MADAME DE MAINTENON.
1649-1685
Beauty and intelligence of Francoise--Francoise d'Aubigne and
the poet Scarron.--Scarron's proposal of marriage.--Marriage of
Francoise d'Aubigne.--Becomes a governess.--Elevation of Madame
Scarron.--Personal appearance of Madame de Maintenon.--Portrait
of Ann of Austria.--The Princess of Tuscany.--Unhappiness of the
dauphiness.--Louis's providence for his children.--Mademoiselle de
Blois.--Marriage of Mademoiselle de Blois.--The man with the iron
mask.--Measures adopted to prevent discovery.--Madame de Montespan
and her son.--Mary Angelica Roussille.--Intrigue of Madame
de Montespan.--Display of the Duchess de Fontanges.--A
quarrel.--Virtuous endeavors of Madame de Maintenon.--Madame de
Maintenon's efforts unsuccessful.--Sickness and distress of the
Duchess de Fontanges.--Death of the Duchess de Fontanges.--Madame
de Montespan rejoices.--Supremacy of Madame de Maintenon.--Pere la
Chaise.--Remorse of Louis.--Degradation of the people.--Birth of
the Duke of Burgoyne.--Louis taken ill.--Dismissal of Madame de
Montespan.--Resolves to build a convent.--Her great wealth.--The
convent of St. Joseph completed.--The king recovers, and goes to
Flanders.--Return to Versailles.--Political ambition of Louis
XIV.--Sickness and death of the queen, Maria Theresa.--Tribute to
her worth.--Masses.--Versailles.--Heartlessness of the king
and of the courtiers.--Accident.--Death of the minister of
finance.--Ingratitude.--Remarkable condescension on the part
of Louis.--Genoa assailed.--Capture.--The Doge humbled.
The extreme distress and destitution of Francoise touched the heart of
Madame de Neuillant. She again took the orphan child under her charge
and returned her to school in the convent. Francoise gradually
developed remarkable beauty and intelligence. Her quiet, unobtrusive,
instinctive tact gave her fascinating power over most who approached
her. She often visited the countess, where she attracted much
admiration from the fashionable guests who were ever assembled in her
saloons. The dissolute courtiers were lavish in their attentions to
the highly-endowed child. Established principles of virtue alone saved
her from ruin. Misfortune and sorrow had rendered her precocious
beyond her years. It was her only and her earnest desire to take the
veil, and join the sisters in the convent. But money was needed for
that purpose, and she had none.
There was residing very near Madame de Neuillant, a very remarkable
man, Paul Scarron. He was born of a good family, and had traveled
extensively. Having run through the disgraceful round of fashionable
dissipation, he had become crippled by the paralysis of his lower
limbs, and was living a literary life in the enjoyment of a
competence. He was still young. Imperturbable gayety, wonderful
conversational powers, and celebrity as a poet, caused his saloons to
be crowded with distinguished and admiring friends. Some one mentioned
to him the situation of Francoise d'Aubigne, and her desire to enter
the convent. His kindly heart was touched, and, heading a
subscription-list, he soon obtained sufficient funds from among his
friends to enable her to secure the retreat she desired.
Quite overjoyed, the maiden hastened to the apartments of the poet to
express her gratitude. Scarron was astonished when the apparition of a
beautiful girl of fifteen, full of life, and with a figure whose
symmetric grace the sculptor could with difficulty rival, appeared
before him. Her heart was glowing with gratitude which her lips could
hardly express, that he was furnishing her with means for a life-long
burial in the glooms of the cloister. The poet gazed upon her for a
moment quite bewildered, and then said, with one of those beaming
smiles which irradiated his pale, intellectual face with rare beauty,
"I must recall my promise; I can not procure you admission into a
religious community. You are not fitted for a nun. You can not
understand the nature of the sacrifice which you are so eager to make.
Will you become my wife? My servants anger and neglect me. I am unable
to enforce obedience. Were they under the control of a mistress, they
would do their duty. My friends neglect me; I can not pursue them to
reproach them for their abandonment. If they saw a pretty woman at the
head of my household, they would make my home cheerful. I give you a
week to decide."
