CHAPTER VI

Was Mademoiselle secretly Married?--Imprisonment of

Lauzun--Splendour and Decadence of France--_La Chambre

Ardente_--Mademoiselle purchases Lauzun's Freedom--Their

Embroilment--Death of the Grande Mademoiselle--Death of

Lauzun--Conclusion.

Many of the events remaining to be recorded are very obscure. If they

had any importance, they would have figured in the collections of

historic enigmas and problems waiting to be solved; but they hardly

merit the honour, as few of them have had any such influence over the

destinies of France as had, for instance, the fact of the subjection of

Anne of Austria to Mazarin. Nor do any possess the romantic attraction

which attached to the legend of the "Man with the Iron Mask" before its

explanation. Petty details, however, bring the French society of this

period near to us, and the fact that events cannot always be interpreted

makes them seem more like real life. It is only in romances that all is

explained.

The most obscure of these smaller problems is the question of the

marriage of Mademoiselle with the "little man," as she herself called

him.

Contemporary opinion has been almost unanimous in its belief in this

marriage. Neither date nor place nor names of the possible witnesses

have ever been satisfactorily established, as was done in the case of

the union of Louis XIV. and Mme. de Maintenon. There is no written proof

of the fact; Mademoiselle had the habit of burning her letters, and made

no exception in favour of those from Lauzun. She states this fact with

regret, in her _Memoires_. We are thus reduced to moral proofs. It is

true that these are strong in favour of the event having taken place;

but they are not altogether unanswerable.

The belief that a secret bond had remained, after the official rupture,

rested in the mind of most people interested. One of the

correspondents[264] of Bussy-Rabutin wrote to him, February 17, 1671:

"Mademoiselle sometimes still weeps when she reflects, but often she

laughs and is at her ease. Her lover continues to see her and no one

opposes it. I do not know what will happen." Three weeks later, Mme. de

Scudery made allusion to the same rumour (Paris, March 6, 1671):

"Mademoiselle is always conversing with M. de Lauzun. Their

conversations begin and end with tears. I assure you, however, that

there will be no result." Bussy was among those who believed that it

"would come to something." He replied on the 13th to Mme. de Scudery: "I

am convinced that the affair of Mademoiselle and Lauzun will have a

happy issue, not in the manner they at first hoped, but in a more secret

method to which the King will consent."

Would Mademoiselle accept this other way? Doubt is permissible.

_Marriages of conscience_, if fashionable in the seventeenth century,

created false situations, sometimes very humiliating ones, to a person

not an absolute sovereign accountable to no one, and in a position to

let the truth come out or not as it pleased him. For the rest of

mortals, secret marriages must actually remain concealed, or there would

result endless difficulties. On this account, the married pair could

only meet through a happy chance, which is not agreeable, while it was

also almost impossible to escape suspicious commentaries and the

uncomfortable dependence upon the fidelity of servants. Segrais would

never believe that Mademoiselle had married Lauzun, and one of the

reasons given was "that she sent away Madelon, her chambermaid, and she

would not have done this if Madelon had been able to gossip." Segrais

might have added that his mistress had always severely criticised the

equivocations arising from _marriages of conscience_.

But all was changed after the serious conversation between the King and

Mademoiselle behind the closed doors. Mademoiselle encouraged Lauzun to

assume airs of authority, and she was meekly submissive. "He regarded me

with such a look that I no longer dared to weep, the power that he had

over me retaining my tears. It is much wiser not to lose self-control!"

It was by his advice that she cleared her palace of all who had blamed

their first plan. M. de Montausier and Mme. de Sevigne tried in vain to

save Segrais, who "was their special friend." "She cannot be touched,"

wrote Mme. de Sevigne, "upon a subject which approaches to within nine

hundred leagues of a certain cape."[265] It was Lauzun who designated

the successor of Guillore, her Intendant, and who submitted the choice

to the King. This might give rise to remark. Lauzun warned Mademoiselle

of this danger. "It may be said in the world that I wish to rule you

completely." She responded: "Please God that you should; that is what I

profoundly desire." Mademoiselle had confirmed through new acts the

lavish gifts assured by the contract, and the King rivalled his cousin

in generosity. If the courtiers can be believed, Louis had promised

Lauzun that he should lose nothing by _not_ marrying Mademoiselle. In

any case, he heaped favours upon him. The first gift was the government

of Berri, with fifty thousand francs to pay his debts and the hope that

Fortune would continue her benedictions. Louvois grew anxious and

amassed shiploads of hatred against the favourite.

The winter passed in this manner. In the spring, the Court returned to

Flanders. During a sojourn at Dunkerque so much was said of the intimacy

of the "dwarf" with the Grande Mademoiselle, that the report reached the

ears of the Princess: "The rumour is circulating that we were married

before leaving Paris, and the _Gazette de Hollande_ confirms this. Some

one brought the paper to me; I showed it to Lauzun, who laughed." Two

pages further on, another conversation proves that the news was at least

premature; but the public had the right to be deceived, so tender and

familiar was the intercourse between the couple.

There was a question in this same spring of a trip to Fontainebleau:

I said to M. de Lauzun, "Take care to wear a cap when you are

in the forest; the evening dew is bad for the teeth, and

further you are subject to weak eyes and to catching cold. The

air of Fontainebleau makes the hair fall out." He replied: "I

certainly must try to preserve my teeth. I also fear cold; but

as for the red eyes with which you are constantly reproaching

me, they are caused by wakefulness, with which I have been

troubled for some time. As for my hair, I have too little left

to take further pains about it."

She preached neatness to him. "If you are slovenly, it will be said that

I have bad taste. For my sake, you must be careful." Lauzun only

laughed. Indeed, she scolded him through jealousy, fearing that he was

escaping from her influence and going she did not know where, and

perceiving this, he cajoled her. "As soon as he saw that I wished to

scold him, he had unequalled methods for putting me in a good humour."

All this folly resembled a honeymoon, and the _Memoires_ of Mademoiselle

for this same year include a passage which is almost a confession. "It

is still said that we are married. We neither of us say anything, it

being only our particular friends who would dare to address us, and it

is easy to laugh at them, only saying, 'The King knows all.'"

The conduct of Mademoiselle during the ten years following being a

perpetual and striking confirmation of this half-confession, the fact of

the secret marriage would seem to be assured, and the date would be

placed between May and November, 1671, if it were not for a last

quotation, to be given at its proper date, which again throws doubt upon

the event.

Whatever the truth may be, it would appear that Mademoiselle had known

how to reunite the broken fragments of her happiness; but Lauzun, for a

second time, lost everything. He had easily learned that he owed the

rupture of the first plan to Mme. de Montespan, and had conceived so

furious a hate against this false friend that he lost his head.

After a scene worthy of fishwives, in which he had called her names

impossible to print, he would proceed to declaim against her in the

salons, with the utmost violence, and sometimes at only a few steps from

her ears. The courtiers marvelled at the excessive insolence on the one

side and the curious patience on the other, for Mme. de Montespan

endured these outrages without whispering a single protest. It was

rumoured that she had once been his mistress, and that his power was

derived from this fact.

It is to this enforced penitence of the all-powerful favourite that Mme.

Scarron alluded when at a supper, the account of which is given by Mme.

de Sevigne[266]: "she dilated upon the horrible agitations in a country

very well known, the continual rage of the little Lauzun, and the black

chagrin or the sad boredom of the ladies of Saint-Germain; and suggested

that the most envied was perhaps not always exempt." Mme. Scarron had

seen the "horrible agitations" very near, for it was she who had

intervened against Lauzun; it was upon her representations that Mme. de

Montespan had ended by saying to the King that "she did not believe that

her life was safe as long as this man was free."[267]

Lauzun was arrested at Saint-Germain, in his chamber, the evening of

November 25, 1671. The evening previous, Mademoiselle had departed for

Paris declaring: "I do not know what is the matter; I am in such

dreadful apprehension that I cannot remain here." She wept on the way.

She very well knew the cause. One of her friends had been asked, "if M.

de Lauzun had been arrested," and this query had worried her.

Delayed by chance or by precaution, the news of the arrest did not reach

the Luxembourg until twenty-four hours later. Lauzun was already on the

road to Pignerol. Before him hastened M. de Nallot, a man of confidence

despatched by Louvois, who certainly felt a ferocious joy in the action,

to bear the instructions of his master to the Sieur de Saint-Mars,

governor of the prison of Pignerol, and of those enclosed within its

walls. Foucquet had been during seven years under the care of

Saint-Mars, who had followed orders with such fidelity that Louvois did

not doubt that he would be obeyed as blindly in any commands it might

please him to give regarding Lauzun. The instructions gave orders to

imprison him with one valet, and never to permit him to leave the

fortress nor to have any communication with the outer world.

Saint-Mars thus responded:

PIGNEROL, December 9, 1671.

Monseigneur, M. de Nallot arrived here on the fifth instant,

conveying the note of instructions you have been pleased to

send me.... He will report to you my haste in preparing the

apartment for M. de Lauzun; he will tell you, Monseigneur, that

I will lodge him in the two low vaulted chambers which are over

those of M. Foucquet: these are the ones with the barred

windows you yourself[268] examined. From the way in which I

have arranged the place, I can respond with my life for the

safety of the person of M. de Lauzun, and also the certainty of

intercepting any news sent or received.

I engage upon my honour, Monseigneur, that as long as this

gentleman is under my care you will hear no further word about

him, it will be as if he already lay _in pace_.

The place prepared is so constructed that I can have holes

made, through which I can spy into the apartment. I shall also

know all that he does and says through the reports of a valet

whom I will furnish as you have ordered; I have found one with

much trouble, because the clever ones do not wish to pass their

life in prison. You order that mass shall be celebrated for M.

de Lauzun only on fete days and Sundays and I will scrupulously

follow the letter of your instructions.... The Confessor of M.

Foucquet will attend the new prisoner on Easter and at no other

time, whatever may happen. My only desire is to carry out exactly

the orders with which you have honoured me: I shall always endeavour

to do this with zeal, passion, and fidelity, so I trust that you

may be content with my small services.[269]

All the officials of the citadel had written to Louvois after the

arrival of his agent, so great an impression had been made. It was said

that M. de Lauzun was a great criminal and a very dangerous one to

necessitate such precautions. Each wished to show his special zeal.

Louis XIV. was also well informed about the prison destined for his old

favourite.

