I shall pass over the stormy period of Louis XIV.'s minority. At twenty-
three years of age he entered the great world as King, under the most
favourable auspices. His ministers were the most skilful in all Europe;
his generals the best; his Court was filled with illustrious and clever
men, formed during the troubles which had followed the death of Louis
XIII.
Louis XIV. was made for a brilliant Court. In the midst of other men,
his figure, his courage, his grace, his beauty, his grand mien, even the
tone of his voice and the majestic and natural charm of all his person,
distinguished him till his death as the King Bee, and showed that if he
had only been born a simple private gentlemen, he would equally have
excelled in fetes, pleasures, and gallantry, and would have had the
greatest success in love. The intrigues and adventures which early in
life he had been engaged in--when the Comtesse de Soissons lodged at the
Tuileries, as superintendent of the Queen's household, and was the centre
figure of the Court group--had exercised an unfortunate influence upon
him: he received those impressions with which he could never after
successfully struggle. From this time, intellect, education, nobility of
sentiment, and high principle, in others, became objects of suspicion to
him, and soon of hatred. The more he advanced in years the more this
sentiment was confirmed in him. He wished to reign by himself. His
jealousy on this point unceasingly became weakness. He reigned, indeed,
in little things; the great he could never reach: even in the former,
too, he was often governed. The superior ability of his early ministers
and his early generals soon wearied him. He liked nobody to be in any
way superior to him. Thus he chose his ministers, not for their
knowledge, but for their ignorance; not for their capacity, but for their
want of it. He liked to form them, as he said; liked to teach them even
the most trifling things. It was the same with his generals. He took
credit to himself for instructing them; wished it to be thought that from
his cabinet he commanded and directed all his armies. Naturally fond of
trifles, he unceasingly occupied himself with the most petty details of
his troops, his household, his mansions; would even instruct his cooks,
who received, like novices, lessons they had known by heart for years.
This vanity, this unmeasured and unreasonable love of admiration, was his
ruin. His ministers, his generals, his mistresses, his courtiers, soon
perceived his weakness. They praised him with emulation and spoiled him.
Praises, or to say truth, flattery, pleased him to such an extent, that
the coarsest was well received, the vilest even better relished. It was
the sole means by which you could approach him. Those whom he liked owed
his affection for them to their untiring flatteries. This is what gave
his ministers so much authority, and the opportunities they had for
adulating him, of attributing everything to him, and of pretending to
learn everything from him. Suppleness, meanness, an admiring, dependent,
cringing manner--above all, an air of nothingness--were the sole means of
pleasing him.
This poison spread. It spread, too, to an incredible extent, in a prince
who, although of intellect beneath mediocrity, was not utterly without
sense, and who had had some experience. Without voice or musical
knowledge, he used to sing, in private, the passages of the opera
prologues that were fullest of his praises.
He was drowned in vanity; and so deeply, that at his public suppers--all
the Court present, musicians also--he would hum these self-same praises
between his teeth, when the music they were set to was played!
And yet, it must be admitted, he might have done better. Though his
intellect, as I have said, was beneath mediocrity, it was capable of
being formed. He loved glory, was fond of order and regularity; was by
disposition prudent, moderate, discreet, master of his movements and his
tongue. Will it be believed? He was also by disposition good and just!
God had sufficiently gifted him to enable him to be a good King; perhaps
even a, tolerably great King! All the evil came to him from elsewhere.
His early education was so neglected that nobody dared approach his
apartment. He has often been heard to speak of those times with
bitterness, and even to relate that, one evening he was found in the
basin of the Palais Royal garden fountain, into which he had fallen! He
was scarcely taught how to read or write, and remained so ignorant, that
the most familiar historical and other facts were utterly unknown to him!
He fell, accordingly, and sometimes even in public, into the grossest
absurdities.