Francoise returned to the convent bewildered, almost stunned. She was
alone in the world, living upon reluctant charity. There was no one to
whom she could confidingly look for advice. The future was all dark
before her. Scarron, though crippled, was still young, witty, and
distinguished as one of the most popular poets of the day. His saloon
was the intellectual centre of the capital, where the most
distinguished men were wont to meet. At the close of the week
Francoise returned an affirmative answer. They were soon married. She
found apparently a happy home with her crippled but amiable husband.
The brilliant circle in the midst of which she moved strengthened her
intellect, enlarged her intelligence, and added to that wonderful ease
and gracefulness of manner with which she was by nature endowed.
In the year 1660 Monsieur Scarron died. He had lived expensively, and,
as his income was derived from a life annuity which ceased at his
death, his wife found herself again in utter destitution. She was then
forty-five years of age. Madame de Montespan, who had frequently met
her in those brilliant circles, which had been rendered additionally
attractive by her personal loveliness and mental charms, persuaded the
king to appoint Madame Scarron governess for her children. A residence
was accordingly assigned her near the palace of the Luxembourg, where
she was installed in her responsible office. She enjoyed a princely
residence, horses, a carriage, and a suite of servants. The many
attractions of Madame Scarron were not lost upon the king. He often
visited her, loved to converse with her, and soon the jealousy of
Madame de Montespan was intensely excited by the manifest fondness
with which he was regarding the new favorite.
Greatly to the disgust of Madame de Montespan, whose influence was
rapidly waning, the king appointed Madame Scarron to the responsible
office of _Mistress of the Robes_ to the dauphiness, Mary Ann of
Bavaria, who was soon to arrive. He also conferred upon her the fine
estate of Maintenon, with the title of Marchioness of Maintenon. It
was now the turn of Madame de Montespan to experience the same neglect
and humiliation through which she had seen, almost exultingly, the
unhappy Madame de la Valliere pass.
[Illustration: MADAME DE MAINTENON.]
The haughty favorite had reached her thirty-ninth year. The charms of
youth were fast leaving her. Louis had attained his forty-second year.
Bitter reproaches often rose between them. The king was weary of her
exactions. He made several efforts, but in vain, to induce her to
retire to one of the estates which he had conferred upon her. The
daily increasing alienation led the king more frequently to seek the
soothing society of the calm, gentle, serious Madame de Maintenon.
Her fascinations of person and mind won his admiration, while her
virtues commanded his respect.
Such was the posture of affairs when preparations were made for the
reception of the dauphiness with the utmost magnificence. The costumes
of Madame de Maintenon were particularly remarked for their splendor,
being covered with jewels and embroidered with gold.
"Madame de Maintenon, although in her forty-fifth year, had lost no
charm save that of youth, which had been replaced by a stately grace,
and a dignified self-possession that rendered it almost impossible to
regret the lighter and less finished attractions of buoyancy and
display. Her hands and arms were singularly beautiful; her eyes had
lost nothing of their fire; her voice was harmoniously modulated, and
there was in the whole of her demeanor unstudied ease, which was as
far removed from presumption as from servility."[O]
[Footnote O: Louis XIV. and the Court of France, vol. ii., p. 274.]
Madame de Montespan was so annoyed by the honors conferred upon Madame
de Maintenon that she was betrayed into saying, "I pity the young
foreigner, who can not fail to be eclipsed in every way by her
_Mistress of the Robes_."
Early in the year 1680 Madame de Maintenon and M. Bossuet, bishop of
Meaux, who had educated the dauphin, accompanied by a suitable
retinue, proceeded to Schelestadt to receive the dauphiness. Here the
ceremony of marriage by proxy was to be solemnized. The king and the
dauphin proceeded as far as Vitry le Francais to receive the bride.
She was not beautiful, "but she was," writes Madame de Sevigne, "very
graceful; her hands and arms were exquisitely moulded. She had so fine
a figure, so admirable a carriage, such handsome teeth, such
magnificent hair, and so much amiability of manner, that she was
courteous without being insipid, familiar without losing her dignity,
and had so charming a deportment that she might be pardoned for not
pleasing at first sight."