Louvois showed the King the plan he had received. The apartment

consisted of two low vaulted rooms facing a deserted court, through

which no one ever passed. The windows were darkened by iron bars and

were covered with a sort of basket-work used in prisons, to prevent the

occupant seeing or being seen. Noises from without, even those from the

guards and the kitchen, did not penetrate into this remote place, the

most "noiseless" of all the citadel, on account of the enormous

thickness of the walls and of the vaulting. "Never," said one of the

letters, "will M. Foucquet know that he has a companion." The

correspondents of Louvois unanimously insisted upon the necessity of

preventing any risk of escape. A screen of iron was placed in the

embrasure of the windows and a _vissante_ inserted in the chimney to

prevent M. de Lauzun and M. de Foucquet from communicating with each

other.

When this new command left Saint-Germain, Lauzun was already locked up

at Pignerol. He appeared very sad and depressed during the journey. His

grief was changed into fury at sight of the dungeon which awaited him.

Saint-Mars wrote to Louvois (December 22, 1671): "Monseigneur, my

prisoner is in so profound a grief, that I can hardly describe it. He

said to me that I had made him a lodging _saecula saeculorum_." Lauzun

declared that he would lose his reason, and his agitation seemed to

point to this danger.

[December 30] I do not believe, Monseigneur, that I can send

you any news of my prisoner's being more tranquil; he is in so

profound a grief that he does nothing but sigh and beat the

ground with his feet. He asked me once if I knew the cause of

his detention; I replied that I never received any news of this

sort lest I should be tempted to tell it.

Lauzun had well divined the cause of his arrest, but he had not been

told. All explanation had been refused at Saint-Germain, and the

condemning him to such a dungeon with the most rigorous secrecy, with no

declared reason, seemed a crying and tyrannical act of injustice.

Saint-Mars began to fear a tragic ending.

[January 12, 1672] Monseigneur ... he is overwhelmed with so

extraordinary a grief that I fear he may lose his reason, or

kill himself, which last he has threatened several times.... As

I do not stop to listen to his ravings, he accuses me of having

grown hard and pitiless through my long occupation as jailer;

and repeats that he has never been judged and that his worst

suffering is caused by the fact that he is ignorant of his

crime.

He had never been judged! This was the refrain during ten long years!

Foucquet, his neighbour, had judges, _independants_ or not; he had known

the cause of his accusation, and his defence had been heard. Lauzun was

in his vault through the good pleasure of the King without having had a

chance to justify himself, and this grievance caused his revolt.

When Mademoiselle was told of the arrest of Lauzun, she was so overcome

that she was astonished "that she did not die." She remained in a most

pitiable state until the next day. She was counselled not to delay an

appeal to the King, and it was needful to form some plan. If there had

been only herself to consider, Mademoiselle would have been ready to bid

adieu to the world; but there was Lauzun, who was, according to the

custom then legal, to be accused when he could not defend himself, and

there was only herself to plead his cause with the King.

It was impossible to abandon her lover, and Mademoiselle found strength

to rise and to go to Saint-Germain. She only reached the King in the

evening at supper. "He regarded me with a sad and embarrassed air. I

looked at him with tears in my eyes, but said nothing; I know what he

said in returning after to the ladies[270]: 'My cousin has been very

courteous, she has been silent.' He would have been imprudent to address

me, as I was prepared to reply to all."

The Court of France was at that date very gay and animated. Monsieur had

just remarried (November 16), with Elisabeth Charlotte de Baviere,

Princess Palatine, famed for the originality of her mind and the

freshness of her language. The King, who, without wit, had good taste,

was charmed with his new sister-in-law, and was lavish with fetes in her

honour. At first, Mademoiselle considered it a duty to be present. She

pathetically relates the history of an abominable evening during which

she was obliged to appear to be enjoying the spectacle of a ballet,

while her thoughts were far distant, following a coach surrounded by

musketeers:

To think that he was absent; that it was bitterly cold and was

snowing heavily, and that my dear one was on the open road on

his way to prison; to picture his sufferings and his pitiable

appearance made my heart ache. I believe that it would deceive

those who should have been there with him to see me here, not

realising the torture it gives me. My single consolation is

that these constant sacrifices I am making for the King,

may in the end arouse his pity for M. de Lauzun and renew his

tenderness, for I am not able to persuade myself that he no longer

loves him. I should be only too content if my sacrifices can

accomplish any results. This is my motive for remaining near the

Court since Lauzun's imprisonment, and forces me from a sense of

duty to do many things which I should have avoided if I had only

consulted my inclinations. With a heart pierced with tender grief,

I should have so willingly remained at home in solitude rather than

to drag myself through the gay scenes of the Court festivities."

After each effort, she allowed herself slight relaxation and retired to

weep in some corner, then returning to the King with red and swollen

eyes. "I am persuaded" wrote she, apropos of a trip with the Court,

"that my presence has recalled the memory of M. de Lauzun; this is the

reason why I wish to be always before the eyes of the King.... I cannot

believe that he will not feel that my looks are ever supplicating him."

Mademoiselle was very ingenious in her efforts to refer constantly to

the absent one. If a grated window was passed she began to sigh and to

pity those in prison. If there was a rumour that Lauzun was ill, she

solicited by letter the softening of the regime. Louis never responded,

but he did not show any displeasure. The enemies of the disgraced one

endeavoured to detach the Princess from her lover. They knew her

weakness; she was very jealous, and there might easily be occasion in

regard to Lauzun, known as the greatest libertine of this licentious

Court. At the moment of arrest his papers had been seized. There were

many letters; locks of hair and other love tokens, carefully ticketed,

and a sort of secret museum enclosing portraits that Louis XIV. ordered

to be destroyed,--not promptly enough, however, as many persons enjoyed

a glimpse of them, and were able to identify the originals.

The "caskets" of Lauzun were the great social scandal of the winter, and

there were people enough to exploit the contents to Mademoiselle. They

gained nothing for their pains; she had the wisdom not to listen. They

belonged to the past. The same kind friends endeavoured to open her eyes

to the fact that she had been deceived in giving her heart to a man who

only desired her millions. They said: "He did not love you; when he was

promised wealth, appointments, he readily left you; the day on which the

King broke the marriage, Lauzun gambled all the evening with the

greatest tranquility; he cares nothing about you." Mademoiselle allows

in her _Memoires_ that she began to be disturbed when she was forced to

hear such statements from morning till night during a series of years.

Her own remembrances only too well confirmed the truth. She had never

received a word of tenderness from Lauzun, not even a truly gracious

word. But misfortune is an invincible safeguard with generous souls.

Mademoiselle relates that her heart "fought against itself" in favour of

her lover, and the heart conquered, since each new year found her still

devoted, still indefatigable in her efforts to obtain his release.

At the end of eight years there could be no more doubt. Contemporaries

and those of the next generation have tried in vain to discover why

Louis XIV. attached so serious an importance to preventing Lauzun from

receiving news. Of what was he afraid? Was it essential for the safety

of France to insist upon such minute precautions?

One day, fresh linen was to be forwarded to Lauzun from Saint-Germain.

Louvois wrote to Saint-Mars (February 2, 1672): "Have this washed two or

three times before giving it to him." Saint-Mars signified that he

comprehended and replied (February 20):

I shall not fail to have the linen you are sending to Lauzun

thoroughly wet after having every seam examined, any writing

which may be upon the linen will thus vanish. Everything which

is brought out of his room is put at once in a tub of water

after being examined, and the laundress bringing it from the

river dries it before the fire in the presence of my officers,

who take turn at this duty, week by week. I also take the same

precautions with the towels, napkins, etc.

Another time, an ancient servant of Lauzun was arrested near Pignerol,

who, realising that he was a prisoner, killed himself, and letters were

found on the body. Had there been any intercourse with the prisoner?

This thought cast Louvois into an inconceivable agitation. He wished at

every cost to clear up the affair, and he found time even during the war

with Holland to write letter after letter to Pignerol to order that

trace of accomplices should be sought.

Men, presumably companions of the dead, were arrested. Two of them, who

had fled to Turin, were delivered up through diplomatic action. It was

necessary to make them speak "through any means, no matter what"; the

question as to whether M. de Lauzun had received news must be solved.

The attendants at Pignerol were much perturbed. An officer wrote to

Louvois to "conjure" him to denounce the suspected among the soldiers

under his orders, that I may arrest them and attach them as villains."

And if his two nephews, who were in the citadel, should be found to be

the guilty ones he "would be their first executioner." Saint-Mars was

humiliated and offended that he should be suspected of being hoodwinked.

He became ferocious against the "miserable beings" who had drawn down

upon him this insult, and he willingly put them to the torture; "for, to

tell the truth," wrote he to Louvois, "I have only to find the smallest

charge against a soldier or domestic, and I would hang him at once"

(August 20). Some weeks later he summed up the result of the inquest in

these terms (October 7): "I cannot swear that an attempt has not been

made to communicate with Lauzun, but I can pledge my life in the

assurance that the effort has not been successful."

Saint-Mars had another grief. Louvois recommended to him incessantly to

make his prisoner talk and to report every word, even the most trivial,

but Lauzun would not utter a syllable. "I do not know why," wrote

Saint-Mars, naively, "but he distrusts me, and hardly dares to speak to

me" (February 10, 1672). On March 19: "He is always in a state of

extraordinary distrust of me." Louvois insisted, and received

discouraged letters. (March 30:) "When I make a visit, our conversation

is so dry and difficult that we often pace the room a hundred times

without interchanging a word." Saint-Mars in vain sought innocent

topics. He tried to converse about the weather. M. de Lauzun interrupted

him under the pretext that the state of the weather was a matter of

indifference to him, since, from his dungeon, he could see "neither moon

nor sun."

Saint-Mars inquired about his health. M. de Lauzun cut him short, in

declaring that "his health was a matter of no consequence to any one,

and that he was really only too well." Saint-Mars did not know what more

to say. He became furious. Lauzun perceived this, and grew even more

taciturn. It was a fair and even fight. At the end of a year, Saint-Mars

had not advanced an inch.

[January 7, 1673] When I said good morning or good evening, and

when I asked him how he felt, he made low bows, saying that he

was well enough to offer his most humble respects; after having

thanked him, we walked some time together without speaking to

each other, and, as I wished to retire, I asked him if he had

anything to demand. He made again a very low bow and conducted

me to the door of the room; this is the point at which we have

arrived, and I am afraid that we shall make no further

progress.

Saint-Mars tried to force the situation. It was he who furnished the

prisoner with everything; who gave him clothes, furniture, bought his

eye-glasses, or ordered a wig. He thought that a method of making him

speak would be to give him nothing that he did not demand. Lauzun

invented a mute language.

