A Grave Question—The Troublesome Brother-in-Law—“No
Vocation”—The Duke’s Choice—Peace for la Grande Mademoiselle—An
Invitation to Versailles—Behind the Arras—Between the
Alternatives—D’Aubigné’s Shadow—A Broken Friendship.
While the persecution of His Majesty’s Protestant subjects was
being ruthlessly carried on by fire and sword, and _dragonnading_
generally, a matter of the gravest moment was under consideration at
Versailles, and there was wide division of opinion in high places. It
was on the question of the _Fontanges_ head-gear, and for once the
king openly set his face against that of Madame de Maintenon, which,
he declared, now appeared in the middle of her body, and, he added,
by no means enhanced its charm; for the height of the ugly head-dress
had risen to two feet. Eloquence, mild argument, raillery and
angry words from the Grand Monarque, however, simply fell on stony
ground. Two gauze horns had been added to the abominable structure
of whalebone, ribbon, horsehair, etc., etc. These projections were
fixed behind the ears, and carried upward, crowning the work. The
Sun-King’s defeat was complete, “_Vires acquirit eundo. Nec pluribus
impar_”: his mottoes were ever mocking him, and lest the _Fontanges_
should mount higher still, he said no more.
He had better success on the frontiers, where Catinat in Piedmont,
and Luxembourg in Flanders, brilliant pupil of Condé, routed the
enemy. In this expedition Madame de Maintenon secured the advancement
of de Villars, the lover who had consoled her days of widowhood; and
the first step to glory made, he mounted rapidly, proving himself one
of the bravest of the campaign.
Another thorn in the side of Louis, or rather more absolutely of
Madame, was her brother. Years had not mended d’Aubigné’s ways; he
was just the same _vaurien_ of a _bon viveur_ and gourmet, he had
been in his bouts with Scarron.
De Santeuil, the poet-canon who had been one of the party when Ninon
travelled to Rome, was now d’Aubigné’s _Fidus Achates_, and they were
fairly evenly matched in their modes of life. Santeuil was invited
one morning by Ninon to breakfast with her. D’Aubigné naturally came
too, expressing himself delighted, he said, to kiss Ninon’s hand once
more after such an interval of years. He inquired whether she still
kept up her acquaintance with his _bégueule_ of a sister.
“Is it so you speak of a person who has made the glory of your
family?” demanded Ninon.
D’Aubigné did not regard the case at all in this light. It was a good
joke to call her that, he said, and added that he was furious against
his brother-in-law. “Don’t you know why?” he went on, planting his
hands on his hips in truculent fashion. “Are you not aware of the
persecutions and insults Françoise treats me to? Well, we’ll have
breakfast first, and then I’ll tell you.” And having fortified
himself with a bumper or two of Burgundy, he went on. “Only imagine,
that this infernal bigot—Oh well,” he continued, when Ninon reminded
him that she and Françoise were still on terms of friendship,
“you can tell her what I say. It is all the same to me, and if my
brother-in-law has anything to grumble at in it, let him out with it.
Prison? flames and fury! I’ll pin my dagger into any of them who dare
to lay hand on me, and there you have it. They won’t silence me! Head
of the family indeed! That’s me!—and so much the worse for Louis
Dieudonné! taking it into his head to marry my sister! Prudence?” he
went on, when his hostess suggested its adoption, “it is the mother
of all the vices—a watchword only for cowards. Françoise is my
sister, and I’ll have them pay me proper respect.” Then d’Aubigné,
having mercilessly criticised the mature attractions of Françoise,
went on to say that he loved her, and if need were, would protect her
at the sword’s point; but that because she was saintly and surrounded
herself with Jesuits, it was no reason why he should be made a monk.
Yes, that was her plan. She and the brother-in-law greatly desired
that he should shut himself up in St Sulpice, where the livelong day
was spent in reading litanies. “B-r-r-r-r-t!” shivered d’Aubigné.