Louis seemed quite delighted with his new daughter-in-law, and devoted
himself much to her entertainment. She was accompanied by her sister,
the Princess of Tuscany, who was extremely beautiful. The king, in
conversation with Mary Ann, remarked, "You never mentioned to me the
fact that the Princess of Tuscany was so singularly lovely." With tact
which gave evidence of her self-possession and ready wit, the
dauphiness replied, "How can I remember, sire, that my sister
monopolized all the beauty of the family, when I, on my part, have
monopolized all its happiness."
The young dauphiness had sufficient penetration soon to perceive that
the attentions which the king was apparently devoting to her were due
mainly to his desire to enjoy the society of the beautiful and
agreeable _Mistress of the Robes_. The dauphiness was annoyed.
Naturally of a retiring disposition, very fond of books and of music,
she soon wearied of the perpetual whirl of fashion and frivolity, and
gradually withdrew as much as possible from the society of the court.
She imbibed a strong dislike to Madame de Maintenon, which dislike
Madame de Montespan did every thing in her power to increase. The
dauphiness became very unhappy. She soon found that her husband was a
mere cipher, whom she could neither regard with respect nor affection.
Louis XIV. allowed the dauphiness to pursue her own course. While ever
treating her with the most punctilious politeness, he continued, much
to her chagrin, and especially to that of Madame de Montespan, to
manifest his admiration for Madame de Maintenon, and constantly to
seek her society. Thus the clouds of discontent, jealousy, and bitter
hostility shed their gloom throughout the court. There was splendor
there, but no happiness.
It was a good trait in the character of the king that he was
affectionately attached to _all_ of his children. He provided for them
sumptuously, and did every thing in his power to provide abundantly
for those of dishonorable birth. Royal decrees pronounced them
legitimate, and they were honored and courted as princes of the blood.
Mademoiselle de Blois, a daughter of Madame de la Valliere, was one of
the most beautiful and highly accomplished women ever seen at the
French court. Her mother had transmitted to her all her many virtues
and none of her frailties. Tall and slender, her figure was the
perfection of grace. A slightly pensive air enhanced the charms of a
countenance remarkably lovely, and of a bearing in which were combined
the highest attractions of self-respect and courtly breeding. Her
voice was music. Her hands and feet were finely modeled. Several
foreign princes had solicited her hand. But the king, her father, had
invariably declined these offers. He declared that the presence of
his daughter was essential to his happiness--that he could not be
separated from her.
In 1680 Mademoiselle de Blois was married to the Prince de Conti,
nephew of the great Conde. It was as brilliant a marriage as exalted
rank, gorgeous dresses, superb diamonds, and courtly etiquette could
create. The king could not have honored the nuptials more had he been
giving a daughter of the queen to the proudest monarch in Europe. Her
princely dowry was the same as would have been conferred on such an
occasion. It amounted to five hundred thousand golden crowns. This was
the same sum which the Spanish monarchy assigned Maria Theresa upon
her marriage with the King of France.
It is difficult to imagine what must have been the emotions of Madame
de la Valliere when she heard, in her narrow cell, the details of the
brilliant nuptials of her child. Her loving heart must have
experienced conflicting sensations of joy and of anguish. Madame de la
Valliere had also a son, Count Vermandois. He became exceedingly
dissipated, so much so as to excite the severe displeasure of the
king. Rumor says that on one occasion he had the audacity to strike
the dauphin. The council condemned him to death. Louis XIV., through
paternal affection, commuted the punishment to imprisonment for life.
The report was spread that he had died of a contagious disease, while
he was privately conveyed to the prison of St. Marguerite, and
subsequently to the Bastile, his face being ever concealed under an
iron mask. Here he died, it is said, on the 19th of November, 1703,
after an imprisonment of between thirty and forty years. The true
explanation of this great historical mystery will probably now never
be ascertained.
The story of the "Man with the Iron Mask" is one of the most
remarkable in the annals of the past. Probably no information will
ever be obtained upon this subject more full than that which Voltaire
has given. He says that a prisoner was sent in great secrecy to the
chateau in the island of St. Marguerite; that he was young, tall, and
of remarkably graceful figure. His face was concealed by an iron mask,
with coils of steel so arranged that he could eat without its removal.