It was his vanity, his desire for glory, that led him, soon after the
death of the King of Spain, to make that event the pretext for war; in
spite of the renunciations so recently made, so carefully stipulated, in
the marriage contract. He marched into Flanders; his conquests there
were rapid; the passage of the Rhine was admirable; the triple alliance
of England, Sweden, and Holland only animated him. In the midst of
winter he took Franche-Comte, by restoring which at the peace of Aix-la-
Chapelle, he preserved his conquests in Flanders. All was flourishing
then in the state. Riches everywhere. Colbert had placed the finances,
the navy, commerce, manufactures, letters even, upon the highest point;
and this age, like that of Augustus, produced in abundance illustrious
men of all kinds,-even those illustrious only in pleasures.
Le Tellier and Louvois, his son, who had the war department, trembled at
the success and at the credit of Colbert, and had no difficulty in
putting into the head of the King a new war, the success of which caused
such fear to all Europe that France never recovered from it, and after
having been upon the point of succumbing to this war, for a long time
felt the weight and misfortune of it. Such was the real cause of that
famous Dutch war, to which the King allowed himself to be pushed, and
which his love for Madame de Montespan rendered so unfortunate for his
glory and for his kingdom. Everything being conquered, everything taken,
and Amsterdam ready to give up her keys, the King yields to his
impatience, quits the army, flies to Versailles, and destroys in an
instant all the success of his arms! He repaired this disgrace by a
second conquest, in person, of Franche-Comte, which this time was
preserved by France.
In 1676, the King having returned into Flanders, took Conde; whilst
Monsieur took Bouchain. The armies of the King and of the Prince of
Orange approached each other so suddenly and so closely, that they found
themselves front to front near Heurtebise. According even to the
admission of the enemy, our forces were so superior to those of the
Prince of Orange, that we must have gained the victory if we had
attacked. But the King, after listening to the opinions of his generals,
some for, and some against giving battle, decided for the latter, turned
tail, and the engagement was talked of no more. The army was much
discontented. Everybody wished for battle. The fault therefore of the
King made much impression upon the troops, and excited cruel railleries
against us at home and in the foreign courts. The King stopped but
little longer afterwards in the army, although we were only in the month
of May. He returned to his mistress.
The following year he returned to Flanders, and took Cambrai; and
Monsieur besieged Saint-Omer. Monsieur got the start of the Prince of
Orange, who was about to assist the place, gave him battle near Corsel,
obtained a complete victory, immediately took Saint-Omer, and then joined
the King. This contrast so affected the monarch that never afterwards
did he give Monsieur command of an army! External appearances were
perfectly kept up, but from that moment the resolution was taken and
always well sustained.
The year afterwards the King led in person the siege of Ghent. The peace
of Nimeguen ended this year the war with Holland, Spain, &c.; and on the
commencement of the following year, that with the Emperor and the Empire.
America, Africa, the Archipelago, Sicily, acutely felt the power of
France, and in 1684 Luxembourg was the price of the delay of the
Spaniards in fulfilling all the conditions of the peace. Genoa,
bombarded, was forced to come in the persons of its doge and four of its
senators, to sue for peace at the commencement of the following year.
From this date, until 1688, the time passed in the cabinet less in fetes
than in devotion and constraint. Here finishes the apogeum of this
reign, and the fulness of glory and prosperity. The great captains, the
great ministers, were no more, but their pupils remained. The second
epoch of the reign was very different from the first; but the third was
even more sadly dissimilar.
I have related the adventure which led to the wars of this period; how an
ill-made window-frame was noticed at the Trianon, then building; how
Louvois was blamed for it; his alarm lest his disgrace should follow; his
determination to engage the King in a war which should turn him from his
building fancies. He carried out his resolve: with what result I have
already shown. France was ruined at home; and abroad, despite the
success of her arms, gained nothing. On the contrary, the withdrawal of
the King from Gembloux, when he might have utterly defeated the Prince of
Orange, did us infinite harm, as I have shown in its place. The peace
which followed this war was disgraceful. The King was obliged to
acknowledge the Prince of Orange as King of England, after having so long
shown hatred and contempt for him. Our precipitation, too, cost us
Luxembourg; and the ignorance of our plenipotentiaries gave our enemies
great advantages in forming their frontier. Such was the peace of
Ryswick, concluded in September, 1697.