“Me!” he added, when Santeuil said if he did such a thing, he would
excommunicate him—“I would sooner be chopped to mincemeat by the
_dragonnades_.”
Santeuil suggested that he might prefer entering St Cyr to St Sulpice.
But d’Aubigné replied that the inmates of St Cyr would be too much
of his sister’s mould for his fancy. Ninon was disturbed at this
forcible language, which she had very good reason to believe was
not reserved for her ear alone; but that d’Aubigné exploded in much
the same fashion in the taverns and the avenues and public gardens,
and possibly also even in the galleries of Versailles, where he had
access. She took Santeuil aside, and begged him to use his influence
in restraining his friend’s ebullitions. But Santeuil was in no mind
to do anything of the kind; he said it was only just and proper that
the widow Scarron, who had not always been a saint, should meet with
those little contrarieties, and the matter must settle itself in its
own way. Soon after this, Santeuil, who was a great favourite with
all the family of the Condés, on account of his wit and gaiety of
disposition, was invited to spend the summer at Dijon; and Madame de
Maintenon, finding her brother thus unprotected, used every endeavour
to persuade him to enter St Sulpice. In any case, however, d’Aubigné
said he saw no reason to hurry over the step.
That same year the marriage took place of the Duc du Maine, the
eldest son of Madame de Montespan. The bride was neither intelligent
or beautiful, but she was huge of frame, and the duke, entertaining
a passion for gigantic women, selected her from a trio of ladies,
one of whom was adorably beautiful, and the other rejected one
brilliantly gifted and accomplished.
And almost within the days of those marriage festivities at
Versailles, la Grande Mademoiselle lay dying in the Luxembourg, and
she sent for Mademoiselle de L’Enclos, very much to the surprise
of that lady; for the two had not met after the misunderstanding
created by the machinations of Madame de Fiesque. Only that morning,
it appeared, Madame de Fiesque had made clean acknowledgment to
the dying woman of the real facts of the rupture; and now, sorely
distressed, she begged Ninon’s forgiveness, and to extend it to the
far greater offender, Madame de Fiesque herself. Ninon replied that
this was freely accorded. Her child was happy in the love of a good
man. It was enough; and she turned and held out her hand to Madame de
Fiesque, who sat sobbing in a corner of the room. Just at that moment
a lady of honour entered, to say that Monsieur de Lauzun was at the
door, desiring an interview; but the dying woman refused, entreating
that he should not be admitted. “If you but knew, Ninon, how wretched
he has made my life,” she gasped out. “Oh, I have cruelly expiated
all my folly. There was never any bond blessed by Heaven between
us. It was no more than a _liaison_. May God forgive me, since my
suffering has been so great.” And so, two hours later, she died.
The noble traits in the disposition of the daughter of Gaston
d’Orléans deserved a happier fate than to be the tool of a selfish
coxcomb like Lauzun, who was, however, himself not destitute of good
qualities; but whose best memory stands recorded by the patience and
fortitude with which he endured the terrible suffering of a cancer
in the mouth, of which he died at the age of more than ninety. The
woman whose infatuation for him was so great as to sacrifice the
natural dignity which distinguished her, was no ordinary character.
Dignified she was, but without pride, and a pleasant and clever
conversationalist. True in friendship, gentle and sensible, and
incapable of any mean or base action. If sometimes her susceptible,
sensitive temperament betrayed her into anger, she would quickly pour
balm on the wound she had caused, by gracious and tender words and
caresses. She had the courage of a soldier, and would endure fatigue,
and face danger as one of the bravest. It is only the fate of ardent,
generous souls like hers, if sometimes she was betrayed into the
many nets which greed, jealousy and base cunning are always at hand
to spread, for rendering nobler natures wretched. Mademoiselle de
Montpensier was, in one word, a true descendant of her grandfather,
Henri IV.