Orders were given to kill him instantly if he should announce who he
was. He remained at the chateau many years in close imprisonment.
In 1690, M. St. Mars, governor of the prison at St. Marguerite, was
transferred to the charge of the Bastile in Paris. The prisoner, ever
masked, was taken with him, and was treated on the journey with the
highest respect. A well-furnished chamber was provided for him in that
immense chateau. The governor himself brought him his food, and stood
respectfully like a servile attendant while he ate. The captive was
extremely fond of fine linen and lace, and was very attentive to his
personal appearance. Upon his death the walls of his chamber were
rubbed down and whitewashed. Even the tiles of the floor were removed,
lest he might have concealed a note beneath them.
It is very remarkable that, while it can not be doubted that the
prisoner was a person of some great importance, no such personage
disappeared from Europe at that time. It is a plausible supposition
that the king, unwilling to consign his own son to death, sent him to
life-long imprisonment; and that the report of his death by a
contagious disease was circulated that the mother might be saved the
anguish of knowing the dreadful fate of her child. Still there are
many difficulties connected with this explanation, and there is none
other which has ever satisfied public curiosity.
Madame de Montespan had eight children, who were placed under the care
of Madame de Maintenon. Her eldest son, Count de Vixen, died in his
eleventh year. Her second son, the Duke de Maine, was a lad of
remarkable character and attainments. He loved Madame de Maintenon. He
did not love his mother. Unfeelingly he reproached her with his
ignoble birth. Madame de Montespan, though still a fine-looking woman,
brilliant, witty, and always conspicuous for the splendor of her
equipage and her attire, felt every hour embittered by the
consciousness that her power over the king had passed away. She
regarded the serious, thoughtful Madame de Maintenon as her successful
rival, though her social relations with the king were entirely above
reproach.
The character of the discarded favorite is developed by the measure
she adopted to lure the susceptible and unprincipled monarch from the
very agreeable society of Madame de Maintenon. In the department of
Provence there was a young lady but eighteen years of age, Mary
Angelica Roussille. She was of such wonderful beauty that its fame had
reached Paris. Her parents had educated her with the one sole object
of rendering her as fascinating as possible. They wished to secure for
her the position of a maid of honor to the queen, hoping that by so
doing she would attract the favor of the king. Madame de Montespan
heard of her. She plotted to bring this young and extraordinary beauty
to the court, that, by her personal charms, she might outrival the
mental and social attractions of Madame de Maintenon. She described
her intended protege to the king in such enthusiastic strains that his
curiosity was roused. She was brought to court. The monarch, satiated
by indulgence, oppressed by ennui, ever seeking some new excitement,
was at once won by the charms of the beautiful Mary Angelica. She
became an acknowledged favorite. He lavished upon her gifts of jewels
and of gold, and dignified her with the title of the _Duchesse de
Fontanges_. The court blazed again with splendor to greet the new
favorite; and, let it not be forgotten, to meet this royal splendor,
millions of peasants were consigned to hovels, and life-long penury
and want.
There was a constant succession of theatric shows, ballets, and
concerts. Mary Angelica was a gay, frivolous, conceited, heartless
girl, who recklessly squandered the gold so profusely poured into her
lap. The insolent favorite even ventured to treat the queen with
disdain, assuming the priority. In the streets she made a truly regal
display in a gorgeous carriage drawn by eight cream-colored horses,
while the clustering ringlets, the floating plumes, and the truly
radiant beauty of the _parvenue_ duchess attracted all eyes. If she
had ever heard, she refused to heed the warning voice of the prophet,
saying, "Know thou that for all these things God will bring thee into
judgment."
