Increasing Importance of the Affairs of Love--The Corrupters of
Morals--Birth of Dramatic Music and its Influence--Love in
Racine--Louis XIV. and the Nobility--The King is Polygamous.
It was neither through compassion nor through friendship that Louis XIV.
had recalled from exile a second time his cousin Mlle. de Montpensier.
He had renounced the idea of marrying her to Alphonse VI. since she
persisted in her refusal, but he pursued the plan of giving her in
marriage "where it would be useful to his service."
And there was reason for entertaining another project. While she was in
penitence at Eu, one of the little sisters, Mlle. de Valois, had married
the Duc de Savoie, Charles Emmanuel II., and had died (January 14,
1664), at the end of some months of wedded life. The widowhood of
princes is rarely a matter of long duration. The King had immediately
arranged to offer the millions of the Grande Mademoiselle to the Duc de
Savoie, it being of first importance to bring back this territory to
France, and to recompense the King of Portugal by giving him one of the
princesses of Nemours.[163]
The new combination was well known in the political world. One reads in
the journal of Olivier d'Ormesson on the date of June 4, 1664: "M. Le
Pelletier[164] tells me of the return of Mlle. d'Orleans, and that the
King had written to her with his own hand, permitting her to come back,
without saying anything to the Queen Mother; but this was with the
Savoie marriage in sight." Louis XIV. had not resigned himself without
effort to the idea of procuring so fine an establishment for an ancient
Frondeuse. It may be seen through a letter from the grand Conde to the
Queen of Poland that the royal rancour had yielded for reasons of State:
Fontainebleau, June 3, 1664.
Mademoiselle having written to the King about the pregnancy of
the Queen, his Majesty has himself responded, which is a mark
of softened feelings, and every one believes that she will
return and that his Majesty will consent to her marriage with
M. de Savoie, which up to this time he has not desired, because
he preferred that of Mlle. d'Alencon[165]: but as she is very
ugly, and as an additional distinction is badly marked with
small-pox, he has reason to believe that M. de Savoie will not
be willing to espouse her; and he fears that there may be a
question of a union with the Austrian House, and thus I
believe, in spite of his own dislikes, he will wish to hasten
the marriage of Mademoiselle which, however, is not so certain
as it appears.[166]
There was no danger of pouts in regard to this prospective husband;
this the King well understood. Mademoiselle arrived at Fontainebleau
during the first fortnight of June, 1664. The entire Court had met her
upon the highway.
Mademoiselle was the first to whom the King had yielded since assuming
the reins of government. This was a glory; she, indeed, felt it and held
her head high. Louis XIV. had the good taste to ignore this attitude. He
greeted her graciously and limited his vengeance to teasing her during
the few days she passed with him. "Confess," said he to her, "that you
are very bored." She cried, "I assure you not at all, and I often think
that the Court is very much deceived if it believes me disenchanted, for
I have not experienced a moment's dulness."
The King, however, believed only what pleased him. One evening, after
the play, he led her upon a little terrace and spoke in these terms:
"The past must be forgotten. Be persuaded that you will receive all good
treatment from me in the future, and that I am contemplating your
establishment. Naturally, M. de Savoie is a better match than formerly;
his mother is dead. He will recognise the difference between your sister
and yourself. Thus you will be very happy and I shall work seriously to
accomplish this." The King's discourse was followed by an exchange of
effusions. "We embraced each other, my cousin and I," said the King in
reappearing before his Court, and the signal word was at once
comprehended.
The Grande Mademoiselle passed an almost triumphal week at Fontainebleau.
The repose of provincial life was hard to bear in comparison. The King,
the ministers, and the ambassadors all worked for the marriage. There
was nothing to do but to leave them to act. Mademoiselle wished to aid.
To commence she undertook to reduce to silence the old Madame, who was
outraged by her eagerness to replace her younger sister.
Dissatisfactions grew into quarrels and Louis XIV. was forced to
intervene, and to silence all these women. He wrote to Mademoiselle:
TO MY COUSIN
MY COUSIN:
I cannot prevent my aunt's people from talking, but I hardly
believe that she would say that I have promised her protection
against you.
I love you and consider you, as much as the most pressing
desires which pass through your brain are capable of inspiring
me, and assuredly it is my intention to give you pleasure in
every degree possible. I only avow that you can do much on your
part in facilitating things a little; this is my only request,
and having nothing to add to so sincere an explanation of my
sentiments, I finish this letter, praying God, etc.
Written at Fontainebleau, July 12, 1664.
Signed: Louis.[167]
It was beyond the strength of Mademoiselle to abstain from interference.
Her anxiety to be the fly on the wheel drew upon her a new letter from
the King. The tone is that of a very impatient man.
TO MY COUSIN
MY COUSIN:
I see clearly by your last letter that you are not accurately
informed of what is passing in Piedmont; for I have been
obliged to be very badly satisfied with my ambassador, in that
he has executed my orders with so much warmth that the Duc de
Savoie complains through his despatches to Count Carrocio of
apparently being forced into an action which should be the
freest, even to the smallest particular. Judge by this fact if
the conduct proposed and suggested to you is wise?
I perceive even malice in those who give you such advice; for
their desire is to put you in such a state of mind that if the
affair fail it is I who am to blame.
I see that you are already persuaded that success depends upon
my simple wish expressing my desire on one side or the other,
but I am not resolved to conduct myself according to the
caprices of those people.
I have told you that I sincerely wish your satisfaction and I
again affirm it. The friendship alone which I have for you
would give me this feeling, and I realise also that the scheme
is beneficial for me.
You must not doubt, therefore, that I will do all which will be
really useful in furthering the affair; as for the means, it is
not too much to say that I see better what should be done than
those who speak and write to you. However, I pray God, etc.
At Vincennes, September 2, 1664.
Signed; Louis.
The King spoke the truth: the Duc de Savoie did not want the Grande
Mademoiselle. Charles Emmanuel had never digested the affront received
upon the journey to Lyons, from which he had seen his sister return
Duchess of Parma when he had imagined to receive her as Queen of
France.[168] He was not averse to revenging himself on Louis XIV. by
refusing a princess of his family whose age above all "made him afraid,
for he desired children."[169]
He had also an account to regulate with Mademoiselle, who had disdained
him at the time in which she was young and beautiful. At this distant
date, Charles Emmanuel, although her junior by seventeen years, had not
concealed the fact that he would have been ready to marry her, "so much
did he esteem her person and also her great wealth."[170]
But it was with the Duc de Savoie as with the Prince of Wales, and later
with the Prince de Lorraine:
Quoi? moi! quoi? ces gens-la! l'on radote, je pense,
A moi les proposer! helas! ils font pitie:
Voyez un peu la belle espece.[171]
Having become less exacting with years, Mademoiselle at length found a
man who did not disdain to play the part of substitute for his betters.
The Duke remained firm, and it was again a Nemours,[172] sister of the
Queen of Portugal, who inherited the husband destined for the Grande
Mademoiselle.
Equally difficult, the same fate fell upon Mademoiselle as upon the
marriageable daughter in La Fontaine: she was to be reduced to wed a
cadet of Gascony, the _malotru_ of the fable. I believe that La
Fontaine had Mademoiselle in his mind when writing _La Fille_. It has
been queried whether this subject was not borrowed from the _Epigram_ of
Martial. There is no need for so distant a search. On July 8, 1664, La
Fontaine had been appointed "gentleman-in-waiting to the dowager
Duchesse d'Orleans."[173] He was, therefore, in a position to be well
informed concerning the projects for marriage which failed, and the
ridiculous actions of the daughter of the house. We possess his
confidences upon the household of the Luxembourg, on the one side of the
apartments of Madame, on the other those of Mademoiselle, in an epistle
dedicated to Mignon, the little dog of his mistress.
For La Fontaine, the Luxembourg was the palace in which there was no
place for lovers. The tender passion was forbidden _chez_ Madame, where
it was necessary to be contented with the "pious smiles" of Mme. de
Crisse, the original of the Countess de Pimbesche, and to bear in mind
the presence of an old Capuchin become Bishop of Bethleem in
Nivernais,[174] who supervised the conversations. "Speak low," says the
letter _Pour Mignon_.
Si l'eveque de Bethleem
Nous entendait, Dieu sait la vie.
There was not even the resource of fleeing to the "Divinity" opposite.
