Mexica.--Philippa.--Molina.--The Queen's Jester.
In marrying Maria Theresa, Infanta of Spain, the King had made an
advantageous match from a political point of view. For through the
Infanta he had rights with regard to Flanders; she also provided him with
eventual claims upon Spain itself, together with Mexico and Peru. But
from a personal and social point of view, the King could not have
contracted a more miserable alliance. The Infanta, almost wholly
uneducated, had not even such intellectual resources as a position such
as hers certainly required, where personal risk was perpetual, where
authority had to be maintained by charming manners, and respect for power
ensured by elevation of tone and sentiment, which checks the indiscreet,
and imbues everybody with the spirit of consideration and reverence.
Maria Theresa, though a king's daughter, made no more effect at Court
than if she had been a mere middle-class person. The King, in fact, by
his considerateness, splendour, and glory, served to support her dignity.
He hoped and even desired that she should be held in honour, partly for
her own sake, in a great measure for his. But as soon as she started
upon some argument or narration where force of intellect was needed, she
always seemed bewildered, and he soon interrupted her either by finishing
the tale himself, or by changing the conversation. This he did
good-naturedly and with much tact, so that the Queen, instead of taking
offence, was pleased to be under such an obligation to him. From such a
wife this prince could not look to have sons of remarkable talent or
intellect, for that would have been nothing short of a miracle. And thus
the little Dauphin showed none of those signs of intelligence which the
most ordinary commonplace children usually display. When the Queen heard
courtiers repeat some of the droll, witty sayings of the Comte de Vegin,
or the Duc du Maine, she reddened with jealousy, and remarked, "Everybody
goes into ecstasies about those children, while Monsieur le Dauphin is
never even mentioned."
She had brought with her from Spain that Donna Silvia Molina, of whom I
have already spoken, and who had got complete control over her character.
Instead of tranquillising her, and so making her happy, Donna Silvia
thought to become more entertaining, and above all, more necessary to
her, by gossiping to her about the King's amours. She ferreted out all
the secret details, all the petty circumstances, and with such dangerous
material troubled the mind and destroyed the repose of her mistress, who
wept unceasingly, and became visibly changed.
La Molina, enriched and almost wealthy, was sent back to Spain, much to
the grief of Maria Theresa, who for several days after her departure
could neither eat nor sleep.
At the same time, the King got rid of that little she-dwarf, named
Mexica, in whose insufferable talk and insufferable presence the Queen
took delight. But the sly little wretch escaped during the journey, and
managed to get back to the princess again, hidden in some box or basket.
The Queen was highly delighted to see her again; she pampered her
secretly in her private cabinet with the utmost mystery, giving up every
moment that she could spare.
One day, by way of a short cut, the King was passing through the Queen's
closet, when he heard the sound of coughing in one of the cupboards.
Turning back, he flung it open, where, huddled up in great confusion, he
found Mexica.
"What!" cried his Majesty; "so you are back again? When and how did you
come?"
In a feeble voice Mexica answered, "Sire, please don't send me away from
the Queen any more, and she will never complain again about Madame de
Montespan."
The King laughed at this speech, and then came and repeated it to me. I
laughed heartily, too, and such a treaty of peace seemed to contain queer
compensation clauses: Madame de Montespan and Mexica were mutually bound
over to support each other; the spectacle was vastly droll, I vow.
Besides her little dwarf, the Queen had a fool named Tricominy. This
quaint person was permitted to utter everywhere and to everybody in
incoherent fashion the pseudo home-truths that passed through his head.
One day he went up to the grande Mademoiselle de Montpensier, and said to
her before everybody, "Since you are so anxious to get married, marry me;
then that will be a man-fool and a woman-fool." The Princess tried to
hit him, and he took refuge behind the Queen's chair.
Another time, to M. Letellier, Louvois's brother and Archbishop of
Rheims, he said, "Monseigneur, do let me ascend the pulpit in your
Cathedral, and I will preach modesty and humanity to you." When the
little Duc d'Anjou, that pretty, charming child, died of suppressed
measles, the Queen was inconsolable, and the King, good father that he
is, was weeping for the little fellow, for he promised much. Says
Tricominy, "They're weeping just as if princes had not got to die like
anybody else. M. d'Anjou was no better made than I am, nor of better
stuff."
Tricominy was dismissed, because it was plain that his madness took a
somewhat eccentric turn; that, in fact, he was not fool enough for his
place.
The Queen had still a Spanish girl named Philippa, to whom she was much
attached, and who deserved such flattering attachment. Born in the
Escurial Palace, Philippa had been found one night in a pretty cradle at
the base of one of the pillars. The palace guards informed King Philip,
who adopted the child and brought it up, since it had been foisted upon
him as his daughter. He grew fond of the girl, and on coming to Saint
Jean de Luz to marry the Infanta to his nephew the King, he made them a
present of Philippa, and begged them both to be very good to her. In
this amiable Spanish girl, the Infanta recognised a sister. She knew she
was an illegitimate daughter of King Philip and one of the palace ladies.
When Molina left the Court, she did everything on earth to induce
Philippa to return with her to Spain, but the girl was sincerely attached
to the Queen, who, holding her in a long embrace, promised to find her a
wealthy husband if she would stay. However, the Queen only gave her as
husband the Chevalier de Huze, her cloak-bearer, so as to keep the girl
about her person and to be intimate with her daily. Philippa played the
mandolin and the guitar to perfection; she, also sang and danced with
consummate grace.