The scheme of Madame de Montespan had succeeded far more fully than
she had expected or desired. The absorption of the king in the
new-comer was so entire that the discarded favorite was tortured with
new pangs of jealousy and remorse. Implacably she hated the Duchess of
Fontanges. With her sharp tongue she mercilessly cut the luxurious
beauty, who had intelligence enough to feel the sarcasms keenly, but
had no ability to retort. A disgraceful quarrel ensued, in which the
most vulgar epithets and the grossest witticisms were bandied between
them. The king himself at length found it necessary to interpose. He
applied to Madame de Maintenon for counsel and aid. She had quietly
attended to her duties, observing all that was passing, but taking no
part in these shameful intrigues. Conscious that any attempt to
influence Madame de Montespan, hardened as she was in her career,
would be futile, she ventured to address herself to the young and
inexperienced Duchess de Fontanges. Gently she endeavored to lead her
to some conception of the enormity of the life she was leading, and of
the indecency of compromising the king and the court by undignified
brawls.
The vain and heartless beauty received her counsels with bitter
derision and passionate insult, and attributed every annoyance to
which, as she averred, she was continually subjected, to the jealous
envy of those with whose ambitious views she had interfered; more than
hinting that Madame de Maintenon herself was among the number. She
was, however, only answered by a placid smile, and instructed to
remember that those who sought to share her triumphs and her splendor
must be content at the same time to partake her sin. It was a price
too heavy to pay even for the smiles of a monarch. In vain did the
flushed and furious beauty plead the example of others, higher born
and more noble than herself. The calm and unmoved monitress instantly
availed herself of this hollow argument to bid her, in her turn, to
set an example which the noblest and the best-born might be proud to
follow.
"And how can I do this?" was the sullen inquiry.
"By renouncing the society of the king," firmly replied Madame de
Maintenon. "Either you love him, or you love him not. If you love him,
you should make an effort to save both his honor and your own. If you
do not love him, it will cost you no effort to withdraw from the
court. In either case you will act wisely and nobly."
"Would not any one believe who heard you," passionately exclaimed the
duchess, "that it was as easy to leave a king as to throw off a
glove?"[P]
[Footnote P: Louis XIV and the Court of France.]
This was the only reply. The mission of Madame de Maintenon had
entirely failed. The proud, unblushing beauty, whose effrontery passed
all bounds, was greatly enraged against Madame de Maintenon; and when
she perceived that the king was again beginning to take refuge in her
virtuous society and conversation, she vowed the most signal
vengeance.
But the day of retribution soon came--far sooner than could have been
expected. The guilty and pampered duchess was taken ill--hopelessly
so, with a sickness that destroyed all her beauty. She became sallow,
pallid, gaunt, emaciate, haggard. The selfish, heartless king wished
to see her no more. He did not conceal his repugnance, and quite
forsook her. The humiliation, distress, and abandonment of the guilty
duchess was more than she could bear. She begged permission, either
sincerely or insincerely, to retire to the convent of Port Royal.
Louis, whose crime was far greater than that of his wrecked and ruined
victim, was glad to be rid of her. But she was too far gone, in her
rapid illness, to be removed. It was soon manifest that her life was
drawing near to its close. She begged to see the king once more before
she died.
Louis XIV. dreaded every thing which could remind him of that tomb
toward which all are hastening, and especially did he recoil from
every death-bed scene. The wretched man would not have listened to the
plea of the dying girl had not the remonstrances of his confessor
constrained him. Thus, reluctantly, he entered the dying chamber. He
found Mary Angelica faded, withered, and ghastly--all unlike the
radiant beauty whom for a few brief months he had almost worshiped.
Egotist as he was, he could not restrain his tears. Her glassy eyes
were riveted upon his countenance. Her clammy hand almost convulsively
clasped his own. Her livid lips quivered in their last effort as she
besought him to pay her debts, and sometimes to remember her. Louis
promised all she asked. As she sank back upon her pillow, she gasped
out the declaration that she should die happy, as she saw that the
king could weep for her. Immediately after she fell into a swoon and
died.
The exultation of Madame de Montespan at her death was so indecent and
undisguised as to excite the disgust of the king. Her very name became
hateful to him. Wicked man as he was, Louis XIV. believed in
Christianity, and in its revelations of responsibility at the bar of
God. He was shocked, and experienced much remorse in view of this
death-bed without repentance. He could not conceal from himself that
he was in no inconsiderable degree responsible for the guilt which
burdened the soul of the departed. His aversion to Madame de Montespan
was increased by the report, then generally circulated, that the
duchess had died from poison, administered through her agency. The
poor victim of sin and shame was soon forgotten in the grave. The
court whirled on in its usual round of frivolous and guilty pleasures,
such as Babylon could scarcely have rivaled.
