment. Mobs were collected, and
Madame feared the fate of Madame de Chateauroux. Her friends came in,
every minute, to give her intelligence. Her room was, at all times, like
a church; everybody seemed to claim a right to go in and out when he
chose. Some came, under pretence of sympathising, to observe her
countenance and manner. She did nothing but weep and faint away. Doctor
Quesnay never left her, nor did I. M. de St. Florentin came to see her
several times, so did the Comptroller-General, and M. Rouilld; but M. de
Machault did not come. The Duchesse de Brancas came very frequently. The
Abbe de Bernis never left us, except to go to enquire for the King. The
tears came in his eyes whenever he looked at Madame. Doctor Quesnay saw
the King five or six times a day. "There is nothing to fear," said he to
Madame. "If it were anybody else, he might go to a ball." My son went
the next day, as he had done the day the event occurred, to see what was
going on at the Castle. He told us, on his return, that the Keeper of
the Seals was with the King. I sent him back, to see what course he took
on leaving the King. He came running back in half an hour, to tell me
that the Keeper of the Seals had gone to his own house, followed by a
crowd of people. When I told this to Madame, she burst into tears, and
said, "Is that a friend?" The Abbe de Bernis said, "You must not judge
him hastily, in such a moment as this." I returned into the drawing-room
about an hour after, when the Keeper of the Seals entered. He passed me,
with his usual cold and severe look. "How is Madame de Pompadour?" said
he. "Alas!" replied I, "as you may imagine!" He passed on to her
closet. Everybody retired, and he remained for half an hour. The Abbe
returned and Madame rang. I went into her room, the Abbe following me.
She was in tears. "I must go, my dear Abbe," said she. I made her take
some orange-flower water, in a silver goblet, for her teeth chattered.
She then told me to call her equerry. He came in, and she calmly gave
him her orders, to have everything prepared at her hotel, in Paris; to
tell all her people to get ready to go; and to desire her coachman not to
be out of the way. She then shut herself up, to confer with the Abbe de
Bernis, who left her, to go to the Council. Her door was then shut,
except to the ladies with whom she was particularly intimate, M. de
Soubise, M. de Gontaut, the Ministers, and some others. Several ladies,
in the greatest distress, came to talk to me in my room: they compared
the conduct of M. de Machault with that of M. de Richelieu, at Metz.
Madame had related to them the circumstances extremely to the honour of
the Duke, and, by contrast, the severest satire on the Keeper of the
Seals. "He thinks, or pretends to think," said she, "that the priests
will be clamorous for my dismissal; but Quesnay and all the physicians
declare that there is not the slightest danger." Madame having sent for
me, I saw the Marechale de Mirepoix coming in. While she was at the
door, she cried out, "What are all those trunks, Madame? Your people
tell me you are going."--"Alas! my dear friend, such is our Master's
desire, as M. de Machault tells me."--"And what does he advise?" said
the Marechale. "That I should go without delay." During this
conversation, I was undressing Madame, who wished to be at her ease on
her chaise-longue. "Your Beeper of the Seals wants to get the power into
his own hands, and betrays you; he who quits the field loses it." I went
out. M. de Soubise entered, then the Abbe and M. de Marigny. The
latter, who was very kind to me, came into my room an hour afterwards. I
was alone. "She will remain," said he; "but, hush!--she will make an
appearance of going, in order not to set her enemies at work. It is the
little Marechale who prevailed upon her to stay: her keeper (so she
called M. de Machault) will pay for it." Quesnay came in, and, having
heard what was said, with his monkey airs, began to relate a fable of a
fox, who, being at dinner with other beasts, persuaded one of them that
his enemies were seeking him, in order that he might get possession of
his share in his absence. I did not see Madame again till very late, at
her going to bed. She was more calm. Things improved, from day to day,
and de Machault, the faithless friend, was dismissed. The King returned
to Madame de Pompadour, as usual. I learnt, by M. de Marigny, that the
Abbe had been, one day, with M. d'Argenson, to endeavour to persuade him
to live on friendly terms with Madame, and that he had been very coldly
received. "He is the more arrogant," said he, "on account of Machault's
dismissal, which leaves the field clear for him, who has more experience,
and more talent; and I fear that he will, therefore, be disposed to
declare war till death." The next day, Madame having ordered her chaise,
I was curious to know where she was going, for she went out but little,
except to church, and to the houses of the Ministers. I was told that
she was gone to visit M. d'Argenson. She returned in an hour, at
farthest, and seemed very much out of spirits. She leaned on the
chimneypiece, with her eyes fixed on the border of it. M. de Bernis
entered. I waited for her to take off her cloak and gloves. She had her
hands in her muff. The Abbe stood looking at her for some minutes; at
last he said, "You look like a sheep in a reflecting mood." She awoke
from her reverie, and, throwing her muff on the easy-chair, replied, "It
is a wolf who makes the sheep reflect." I went out: the King entered
shortly after, and I heard Madame de Pompadour sobbing. The Abbe came
into my room, and told me to bring some Hoffman's drops: the King himself
mixed the draught with sugar, and presented it to her in the kindest
manner possible. She smiled, and kissed the King's hands. I left the
room. Two days after, very early in the morning, I heard of M.
d'Argenson's exile. It was her doing, and was, indeed, the strongest
proof of her influence that could be given. The King was much attached
to M. d'Argenson, and the war, then carrying on, both by sea and land,
rendered the dismissal of two such Ministers extremely imprudent. This
was the universal opinion at the time.
Many people talk of the letter of the Comte d'Argenson to Madame
d'Esparbes. I give it, according to the most correct version:
"The doubtful is, at length, decided. The Keeper of the Seals is
dismissed. You will be recalled, my dear Countess, and we shall be
masters of the field."