Under that shelter, lovers were less well regarded year by year, and La
Fontaine divined why: the antipathy always evinced by Mademoiselle was
now doubled by envy.
The check in regard to the Savoie marriage had brought on a painful
crisis in the life of this poor unattached heroine. For the first time,
she had been made to feel that she had passed the marriageable age, and
she was one of those unfortunates who cannot easily resign themselves to
the fall from the purely feminine portion of existence.
The revolt against nature frequently causes whimsicalities; a terrible
injustice toward those doleful creatures who often have asked no better
than to obey nature's laws in becoming wives and mothers. Nervous
maladies give to the soul-tragedy a burlesque outside, and the world
laughs without comprehending. Mademoiselle was one of these
unfortunates. La Fontaine had well discovered it when he wrote:
Son miroir lui disait: "Prenez vite un mari."
Je ne sais quel desir le lui disait aussi:
Le desir peut loger chez une precieuse.
It is very difficult to relate the decline of the Grande Mademoiselle
without provoking a smile at least, and it would be a pity, however, if
this proud figure should leave the even slight impression of that of
Belise. She was left disabled, without aim in life, at the very moment
in which women in general were being excluded from action, after having
been slightly intoxicated with power under Anne of Austria. Men had at
that time encouraged women to enter into public life. Thanks to
masculine complicity, feminine influence and power had mounted high, and
the weaker sex enjoyed one of the most romantic moments of its entire
history.
The habit of treating women as the equals of men had been fully formed
when the will of a monarch who distrusted them precipitated the sex from
its giddy height.
It has been seen _a propos_ of La Valliere with what contempt Louis XIV.
spoke of women in his _Memoires_. Upon this subject he had truly
Oriental ideas, approaching those held by his Spanish ancestors,
inherited by them from the Moors. Louis could not do without women, but
he wanted them only for amusement. He did not really believe them
capable of giving anything else, judging them inferior and dangerous,
perhaps in remembrance of Marie Mancini, who had almost enticed him into
a crime against royalty.
Hardly had the King come to power when all who had issued from their
sphere must re-enter it. Love was the only affair of importance in which
women were permitted to share. Louis XIV. made no exception in favour of
his mistresses. Mme. de Montespan tyrannised a little over him in spite
of his fine theories. The others, however, were looked upon only in the
light of beautiful and amusing creatures.
When, towards the end of the reign, Mme. de Maintenon had the glory of
again raising the sex to the position of being esteemed by the King,
she alone benefited. In general, nothing was gained for women at large;
the impression in regard to their true position had been too deep.
Suddenly reduced to an existence with a narrow horizon, women found it
colourless and mean. They demanded love, since this was all that was
left to them to supply those violent emotions to which they had become
accustomed in the camps and councils. As the result of this new attitude
many strange events occurred, but they were little noticed as long as
the Queen Mother remained of this world. Anne of Austria succeeded in
saving appearances, if in nothing else. Once dead, there came the
downfall, and strange things became frightful ones.
It was at Versailles in the midst of the Bengal fires of the "Ile
enchantee" that the Queen Mother felt the first pangs of the cancer
which finally caused her death.
Paris followed with grief the course of her illness. Anne of Austria,
remaining without influence, had again become popular. "She preserves
harmony," wrote d'Ormesson, "and although she cannot be credited with
much good, she still prevents much that is evil" (June 5, 1665). It is
known that it was owing to her that a certain decency was maintained at
the Court of France; that without her, Louis XIV. and his sister-in-law
Henrietta would not have perceived in time that they already cared too
much for each other and that the rumour of this was "making much noise
at Court."[175]
[Illustration: =MADAME HENRIETTE D'ORLEANS= From the painting by Mignard
in the National Portrait Gallery (Photograph by Walker, London)]
The Queen Mother was forced to open eyes which wished to remain closed.
She had spoken frankly, and her plainness had perhaps saved the kingdom
of France from an ineffaceable stain. Such service cannot be forgotten
by honest people. To gratitude was added a sincere admiration for her
courage under suffering. The poor woman endured without complaint, and
with an incredible tranquillity, nine months of sharp pain increased by
the barbarous remedies applied by a crowd of quacks.
In the royal family, the sentiments were mixed. Louis XIV., as Mme. de
Motteville had well remarked, was a man full of "contradictions." He
cherished his mother. During a previous malady, a short time before the
cancer declared itself, he had cared for her night and day with a
devotion and also a skill which astonished the attendants.
The thought of now losing her gave him seasons of stifling sobs. At the
same time, his mother was a little too much of a personage. She troubled
him by her clairvoyance. He experienced a certain relief at the
knowledge that the time was approaching when she would no longer be able
to watch his course of life. In all probability, he was himself ignorant
of this feeling, but it was apparent to observers. When she was actually
dying, affection bore away all other considerations, and the King almost
fainted. Hardly was she interred when the pleasure of feeling himself
entirely free again became ascendant.
The attachment of Monsieur for his mother was his best emotion. His
grief possessed no hidden relief and forced him to be always near the
invalid's bed. "The odour was so frightful," reports Mademoiselle, "that
after seeing the wound dressed it was impossible to sup." Monsieur
passed all his time in the chamber and tried to demonstrate his
tenderness. Sometimes most ridiculous ideas occurred to him; but he was
not the less touching, through his never-failing tears, on account of
his sincerity.
At length, Anne of Austria herself sent her son away. Monsieur returned
to his pleasures and forgot his grief in them; he would not have been
Philippe Duc d'Anjou if he had acted differently. When the end drew
near, timid and submissive as he was, he would not be sent away. The
King withdrew, obeying the custom which forbids princes, as formerly
gods, to witness death. Louis twice told his brother not to remain
longer, and only received the response "that he could not obey him in
this, but he promised that it was the only point, during his entire
life, on which he would ever disobey."[176]
A cry of Monsieur piercing the walls announced to Louis that the end had
come.
The young Queen Marie-Therese, who was losing all, justified the
reputation of "fool" which the Court gave her. She permitted herself to
be persuaded that her position would be made higher, through all the
privileges left to her by the death of the Queen Mother, and she was
more than half consoled by this chimera.
Mademoiselle scrupulously observed the proprieties; which is all that
can be said. Anne of Austria had emphasised in a solemn hour the
tenacity of the rancour against her niece. The evening before death, she
took farewell of all. Two only appeared forgotten; "I was astonished,
after all that had passed," relates Mademoiselle, "that she did not say
a word to M. le Prince or to me, who were both there, especially
slighting me who was brought up near her." It was precisely on account
of "all that had passed." Anne of Austria gave a good example to the
King: she expired without pardoning the leaders of the Fronde.
Great changes followed this death. Louis XIV. lost his mother January
20, 1660; on the 27th of the same month, a deputation came from
Parliament "to pay their compliments to the King." d'Ormesson was of
this body. "I went afterwards," says his Journal, "to mass with the
King, at which there were present the Queen, M. le Dauphin, Monsieur and
Mlle. de La Valliere, whom the Queen has taken near her, through
complaisance for the King, in which she shows her wisdom." Louis XIV.
officially presented his mistress to the people, and assigned her rank
immediately below that of his legitimate wife. During his mother's life
he would not have dared to do this.
Two months later he was delivered from the _Cabale des Devots_, and
from its intrusive observations, through the disappearance of the
_Compagnie du Saint Sacrement_. It does not appear impossible that the
death of the Queen may have slightly hastened this event. Anne of
Austria had been acquainted with the society for a long period,[177] and
had testified for it during many years of absolute devotion. She had
guarded it from Mazarin. She did more: there is proof that she deceived
her minister for the sake of the _Compagnie_. The situation changed with
the death of the Cardinal. There is nothing to warrant the belief that
Anne of Austria, whether restrained by fear or by some scruple, was
willing, after the death of Mazarin, to deceive Louis XIV. for the sake
of a secret society.