The supremacy of Madame de Maintenon over Louis XIV. was that of a
strong mind over a feeble one. The king had many very weak points in
his character. He was utterly selfish, and the slave of his vices.
Madame de Maintenon, with much address, strove to recall him to a
better life. In these efforts she was much aided by the king's
confessor, Pere la Chaise. This truly good man reminded the king that
he had already passed the fortieth year of his age, that his youth had
gone forever, that he would soon enter upon the evening of his days,
and that, as yet, he had done nothing to secure his eternal salvation.
He had already received many warnings as he had followed one after
another to the grave. The king was naturally thoughtful, and perhaps
even religiously inclined. Not a few events had already occurred
calculated to harrow his soul with remorse. He had seen his mother
die, one of the saddest of deaths. He had seen his sister Henrietta,
his brother's bride, whom he had loved with more than a brother's
love, writhing in death's agonies, the victim of poison. He had
followed several of his children to the grave. Madame de la Valliere,
whom he had loved as ardently as he was capable of loving any one, now
a ruined, heart-broken victim of his selfishness and sin, was
consigned to living burial in the glooms of the cloister. He could not
banish from his mind the dreadful scenes of the death of the Duchess
of Fontanges.
Just at this time the dauphiness gave birth to a son. This advent of
an heir to the throne caused universal rejoicing throughout the court
and the nation. It is melancholy to reflect that the people, crushed
and impoverished as they were by the most atrocious despotism, were so
unintelligent that they regarded their oppressors with something of
the idolatrous homage with which the heathen bow before their hideous
gods.
The king himself, at times, manifested a kind of tender interest in
the people, who were so mercilessly robbed to maintain the splendor of
his court and the grandeur of his armies. Upon the birth of the young
prince, who received the title of the Duke of Burgoyne, the populace
of Paris crowded to Versailles with their rude congratulations. Every
avenue was thronged with the immense multitude. They even flooded the
palace and poured into the saloons. The king, whose heart was softened
by the birth of a grandson to whom the crown might be transmitted,
received all very graciously.
The birth of an heir to the crown added much to the personal
importance of the dauphiness. But, neglected by her husband and
annoyed by the scenes transpiring around her, she was a very unhappy
woman. No efforts on the part of the court could draw her from the
silence and gloom of her retirement. Madame de Maintenon and the
king's confessor, Pere la Chaise, were co-operating in the endeavor to
lure the king from his life of guilty indulgence into the paths of
virtue. Fortunately, at this time the monarch was attacked by severe
and painful illness. Death was to him truly the king of terrors. He
was easily influenced to withdraw from his criminal relations with
one whom he had for some time been regarding with repugnance. Madame
de Maintenon was deputed to inform Madame de Montespan of the king's
determination never again to regard her in any other light than that
of a friend.
It was a very painful and embarrassing commission for Madame de
Maintenon to fulfill. But the will of the king was law. She discharged
the duty with great delicacy and kindness. Deeply mortified as was the
discarded favorite, she was not entirely unprepared for the
announcement. She had for some time been painfully aware of her waning
influence, and had been preparing for herself a retreat where she
could still enjoy opulence, rank, and power.
In pursuit of this object, she had determined to erect and endow a
convent. The sisterhood, appointed by her and entirely dependent upon
her liberality, would treat her with the deference due to a queen. The
king had lavished such enormous sums upon her that she had large
wealth at her disposal. She had already selected a spot for the
convent in the Faubourg St. Germain, and had commenced rearing the
edifice. It so happened that the corner-stone was laid at the very
moment in which the unhappy Duchess de Fontanges was breathing her
last. Madame de Montespan had no idea of taking the veil herself. The
glooms of the cloister had for her no attractions. Her only object was
to rear a miniature kingdom, where she, having lost the potent charms
of youth and beauty, could still enjoy an undisputed reign.