Saint-Mars would perceive, in entering, some wornout or broken object

placed in a conspicuous position, having the air of saying something.

"Sometimes," wrote the governor of the citadel, "I feign not to notice,

and in order to oblige me to speak, Lauzun will direct his steps so as

to pass the object again and again until I am forced to comprehend."

(May 6, 1672.)

The valet was almost as close as his master. Saint-Mars did not cease to

lament the trouble which "these people" gave him. Prisoners' valets

shared the fate of their masters. Once confined, they passed the sill of

the prison only with the culprit; that is to say, in many cases never,

which fact rendered it extremely difficult to procure servants. The one

with Lauzun was a "wicked rascal" who had been bribed, but who at the

end of three months refused to do his duty as spy.

Saint-Mars was indignant (February 20, 1672): "With your permission, I

will put him [the valet] in a place that I reserve, which makes the dumb

speak after a month's sojourn. I shall learn all from him, and I am

certain that he will not forget the least trifle." Upon reflection,

however, Saint-Mars ended by being patient. How was he to replace the

fellow? "No one of the valets attached to the citadel would enter this

dungeon if I paid him millions. They have noticed that those whom I have

placed with M. Foucquet never come out." Louvois never knew, in spite of

earnest desire, what thoughts the fallen favourite was conceiving in his

prison.

There was a slight recompense, however, on the days on which Lauzun fell

into a rage, which often happened. The prisoner could not digest the

fact that his questions remained unanswered. This might be reasonable

enough if he asked if France were at war, or if Mademoiselle were

married; but why refuse news of his own affairs? Why conceal from him

the fact of his mother being alive or dead? His vexation became rage. He

poured out a torrent of imprecations and bitter complaints, and Louvois

had the pleasure of hearing by the next mail that silence did not

indicate absence of suffering.

One day (January 28, 1673), after giving an account of one of these

explosions, Saint-Mars added: "He said all this, weeping hot tears and

crying that he detested his miserable life; he complained loudly of the

horrible dungeon which I have given him, where he has lost his sight and

his health." The wails of grief echoed even through Paris, leaking out

from the cabinet of Louvois and the chamber of Mme. de Montespan, and

the public demanded with curiosity what Lauzun had done to deserve a

punishment so rigorous. "I can never believe," wrote Mademoiselle,

"that it is by the orders of the King." It was easily guessed that

Louvois was avenging his frights and Mme. de Montespan her humiliations;

but why did the King permit such severity? for Louis had never appeared

to take very much to heart the entanglements of these two Court powers

with his favourite.

It is needful to recollect that the seventeenth century had no greater

respect for human liberty than for human life. Only rank and birth were

of value, and these were honoured in a greater degree than it is

possible now to comprehend. This same Louvois, who was tormenting Lauzun

almost to the point of insanity, had hastened to send him a

silver-service, and had asked him to complain if his guards were

impolite.

"M. de Saint-Mars," wrote the Minister, "has orders never to fail in

according the respect due to your birth and to the position which you

have held at Court" (December 12, 1672). From like considerations, the

birth of Lauzun had brought him new furniture, but not a single object

of any kind which could aid him in inventing occupation or employment.

This was the real punishment: a complete inaction with not a single echo

from the outer world which might prevent his mind from continually

turning inward upon itself. Lauzun only obtained a few books at long

intervals, and always with great difficulty, after every page had been

examined in detail; messages written in invisible ink were feared, and

phrases which might throw light upon the events of the day. When the

choice of literature was left to Saint-Mars, he confined himself to _Le

Tableau de la Penitence_ or the _Pedagogue chretien_. The contents of

these were well known and, also, "they might be useful to lighten his

despair."

It will be remembered that Mademoiselle had scolded the "little man" to

make him take greater care of his person and toilet. In prison, Lauzun

had grown very careless. (April 20, 1672:) "He grows so negligent that

for three weeks he has worn a handkerchief knotted around his neck in

place of a cravat." From note of July 30, 1672, more than seven months

after his arrival: "He has not had his room swept, nor his glass rinsed;

he is extremely negligent." Lauzun had permitted his beard to grow,

which contributed to his neglected appearance. Saint-Mars declared that

it was a half-yard long. (February 11, 1673:) "He is as disorderly at

his meals as in his person and in his apartment."

Years passed. In 1673, they pruned the trees which cut off the light.

This was the only change. In 1674, the prisoner almost died. His health

was shattered and his temper changed. He became tranquil, except for an

occasional access of anger, and was very polite to his jailer, who

attributed this metamorphosis to the effects of the books of piety and

the holy water freely supplied. Saint-Mars found him "very often" on his

knees, saying his prayers before an image of the Virgin, and had much

joy in the change.

In 1676, in the month of February, Louvois received a letter,[271] the

contents of which passed through Paris like a flash of lightning. M. de

Lauzun had almost succeeded in effecting his escape; and neither by door

nor window, the ordinary method in romances. He had made a hole in the

dungeon of Pignerol by scratching with old knives, pieces of kitchen

utensils, etc., and had succeeded in piercing the thick vault below his

chamber. Lauzun rolled through this opening, and found himself between

four walls, before a barred window. He began again to scrape; he

demolished one of the corners of the window, unfastened one of the bars,

and saw that he was several fathoms above the ground. His foresight had

caused him to collect a quantity of napkins, from which he made a rope

ladder; "the best made in the world," wrote Mademoiselle, with

admiration for the sample sent to Louvois.

He descended by this ladder to the moat surrounding the fortress,

"pierced the wall on the side of the moat,"[272] encountered a rock, and

recommenced at a short distance from the place of the first attempt";

the new passage led into a court of the citadel. Lauzun reached the

ground one morning at daybreak. He had passed three days in scraping; it

was this occupation which had kept him tranquil. Only an open door, and

he would have been saved. He would well have deserved success as a

reward for his industry and patience. But all was firmly closed, and he

was stopped by an incorruptible sentinel.

The poor prisoner was brought back to his dungeon, and Louvois stormed

at the authorities of Pignerol, who permitted walls and windows to be

demolished without perceiving that anything strange was occurring.

Repairs and numerous new measures of precaution were ordered, and

Saint-Mars, very much abashed, swore by all the gods that such a thing

should never again happen.

In spite of these oaths, many of the prisoners succeeded in gaining

access to their neighbours, according to the account of

Saint-Simon.[273] It seems that the open chimneys of ancient times had

become an ordinary means of communication between the dungeons of

Pignerol. "A hole was made in the pipe, which was carefully closed

during the day," and with mutual aid the prisoners ascended and

descended. Lauzun was placed in relation with various prisoners, of whom

one was Foucquet, who believed him to be mad when listening to his

account of the failure of the plan of marriage with the Grande

Mademoiselle. These gentlemen must have resembled chimney sweeps.

Saint-Mars, however, only knew of these practices after the death of

Foucquet; the troubles of Lauzun were then at an end. The death of the

eldest brother, which occurred in 1677, had brought new conditions.

Lauzun became head of the family. His sister, Mme. de Nogent,

represented to the King that it was needful for the preservation of the

"House" that M. de Lauzun should be permitted to put his affairs in

order, and she had no difficulty in obtaining a hearing. Although the

individual counted for little, the "House" was a thing sacred, even in

the eyes of Louis XIV. Saint-Mars was ordered to receive Mme. de Nogent,

another of the brothers, Chevalier de Lauzun, and their advocate, M.

Isarn, and to permit them to meet with his prisoner, exacting the

promise that only business should be discussed. He forbade a single

word, "under any pretext whatever," of Mlle. de Montpensier. An account

of these interviews, sketched by Isarn, remains. It must not be

forgotten in reading this document that Lauzun had a great interest in

inspiring a lively pity in the hearts of these people who were returning

to Paris. After long preliminaries, Isarn arrived for the first

interview with Lauzun, whom no one had seen for six years.

[October 29, 1667] Two o'clock having come, M. de Saint-Mars,

after sending away all the attendants, asked M. Isarn to enter

his room where six chairs were arranged around a table, and M.

de Saint-Mars retiring, returned after a moment leading M. le

Comte de Lauzun, supporting him by the arm, for the Comte could

hardly sustain himself, it may be on account of the open air,

the bright light, or the weakness caused by his illness.

At this sight, I confess, Monsieur, that we were moved with

pity, for we remarked his haggard face and the extreme pallor

of the countenance, as much as could be seen under the long

beard and moustaches, the eyes subdued with sadness and

languor, so that it would be impossible not to be moved with

compassion. I can hardly express the grief of Madame his sister

and Monsieur his brother. A chair near the fire was given to

him, facing the window, but he shrank back, saying in a low

voice, and coughing, that the bright light made his eyes and

head burn. M. de Saint-Mars turned his prisoner away from the

window, placing himself on one side and M. the Commissioner on

the other. I was at the side of M. de Saint-Mars, having my

papers before me on the table. Mme. de Nogent could not

restrain her tears, and we remained some time without speaking.

When they were all somewhat composed, Isarn entered into a summary of

the affairs to be regulated. At the first pause, Lauzun interrupted. "He

said coldly, that having been kept for six years and a portion of a

seventh in a very restricted prison, and not having heard any business

details for so long a time, and having met no one, his mind had become

so 'sealed,' and his intelligence so clouded, that it was impossible for

him to comprehend anything I was saying." He added affectionate words

for his sister, touching sentiments upon his grief at having displeased

the King, and, as if overcome by the remembrance of his much-loved

master, he carried his handkerchief to his eyes, "where it remained a

long time."

This spectacle provoked such an outburst of tears and groans that it was

impossible to continue the conference. Lauzun "withdrew with Saint-Mars

without speaking." The sister was carried away in a dead faint. The

Chevalier de Lauzun, ill with emotion, retired for the night, and Isarn

shared in the general affliction. At the following sessions, Lauzun

repeated that he comprehended nothing that his advocate said, but he

gave him at the same time some instructions, "with much judgment and

clearness." Touching scenes followed. One day, after having obtained

permission, the prisoner asked if his mother were living, and there was,

in this case, no need of pretence to make the scene impressive. At the

last interview, he charged his sister to implore the pity of the King

and the pardon of Louvois, in humble and submissive terms, which showed

a man conquered, crushed, and henceforth inoffensive.