Actively pursued by Colbert, who divined an occult force behind the
adversaries to his power, the _Compagnie_ fell back upon its habitual
protector, and had the bitter disappointment of beseeching in vain. The
devotion of Anne of Austria was henceforth to be a silent one. As long
as she remained on earth, all hope was not lost; she might be brought
back to the bosom of the fold, and better success might be looked for
another time. Her death caused the final disorganisation. The society
had not, during a long period, dared to reunite. Deprived of the mother
of the King, it practically yielded. It dissolves and vanishes into thin
air. Its register stops April 8, 1666. Have the records of the various
prosecutions been destroyed or scattered? Have all the documents been
destroyed through prudence? Suppositions are free. It is with this
mysterious brotherhood as with those water-courses which disappear under
the ground. Their traces are lost. It even happens that they bear
another name when they again spring to the surface. Such without doubt
has been the fate of the "Compagnie du Saint Sacrement," for the
sectarian spirit which has been its most significant mark has never lost
its rights in the land; in our own days we still see it placing itself
in France at the service of very different schools of thought and
belief.
In this beginning of April (1666) in which the _Cabale des Devots_ had
avowed itself vanquished, the Court was struck with the animation of the
King.
"A journey was made to Mouchy," wrote Mademoiselle, "where three days
were passed in reviews. The King ordered a quantity of troops to be
assembled; he also invited many ladies. All these were in mourning.
There was much diversion; the King was in gay spirits; he sang and made
verses during the progress." Although these were not the only ones,
Louis did not compose many songs during his life.
He enjoyed feeling free from those wearisome persons who had abused the
patronage of his mother in creating themselves censors of their
sovereign. No one except his confessor and his preachers concerned
themselves further with his sins. When Bossuet and Bourdaloue were
appointed Court preachers they restrained themselves but little; but
Louis XIV. bore their reproaches with equanimity. It was their duty, and
Christians of that date, even bad ones, recognised what they owed to the
Church, and bent their heads before the pulpit. Bossuet cried out in the
presence of the entire Court that "immoral manners are always bad
manners," and that "there is a God in heaven who avenges the sins of the
people, and who, above all, avenges the sins of Kings."[178] He launched
apostrophies at Mlle. de La Valliere: "O creatures, shameful idols,
withdraw from this Court. Shadows, phantoms, dissipate yourselves in the
presence of the truth; false love, deceitful love, canst thou stand
before it?"
Bourdaloue, who found Mme. de Montespan in the place of Mlle. de La
Valliere, reproached the King for his "debauches," and openly demanded
of him in his sermon if he had kept his promise of rupture: "Have you
not again seen this person fatal to your firmness and constancy? Have
you no more sought occasions so _dangerous_ for you?"
Mme. de Sevigne went one day to hear him at Saint-Germain, where he
preached a Lenten sermon before the King and Queen. She returned
confounded and angry at his boldness: "We heard after dinner the sermon
of Bourdaloue, who speaks with all his force, launching truths with
lowered bridle, attacking adultery on every side; regardless
of all, he rides straight on."[179] Louis XIV. accepted these
public reproaches without protest; there was, however, but little
result.
[Illustration: =MADAME DE MONTESPAN= From the engraving by Flameng after
the painting by Mignard]
One effect of the death of the Queen Mother was that rivals to Mlle. de
La Valliere were free to appear; also there was a great increase in the
number of charlatans and alchemists, who found more easily an
aristocratic clientele. Diviners and sorcerers also played an important
role in the love life of this society--the most polished in the world.
The practice of the magic arts was at that date considered one of the
most flourishing Parisian industries. The inhabitants of the streets
little frequented, or of the suburbs, were accustomed to the movement
which took place in the early morning, or in the evening at dusk, around
certain isolated houses.[180] People of all ranks, on foot, in carriages
or in chairs, women masked or muffled, succeeded each other before a
closed door, which only opened at a particular sign.
The state of mind which led this crowd to the clairvoyant was to be
found in all classes of society, from the highest to the lowest. Public
credulity was passing through a period of expansion, apparently very
much at odds with the splendid intellect of France at that date, at
which, however, those who believe the simple formulas of history will
not be astonished. Two of our grand classic writers have left pages
which bear witness to the extent of the evil, existing at the very
moment in which France became the actual head of Europe.
Moliere mocks at occult science and its adepts, through a long play, or
rather a libretto for a ballet,[181] which he wrote for the King in
1670, named as we already know, _Les Amants Magnifiques_. The _dramatis
personae_ are divided into two camps according to a rule of his own, in a
fashion very unpleasant for the grandees of this world, Moliere allowing
them the precedence in folly. It was sufficient for his heroes to be
illustrious through rank, to endow them with a blind faith in all
conjurers. "The truth of astrology," says the Prince Iphicrate, "is an
incontestable fact, and no one can dispute against the certitude of its
predictions." This is also the opinion of the Prince Timocles: "I am
sufficiently incredulous in regard to many things, but as for astrology,
there is nothing more certain and more constant than the success with
which horoscopes may be drawn." The Princess Aristione also agrees, and
is anxious in finding that her daughter is less convinced.
This is a commencement of a freedom of thought, and one cannot know to
what it may lead: "My daughter," says the mother, "you have a little
incredulity which never leaves you."
Disbelief in astrology and sorcery is represented in the play of
Moliere, figuring in the name of "Clitidas, court jester," and of
another person of obscure birth, "Sostrate, general of the army," who
takes the part of Clitidas against the calmer prophets and other
exploiters of human folly.
There is nothing more agreeable [says he] than all the great
promises of this sublime knowledge. To transform everything
into gold; to find immortal life; to heal by words; to make
oneself beloved by the person of one's desires; to know all the
secrets of the future; to call down from the sky at will
impressions upon metals which bear happiness to mortals[182];
to command demons; to render armies invisible and soldiers
invulnerable--all this is doubtless charming, and there are
people who have no trouble in believing in the possibility; it
is the easiest thing in the world for some men to be convinced,
but for me, I avow that my grosser mind has some difficulty in
comprehending and in believing.
La Fontaine has treated the same subject in three of his fables. It is
in one of these, _Les Devineresses_, published in 1678, consequently
before the famous drama _Les Poisons_, in which he shows himself very
well acquainted with what the police had not yet been sufficiently
clever to discover. He knew marvellously well the existence of the
_poudre de succession_ and of the _poudre pour l'amour_:
Une femme, a Paris, faisait la pythonisse.
On l'allait consulter sur chaque evenement;
Perdait-on un chiffon, avait-on un amant,
Un mari vivant trop, au gre de son epouse,
Une mere facheuse, une femme jalouse,
Chez la Devineuse on courait,
Pour se faire annoncer ce que l'on desirait.
The warning was not heeded, and it needed the "burning chamber" of 1680
to make honest people comprehend that "clairvoyant" was too often
another name for "seller of poisons." La Fontaine had, however, given no
new information about the confidence inspired. This fact was already too
well known.
This dangerous agency, of which we have already had a glimpse on the
occasion of the first search for Lesage and Mariette, merits some
descriptive details. In Paris, during a period of twenty years, it was
so mixed up with intrigues and crimes that it exercised a real influence
over the morals of the Parisian world and through it over the affairs at
Court.
Like a wave of madness it swept over the heads especially of the women.
Many of these, even those not directly mingling in political life, were
in a state of revolt, inconsolable for having lost the importance
acquired during the civil troubles.
Women had been emancipated by the force of affairs. During the actual
fighting and the general disorders which ensued, the habit of remaining
in the shade of obedience was lost; also the considering themselves only
as objects of luxury.
Louis XIV. had undertaken the task of bringing the sex back to the
playing of a decorative or utilitarian role. It was almost as if to-day
we should demand of our daughters, so free, so mingled with the general
movement, to return suddenly to the self-effacement and the thousand
restraints of our own youth. They would be transported with rage.
In 1666, the larger portion of the clients of the necromancer sought
above everything else a secret by the aid of which they might shake off
the yoke that had again fallen upon their shoulders. The husband was the
natural incarnation of this yoke. It was therefore against him that the
revolt was habitually directed. The wives addressed themselves to a
clairvoyant. The first consultation was generally innocent enough.
The clairvoyant counselled new-comers to go to the good Saint Denis,
always a succour for women unhappy in their domestic life, and to the
indefatigable Saint Antoine de Padua. She reserved until later the
giving of certain powders, only hinting at their existence, the secret
of which had been brought from Italy and which were sought at Paris by
both provincials and strangers.
It is now known through contemporaneous documents that arsenic was an
element in these powders, and that so many persons accused themselves in
confession of having "poisoned some one" that the priests of Notre-Dame
at length gave warning to the authorities (1673). Did the penitents,
especially the women, always speak the truth? Popular imagination is so
quickly fired when poisoning is suggested, that it may well be queried
whether a portion of the unfortunates were not rather hysterical and
victims of hallucinations. It is probable that the true answer will
never be known. Physicians at that time were the doctors of Moliere, and
the science of chemistry did not exist.