Lauzun, exiled as he had been, from Versailles, soon after passed
over to England, where he contrived to make himself useful by
conducting the queen and infant prince of James II. safely to France,
during the revolution of ’88. Louis, who received the dethroned
English king with great demonstration of sympathy and magnificence,
and gave the exiles his palace of St Germains for their home, was
thus again brought into direct communication with Lauzun, who, being
readmitted to royal favour, was created a duke; but he never really
regained the confidence of Louis.
On the occasion of the death of Mademoiselle, he presented himself at
the palace, attired in a magnificent mourning cloak. This so angered
Louis, that Lauzun ran a parlous risk of once more taking the road to
Pignerol.
All that remained of la Grande Mademoiselle’s possessions was now
proposed to be given to the illegitimate and legitimatized children
of the king; but precisely how to deal with Lauzun and his wealth,
acquired from Mademoiselle de Montpensier, was not so apparent, since
the question still remained open, whether Mademoiselle had been
his lawful wife. No one knew for certain, and Madame de Maintenon
conceived the ingenious idea of trying to worm the true state of the
case from Ninon, whom she knew had been summoned to Mademoiselle’s
dying bed, feeling persuaded that Mademoiselle de L’Enclos was
acquainted with it. She accordingly begged her, in a little note very
affectionately worded, to come to Versailles.
Ninon was greatly tempted to reply that if Françoise desired to
speak to her, she might be at the trouble of coming to the rue des
Tournelles. All circumstances taken into account, and the generosity
with which she had treated Françoise’s little ways, it did not appear
to her that she was bound to wait upon the woman, merely because she
had lighted upon the lucky number in life’s lottery. Ninon, however,
was but a daughter of Eve. Curiosity was strong to see how Madame
Louis Quatorze lived in the lordly pleasure-house, and forthwith she
obeyed the summons.
Queen Maria Théresa’s surroundings and retinue had been modest enough
even to parsimony. Madame Louis Quatorze was attended by a numerous
guard, a train of pages, Swiss door-keepers, and the rest; while
her Court and receptions were as magnificent as those of the king.
Madame took herself very seriously, and her deportment had become
most majestic. To Ninon, however, she unbent, and was simply the
Françoise of old times. She led her into her own richly furnished
private boudoir, adorned with a curious conglomerate of pictures and
statuary, Christian and pagan, where an enormous, life-sized figure
of Christ, in carved ivory, was neighboured by painted Jupiters and
other Olympian deities, in curiously heterogeneous fashion. There
Françoise embraced Ninon with quite a prodigality of affection.
Suddenly, however, her manner changed; she congealed into gravity
and tones of great solemnity, and Ninon saw the tapestry folds
along the wall quiver slightly. It occurred to her that one only,
His Majesty Louis XIV., could have any possible right to be present
in that most private apartment, and even then she felt the need of
putting a strong restraint upon herself and her foot, to prevent it
from bestowing a kick upon the tapestry. Then the truth began to come
out, the lamentable truth that Madame and the king were greatly
perplexed as to the best mode of dealing with the Duc de Lauzan,
whose possessions, made over to him by the Grande Mademoiselle,
those, that is to say, which he still held, were much wanted for the
king’s children. He had so many, as Madame de Maintenon pointed out.
That, admitted Ninon, was true enough, “but I will engage, you will
not be increasing the number,” she added. “What is the point of the
question?” It was whether Mademoiselle had really married Monsieur de
Lauzun.
The full significance of it all now dawned upon Ninon. Had
Mademoiselle not been his wife, it would be a comparatively simple
matter to compel a revocation of the gifts which the princess had
made him in the course of her life, in order that these should enrich
the children of de Montespan. No consideration was yielded to the
fact that, be Lauzun what he might, the gifts had been tokens of
Mademoiselle’s affection for him. Ninon preferred complete inability
to afford any trustworthy sort of information on this head, and
suggested applying for it to Madame de Fiesque, who might be better
instructed: “but,” continued Ninon, “supposing Mademoiselle was not
his wife, surely to publish the fact, would create a scandal which
His Majesty would consider paying too dear a price for the estates of
Auvergne and St Fargeau. Either she was Lauzun’s wedded wife or—”
Here the chronicle goes on to relate: Mademoiselle de L’Enclos’ words
were interrupted by a tremendous disturbance at the door, occasioned
by an altercation with the guards, of some person endeavouring to
force his way in. The voice was d’Aubigné’s, and the next instant he
reeled in, far gone in a state of intoxication, and staggering to his
sister, he gripped her by the arm and thrust her back into the chair
from which she had risen.