It may be through compassion, it may be, as was hinted, through some new

and mysterious combination, that this appeal produced a relaxation in

the prison discipline, which ended in a half-freedom. Lauzun was

permitted to give dinners, to buy saddle horses, "to ride in the court

and on the bastions."[274] At length arrived a detachment of musketeers,

charged to conduct him to the baths of Bourbon, under pretext that he

was suffering with one of his arms.

He quitted Pignerol April 22, 1681. Foucquet had died March 23, 1680.

This left to Saint-Mars only a single man of note; the Man with the Iron

Mask had been in the fortress some time at this date.

Robinson Crusoe, leaving his island, was not more of a stranger to the

course of events than a state prisoner after years of life in a dungeon.

Foucquet had believed in listening to Lauzun that he was mentally

deranged. When it was the fate of the latter to again come in contact

with ordinary life, he found much difficulty in placing himself in the

current. The history of France had been lengthened by a chapter while he

was raging in his dungeon. The intimate story of Court life, the most

important for an ancient favourite desirous of regaining a foothold,

would have filled a volume with its tragi-comic complications. At first

glance, the chapter of national history was dazzling. The war with

Holland had given to France, Franche-Comte; to Louis XIV., a glory and

power which had raised him in European opinion above all other

sovereigns.

In the eyes of strangers, he was more than a king, he was _the_ King,

the incarnation of the monarchical idea, the Prince who had made France

the mistress of the civilised world.

Never, in modern Europe [says a German historian[275] who

always considers the interests of France as opposed to those of

Germany] has there been a development of military power over

land and sea, for attack and defence, so extraordinary as that

to which France had attained during the war, and preserved

during the ensuing peace; never before had a single will

exercised so extended a command over troops so well trained and

yet so submissive.

[Illustration: =VIEW OF THE PALACE AND GARDENS OF THE TUILERIES= From an

engraving by Israel Silvestre, 1673]

France was admired and feared. "Louis XIV.," says Ranke again, "reduced

several of the German princes individually, and the Empire at large, to

a degree of abasement to which they had not fallen during centuries."

Spain itself was menaced with the loss of its independence. Europe

recognised that in "the history of the world there were few periods in

which civilisation had so rapidly advanced and literature was so

brilliant as that under Louis XIV."

Such was France viewed from without, during the years which separated

the peace of Nimeguen (1679) from the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes

(1685). This brilliant picture showed, however, some shadows; the

vanquished guarded a deep resentment, and the former allies were

detached without always being replaced by new ones; but the country

considered itself sufficiently strong to support its isolation.

Seen from within, France presented to the superficial observer an

appearance of prosperity. Upon a closer examination, however, it could

be predicted that the lean years were approaching. Many provinces had

fallen back into misery. There was a general discontent, the

disaffection made rapid progress; the idea of centralised and absolute

power, so well received at first, was beginning to pall upon the

community. Four years after the death of Mazarin and the arrival to

power of Louis XIV. keen-sighted men became anxious.

Olivier d'Ormesson, like all the world at first under the influence of

the charm of the young King, wrote in 1665 (March): "No one dares

protest, although all suffer and have their hearts filled with despair;

every one says that it is impossible for this state of things to last,

the conduct of affairs being too unjust and violent."[276] Olivier

d'Ormesson had personal griefs. He had been disgraced for having shown

himself too independent at the time of the prosecution of Foucquet, and

he was also one of those old politicians, liberal after their own

fashion, who held firmly to the privileges belonging to their class, and

who were not accustomed to see criticisms of the King punished more

severely than blasphemies against the Deity. In 1668, a poor old man

from Saint-Germain was accused "of having said that the King was a

tyrant, and that there still existed some Ravaillacs and people of

courage and virtue." He was condemned to have his tongue cut out and to

be sent to the galleys. "It is said," adds d'Ormesson, "that

cutting out the tongue is a new punishment, and that it was formerly the

custom simply to pierce the tongue of blasphemers." From the point of

view of the times, the opinion of d'Ormesson is a little

too advanced.

But the same criticism cannot be made of Colbert, then enjoying great

favour and naturally a man of severity. In 1666 Colbert warned Louis

XIV., in an almost brutal memorial, that through his extravagances he

was leading France to ruin.

[Illustration: =VIEW OF THE RESIDENCE OF COLBERT, SHOWING ALSO HIS SEAL=

From an engraving by Israel Silvestre, 1675]

The memorial commenced by declaring that he (Colbert) did not wish

stinginess where it was a matter concerning a good army or fleet, or in

sustaining the suitable magnificence of his master in foreign lands, or

in any useful expenditures, among which he included the proper

representation of a great sovereign. He affirmed that in all these

matters he would rather urge a certain lavishness, and this was the

truth. But he could not share in the responsibility for the enormous

leakage by which the public wealth was being exhausted, for the millions

squandered in fantastic camps, in fetes costing incredible sums,[277]

and in insane gambling debts.[278]

The memorial mentions also pensions and other gratifications given out

freely, and makes other specifications, of which one merits some

details, for it is curious, but rarely referred to, and according to

Colbert led to the most dangerous consequences. As will be understood,

nothing other than actual war cost France so dearly under Louis XIV., as

the monarch's passion for playing at soldier in the presence of

beautiful ladies. This mania at first glance appears innocent enough,

only rather childish.

Colbert pointed out the inevitable effects. The King assembled armies to

afford to the "_ladies_" the spectacle of a camp or the simulation of a

siege, or the troops were reviewed in places agreeable for women,

instead of awaiting him in their barracks.

The result was, that the perpetual marching of troops to and fro was

causing the exhaustion of the provinces, for "it is sufficient to say

that such a city or halting-place has suffered within six months a

hundred different impositions of troops, and that there are but few

places which have not been obliged to stand at least fifty."

The troops lived as they liked, entering and departing from their

various lodging-places. "It can be affirmed distinctly that these places

were left in a condition to which they would have been brought by a long

war." If the King knew "how many peasants of Champagne, and the other

provinces lying near the frontier, are passing and arranging to pass to

other countries," he would comprehend that this state of affairs could

not last.

The most delicate reproof was yet to be made, and Colbert approached it

courageously. Serious ridicule had fallen upon the great monarch for

these fantastic games for the benefit of his "_ladies_," not only with

the French, but also among foreigners only too ready to seize an

occasion for unfriendly comment.

[Illustration: =VIEW OF THE CHATEAU OF VERSAILLES, SHOWING THE FOUNTAIN

OF THE DRAGON=

From an engraving by Israel Silvestre, 1676]

Louis had just installed a camp at Moret, motley and smart, with pretty

tents for the Amazons. "It is said," wrote d'Ormesson, "that the siege

of Moret will be made in due form, in order to show the '_ladies_' the

method of taking places by assault. People in general, disgusted and

annoyed, treat this review as childish trifling for a King, and it is

badly thought of in foreign countries."

Olivier d'Ormesson did not display great merit in writing his comments

in his journal for his eyes alone, but Colbert wrote for the King and

had still many criticisms to add.

"It is further advisable for your Majesty to know two things which no

one has before dared to report: one that there has been a poster in

Paris, bearing the words _Louis XIV. will give an exhibition of

Marionettes in the plain at Moret_; the other, the publication of a

libel, still more bitter, upon the distinguished deeds of the fantastic

captains." The King read the memorial and re-read it in the presence of

Colbert, but the following year saw a new camp, in which the royal tent,

composed of six sumptuous rooms, "was filled with cavaliers gorgeously

attired, and better fitted to attract the enemy than to make him

flee."[279] Colbert did not succeed, even in time of war, in preventing

a single trip to the frontier with a long train of women in rare

apparel, and mistresses for whose accommodation it was necessary to put

masons at work at every halting-place.

From Louvois, March 7, 1671:

"Arrange chamber marked V for Mme. de Montespan, opening a door in the

place marked 1.... Mme. de La Valliere will lodge in the chamber marked

Y, in which a door must be made in the place marked 3N...." The expense

of the numerous doors, with many others equally irregular, entered into

the budget of the Minister of War.

How was it possible to keep the budget accounts? How reduce unnecessary

expenses? Colbert himself was obliged in his budget of the Marine to

give space to the "_ladies_." In 1678, Mme. de Montespan conceived the

fantasy of fitting out a privateer, a vessel belonging to the King, be

it understood, manned with the royal sailors. Some weeks later, a second

and third vessel were sent out in the same manner as privateers, always

at the King's expense, "by Mme. de Montespan and the Comtesse de

Soissons."[280] Including everything, the taste of Louis XIV. for

conversation and the society of women, without mentioning the rest of

his follies, probably cost France more than all the buildings erected by

the Grand Monarch, but the one outlay can be calculated, and the other

not.

The large expenses of Versailles and of Marly are often alluded to,

while the unfortunate peasants, who fled across the frontier after every

military spectacle offered to the "_ladies_," are forgotten. Louis XIV.

was incapable of keeping accounts; that is his sole excuse. It is

strange, however, that a man so methodical, having a mind so steady, so

well regulated, had never been able to comprehend that figures are

figures, and that no one is able to make two crowns out of one. Colbert

never succeeded in controlling the waste of his master, even in cases

when the added profusion in no way increased the pleasure, and appears

to us as a mere barbarous lavishness.

[Illustration: =DUCHESSE DE LA VALLIERE AND HER CHILDREN=

From the painting by P. Mignard in the possession of the Marquise

d'Oilliamson]

It is known that in the seventeenth century the repasts were abundant.

Those of Louis XIV. were excessively so. In 1664, the King, having

invited the Pope's legate to dine with him _tete-a-tete_, those in

attendance counted the dishes; there were eighty, not including

thirty-eight for dessert. This was certainly excessive, and Colbert had

said in the Memorial of 1660, "I declare to your Majesty ... that a

useless meal, costing a thousand crowns, gives me an incredible pain."

But the lavishness of fifteen years later was far greater. On January

16, 1680, the King married Mlle. de Blois, his daughter by La Valliere,

to Prince Louis-Armand de Conti, nephew of the great Conde. "The wedding

festival was royal," wrote Bussy-Rabutin; "there were seven hundred

dishes on a single table, served in five courses, that is to say, one

hundred and forty dishes to each course." Mme. de Sevigne points the

moral. "The young husband was ill the entire night. It would be a

temptation to say 'Well deserved!'"

If, from the incensed and suffering people, the attention is turned

towards the Court, the difference between without and within is perhaps

as clearly marked, although more difficult to define. Without, there is

splendour, adulations given and received; within, a profound moral

misery; with some, debauch and poverty; with others, discouragement and

bitterness. Mme. de Sevigne, in a letter of 1680, has unconsciously

painted, in six lines, the state of degradation to which the King had

systematically reduced the nobility of France, lined up, as it were, to

catch purses thrown to them January 12: "The King is enormously liberal

in truth; it is not needful to despair; one may not be a valet, but in

making one's court, something may fall upon one's head. What is certain

is that far from him [the King], all seems valueless; formerly it was

otherwise."