With the husband softened or suppressed, the women demanded love to
replace emotion in their contracted and faded existence. The task of the
necromancer thus consisted in interesting God or the devil in the heart
pangs of her client and of arousing an affection in the breast of the
man she designated. This was the beginning for the new clients; the end
was the black mass with its obscene rites or the bloody mass, for which
a small infant was strangled.
All the forms of conjuration were used between the two, every charm,
every talisman and many "kinds of powders," not always inoffensive. The
consultations were paid for according to the rank or fortune of the
clients. In default of money, a jewel was given or even a signed note,
the imprudence of which last proceeding it is hardly needful to point
out.
In the year of the death of Anne of Austria, one of the clairvoyants
most frequented was the wife of a hosier named Antoine Montvoisin, whose
shop was situated upon the Pont Marie, which to-day still unites the
right bank of the Seine with the isle Saint-Louis. The Pont Marie, as
almost all the bridges of Paris at that date, had a double row of
houses, with shops beneath, which formed a very animated street. The
affairs of Montvoisin, however, had not prospered. He had tried several
commercial undertakings without success. He had been dry-goods merchant
and jeweller, and had always "lost his shops," according to the
expression of his wife, Catherine Montvoisin, familiarly called "the
neighbour."
[Illustration: =LA VOISIN= From a print in the Bibliotheque Nationale]
It is under this latter name that she became celebrated in the annals of
crime. La Voisin the fortune-teller is the same as La Voisin the
poisoner. At the date of the hosiery shop, she had not yet attracted the
attention of justice, in spite of her installation, but ill-assured, on
the Pont Marie, which obliged her to have a double domicile, or to give
rendezvous at the house of her confrere. She gained large sums of money.
The price for consultation varied from a single piece to several
thousand francs, or from an old rag to a necklace of precious stones,
and again she drew something from the acolytes of both sexes who
assisted in her wicked works. It was known from herself that her
property was held in her own right, her husband having been always
unfortunate in business. In spite of this precaution, the money slipped
through her fingers. It is true that she had expenses, children to bring
up and relatives to support. She said: "I have ten persons to feed," but
she was economical for others. La Voisin gave a crown a week to her
mother and brought up her daughter as a small shop-keeper. It was she
herself who, in company with other miserables of her own kind, spent
madly. The position of husband of a poisoner seems to have been a
precarious one. Antoine Montvoisin was familiar with the nature of his
wife's industry, but his conscience did not forbid his profiting by it
for his own comfort. His conscience also permitted him to appropriate
to himself money entrusted to him by his wife to execute the orders for
the _neuvaines_. He was as much a free-thinker as any of the Vardes or
Guiches, and convinced that the _neuvaines_ were absolutely useless. As
to going further, to putting his own "paw in the dish," he was
successfully prudent. He was never anxious; but he was actually daily in
danger of being poisoned, for La Voisin could not suffer this coward.
She would have liked to replace him by a veritable associate, and
between the pair, there were perpetual fights for pre-eminence in
deceit.
The good man Antoine would certainly have died through poisoning in
spite of all his care, if he had not conceived the ingenious idea of
uniting himself with an executioner, to whom he confided the situation.
It was agreed between the two that, if Montvoisin should die before his
wife, the hangman should speak and demand an autopsy. La Voisin became
afraid. She tried to poison her husband on a journey, but did not
succeed, and finally considered it safer to keep him with her.
She had benefited, as had also the entire corporation, by the hopes
awakened in the breasts of many of the pretty women among the
aristocracy by the death of the Queen Mother.
Anne of Austria had taken so ill the first digression of her son from
the paths of virtue that the aspirants for the succession to Mlle. de La
Valliere had preserved a certain discretion. When the rebuffs of the old
Queen were no longer to be feared, the passions were unchained and a
flock of youthful, ambitious women addressed themselves to the "duties
of fashion" in order to arrive at the good graces of the King.[183] The
boldest demanded at the same time "something against Mlle. de La
Valliere." Amongst these young women was found the Marquise de
Montespan, who loved neither her husband nor the King, but who was
harrassed by her creditors, was very conscious of her own value, and
determined to be "recognised mistress," since this was now a position
admitted and classified.
She was as "beautiful as the day," says Saint-Simon, without being
"perfectly agreeable";--the correction is by Mme. de La Fayette. She had
all the wit possible, was delicious in eccentricities and courtesies. In
spite of so much brilliancy, the King rather avoided her and she was
reduced to amusing Marie-Therese, who admitted her freely, having full
confidence in her virtue. The Queen had been deceived by the pious
austerities of the young Marquise, by her frequent communions, and by a
mass of religious practices which were really actuated by a sincere
sentiment, and which Mme. de Montespan preserved as far as she could,
notwithstanding the scandals of her after life. Understood in this
manner, a sense of duty towards religion did not prevent resorting to
sorceresses. It rather led in this direction in giving to the perverse
soul "the vague consciousness of something beyond."[184]
Mme. de Montespan became one of the best clients of La Voisin, regarding
neither the expense nor the decency of the ceremonies, provided that the
devil would make her the beloved of Louis XIV. Faring better than her
rivals, she received the value of her money. She began her campaign in
the course of the year 1666. The _Memoires_ of Mademoiselle, very full
on this subject, and elsewhere confirmed, inform us that in the spring
of 1667, Mme. de Montespan had supplanted La Valliere; it was the young
Queen alone who was ignorant of this fact.
Less than two years after, La Voisin had the imprudence to make a
disturbance because two of her aids had not acted honestly toward her.
One of these was a priest, called Mariette, attached to the Church of
Saint Severin. La Voisin made use of him in sacrilegious practices. The
other, Lesage, was a sort of Jack of all trades, who recoiled before no
abomination. La Voisin accused them of having assaulted one of her
clients, Mme. de Montespan, a fact true enough, but useless to proclaim
from the housetops.
"The quarrel having made some noise," reports La Reynie, "and the King,
having learned that these people were practising impieties and
sacrileges, had them watched." Mariette and Lesage were arrested. The
examinations have been preserved for us. Here is an essential passage:
Mariette avowed without hesitation to having spoken the Gospels "over
the heads of various persons," a form of conjuration relatively
innocent. The names were demanded. "Over the heads of the Lady de Bougy,
Mme. de Montespan, la Duverger, M. de Ravetot, all of which persons
Lesage had led to him."[185]
With this information secured, Louis XIV. ordered prosecution:
SAINT-GERMAIN, August 16, 1668.
I write this letter to tell you that it is my intention to have
the said Mariette and Dubuisson[186] conducted from my chateau
to the Chatelet of the City of Paris, for the continuation of
their prosecution.
One may be sure that the King did not lose this inquest from view. Louis
XIV. was most eager for police details and this affair touched him too
nearly to be forgotten.
At the beginning of the investigation, it was discovered that Mariette
was first cousin to the wife of the judge. On account of this
connection, the Chatelet estimated that it was for the honour of the
magistracy to stifle the affair. He brought every effort to accomplish
this and evidently met with practical approbation from the powerful of
this world, for history permits us to see numerous irregularities.
La Voisin, returning to her senses, heartily seconded the Justice in his
efforts to obtain succour from those in high positions. Mariette and
Lesage, after a period of trials and difficulties, were left in peace to
occupy themselves with their ambiguous trade. Both of these men figured
again in the monster process of 1680, in which they were among those who
spread details concerning the abominable practices with which the Mme. de
Montespan had been connected during long years. It does not matter here
whether these details are additions to the truth or not, for it is only
Louis XIV. who interests us, not Mme. de Montespan.
The letter cited above proves all that is necessary, that the King knew,
from the year 1668, that his new mistress had connection with the
criminal world, and that she had intimate interviews with ignoble
persons, submitted to degrading contact, and had practised in their
company sacrilegious rites. This monarch who passed for being so
delicately keen in matters of punishment showed himself singularly
little moved.