The marchioness already owned a dwelling, luxuriously furnished, which
the king had presented her, in the Rue St. Andre des Arcs. Her wealth
was so great that, in addition to the convent, she also planned
erecting for herself a magnificent hotel, in imitation of the palace
of the Tuileries. The estimated expense was equal to the sum of one
million five hundred thousand dollars at the present day.
The workmen upon the convent were urged to the most energetic labor,
and the building was soon completed. The marchioness gave it the name
of St. Joseph. One room was sumptuously furnished for her private
accommodation. She appointed the abbess. The great bell of the convent
was to ring twenty minutes whenever she visited the sisterhood. As the
founder of the community, she was to receive the honors of the incense
at high mass and vespers. The marchioness richly enjoyed this
adulation, and was a frequent visitor at the convent.
The king, having recovered from his illness, decided upon a journey to
Flanders. Oppressed with ennui, he sought amusement for himself and
his court. He wished also to impress his neighbors by an exhibition of
his splendor and power. The queen, with the dauphin and dauphiness,
attended by their several suites, accompanied him on this expedition.
Madame de Montespan was excessively chagrined in finding her name
omitted in the list of those who were to make up the party. But the
name of Madame de Maintenon headed the list of the attendants of the
princess.
The gorgeous procession, charioted in the highest appliances of regal
splendor, swept along through cities and villages, every where
received with triumphal arches, the ringing of bells, the explosions
of artillery, and the blaze of illuminations till the sea-port of
Dunkirk was reached. Here there was a sham-fight between two frigates.
It was a serene and lovely day. The members of the royal suite, from
the deck of a bark sumptuously prepared for their accommodation,
witnessed with much delight the novel spectacle. At the close, the
king repaired to one of the men-of-war, upon whose deck a lofty throne
was erected, draped with a costly awning. Here the splendor-loving
monarch, surrounded by that ceremonial and pageantry which were so
dear to him, received the congratulations of the dignitaries of his
own and other lands upon his recent recovery from illness. At the end
of a month the party returned to Versailles.
Devoted as Louis XIV. was to his own selfish gratification, he was
fully aware of the dependence of that gratification upon the
aggrandizement of the realm, which he regarded as his private
property. Upon this tour of pleasure he invested the city of
Luxembourg with an army of thirty thousand men, and took it after a
siege of eight days. He then overrun the Electorate of Treves,
demolished all its fine fortifications, and by the energies of
pillage, fire, and ruin, rendered it impossible for the territory
hereafter to render any opposition to his arms. The destructive genius
of Louvois had suggested that these unnecessary spoliations would tend
to increase the authority of his royal master by inspiring a greater
terror of his power.
Soon after this, the queen, Maria Theresa, was suddenly taken sick.
Her indisposition, at first slight, rapidly increased in severity, and
an abscess developed itself under her arm. The pain became
excruciating. Her physician opened a vein and administered an emetic
at 11 o'clock in the morning. It was a fatal prescription. At 3
o'clock in the afternoon she died. As this unhappy queen, so gentle,
so loving, so forgiving, was sinking away in death, she still, with
woman's deathless love, cherished tenderly in her heart the memory of
the king. Just as she was breathing her last, she drew from her finger
a superb ring, which she presented to Madame de Maintenon saying,
"Adieu, my very dear marchioness. To you I confide the happiness of
the king."
Maria Theresa was one of the most lovely of women. Her conduct was
ever irreproachable. Amiable, unselfish, warm-hearted, from the time
of her marriage she devoted herself to the promotion of the happiness
of her husband. His neglect and unfaithfulness caused her, in secret,
to shed many tears. Naturally diffident, and rendered timid by his
undisguised indifference, she trembled whenever the king approached
her. A casual smile from him filled her with delight. The king could
not be insensible to her many virtues. Perhaps remorse was mingled
with the emotions which compelled him to weep bitterly over her death.
As he gazed upon her lifeless remains, he exclaimed,
"Kind and forbearing friend, this is the first sorrow that you have
caused me throughout twenty years."
[Illustration: PALACE OF VERSAILLES.]