If souls were debased under Louis, he must be held in large part

responsible. The same can be said in regard to the deterioration of

manners and morals. France, before the time of Louis XIV., was

accustomed enough to both mistresses and bastards, but not to the

prerogatives of second wives conferred on the first, nor the

legitimatising of adulteries which encouraged his subjects to consider

no longer seriously either law or morality. The example of the master

ended in deadening consciences already somewhat feeble, and husbands

might be seen encouraging their wives, the mothers of their daughters,

to imitate La Valliere and de Montespan.

[Illustration: =LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE, IN THE GARB OF THE ORDER OF THE

CARMELITES=

After the painting by D. Plaats]

Louis had been in some degree punished for having played sultan.

Polygamy cannot exist without some discomfort, in a land in which women

have any position. Few men, even upon the stage, have had so many

quarrels with their mistresses, quarrels often violent, humiliating, as

well as painful, as this majestic monarch, before whom the universe

trembled. Royalty does not exist before a jealous mistress, and Louis

XIV. was faithful only to one, Mme. de Maintenon.

The young King had been spoiled by Louise de La Valliere, who was

gentleness itself, and whom love inclined to pardon all. None of the

other mistresses really loved Louis, except perhaps Marie Mancini. Louis

did not really please women; it was only the King for whose favour they

disputed.

Mlle. de La Valliere had entered the Carmelite convent in 1674. Left

alone upon the "breach," Mme. de Montespan defended the situation like a

lioness. She was naturally sharp-tempered, and her fits of anger were

often ungovernable,[281] as witnesses say, and Louis did not possess the

force which innocence alone gives. Among the rivals who contended with

Mme. de Montespan, many, in spite of her efforts, succeeded in enjoying

their year, or at least their day. When she became enraged, and the King

was forced to bend his neck under the tempest, "she often scolded him

and he did not assert himself."[282] This was his method of expiation.

The ephemeral reign of Mlle. de Fontanges came. She also was

passionate, and she treated the King with "more authority than the

others."[283] Louis called Mme. de Maintenon to his aid, and charged her

to appease these furies. Stormy scenes began to weary him.

It had been remarked since 1675 that Louis aspired to moments of "repose

and of liberty." Mme. de Montespan, with all her intelligence, could not

comprehend that there comes a time of life at which men can no longer

live in the midst of tempests, and this error was the cause of her ruin.

The King acquired the habit of fleeing for refuge to Mme. de Maintenon,

where he found an atmosphere of peace and enjoyed refreshing

conversation.

It was the first time that an intelligent woman had spoken seriously to

him, without seeking to attract a declaration of love, nor to divert him

with trifles, but to distract him agreeably from his work, and also to

make him reflect upon certain subjects which did not always appeal to

him. For example, what the sinner who had taken the wife of another

might expect in the next world. She recalled to him the fact that there

was a police in heaven as in the palaces of the King of France, and she

asked him: "What would you say if some one should tell your Majesty that

one of the musketeers you love had seduced a married woman, and that

this woman was actually living with him? I am certain that before

evening this man would depart from the palace, never to return,

however late it might be."[284]

[Illustration: =MADAME DE MAINTENON=

After the painting by P. Mignard in 1694]

The King laughed. He had never been more in love with Mme. de

Montespan,--this happened in 1675, before the Jubilee, which separated

them three or four months,--but he was not vexed with Mme. de Maintenon;

already he "could not live without her."[285] One may or may not feel

sympathy with this last, but it is certain that without her, without the

empire that she knew how to gain over a prince ardent for pleasure, but

by no means a veritable libertine, Louis XIV. might have ended

shamefully. To every one their deserts. The Queen Marie-Therese was

right in according her friendship to Mme. de Maintenon, who secured for

her, somewhat late it is true, a certain consideration and some

affectionate demonstration to which the poor Queen was not accustomed.

When the King had passed forty, tranquillity became a need. He believed

he had assured it by giving to Mme. de Montespan her official dismissal

as the recognised mistress. The date of this event is known. March 29,

1679, the Comtesse de Soissons was prayed to yield to the ancient

favourite her charge as superintendent of the palace of the Queen, a

position which afforded a kind of regulated retreat. The next day, Mme.

de Montespan wrote to the Duc de Noailles to announce to him this

arrangement, and she added: "Truly this is very bearable. The King only

comes into my room after mass and after supper. It is much better to see

each other rarely with pleasure than often with boredom." The world was

not deceived: "I really believe," wrote Bussy (April 11th), "that the

King, just as he is, has given this position for past favours."

From Mme. de Scudery to Bussy, October 29, 1679: "A diversion has been

established for Mme. de Montespan for this winter, and provided that she

can do without love, she will retain the consideration of the King. This

is all that an honest man can do when he ceases to love." Bussy

responded, November 4th: "If Mme. de Montespan is wise she will dream

only of cards and will leave the King in peace on the subject of love;

for it is impossible through complaints and scoldings to lure back

unfaithful lovers."

Mme. de Montespan was _not_ wise. In the hope of bringing the King back

to her arms by force, she redoubled the disagreeable scenes. At this

moment, an obscure past, filled with vague and frightful events, rose

against her, and the expiation for having too much loved became almost

tragic in its character.

La Voisin, the poisoner, cannot be forgotten, nor the prosecution in

1668, which had revealed to the young King the connection of his new

mistress with the world of malefactors. This affair was stifled, but the

evil continued in its subterranean influence. The merchants of love

philters and of poisons and the priests of satanic rites saw their

clients increasing in number year by year. When the crimes finally came

to the surface, and Louis established (March 7, 1679) the "_Chambre

ardente_" to purify France from the gangrene, so many Parisians were

connected in one way or another with the accused that the King had

against him a powerful current of opinion. This is, perhaps, the most

significant feature of the sad affair. Instead of being crushed with

shame in learning how many were compromised, the higher classes were

indignant against the equal justice which refused to give them special

consideration. They murmured loudly, and for once the people were with

them, for the populace remained staunch to the sorcerers. The clamours

were so menacing that the judges of the "_Chambre ardente_" felt

themselves in danger: "I know," wrote Bussy-Rabutin on April 1st, "the

chamber instituted to examine the 'corrupters,' and also know that

Messieurs de Bezons and de La Reynie do not pass from Paris to Vincennes

without an escort of the Kings Guards."[286] Louis XIV. was obliged

several times to strengthen the resolution of these judges; sometimes in

openly commanding them to "judge truly"[287] without any distinction of

person, condition, or sex; sometimes by assuring them through official

letter of his "protection."[288]

The first executions before the _Chambre ardente_ took place in

February, 1679, and the list of the names of those arrested or of those

to whom notices of warrants to appear as witnesses had been served, a

list which made so great an excitement on account of the aristocrats

included,[289] is dated January 23, 1680. It had been at least four

months before,[290] that there had come to the ears of the King, as some

one was reading to him the account of the last examinations, two

familiar names. Who is Mlle. des [OE]illets, ancient "follower" of Mme.

de Montespan? Who is Cato, her maid, and what had they to do with La

Voisin and with those like her? These same names again appearing in the

list of January 6, 1680, the King, while declaring that the witnesses

must certainly have lied,[291] ordered the Procurer-General, M. Robert,

"to pay strict attention to this particular case."

This was done, with the result that Louis was forced to ask himself if

the woman whom he adored above all others, and who had borne him seven

children, was a vile "corrupter"; if this perfect body for which he had

risked the safety of his soul had taken part in the ignoble ceremonies

of the infamous Guibourg? If, discontented with the thought of sharing

his favours with rivals, she might not in an access of jealousy have

tried to poison him, the King? He sought the truth, but did not find it.

In waiting further developments, Louis led his mistress with him

wherever he might go, and she was always making a disturbance of some

sort. The King grew less patient; that was the only difference.

From Bussy-Rabutin, May 18, 1680:

"The King ... as he was mounting into his carriage with the Queen had

some rough words with Mme. de Montespan, about the scents with which she

deluged herself, which made his Majesty ill. The King at first spoke

politely, but as she responded sharply, his Majesty grew warm." On the

25th, Mme. de Sevigne noted another "serious embroilment." This time

Colbert succeeded in reconciling them. The situation grew painful. A

long series of letters and _memoires_ have been found in which La Reynie

discusses for the King the charges accumulated against Mme. de

Montespan. The picture is given of the doubts and fluctuations of an

honest man whose responsibilities somewhat rankle in his breast, and who

sees an equal peril in dishonouring the throne and in permitting a

guilty woman to remain near the King. Louis passed through many

successive stages of conviction during the prosecution. The further the

examination proceeded, the stronger became the presumption of guilt,

without, however, bringing positive proofs.

On July 12, 1680, La Reynie summed up for his master the history of the

"petition to be used in poisoning the King." On October 11th he declared

that he should be ruined in the affair, and supplicated his Majesty to

reflect whether it would be for the "welfare of the State," to make

these "horrors" public. In the month of May following, he avowed that he

had erred on some points and that there was more evil than at first

appeared. The marvellous control that Louis possessed over himself

prevented outward betrayal; but certainly these uncertainties, these

inferior conflicts, and it is to be hoped some sense of shame and

remorse, became chastisements for his faults. On her side, Mme. de

Montespan, in spite of the secret of her possible guilt being well

guarded both at Court and by the judges and police, could not be

ignorant that Mlle. des [OE]illets had been interrogated, confronted

with witnesses, and imprisoned for life in the general Hospital at

Tours.[292] Mme. de Montespan then knew that she had been denounced, but

with what proof? What did the King think? What curious meetings between

these two beings must have taken place. What conversations during which

the King and his mistress were closely observing each other.

Court life, nevertheless, pursued its monotonous course, and Mme. de

Montespan continued to figure in positions of honour. In March, 1689,

she goes to meet the Dauphin[293] with the rest of the Court, and it is

she who has charge of the choice and arrangement of the wedding

presents, "being the woman in the world," wrote Mademoiselle, "who knows

the best forms." In July, the King led her to Versailles with her

sister, Mme. de Thianges, and her niece, the beautiful Duchesse de

Nevers. This lady the mother and aunt were cynically offering to the

Monarch.[294] In February, 1681, "a lottery was opened at Mme. de

Montespan's, of which the largest prize was one hundred thousand francs,

and there were a hundred others offered of one hundred pistoles each."