Surrounded by free-thinkers without prejudices, himself more or less of
a free-thinker, he resembles so little, either morally or physically,
the bewigged figure of the end of the reign, and of the _Memoires_ of
Saint-Simon, that he appears as another individual. How easily both
proprieties and punishments are put on one side when passion reigns,
but how much more alive, how much more of a natural human being,
compared to the wooden figure of the portraits of Versailles, is the
King as now seen; Louis XIV. is decidedly an enigmatical quantity.
It would be inexact to state that passions had become more lively than
they were during the wars of the Fronde, an epoch especially ardent; but
they had certainly changed their character, as had the tastes, ideas,
literature, and fashions in general. This is the usual course of events,
and, as we have seen, the movement was precipitated under the influence
of a monarch all-powerful, determined to efface the past.
An artistic event which should not be overlooked had favoured the
designs of Louis XIV., in opening unknown perspectives to the curious
after new sensations, already numerous in the seventeenth century.
Dramatic music made its entry into the modern world. It brought with it,
according to the phrase of one of its historians, M. Romain
Rolland,[187] an "unlimited power for expressing passion, and with
passionate emotion all that remains incommunicable through the medium of
language alone." We may or may not love music, but it must be admitted
that a creation of this nature will certainly exercise a strong
influence over the refined portion of a nation.
French society could not escape. The new art was in train to modify the
nervous system, if I dare thus speak, of the world in which flourished,
under the royal protection, those rather perilous ideas upon the rights
of nature and the fatality of passion. Day by day, new chords were
struck upon impressionable hearts. Dramatic music was born in Italy; as
might well be. In the year 1597, upon a carnival evening, a rich
Florentine entertained a choice audience with a musical tragedy called
_Dafne_, of which the score is lost. According to one of the guests,
"the pleasure and astonishment which seized the soul of the auditors
before so novel a spectacle could hardly be expressed."
M. Romain Rolland confirms this testimony: "It was like a thunderbolt.
All felt themselves in the presence of a new art." In ten years Italian
opera reached its full growth, thanks chiefly to a composer of genius,
Monteverde, whose _Ariane_ caused an audience of more than six thousand
persons to burst into sobs on its first representation.
The art of singing had marched side by side with dramatic music and
attained its height almost at once. A famous soprano, Vittori, threw the
public into almost inconceivable transports. "Many persons were suddenly
forced to loosen their garments in order to breathe, so suffocated were
they with emotion."
Everywhere musical theatres were erected. The large cities built
several; Venice alone had five, and this number was not sufficient. The
opera was given in palaces and private salons; "Bologna possessed more
than sixty private theatres, without mentioning the convents and
colleges." The clergy were caught in the whirlwind; monks and nuns
chanted operas, cardinals became stage managers of scenes, a future pope
wrote librettos. It was an epidemic, a frenzy, and Italy did not go mad
with impunity. In its beginning, the opera is responsible for grave
disorders, both nervous and moral; it became _too_ much of a passion.
Mazarin already possessed this taste before his establishment in France.
He wished to initiate his adopted country into the joys, almost to be
dreaded, which had so suddenly enriched human life, and he brought from
Italy one after the other four Italian troupes, the first in 1645, the
last a short time before his death.
The result was easy to predict. A spectacle patronised by the Cardinal
became a matter of politics. Applauded by the partisans of the minister,
derided by his adversaries, the Italian opera met with so strong an
opposition that it was necessary to renounce it for the time, but the
lesson was not lost.
French composers heretofore devoted to ballets and masquerades had not
received unheedingly the revelation of the dramatic style; their
ambition was also aroused to express the tempests of the soul, and they
began to grope along the new path.
The attempt was not at once successful; but their efforts familiarised
the public with the idea of a musical language of passion. In 1664, the
song was considered the natural interpreter of love. Moliere fixes the
date in his _Princesse d'Elide_, in which Moron does not succeed in
gaining the ear of Philis because he speaks, instead of singing his
declaration. Philis flees and Moron cries out: "Behold how it is: if I
had been able to sing, I should have done better. Most women of to-day
only let themselves be courted through the ears; this is the reason that
the entire world has become musical, and one can succeed with the fair
only by making them listen to little songs and verses. I must learn to
sing like others."
It was indeed somewhat different in 1671, when French opera arrived
on the scene.[188] It had hardly seen the light when it became, as a
result of the association of Quinault with Lulli, a counsellor of
voluptuousness.
While the decorations and the dances charmed the eyes, as the "machines"
amused by their complications, the words and music, outdoing the
_Princesse d'Elide_,[189] murmured unceasingly with the same caressing
languor that no youthful beings have the right, for any motive whatever,
to deny to themselves the duty of loving. "Yield, give yourselves up to
transports," chants a chorus of _Amadis_. The thirteen "lyrical
tragedies" given by Quinault and Lulli from 1673 to 1686 are all
constructed upon this one theme. They gave expression to the one
single idea; "Yield! surrender yourselves!" and resulted in producing a
certain eloquence from their monotony. When these lyrics are played on
the piano,[190] a better means of hearing them failing, one cannot but
feel that in spite of their insipidity the continuous appeal to the
senses might produce in the end, particularly in the atmosphere of a
theatre, a strong effect.
[Illustration: =JEAN BAPTISTE DE LULLI= After a contemporary print by
Bonnart]
Moralists recognised this. All will remember the violent attack of
Boileau upon the opera. To-day we consider this attack as having been
too narrowly virtuous, even a little ridiculous. It can be explained,
however, in considering what a novelty it was to see people seized with
nervous attacks and fits of weeping while listening to singing. Was it
the "loose morals" of Quinault which caused these? Was it the new music?
In either case, the worthy Boileau was excusable for his alarm.
France had not yet reached the point of excitability which existed in
Italy. The French are not a sufficiently musical race for this; but in a
less degree, the country submitted to the extraordinary power of the
dramatic style. It is known through Mme. de Sevigne that if the French
listeners did not invariably "burst into sobs" or "suffocate with
emotion," more than one auditor, including herself, wept silently in
hearing the fine passages.
Fashion also swayed affairs, and we know of what fashion is capable in
France.
Saint Evremond has written a comedy entitled _The Operas_. In the list
of _dramatis personae_, one reads: "Mlle. Crisotine become mad through
the hearing of operas. Tirsolet, a young man from Lyons, also became mad
through operas." A third person relates that "nothing else is spoken of
in Paris. Women and even young children knew the operas by heart, and
there is hardly a house in which entire scenes are not sung." How nearly
France and Italy are approached in this. The Louvre party caught the
fashion, the courtiers, being eager to imitate the King, a great admirer
of Lulli.
It had happened that Louis remarked during the rehearsals of _Alceste_
"that if he were at Paris when the opera should be played, he would go
every day." "This phrase," adds Mme. de Sevigne "is worth a hundred
thousand francs to Baptiste."[191] This was no affectation on the part
of the King; he really loved music, as can be recognised through
unmistakable signs. Louis XIV. had throughout his life the taste and
more than a taste for music; to which he added a longing to be himself a
performer, a desire that can never be satisfied with the most skilled
professional entertainments. As a youth, he played the guitar and took
part in ensemble playing. As a man, he found that he had a good voice,
and knew how to use it in amateur reunions.
It can even be said that he sang not only at suitable but also at
unsuitable moments: the day after the death of his son, the Grand
Dauphin, the ladies of the Palace heard with surprise the King singing
opera prologues. During his later years, when it was difficult to amuse
him, Mme. de Maintenon organized musicales in her salon and Louis always
enjoyed these. One evening when she substituted vespers[192] for the
scores of Lulli, the King made no criticism and even intoned the
vespers. Provided it was music, all kinds were good; but the King showed
a certain predilection for the kind which he had seen created, already
so rich in new emotions and which bore rare promise for the future of
the artistic world, and the monarch possessed all the qualities needed
to enjoy it profoundly.
The reader cannot fail to perceive through the witness of his frequent
bursts of tears that Louis was of a nervous disposition, somewhat
concealed under the cold and calm exterior which he had imposed upon
himself. In advancing age, this tendency to tears became almost a
malady. Mme. de Maintenon, in a letter dated 1705, writing to a friend
of the "vapours" of the King and of his sombre humour, makes the remark
that he is "sometimes overcome with weeping which he cannot restrain."
He was a sensualist to whom themes of love were always attractive.
"Yield! Surrender!" the King never ceased to repeat on his own behalf
to the pretty women of his Court. For the rest, Quinault and Lulli made
him choose the subjects for their operas; and Louis had therefore a
responsibility for the voluptuousness which exhaled from their works.