This chronicle goes on to relate a terrible scene, over which, for
the honour of human nature, some kind of veil may be allowed to hang,
lest veracious history has been embroidered by the ample material
fact has afforded. The family differences of private domestic
relations are frequently unedifying; but when it comes to the base
humiliating of a great monarch, one in whose very vices and mistakes
grace and virtue had been apparent, until the widow Scarron crossed
his path, pen may well refrain from detail, and explain only that
the intruder, d’Aubigné, had burst in upon his sister, to reproach
her for her treachery in the matter of inducing him to enter St
Sulpice. Taking advantage of the absence of his mentor and _alter
ego_, Santeuil, she had contrived to trap him by false promises and
misrepresentation into the hated place. His liberty for one thing,
and of all things prized by d’Aubigné, would not, she had said, be
curtailed; it had, however, been so entirely denied him, that when
he had attempted to leave, he had been unceremoniously “clapped,” as
he phrased it, “into a cellar,” and he had only escaped by wriggling
through an air-grating. To any one possessed of the faintest sense
of humour, the notion of making a monk of any sort of this wild
harum-scarum would have seemed too preposterous; but the sense,
always so lacking in Françoise d’Aubigné, allowed her to indulge in
only too many absurdities whose ending was disastrous; and in any
case, the notion of removing the incommoding one from the taverns and
cafés and other public resorts where he freely gave utterance to his
estimate of Madame Louis Quatorze, and notably of her newly acquired
saintliness, was dominant in her, and to be achieved at any cost. She
earnestly desired his conversion, possibly if only to silence the
hideous music of the ditty, whose refrain he was for ever chanting in
the streets, echoed by so many ribald tongues—
“Tu n’as que les restes,
Toi!
Tu n’as que nos restes!”
Since the chronicle goes on to tell that Louis the king was concealed
behind the tapestry during the interview of Madame and her old friend
Ninon, the appearance of d’Aubigné, with his string of furious
reproach, was of course singularly inopportune; and at last the
king, unable any longer to restrain his wrath, dashed aside the
concealing Gobelins, and white with anger, and his eyes blazing with
indignation, ordered the culprit’s arrest by the guards, and carrying
off to the Bastille. Confounded by the unexpected apparition,
d’Aubigné’s sober sense returned, and he promised everything required
of him with the humblest contrition, adding that if he might suggest
the homely proverb in that august presence, there was nothing like
washing one’s soiled linen at home.
The king’s silence yielded consent, and d’Aubigné was permitted to
depart from his brother-in-law’s presence a free man, on condition
of making St Sulpice his headquarters. It was at least preferable to
a lodging in one of the Bastille towers, he said, but any restraint
or treachery on the part of Françoise, or of Louis, in the way of
his coming and going into what he called that black-beetle trap of
St Sulpice, would be at once signalised. And thus the difficulty was
adjusted, a compromise being effected by appointing a certain Abbé
Madot to shadow the ways of d’Aubigné when he took his walks abroad.
But for Ninon the malice of her old friend took on virulence, and it
was found later that Françoise charged her with having planned the
scandalous scene, in so far as bringing d’Aubigné into it; that she
had connived at his coming just at that moment. Yet exactly, except
for the king’s concealed presence, what overwhelming harm would have
ensued, is not apparent, and certainly for that situation, Ninon
could not have been responsible. Henceforth all shadow of friendship
between the two women died out, and enmity and bitterness were to
supervene when opportunity should be ripe.