In July, 1682, the _Chambre ardente_ was suddenly suppressed. Of the

three hundred accused, thirty-six people of no importance had been

executed, one hundred sent to the galleys, or to prisons, or convents,

or exiled; the noted among them always gaining some concessions. The

dungeons of Paris and Vincennes were crowded. The smaller fry were

released, and the remainder were scattered, without any other trial,

through the provincial prisons, to await a death rarely slow in coming

to relieve their misery.

From Louvois to M. de Chauvelin, Intendant, December 16, 1682,

announcing the arrival of one of these convoys:

Above all, please take care to prevent any of these gentlemen

from proclaiming aloud, a thing which has already occurred, any

of the absurd statements connected with Mme. de Montespan,

which have been proved to be absolutely without foundation.

Threaten a punishment so severe at the first utterance that

they will not dare to breathe a word further.

This letter ended the connection of Mme. de Montespan with the affair of

the "corrupters of morals" or the poisoners. She was saved, but was this

due to proofs of innocence or to reasons of State, to the refusal of

Louis to credit the testimony of an Abbe Guibourg or Lesage, or to the

remnants of an old tenderness? The few men with whom it had been

necessary to share the secrets which would respond to these questions

were so perfectly mute that contemporaries suspected nothing. They saw

the ancient favourite a little neglected, but always dreaming of the

possibility of reasserting herself, as the many pages of the _Memoires_

of Mademoiselle testify. All this was in the natural course of events.

One single indication of what Louis XIV. thought at the bottom of his

soul is possessed; a letter from the King to Colbert, who knew all.

Mademoiselle had prayed Mme. de Montespan to solicit some favour for

Lauzun. The King charged Colbert to reply for him (October, 1681): "You

will politely explain to her that I always receive the marks of her

friendship and confidence with pleasure, and that I am very vexed when

it is not possible to do what she desires, but at this time I can do no

more than I have already done."[295] Did he believe the mistress

innocent or had he pardoned her?

The first preoccupation of Lauzun, in returning to the world, must have

been to make clear to himself through legitimate or illegitimate means

the chronology of the King's love affairs, a history so essential for

the comprehension of the interior life of the Court.

The main facts for this record have been already given in the preceding

chapter. The returned prisoner had afterwards to learn all that

Mademoiselle had accomplished for him during his captivity, and of what

the public thought of her efforts, and he recognised that no one in

France except Segrais doubted the fact of their marriage. That the

marriage had taken place before his imprisonment was the prevalent

belief, which was never really shaken. It again came to light in the

eighteenth century. The historian Anquetil saw at Treport, in 1744, an

old person of more than seventy years of age, who resembled the

portraits of the Grande Mademoiselle and did not know from whence came

her pension.[296] This person believed herself to be the daughter of the

Duchesse de Montpensier, and local tradition confirmed this conviction.

There were, however, no absolute proofs, and it will be seen further on

how this question of the marriage with Lauzun is brought up over and

over again in the biography of the Grande Mademoiselle, with a monotony

slightly fatiguing and without it being possible to ever obtain a clear

response.

Whatever the fact may be, the Princess gave a very fine example of

constancy and fidelity. She lived for ten years absorbed in a single

thought. The _Memoires_ for the year 1673 say: "I remember nothing which

has taken place during the past winter. My grief occupies me so much

that I have but little interest in the actions of others." To liberate

Lauzun had become a fixed idea, and she attached herself to the steps of

the King and to those of Mme. de Montespan, without permitting herself

to remember the ill that they had committed, as it was they alone who

could loosen the bonds. The more they showed themselves inexorable, the

more Mademoiselle redoubled her assiduities. In 1676 she enjoyed for the

brief space of two hours the delusion that Louis XIV. at length, at the

end of ten years, was moved with a feeling of compassion. The news of

the attempted escape of Lauzun had just been received. "I learned that

the King had listened to the account with some sign of humanity, I can

hardly say of pity. If he had felt this, would he [Lauzun] still be

there?"

The Princess wrote to the King, but received no response; and again four

years rolled by. Mme. de Montespan was no longer favourite. The

courtiers considered it shrewd to neglect her. Better inspired,

Mademoiselle continued to stand fast by her, and the result proved the

wisdom of this course, in the dramatic moment, for Louis, of the affair

of the corrupters. It was in the spring of 1680, while denunciations

were falling upon the fallen favourite as upon all those connected with

La Voisin, that Mademoiselle remarked by certain movements and a change

of tone that something was stirring between Mme. de Montespan and the

fortress of Pignerol:

I went to her daily and she appeared touched by the thought of

M. de Lauzun.... She often said to me: "But think how you can

make yourself agreeable to the King, that he may accord to you

what you desire so dearly." She threw out such suggestions from

time to time, which advised me that they were thinking of my

fortune.

The phrase of a friend came back to her: "But you should let them hope

that you will make M. de Maine your heir." She recalled other hints

which at first had passed unnoticed, and understood that a bargain was

offered.

The monarch and his ancient favourite had agreed between them to sell to

Mademoiselle the freedom of the man she loved so deeply. What was to be

the price? This was not yet disclosed. It was some time before

Mademoiselle comprehended, and then she was so disconcerted that she

said nothing. She felt that the combat was not an equal one between

herself, from whom passion had taken away all judgment, and Mme. de

Montespan, who was perfectly calm, and she hesitated, fearing some

snare: "Finally, I resolved to make M. de Maine my heir, provided that

the King would send for Lauzun and consent that I should marry him."

Some third person brought these conditions to Mme. de Montespan and was

received with open arms. Louis XIV. thanked his cousin graciously

without making any allusion to the condition; he could always assert

that he had made no promise.

Mademoiselle wished that he would at least give her some news of Lauzun.

Mme. de Montespan responded to her insistence: "It is necessary to have

patience," and affairs remained at this point.

At the end of some weeks, Mademoiselle perceived that she was no longer

free. She had counted upon taking her time and having sureties before

proceeding further. An immediate execution of the deed of gift was

insisted upon, and she was so harassed that she no longer felt at

liberty to breathe freely.

"The King must not be played with," declared Mme. de Montespan; "when a

promise is made it must be kept." "But," objected Mademoiselle, "I wish

the freedom of M. de Lauzun, and suppose that after what I have done I

should find myself deceived, and my friend should not be liberated?"

Louvois was then sent to frighten her, or Colbert in order to compass

some concession. It was no longer a matter of testament.

A donation while living[297] was exacted, of the Principality of Dombes

and of the Comte of Eu without reference to the rest, and this

assignment was obtained, in spite of complaints and the bitterest tears;

"for they were demanding precisely what had been given to Lauzun, and

Mademoiselle could not without difficulty resolve to despoil her lover."

She finally comprehended that the King would not cease persecuting her

until she consented, and, feeling no hope of diminishing the

demands,[298] she yielded.

The gift to the Duc de Maine was signed February 2, 1681. It gave some

agreeable days to Mademoiselle. The King assured her of his gratitude.

"At supper he regarded me pleasantly and conversed with me; this was

most charming." Nevertheless, Lauzun did not appear. One day Mme. de

Montespan informed the Princess that the King would never permit Lauzun

to be Duc de Montpensier, and that it would be necessary to have a

secret marriage. The Princess cried out: "What! Madame, I am to permit

him to live with me as my husband with no marriage ceremony! Of what

will the world think me capable?"

This passage in the _Memoires_ apparently fixes the date of marriage

after the return of Lauzun from his captivity. There exist, however, a

number of moral proofs against this later date.

Some time after this conversation, in the beginning of April, 1681, the

Court being at Saint-Germain, Mme. de Montespan announced to

Mademoiselle the immediate departure of Lauzun for the Baths of

Bourbon, and she then drew her, slightly against her will, to the end of

the terrace, far from indiscreet ears. "When we were in the Val, which

is a garden at the end of the Park of Saint-Germain, she said to me,

'The King has asked me to tell you that he does not wish you to dream of

ever marrying M. de Lauzun, at least, officially.'"

Mademoiselle had been tricked.

"Upon this, I began to weep and to talk about the gifts I had made, only

on the one condition. Mme. de Montespan said, 'I have promised nothing.'

She had gained what she wished, and was willing enough to bear anything

I might say." In the evening it was necessary to assume a delighted air

and thank the King for Lauzun's freedom; a single sign of ill-humour and

Mademoiselle ran the risk of receiving nothing in exchange for her

millions.

There remained the task of forcing Lauzun to renounce the gifts formerly

presented to him. Mme. de Montespan took the route to Bourbon, where

"she found greater difficulty than she had anticipated." Her demands so

surpassed the expectations of the late prisoner that he revolted. There

were many disputes, many despatches, and many delays,[299] at the end of

which the obstinate one, having been reimprisoned,[300] was so harassed

with threats and promises that he finally yielded. His signature was

given; he believed himself free. Instead of liberty, he received an

order of exile to Amboise. He also had been duped. This affair is

odious from beginning to end.

Mademoiselle was Lauzun's resource and providence. She compensated him

as far as might be with a fresh devotion, in which Saint-Fargeau figured

as an item, and found means to pay him nearly 300,000 francs[301] over

what the King would have been obliged to give him if he had not been

sent to Pignerol. With much difficulty, the importunities of

Mademoiselle obtained the desired permission for the ex-prisoner to

salute the King and afterward to dwell where it pleased him, on the

single condition that he would not approach the Court. Access to this

was strictly forbidden; but what would it have mattered, when he would

have humbled himself before his master?

Alas! the charm was broken, and for ever. In March, 1682, at the single

interview granted, Lauzun threw himself ten times, consecutively, at the

feet of Louis XIV.--the King himself relates this--and employed all his

grace, all his flatteries, without succeeding in breaking the ice.

Received coolly and dismissed without delay, there was nothing left but

to fall back upon Mademoiselle. They had not yet met, and it is a

terrible test of devotion to meet after eleven years, and to endeavour

to again open the page closed by misfortune. The Grande Mademoiselle of

the time previous to the imprisonment at Pignerol singularly resembled

the Hermione of Racine, in her jealousy and violence. The one of 1682

was not yet a tranquil person, but Hermione was an old woman, and

Pyrrhus a licentious greybeard, who was endeavouring to recompense

himself for the time lost in prison.