Dramatic music has now established itself. The civilised world discovers
with delight that this art has an unlimited capacity for expressing
passion, and all the passions, even the highest, the purest, and this
latter includes love. It has also been recognised that music can speak
in its own words outside of the theatre, in a symphony, in a simple
sonata, and that there exists no art so benevolent, so reposeful, and so
reassuring to troubled souls. In spite of this, in spite of all,
moralists have never been willing to throw down their weapons before
music. Emanuel Kant was clearly hostile to it; he said, "It enervates
man,"[193] and he turned away his disciples from its joys. Tolstoi has
been unkind to it in the _Kreutzer Sonata_.
All forces can become dangerous; it depends on the "use made of
them,"[194] and also upon the souls which receive the impulse; they must
be of the calibre to support its force.
The action of music upon French society has never, so far as I know,
been methodically studied in relation to its effects, both physical and
moral. If a historian be found, he will issue from the psychological
laboratories, scientifically equipped, in which the observer conceals
the physician: on this condition only can he speak with authority.
[Illustration: =BOILEAU= After the painting by H. Rigaud]
The Grande Mademoiselle cared but little for music. Nevertheless she
extols Lulli in her _Memoires_: "He makes the most beatific airs in the
world." The glory of Baptiste touched her because he was "her own,"
arriving from Italy some time before the Fronde. "He came to France with
my late uncle the Chevalier de Guise. I had prayed him to bring me an
Italian, with whom I could speak and learn the language."
Lulli was only a boy of thirteen at the time that he was brought to
France. Between the Italian lessons, he filled the office of cook.
Later, admitted among the violins of Mademoiselle, it is related that he
was chased away for having satirised his mistress in song. This recalls
other events:
I was exiled: he did not wish to live in the country: he
demanded leave to go away: I accorded it, and since he has made
his fortune, for he is a great merry-andrew.
Lulli always remained a buffoon in the mind of Mademoiselle, although
she assisted at his triumphs and survived him.
Mademoiselle preserved the taste for literature formed at Saint-Fargeau.
Her name is associated with several incidents, great and small, of the
literary history of the times. In 1669, when _Tartuffe_ was definitely
authorised, she wished to have it performed in her salon. This fact is
noteworthy as the Church still forbade its representation. On August
21, Mademoiselle gave a fete. When most of the guests had departed,
"_Tartuffe_, the fashionable piece, was played before twenty women and
numbers of men."[195] Did the end of the phrase contain a slight
excuse--"which was the fashionable piece"? However this may be,
Mademoiselle could boast to her confessor that she had been "economical"
with Moliere. The entertainment at the Luxembourg was paid for with
three hundred francs given to the actors, the current price being for
such a performance five hundred and fifty francs. Thus the virtuous
homes evidenced their piety!
On another occasion, Mademoiselle had the honour, if the Abbe d'Olivet
may be believed, of supplying Moliere with an entire scene ready made:
and what a scene! Among the _habitues_ of the salon figured one of the
victims of Boileau, the impudent Abbe Cotin, who not finding himself
sufficiently _etrille_ (thrashed) had provoked new retaliations in
gossiping about Moliere.
One day he brought some verses of his own composition to the palace of
the Luxembourg to read them to Mademoiselle. In the midst of her
admiration another writer, supposed to be Menage, entered. Mademoiselle
committed the error of showing the verses of the Abbe and, without
mentioning the name of the author, of defending the expressed opinions.
The result was the scene between Vadius and Trissotin (at first named
"Tricotin" lest one should be deceived). It was only needful for
Moliere to give the touch of genius as in the sonnet to the Princess
Uranie and in the verses upon the _Carosse Amarante_. In these two
cases, it is well known that the lines are copied word for word from a
volume written by the Abbe Cotin.[196]
Many echoes of the grand literary battle of the century[197] still
resounded in the Luxembourg. The success of the first tragedies of
Racine irritated that portion of the public, always large, which has a
horror of being disturbed in its habits of thought by importunate
novelties. Such a disturbance is a punishment to many persons, whether
the moving force comes from literature, science, or art. There are many
examples of this fixed state of mind to be found in the past century: it
will suffice to recall the struggles hardly yet quieted between Pasteur
and Wagner.
Racine appeared on the scene as a revolutionary force. He and Moliere,
sustained by their friend Boileau, presented a dramatic art absolutely
new, which was separated by a gulf from that of Corneille and for which
nothing had prepared the way. Corneille's predecessors were Mairet, the
du Ryers and many others: Racine stood alone. He was the first and the
last to make tragedy realistic, with the subject simple, the characters
scrupulously true to nature, and the language often audaciously
familiar.
Louis XIV. applauded. Racine and the King well comprehended each other.
Heinrich Heine has given the reason for this in one of those phrases
which throw light upon an entire period: "Racine is the first modern
poet, as Louis XIV. was the first modern King."
The young Court applauded cordially with the King. It also belonged to
the new regime; but for the old Court, for the survivors of the Hotel
Rambouillet, the tragedy of Racine was as shocking, as displeasing, as
were the first realistic romances to the faithful adherents of
romanticism, and for the same reasons. In spite of the difficulty so
many have, of sympathising with the ideas of the one called a little
disdainfully "the gentle Racine," "the elegant Racine," this writer
appeared neither gentle nor elegant to three-fourths of the salon, to
the "old Court" of the Grande Mademoiselle. The _Pyrrhus_ seemed to them
"brutal," the Phedre, a "madwoman" "the blackness" of Nero or Narcisse
entirely beyond what should be permitted on the stage.
Not that the personages of Corneille or of his predecessors acted less
wickedly, but their brutes and villains were nevertheless "heroes" and
that made all the difference. The personages created by Racine were only
"men," simple men, who used words "low and grovelling," bourgeois
words, expressions such as "Quoi qu'il en soit, que fais je, que
dis-je!"[198] and did not even realise the sense: more than three
hundred improper terms have been counted in _Andromaque_. Racine would
have fared better if his poetic methods had not been in some way a
criticism upon the cleverness of Corneille. This was the real grievance,
obliging the adorers of the old poet to condemn the insolent one.
Mme. de Sevigne, who could not always prevent herself, although "mad
with Corneille," from admiring Racine, or from letting him perceive it,
hastened to correct herself when this happened. She wrote to her
daughter, "_Bajazet_ is beautiful," and added six lines further on, as a
person who has a reproach to make, "Believe me, nothing will approach (I
do not say surpass) some divine passages of Corneille." Having thus
regulated her conscience, she returned to _Bajazet_ to avow that she had
"wept more than twenty tears" (letter dated January 15, 1672), but her
letter evidently left her with a slight feeling of discomfort. Two
months later, she attenuated the praise of the new piece, to which she
now accorded only "agreeable things," and declared Corneille to be
another order of genius: "My daughter, let us take care not to compare
Racine with him, let us well perceive the difference!"
Almost all of Mademoiselle's generation showed themselves as jealous as
Mme. de Sevigne for the glory of Corneille. To the admiration inspired
by his genius is added the tender gratitude that we guard for works in
which live again the ideals of our youth. It is our own thoughts, our
fine dreams of early days, that we love in these productions.
The tragedy of Racine signified that the day of Corneille had passed;
its success indicated the inroad of new ideas and pointed definitely to
the fact that those faithful to the ancient worship had really been
relegated to the position of old fogies. This is never an agreeable
position when one feels still alive and with no very active realisation
that old age is approaching. People of letters are the first to suffer
from these revolutions of taste which leave surviving only works of the
first rank while the rest are cast away into oblivion.
As we know, the _litterateurs_ who frequented the salon of Mademoiselle
were all enemies of Racine, half on account of loyalty to Corneille,
half on their own behalf, through an instinct of self-preservation.
Besides Menage and the Abbe Cotin, whom we have lately encountered
speaking frankly to each other, besides the amiable Segrais whose
literary powers were too light to lead him far, there was the Abbe
Boyer, whose tragedies Segrais desired to be pardoned, because he was a
"sufficiently good academician," and that worthy old man De Chapelain,
illustrious until the day upon which his verses went to press. There was
some reason for accusing Mademoiselle of having been the "centre of the
opposition to the new poetry."[199] To say this is, however, to
exaggerate her role. We shall see later that she was far too occupied in
living through her own tragedy to be actively interested in those being
enacted upon the boards. Loaded with injuries and calumnies by the
Vadius and the Trissotins, menaced with thrashings by the aristocratic
protectors of these great men of the salon, Racine ran the risk of being
crushed, and was saved only by the signal favour of the King. Neither he
nor Moliere would have accomplished their work if Louis XIV. had not
sustained them against all critics. This is a service for which we
should not limit our gratitude. The reflection upon this great debt
arouses a tenderness towards a Prince with whom we are otherwise not
always sympathetic.