This peace seemed as though it would allow France some breathing time.
The King was sixty years of age, and had, in his own opinion, acquired
all sorts of glory. But scarcely were we at peace, without having had
time to taste it, than the pride of the King made him wish to astonish
all Europe by the display of a power that it believed prostrated. And
truly he did astonish Europe. But at what a cost! The famous camp of
Compiegne--for 'tis to that I allude--was one of the most magnificent
spectacles ever seen; but its immense and misplaced prodigality was soon
regretted. Twenty years afterwards, some of the regiments who took part
in it were still in difficulties from this cause.
Shortly afterwards,--by one of the most surprising and unheard-of pieces
of good fortune, the crown of Spain fell into the hands of the Duc
d'Anjou, grandson of the King. It seemed as though golden days had come
back again to France. Only for a little time, however, did it seem so.
Nearly all Europe, as it has been seen, banded against France, to dispute
the Spanish crown. The King had lost all his good ministers, all his
able generals, and had taken good pains they should leave no successors.
When war came, then, we were utterly unable to prosecute it with success
or honour. We were driven out of Germany, of Italy, of the Low
Countries. We could not sustain the war, or resolve to make peace.
Every day led us nearer and nearer the brink of the precipice, the
terrible depths of which were for ever staring us in the face. A
misunderstanding amongst our enemies, whereby England became detached
from the grand alliance; the undue contempt of Prince Eugene for our
generals, out of which arose the battle of Denain; saved us from the
gulf. Peace came, and a peace, too, infinitely better than that we
should have ardently embraced if our enemies had agreed amongst
themselves beforehand. Nevertheless, this peace cost dear to France, and
cost Spain half its territory--Spain, of which the King had said not even
a windmill would he yield! But this was another piece of folly he soon
repented of.
Thus, we see this monarch, grand, rich, conquering, the arbiter of
Europe; feared and admired as long as the ministers and captains existed
who really deserved the name. When they were no more, the machine kept
moving some time by impulsion, and from their influence. But soon
afterwards we saw beneath the surface; faults and errors were multiplied,
and decay came on with giant strides; without, however, opening the eyes
of that despotic master, so anxious to do everything and direct
everything himself, and who seemed to indemnify himself for disdain
abroad by increasing fear and trembling at home.
So much for the reign of this vain-glorious monarch.
Let me touch now upon some other incidents in his career, and upon some
points in his character.
He early showed a disinclination for Paris. The troubles that had taken
place there during his minority made him regard the place as dangerous;
he wished, too, to render himself venerable by hiding himself from the
eyes of the multitude; all these considerations fixed him at Saint-
Germain soon after the death of the Queen, his mother. It was to that
place he began to attract the world by fetes and gallantries, and by
making it felt that he wished to be often seen.
His love for Madame de la Valliere, which was at first kept secret,
occasioned frequent excursions to Versailles, then a little card castle,
which had been built by Louis XIII.--annoyed, and his suite still more
so, at being frequently obliged to sleep in a wretched inn there, after
he had been out hunting in the forest of Saint Leger. That monarch
rarely slept at Versailles more than one night, and then from necessity;
the King, his son, slept there, so that he might be more in private with
his mistress, pleasures unknown to the hero and just man, worthy son of
Saint-Louis, who built the little chateau.
These excursions of Louis XIV. by degrees gave birth to those immense
buildings he erected at Versailles; and their convenience for a numerous
court, so different from the apartments at Saint-Germain, led him to take
up his abode there entirely shortly after the death of the Queen. He
built an infinite number of apartments, which were asked for by those who
wished to pay their court to him; whereas at Saint-Germain nearly
everybody was obliged to lodge in the town, and the few who found
accommodation at the chateau were strangely inconvenienced.
The frequent fetes, the private promenades at Versailles, the journeys,
were means on which the King seized in order to distinguish or mortify
the courtiers, and thus render them more assiduous in pleasing him.
He felt that of real favours he had not enough to bestow; in order to
keep up the spirit of devotion, he therefore unceasingly invented all
sorts of ideal ones, little preferences and petty distinctions, which
answered his purpose as well.