Years had not made Lauzun in love with his benefactress, and he arrived

to meet her well resolved to finish simply with expressions of gratitude

and of love. Mademoiselle was well aware of his infidelities. The grief,

mingled with irritation, which she felt displayed itself in a sort of

stiffness and embarrassment. The great joy she had anticipated in again

seeing her lover, she did not realise.

She had existed ten long years for this moment, and when it came, she

desired to escape. She went to await Lauzun at Mme. de Montespan's, a

first piece of absurdity. "M. de Lauzun," say her _Memoires_, "arrived

after his interview with the King; he wore an old undress uniform with

short waistcoat, almost in rags, and a very ugly wig.[302] He sank at my

feet with much grace. Then Mme. de Montespan led us into a cabinet, and

said, 'You will be glad to speak together.' She then went away, and I

followed her." A second ridiculous action! Lauzun profited by the delay

to salute the rest of the royal family. On returning, he found his

Princess with Mme. de Montespan and did not see her an instant alone:

"He told me that he had been cordially received, and that this he owed

to me; that I was his only source of good, the one from which he

received all. He made certain amiable propositions, and in thus acting

he was only wise. I was silent; I was astonished."

This interview finished, Lauzun considered himself free from his

obligations and returned to Paris with a peaceful conscience.

Mademoiselle dared not follow him too quickly. The fourth day they were

at Choisy, a new mansion that Mademoiselle had built two leagues from

Sceaux. Lauzun regarded the Princess while she was having her head

adorned with flame-coloured ribbons. "He said, 'I was astonished to see

the Queen with many-coloured ribbons on her head.' 'You must find it

wrong, then, that I should wear them, who am older?' He did not reply. I

told him that rank permitted the decoration for a longer period."

Mademoiselle had at first written, "People of my rank are always young,"

but had effaced the phrase. Lauzun knew well how to restore her to a

good-humour, and he let himself be scolded, escaping towards evening to

return to his pleasures.

The fifth day they again disputed. Lauzun was in the wrong; he had

spoken of his visits to Choisy as duties. Mademoiselle, however, injured

her cause with sharpness. "I see clearly," said she, "that in this world

people who do good are mocked, as they are bores." Lauzun, vexed,

demanded, "How much longer is this pleasantry to last?" "As long as I

please; I have the right to say all I wish, and you are bound to

listen." Lauzun showed "much impatience to depart," and this was not

altogether unnatural, considering the nature of man. At another

interview, it was the lover who was the first to show irritation. To be

no longer of any importance in the world of society, to be two steps

from the Court without being free to enter, this was more than he could

bear. He accused Mademoiselle of having managed very badly and having

only done harm; "if she had not interfered with his affairs," he would

have come out of prison under better conditions. Mme. de Montespan

overheard the accusation and was very indignant at this injustice and

ingratitude, and the Princess united with her in reproaches. It would be

difficult to find a clear moment in the midst of these frequent

quarrels, in which the pair would have desired to marry, if they had not

done so before Pignerol. Here is again a moral proof to add to the

others.

About every two days, Lauzun became metamorphosed, and was again for

some hours, or at least minutes, for Mademoiselle the former "little

man" whose eccentricities gave an indescribable charm, difficult to

explain, but impossible to deny. He had not the least trouble in again

captivating his mistress. As soon as he assumed the sweet and submissive

air and the enigmatical smile which she had so dearly loved (even

combined with the manners which she sometimes distrusted, "of being

acquainted with everything without speaking or copying"), Mademoiselle

fell anew under the charm and could refuse nothing. But this happy state

of affairs never lasted. The time to obtain from her some new

concession, another service, and the exaggerated manner of the convict

dragging his chain reappeared. He loved to exasperate her jealousy. If

nothing better offered, "he amused himself with grisettes,"[303] even

after the royal family had received him as cousin "understood," if not

avowed, and when all Paris was congratulating Mademoiselle on his happy

release.

Other serious difficulties arose from the fact of Lauzun considering the

money of Mademoiselle as his own. Choisy appeared to him a useless

expense; he found much fault with its management. "The terraces cost

immense sums," said he one day while walking in the grounds; "what good

are they?" The Princess had sold in his absence a chain of pearls.

"Where is the money?" demanded Lauzun. He wished to hold the purse

strings, and no longer to be a "beggar." It astonished him that

Mademoiselle had not thought of preparing for him, before his arrival,

"a beautiful apartment," of organising his establishment, of placing one

of her carriages at his disposal.

He complained openly in the social world that she left him without a

penny; that she had only given him some diamonds, worth perhaps one

thousand pistoles in all--and what stones, so "ugly"!--and that he had

immediately sold them to obtain means of "subsistence." This is the

perpetual complaint of the youthful husband, who wishes to be

recompensed for the devotion lavished upon an elderly wife. The

"beautiful apartment" existed and awaited him, but it was at the Chateau

of Eu; the King would not tolerate his presence at the Luxembourg.

Those who had the good fortune to visit Eu before the fire of 1902 will

not have forgotten the flight of Loves on the ceiling of a chamber

situated above that belonging to Mademoiselle. The Chamber of the Loves

was the one designed for Lauzun, who failed, however, to honour the

symbol. After a delay of three weeks, he no sooner arrived than he

committed the unpardonable imprudence of running after the village

girls, under the very eyes of Mademoiselle. This was too much. The

mistress of the chateau beat Lauzun, scratched his face, and turned him

out of doors. There he should stay. He was sufficiently shrewd to desire

an accommodation. The Comtesse de Fiesque served as intermediary.

In the Chateau of Eu there was a long gallery filled with family

portraits. Mademoiselle appeared at one end; "he [Lauzun] was at the

other, and he crept along on his knees the entire length of the gallery,

till he reached the feet of Mademoiselle."[304] Possibly they forgave

each other sincerely, but when friction once exists between married

couples it continues, whether in the palace of princes or in the huts of

charcoal burners. Such scenes, more or less stormy, occurred again in

the future. Lauzun grew weary of being beaten, and in his turn used

force with the Princess, and this happened several times. In the end,

disgusted with each other, they fought for the last time and separated,

never to meet again.

The final quarrel is related in detail in the _Memoires_ of

Mademoiselle. It happened in the spring of 1684. France was at war with

Spain. On April 22d the King departed to join his army, refusing to

permit Lauzun to accompany him, who imagined, rightly or wrongly, that

Mademoiselle was responsible for the prohibition, and was indignant. He

went to the Luxembourg, where a reception of raillery exasperated him

still further:

I met him laughing, and said: "You must retire to

Saint-Fargeau; you will be a laughing stock if you remain at

Paris, as you were not permitted to go with the King, and I

shall be very vexed if it is believed that it is I who have

caused you to remain behind." He replied: "I am going away, and

bid you farewell; I shall never see you again." I said: "It

would have been better if we had never met; but better late

than never." "You have ruined my career," replied he; "you

might as well have cut my throat; it is your fault that I am

not with the King; you asked him to leave me behind." "Oh, that

is false; he will tell you so himself." Lauzun grew more and

more angry, and I remained very calm. I said to him: "Adieu,

then"; and I entered my boudoir. I remained there some time; on

returning, I found him still there. The ladies present said:

"Do you not wish to play cards?" I approached him,

saying: "This is too much; keep your promise;

go away." He finally withdrew.

This rupture made a great scandal. Dangeau, who had followed the King to

the frontier, noted on May 6th, in his journal: "The news comes from

Paris that Mademoiselle has forbidden M. de Lauzun to appear again

before her." Thus ends meanly and miserably, with a scene worthy of

Dickens, the most famous passion of the century, after that of Chimene

and Rodrigue. The first interest in the affair abated, the hero of the

romance sank into obscurity. Mademoiselle cast herself into an ecstasy

of pious devotion, from which the virtue of pardoning the offences of

others was apparently excluded.

Lauzun sought some support to which to attach himself, and did not

easily find it. He realised too late that one could not quarrel with

impunity with a princess of the blood. He made attempts at

reconciliation, which Mademoiselle repulsed; she had loved with too much

ardour not to be capable of furious hate. The career of both lovers

appeared to be finished, when the fantastic star which had guided Lauzun

towards so many adventures, marvellous if not always agreeable, led him

to England during the autumn of 1688. He sought a more hospitable court,

he found a revolution and glory. "I admire the star of M. de Lauzun,"

wrote Mme. de Sevigne, "which again brings its light over the horizon

when it was supposed to be for ever extinguished" (December 24, 1688).

The name of Lauzun was actually again on the lips of all. He had saved

the Queen of England and her son, and had brought them to Calais at

great risk, and suddenly assumed the pose of a true hero, wrongly

despised and persecuted. "It is long," at once said Louis, "since Lauzun

has seen my writing. I believe that he will rejoice at receiving a

letter from me." The royal missive bore to the former favourite more

than the pardon for the past; it spoke of "impatience to see him

again."[305] Mademoiselle considered this an outrage against herself;

the ministers and courtiers, a menace. (December 27th): "He [Lauzun] has

found the road again to Versailles by way of London; but he alone is

joyful." The Princess is indignant at the thought that the King is again

content with him, and that he can return to Court.[306]

In vain the King sent Seignelay to say to his cousin, as a sort of

excuse and consolation: "After such services rendered by Lauzun, it is

my duty to see him." Mademoiselle grew angry, and said, "This is then

the gratitude I receive for having despoiled myself for the sake of the

King's children." One of the friends of M. de Lauzun was charged to

present her with a letter. She threw it into the fire unread.[307] When

it was realised that she was not to be appeased, people ceased to

concern themselves with her and her bad temper. Lauzun re-entered in

triumph the Court of France, and Bussy-Rabutin, in a letter to Mme. de

Sevigne,[308] summed up the record of his career (February 2, 1689): "We

have seen him in favour, we have seen him submerged, and now behold he

is again riding the waves. Do you remember a childish game in which one

says, 'I have seen him alive, I have seen him dead, I have seen him

alive after his death'? This tells his history."

The "second volume of the romance" offers to those interested an account

of the solemn conferring upon the little Lauzun, in the church of Notre

Dame, by King James II., of the Order of the Garter. To this chapter

succeeds one less brilliant. Lauzun received the appointment as

commander of the French troops sent to Ireland to sustain the cause of

legitimate monarchy. He lacked the necessary qualifications for this

post. He astonished his officers with his incapacity, and made them

blush by displaying "a longing to return to France,"[309] which was not

heroic.

Louis XIV. consented to make Lauzun Duke, upon "the urgent prayer"[310]

of their Britannic Majesties, but his opinion once formed never changed.

The King never again employed the new Duke in any official capacity, and

this omission was always bitterly resented.