It is possible that there was some politics in his attitude. The success
of writers so new fell in well with his design of making a _tabula rasa_
of the detested past: but after all the main reason for which protection
was accorded was affection.
When Louis XIV. laughed "even till his sides ached"[200] over the _Ecole
des Femmes_, at which amusement the devots and prudes were indignant,
when he saved the _Plaideurs_, almost hissed in the Hotel de Bourgogne,
by "bursts of laughter, so great that the Court was astonished,"[201]
there was no calculation: he was honestly amused, like any one else. It
was also a true and frank admiration which caused him to dry his tears
at _Iphigenie_, and to order the repetition of _Mithridate_. He loved
the "new" for two reasons: because he had good taste, and because the
heroes of the later writers were of the kind needful for his generation.
It has been seen how marvellously Moliere and the King understood each
other, and the mention of Racine recalls to us the profound phrase of
Heine. Racine revealed himself in the _Andromaque_ as the "first modern
poet." Hermione and Oreste have only a distant relationship with the
heroes of Corneille. They are already "those possessed by love, the
great passionates with whom love becomes a malady, who love to the brink
of crime, and even till death."
With these characters, it can be said that modern love, profound,
tender, melancholy, impregnated with soul, and at the same time troubled
by the obscure influences of the nervous life, makes its entrance into
French literature. Oreste shows a sadness, a despair, a madness, which a
century and a half later burst forth in love romances. Louis XIV. had
not waited for Racine for his education in passion. When Marie Mancini
fascinated him, he was one of the first examples of the modern type of
those "possessed by love," and he had never forgotten this crisis; in
fact he never forgot anything. This episode in the life of the young
King had been a good apprenticeship for the comprehending of the love of
Oreste or of Phedre as the true love malady, as a fatality against which
our single will is only a feeble weapon.
Around the King, Mme. Henriette, Mme. de Montespan, all the young Court
and some shrewd spirits of the old, with Conde at the head, rendered
justice to the truth of the "anatomies of the heart," in the tragedy of
Racine. Mademoiselle was incapable of this; she believed too firmly in
the superhuman strength of the heroes of Corneille, with whom the will
laughs at resistance, whether the opposition arises in the soul or in
the exterior world, to admit the fatality of passion. Nevertheless, it
was the Grande Mademoiselle herself who was going to demonstrate clearly
to all France that it was impossible to escape fate, when this fate
points to love. Here we meet the great misfortune of her life!
An atmosphere of passion, and an intimacy with people whose sole
occupation was to render themselves attractive, was somewhat dangerous
for an old maid, sensitive without realising it. Mademoiselle had the
singular desire, which later cost her dearly, to make an ally of Mme. de
Montespan and thus to form a part of the chosen society of the Court.
She sought the company of the mistress and received service from her.
Mme. de Montespan was her interpreter with the King. In return
Mademoiselle endeavoured to calm M. de Montespan who, for serious or for
trivial reasons[202] "flew into passions," like a "madman" or "wild
person," against Madame his wife. "He is my relative and I scolded
him," says the _Memoires_ of Mademoiselle. As a connoisseur,
Mademoiselle hugely enjoyed the original wit of Mme. de Montespan. The
pleasure found in returning the ball in conversation was the foundation
of the intimacy.
With the growing idleness of the Court, pleasure in pure cleverness
increased. The play of the mind was the sole resource against ennui.
Wit, no matter at whose expense, became the enjoyment. The wise and
prudent Mme. de Maintenon succumbed like Mademoiselle, when her turn
came, to the irresistible charm of a conversation which "renders
agreeable the most serious matters, and ennobles the most trivial."[203]
During the sharpest quarrel between Mademoiselle and Mme. de Montespan,
the enjoyment of the opponent's wit was so keen that they parted with
pain. "Mme. de Montespan and I," wrote Mme. de Maintenon in 1681,[204]
"have to-day taken a walk, holding each other's arms and laughing
heartily; we are not more in accord for this." There can never be too
much cleverness, but there is an inconvenience in there being nothing
behind the wit, and this is one of the rocks towards which Louis XIV.
was pushing the French nobility. He made it impossible for those pacing
his antechambers to indulge in any intellectual effort other than that
of seeking pretty phrases to amuse the listeners.
A gentleman of quality commences his day at eight in the morning
standing in waiting before the door of the king. Salutes are given and
returned. The elegants comb their locks, glancing out of the corner of
their eyes at those entering. Moliere permits us to be present at the
"final assault" through verses but little known:
Grattez du peigne a la porte[205]
De la chambre du Roi;
Ou si, comme je prevoi,
La presse s'y trouve forte,
Montrez de loin votre chapeau,
Ou montez sur quelque chose
Pour faire voir votre museau,
Et criez sans aucune pause,
D'un ton rien moins que naturel;
"Monsieur l'huissier, pour le marquis un tel"
Jetez-vous dans la foule, et tranchez du notable,
Coudoyez un chacun, point du tout quartier,
Pressez, poussez, faites le diable
Pour vous mettre le premier.[206]
M. le Marquis enters. The chamber is already crowded. He "gains ground
step by step," succeeds in seeing the King put on his shoes, for Louis
performs this act with his own royal hands, and thus passes the first
hour. The exciting event is repeated in the evening when the King takes
off his shoes. The Marquis had already, at one o'clock, witnessed the
consumption of the royal soup, and two or three times in the course of
the day had delighted his eyes with the sight of the King passing to
and fro on his way to mass or to take the fresh air.
During the intervals, the courtiers were charged with certain puerile
occupations. The round of homages were made to the various members of
the royal family and the prominent personages of the day, and there was
gambling and other pleasures. The only relief for this complete idleness
was to be found in an active campaign if there happened to be a war on
hand. Let the courtier be admired for being able under such adverse
circumstances to keep his wit awake and alert for attack and response,
and also for the capacity of finding the military virtues when again
called upon to exercise them.
Fortunately, the latter virtues were deeply ingrained in the breasts of
the French gentlemen of this period, and it is not to their discredit if
the other faculties, mental and physical, the exercise of which was
plainly discouraged by the King, should have so fallen into disuse that
their children suffered. The final descendants of four or five
generations of those living this absurd life were the _emigres_ of the
great Revolution, all heroes, almost all clever, or at least appearing
so, and in general people of wit, but without character. This fact can
hardly be too much emphasised: never has a monarch laboured with greater
skill and method than Louis XIV. in the successful attempt to annihilate
the nobility and to ruin its reputation. This is one of the most serious
souvenirs of the wars of the Fronde.
It was with the women as with the men--the same subjection, the same
emptiness of life, from which arose the weakness of Mademoiselle for
Mme. de Montespan. The situation of recognised mistress "affects
nothing"; Mademoiselle had never considered that the virtue of others
concerned her. The novelty of the situation, the unexpected prerogatives
accruing to the new position, and the habits resulting, gave rise to
some of the most curious incidents of the reign, and also strengthened
an intimacy which survived many shocks.
As soon as Louis XIV. formally established his mistresses at Court, it
had been needful to frame new rules of etiquette. At first these rules
were understood rather than formulated, but contemporary writers give
evidence of their existence. It was the new regulations which gave
scandal, rather than the fact of a weakness too common to all men of all
times. The people had found the phrase suitable enough when it ran to
gaze on "the three queens" in one carriage; Mlle. de La Valliere and
Mme. de Montespan were publicly at the same time occupying the rank of
secondary wives to the King. When the royal family made its solemn
visits to any of its members who were mortally ill, these two ladies
arrived after the King and Queen. Mademoiselle met them at the death-bed
of Mme. Henriette; "Mme. de Montespan and La Valliere came." She met
them again over the cradle of a daughter of Louis XIV. and of
Marie-Therese, who died as an infant. "I found her in the last
extremity.... We staid almost the entire night watching her die; Mme.
de Montespan and Mme. de La Valliere were also there." The latter
escaped from such honours as often as she could. Mme. de Montespan liked
them better, and added to them. She had placed herself upon the footing
of the Queen in regard to ordinary visits, which she never returned.