The royal corpse lay in state at Versailles for ten days. During this
time perpetual masses were performed for the soul of the departed from
7 o'clock in the morning until dark. The king had reared the gorgeous
palace of Versailles that he might not be annoyed, in his Babylonian
revelry, by the sight of the towers of St. Denis. But God did not
allow the guilty monarch to forget that kings as well as peasants were
doomed to die. The king was compelled to accompany the remains of
Maria Theresa from the sumptuous palace, where she had found so
splendid and so unhappy a home, to the gloomy vaults of the abbey,
where, in darkness and silence, those remains were to moulder to dust.
The queen was forgotten even before she was buried. The gay courtiers,
anxious to banish as speedily as possible from their minds all
thoughts of death and judgment, sought, in songs, and mirth, and wine,
to bury even the grave in oblivion. The funeral car was decorated with
the most imposing emblems of mourning. A numerous train of carriages
followed, filled with the great officers of the crown and with the
ladies of the royal household. The procession was escorted by a
brilliant and numerous body of mounted troops.
"But nothing could exceed the indecency with which the journey was
performed. From all the carriages issued the sounds of heartless jest
and still more heartless laughter. The troops had no sooner reached
the plain of St. Denis than they dispersed in every direction, some
galloping right and left, and others firing at the birds that were
flying over their heads."[Q]
[Footnote Q: Memoirs of Mademoiselle de Montpensier.]
The king, on the day of the funeral, in the insane endeavor to
obliterate from his mind thoughts of death and burial, ordered out the
hounds and plunged into the excitement of the chase. His horse pitched
the monarch over his head into a ditch of stagnant water, dislocating
one of his shoulders.
About this time, Jean Baptiste Colbert, the king's minister of
finance, and probably the most extraordinary man of the age, died,
worn out with toil, anxiety, and grief. Few men have ever passed
through this world leaving behind them such solid results of their
labors. As minister of finance, he furnished the king with all the
money he needed for his expensive wars and luxurious indulgence. As
superintendent of buildings, arts, and manufactures, he enlarged the
Tuileries, completed the gorgeous palace of Versailles, reared the
magnificent edifices of the Invalides, Vincennes, and Marly, and
founded the Gobelins. These and many other works of a similar nature
he performed, though constantly struggling against the jealousy and
intrigues of powerful opponents.
The king seldom, if ever, manifested any gratitude to those who served
him. Colbert, in the 64th year of his age, exhausted by incessant
labor, and harassed by innumerable annoyances, was on a dying bed. Sad
reflections seemed to overwhelm him. Not a gleam of joy lighted up his
fading eye. The heavy taxes he had imposed upon the people rendered
him unpopular. He could not be insensible to imprecations which
threatened to break up his funeral and to drag his remains
ignominiously through the streets. The king condescended, as his only
act of courtesy, to send a messenger to ask tidings of the condition
of his minister. As the messenger approached the bed, the dying
sufferer turned away his face, saying,
"I will not hear that man spoken of again. If I had done for God what
I have done for him, I should have been saved ten times over. Now I
know not what may be my fate."
The day after his death, without any marks of honor, his remains were
conveyed, in an ordinary hearse, to the church of St. Eustache. A few
of the police alone followed the coffin.
Genoa had offended the king by selling powder to the Algerines, and
some ships to Spain. Louis seized, by secret warrant, _lettre de
cachet_, the Genoese embassador, and plunged him into one of the
dungeons of the Bastile. He then sent a fleet of over fifty vessels of
war to chastise, with terrible severity, those who had offended him.
The ships sailed from Toulon on the 6th of May, 1684, and entered the
harbor of Genoa on the 19th. Immediately there was opened upon the
city a terrific fire. In a few hours fourteen thousand bombs were
hurled into its dwellings and its streets. A large portion of those
marble edifices, which had given the city the name of _Genoa the
Superb_, were crumbled to powder. Fourteen thousand soldiers were then
disembarked. They advanced through the suburbs, burning the buildings
before them. The whole city was threatened with total destruction. The
authorities, in terror, sent to the conqueror imploring his clemency.
The haughty King of France demanded that the Doge of Genoa, with four
of his principal ministers, should repair to the palace of Versailles
and humbly implore his pardon. The doge, utterly powerless, was
compelled to submit to the humiliating terms.