He was exceedingly jealous of the attention paid him. Not only did he
notice the presence of the most distinguished courtiers, but those of
inferior degree also. He looked to the right and to the left, not only
upon rising but upon going to bed, at his meals, in passing through his
apartments, or his gardens of Versailles, where alone the courtiers were
allowed to follow him; he saw and noticed everybody; not one escaped him,
not even those who hoped to remain unnoticed. He marked well all
absentees from the Court, found out the reason of their absence, and
never lost an opportunity of acting towards them as the occasion might
seem to justify. With some of the courtiers (the most distinguished), it
was a demerit not to make the Court their ordinary abode; with others
'twas a fault to come but rarely; for those who never or scarcely ever
came it was certain disgrace. When their names were in any way
mentioned, "I do not know them," the King would reply haughtily. Those
who presented themselves but seldom were thus Characterise: "They are
people I never see;" these decrees were irrevocable. He could not bear
people who liked Paris.
Louis XIV. took great pains to be well informed of all that passed
everywhere; in the public places, in the private houses, in society and
familiar intercourse. His spies and tell-tales were infinite. He had
them of all species; many who were ignorant that their information
reached him; others who knew it; others who wrote to him direct, sending
their letters through channels he indicated; and all these letters were
seen by him alone, and always before everything else; others who
sometimes spoke to him secretly in his cabinet, entering by the back
stairs. These unknown means ruined an infinite number of people of all
classes, who never could discover the cause; often ruined them very
unjustly; for the King, once prejudiced, never altered his opinion, or so
rarely, that nothing was more rare. He had, too, another fault, very
dangerous for others and often for himself, since it deprived him of good
subjects. He had an excellent memory; in this way, that if he saw a man
who, twenty years before, perhaps, had in some manner offended him, he
did not forget the man, though he might forget the offence. This was
enough, however, to exclude the person from all favour. The
representations of a minister, of a general, of his confessor even,
could not move the King. He would not yield.
The most cruel means by which the King was informed of what was passing--
for many years before anybody knew it--was that of opening letters. The
promptitude and dexterity with which they were opened passes
understanding. He saw extracts from all the letters in which there were
passages that the chiefs of the post-office, and then the minister who
governed it, thought ought to go before him; entire letters, too, were
sent to him, when their contents seemed to justify the sending. Thus the
chiefs of the post, nay, the principal clerks were in a position to
suppose what they pleased and against whom they pleased. A word of
contempt against the King or the government, a joke, a detached phrase,
was enough. It is incredible how many people, justly or unjustly, were
more or less ruined, always without resource, without trial, and without
knowing why. The secret was impenetrable; for nothing ever cost the King
less than profound silence and dissimulation.
This last talent he pushed almost to falsehood, but never to deceit,
pluming himself upon keeping his word,--therefore he scarcely ever gave
it. The secrets of others he kept as religiously as his own. He was
even flattered by certain confessions and certain confidences; and there
was no mistress, minister, or favourite, who could have wormed them out,
even though the secret regarded themselves.
We know, amongst many others, the famous story of a woman of quality,
who, after having been separated a year from her husband, found herself
in the family way just as he was on the point of returning from the army,
and who, not knowing what else to do, in the most urgent manner begged a
private interview of the King. She obtained it, and confined to him her
position, as to the worthiest man in his realm, as she said. The King
counselled her to profit by her distress, and live more wisely for the
future, and immediately promised to retain her husband on the frontier as
long as was necessary, and to forbid his return under any pretext, and in
fact he gave orders the same day to Louvois, and prohibited the husband
not only all leave of absence, but forbade him to quit for a single day
the post he was to command all the winter. The officer, who was
distinguished, and who had neither wished nor asked to be employed all
the winter upon the frontier, and Louvois, who had in no way thought of
it, were equally surprised and vexed. They were obliged, however, to
obey to the letter, and without asking why; and the King never mentioned
the circumstance until many years afterwards, when he was quite sure
nobody could find out either husband or wife, as in fact they never
could, or even obtain the most vague or the most uncertain suspicion.