"Never," says Saint-Simon, "not even to Monsieur or Madame or to the
Grande Mademoiselle, or to the Hotel de Conde."
The same hauteur was displayed in the manner of receiving the princes
and princesses of the blood, and this "exterior of Queen" followed her
into the retreat! All were accustomed to it.
"The habit of respect was preserved without murmur," says again
Saint-Simon, who recalled Mme. de Montespan, disgraced and passing her
time in penitence, nevertheless continuing to hold court in her
convent,[207] with as royal an etiquette as at Saint-Germain or
Versailles:
The back of her armchair was formed by the foot-piece of the
bed, and there was no other chair in the room. Monsieur and the
Grande Mademoiselle had always loved her, and often went to see
her; for these, chairs were brought, and also for Madame la
Princesse; but Mme. de Montespan did not dream of deranging
herself for her own people nor for those they brought with
them.... One can judge by this how she received "all the
world."
The "all the world," which included some of the most distinguished,
contented themselves with small "chairs with backs," or simple camp
stools. No one was offended, and "all France came"; I do not know by
what fantasy it was considered a duty to make visits from time to
time. She spoke to each like a queen holding her court, who honours in
"addressing." Marie-Therese herself, in the time in which Mme. de
Montespan was the actual sovereign, had submitted to the long empire of
custom. In 1675, the fourth year of the war in Holland, Louis XIV. being
with the army while Mme. de Montespan was at her chateau at Clagny, one
of their sons was "slightly ill."[208] The Queen considered it her duty
to visit the child and to comfort the mother. She went to seek Mme. de
Montespan, and led her one day to the Trianon, another to dine in some
favourite convent, an example which brought the crowd to Clagny and made
an end of hesitancy. "The wife of her firm (_solide_) friend," wrote
Mme. de Sevigne, "visited her, and afterward the entire family in turn.
She takes precedence of all the Duchesses." (July 3, 1675.)
There had been a time in which this fashion of ignoring rank would have
excited the indignation of Mademoiselle; but this time was far distant,
farther than she herself realised. In 1667 she had cried very loud
because her second sister, Mademoiselle d'Alencon, had made a
_mesalliance_ in marrying a simple seigneur, the Duc de Guise, and she
had looked very gloomily at the pair. The time had passed for such
pride, as the poor woman was herself ready for a worse _mesalliance_.
Her patience was at an end. Her agitation while Louis XIV. was
attempting marriage negotiations with the Duc de Savoie must not be
forgotten. No prince had thought of her since this affront. She was
considered too old. She would not confess this to be the case, but she
felt it, and a tempest gathered in the depths of her heart. The storm
burst in 1669. It is impossible to say in what measure nature alone was
responsible, and what was due to the atmosphere of moral disorder and
voluptuousness which Mademoiselle was now inhaling at the Court in the
frequent companionship of the favourite. One thing is certain, the
Grande Mademoiselle did not try to struggle against the passion which
seized her; her attitude was rather that of a person who sought its
sway.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 163: The Mlles. de Nemours were daughters of Elisabeth de
Vendome, sister of the Duc de Beaufort, and of Henri de Savoie, Duc de
Nemours, who was killed in a duel by his brother-in-law (July 30, 1652).
The younger sister married Alphonse VI. June 28, 1666.]
[Footnote 164: Claude Le Pelletier, then President of Inquests. After,
he was Minister of State and Controller-General of Finances.]
[Footnote 165: Mlle. d'Alencon, the second of the half-sisters of
Mademoiselle.]
[Footnote 166: _Archives de Chantilly._]
[Footnote 167: _[OE]uvres de Louis XIV. Lettres particulieres_, Paris,
1806.]
[Footnote 168: _L'ambassadeur de la Fuente au roi d'Espagne_; Paris,
January 27, 1664. (_Archives de la Bastile._) The Princesse de Savoie
refused by Louis XIV; had decided to marry the Duc de Parma.]
[Footnote 169: _Memoires de Mme. de Motteville._]
[Footnote 170: The Archbishop of Embrun to Father Brienne; Turin Aug. 1,
1659.]
[Footnote 171: La Fontaine: _La Fille_, fable, published for the first
time in the edition 1679.]
[Footnote 172: Marie-Jeanne-Baptiste de Nemours married Charles Emmanuel
II., May 11, 1665.]
[Footnote 173: And not Madame Henriette, as has been said in error.]
[Footnote 174: Bethleem was a suburb of Clamecy.]
[Footnote 175: Mme. de La Fayette, _Histoire de Madame Henriette_.]
[Footnote 176: _Memoires de Mme. de Motteville._]
[Footnote 177: See Raoul Allier, _La Cabale des Devots_.]
[Footnote 178: Lenten sermons for the year 1662.]
[Footnote 179: Letter of March 29, 1680.]
[Footnote 180: _Archives de la Bastille_, by Francois Ravaisson, vols.
iv., v., and vi., _passim_.]
[Footnote 181: See the review of the play in _Moliere_ of the _Grands
Ecrivains de la France_ (Hachette).]
[Footnote 182: Allusion to certain talismans.]
[Footnote 183: _Archives de la Bastille_: Rapport de la Reynie,
lieutenant-general of police, a Louvois (1680, no other date).]
[Footnote 184: _La Magie dans l'Inde antique_, by Victor Henry.]
[Footnote 185: Interrogatory of June 30, 1668. Mme. de Bougy was the
widow of the Marquis of this name, lieutenant-general. La Duverger was
occupied with magic. The Marquis de Ravetot had married Catherine de
Grammont, daughter of the Marshal.]
[Footnote 186: Another name for Lesage.]
[Footnote 187: _Histoire de l'Opera en Europe_, by M. Romain Rolland.
Cf. _Histoire de la Musique dramatique en France_, by Chouquet, _Les
Origines de l'Opera francais_, by Nuitter and Thoinan.]
[Footnote 188: The first opera worthy of the name was _Pomone_, by
Cambert. It will be learned in special works how French opera differed
from Italian and through what a chain of circumstances it occurred that
a Florentine, Baptiste Lulli, was the true founder.]
[Footnote 189: See above.]
[Footnote 190: A selection of the operas of Lulli, for piano and voice,
has appeared in the Collection Michaelis.]
[Footnote 191: Letter dated December 1, 1673.]
[Footnote 192: _Introduction par M. le Comte d' Haussonville, aux
Souvenirs sur Mme. de Maintenon._]
[Footnote 193: _Kant als Mensch_, by Erich Adickes.]
[Footnote 194: Romain Rolland.]
[Footnote 195: _Memoires_ of Mademoiselle.]
[Footnote 196: _OEuvres galantes en vers et en prose_, by M. Cotin.]
[Footnote 197: For this see _Les Ennemis de Racine_, by F. Deltour; _Les
Epoques du Theatre francais_, and _Les Etudes critiques sur l'Histoire
de la Litterature francaise_ by M. F. Brunetiere; the memoirs and
correspondence of the times; the collection of _Mercure galant_; _les
prefaces de Racine_, etc.]
[Footnote 198: Criticism by Boursault.]
[Footnote 199: Deltour, _Les Ennemies de Racine_.]
[Footnote 200: _Gazette de Loret_, January 13, 1663.]
[Footnote 201: _Memoires sur la vie et les ouvrages de Jean Racine_, by
Louis Racine.]
[Footnote 202: See the volume by MM. Jean Lemoine and Andre
Lichtenberger, _De La Valliere a Montespan_.]
[Footnote 203: _Souvenirs sur Mme. de Maintenon._--_Les Cahiers de Mlle.
d'Aumale_, with an _Introduction_ by M. G. Hanotaux.]
[Footnote 204: May 27, to M. de Montchevreuil.]
[Footnote 205: "_Frappez_" would have been misunderstood.]
[Footnote 206: _Remerciement au Roi_ (1663).]
[Footnote 207: The Convent of Saint-Joseph, rue Saint Dominique; Mme. de
Montespan had constructed in it an apartment for herself.]
[Footnote 208: The Comte de Vexin, who died young.--Mme. de Sevigne,
letter dated June 14, 1675.]