As a result of many years of reflection, Mademoiselle at length arrived

at the conviction, an accepted commonplace, that happiness is not for

the prominent upon this earth. Without actually compensating her for her

troubles, this discovery brought a certain consolation. She had, at this

period, as neighbour in Normandy, a young and charming woman called the

Comtesse de Bayard, who became in the following century the godmother of

Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, and who furnished her godson with

material[311] afterwards woven into tales made charming by his

delicately sentimental language. One of these tales by Saint-Pierre is

founded upon the romance of the Grande Mademoiselle. Mme. de Bayard

liked to recall how, in their lonely walks, the Princess would linger to

make the villagers relate the tales of their loves and marriages; how

her eyes would fill with tears, and how, returning into the Chateau of

Eu, she would say that she would have been happier in a hut.

To tears succeeded a certain childishness; the execrable Court life had

educated her only for a puerile old age, and she hastened to Versailles

from time to time, fearing to miss a tournament or some spectacle of

this kind. On March 15, 1693, she was seized at Paris with a disease of

the bladder which rapidly increased in severity.[312] The Luxembourg

was besieged with seekers after news; the fear of losing the Grande

Mademoiselle had aroused anew her popularity. Monsieur and Madame, who

loved her, came to nurse her. Lauzun begged to be admitted, but was

refused. The condition grew rapidly worse, and the physicians, not

knowing what to do, administered five doses of an emetic, the

fashionable remedy that winter for all diseases, with the result that

she soon saw the mournful procession of the royal family defile around

her bed, the sure sign that all hope had passed.

The Princess died on April 15th, at the age of sixty-six years, and was

buried at Saint-Denis with much pomp. In the midst of the ceremony, an

urn, in which through a curious arrangement the entrails were enclosed,

"broke with a frightful noise and emitted a sudden and intolerable

odour."[313] Some women fainted, while the rest of those present gained

the open air by running. "All was soon perfumed and decorum was

re-established," but this occurrence became the jest of Paris. It was

fated that the Grande Mademoiselle should always arouse a little

ridicule, even at her interment.

Lauzun went into deep mourning, and made, on the day of the funeral, an

offer of marriage, to prove that he was really a widower. Having, on

this occasion, been refused, he married (1695) the younger daughter of

the Marechal de Lorges and became the brother-in-law of Saint-Simon.

Mme. de Lauzun was a child of fourteen,[314] to whom Lauzun, with his

sixty-three years, appeared so old that she had accepted him in the

expectation of being quickly a widow.

She flattered herself that at the end of "two or three years at

most"[315] she would find herself independent, rich, and, above all, a

duchess, and this idea captivated her. But Lauzun could never be counted

upon. His wife was obliged to endure him for nearly thirty years, passed

in suffering torments from morning till night from the loving husband.

The King had said to the Marechal de Lorges, in learning of the marriage

of his youngest daughter: "You are bold to take Lauzun into your family;

I trust that you may not repent it." Repentance was prompt and bitter.

Mademoiselle was right, it was impossible to live with Lauzun. It was

through miracles of patience that his new wife bore to the end, and

miracles should never be exacted in wedded life. The mean little

calculation at the beginning had been amply expiated by the time that

Mme. de Lauzun finally became a widow. Even to the end, Lauzun had

remained one of the ornaments and curiosities of the Court of France,

noted for his grand manner, the eccentricities of his habits, the

splendour of his habitation, and for the indescribable elegance and ease

of conversation and bearing, which at that time was not to be acquired

at Versailles.

At ninety he himself drove, and sometimes with fiery animals. One day,

when he was training a fresh colt in the Bois de Boulogne, the King,

Louis XIV., passed. Lauzun executed before him a "hundred capers" and

filled the spectators with admiration, by his "address, his strength,

and his grace."[316] He still often enjoyed "pretty" moments. But there

was a reverse side to the medal: the malignant dwarf "frightened all who

approached him with his wicked wit and his hateful tricks." From afar,

Lauzun is very amusing under this aspect; he excelled in buffoonery. In

extreme age, he suffered from a malady which almost killed him. One day,

when he was very ill, he perceived reflected in a mirror the forms of

two of his heirs who entered the chamber on tiptoe, fancying themselves

concealed behind the curtains, to ascertain with their own eyes how long

they were to be forced to wait. Lauzun feigned to perceive nothing and

began to pray in a loud voice as one who believes himself alone. He

demanded pardon of God for his past life, and lamented that his time for

repentance was so short. He exclaimed that there was only a single way

to secure his safety, which was to devote the wealth which God had given

him to paying for his sins, and this he engaged to do with all his

heart. He promised to leave to the hospital all that he possessed,

without abstracting a single penny. He made this declaration with so

much fervour and with so penetrating an accent that his heirs fled away

in despair, to relate the misfortune to Mme. de Lauzun. This scene

properly terminates the career of this extraordinary personage,

unscrupulous and malignant to the last. Lauzun died in 1723, at over

ninety years of age.

Mademoiselle was the last to disappear of the grand figures belonging to

the time of the Fronde. Retz, Conde, Turenne, La Rochefoucauld, Mme. de

Chevreuse, Mme. de Longueville, had departed before her.

The only one of the ancient rebels which could not perish, the Hotel de

Ville of Paris, had been suppressed from history by royal ordinance for

the period corresponding to the Fronde. The accounts of the prosecutions

of the Council recorded the revolutionary sentiments which prevailed at

the capital during the civil war. The King ordered all the

registers[317] to be destroyed, and the destruction included every

record relating to public affairs for the years 1646-1653.

It may be said without too much calumniating the heart of Louis XIV.

that the death of his cousin afforded a certain relief. She was too

lively a reminder of the execrable period which he did his best to

banish from his own memory as well as from that of the public.

Saint-Simon, newly arrived at the Court at the date of the death of

Mademoiselle, had time to convince himself that she was in the eyes of

the King always the unpardoned and unpardonable heroine of the combat of

the Porte Saint-Antoine. "I heard him reproach his cousin once at

supper, joking it is true, but a little roughly, for having turned the

cannon of the Bastile upon his troops."

The royal rancour extended to the city of Paris, eternal cradle of

French revolutions. Not being able to suppress the capital, Louis XIV.

banished himself from its gates. On May 6, 1682, unfortunate date for

the French monarchy, the Court installed itself definitely at

Versailles, and henceforth left this place only for sojourns at the

various country seats, as Fontainebleau and Marly. Paris was abandoned,

left to do penance. Not only did Louis XIV. desert this city as a place

of residence, but he visited it rarely. It was remarked that he often

made long detours rather than to pass through Paris. The nobility and

ministers followed the King to Versailles. Royalty and the capital

turned their backs on each other.

Another important event influenced the ideas of Court decorum and

propriety. The Queen Marie-Therese dying in 1683 (July 30), Louis XIV.

in the course of the winter following formally married Mme. de

Maintenon. The physiognomy of the Court, what Saint-Simon would have

called the bark (_ecorce_), entirely changed its character. At the

moment of ending this long study it is, then, a different world to which

adieu must be said from the one which was found at the beginning, and

the transformation did not end with the "bark." The principal cause of

the change, the establishment of absolute monarchy, had acted violently

upon France in shaking the nation to its depths, as do all changes not

developing from national tradition.

Absolute monarchy was not a French tradition. It was an importation from

Spain. Anne of Austria, who did not understand any other regime, had

educated her son to accept her ideas and habits of thought, and the

substitution of king for minister was, at the death of Mazarin,

accomplished without shock. It was, however, a real _coup d'etat_.

Before Louis XIV. the royal power, without being submitted to precise

limitations, from time to time hurled itself against certain rights,

themselves often loosely defined. There existed privileges of the

Parliament, others of the State, together with those of the nobles, and

others belonging to bodies and individuals, which when united left the

King of France in a situation resembling that in which Gulliver found

himself, when the Liliputians bound him with hundreds of minute threads.

Each single thread was of no consequence; through the compression of all

together every movement was paralysed. Louis XIV. resolutely broke the

numerous threads which had trammelled the power of his predecessors. He

freed himself in suppressing the ancient liberties of France. No student

of history can be ignorant of the material results, so splendid at

first, so disastrous in the end; but certain moral consequences of his

government have been perhaps less clearly remarked.

The French aristocracy ceased from the second generation to be a nursery

for men of action. This was the result desired from the policy of

keeping it chained to the steps of the throne. The end had been attained

at the date of the King's death. Saint-Simon, who cannot be suspected of

hostility towards the nobility, certifies to this. When the Duke arrived

at power under the Regent, his brain swarming with projects for

replacing the aristocrats in positions of importance, and when he sought

great names with which to fill great posts, he realised that he was too

late. The "nursery" was empty. The difficulty, say the _Memoires_

lay in the ignorance, the frivolity, and the lack of

application of a nobility which had been accustomed to lives of

frivolity and uselessness; a nobility that was good for nothing

but to let itself be killed, and that reached the battle-field

itself only through the force of heredity. For the remainder of

the time, it was content to stagnate in an existence without a

purpose. It had delivered itself over to idleness and felt keen

disgust for all education, excepting that relating to military

matters. The result was a general incapacity and unfitness for

affairs.

It is proper to render to Caesar what belongs to Caesar. The effacement of

the French aristocracy is not to be laid at the door of the great

Revolution, which acted only upon an accomplished fact; it was the

personal work of Louis XIV.

The higher classes also, contrary to the generally received opinion,

suffered from a serious moral abasement. This fact is the more striking,

as at no other period has France possessed so many elements for giving

to life decorum and dignity. Through a deplorable misfortune, social

groups which ought, through their solid principles, to have served as

the support of public morality had incurred, one after the other, the

serious displeasure of royalty. Among the Catholics, the disciples of

Berulle and of Vincent de Paul had compromised themselves in the affair

of the _Compagnie du Saint Sacrement_. No government worthy of the name

can suffer itself to be led by a secret society, whatever the purpose or

character of such society may be. The Jansenists had shared with the

reformers in the discontent that the least expression of a desire for

independence, no matter in what domain, inspired in Louis XIV.

His distrust even reached the interior life of his subjects. Every one,

under penalty of being considered a rebel, must feel and think like the

King. This was with Louis a fixed idea, and during his reign gave a

peculiar character to the religious persecutions. Jansenists and

Protestants were pursued much oftener as enemies of the King than as

enemies of God.

The hostility of the Prince to the three principal seats of the French

conscience, and the destruction of two of these, left the field clear

for the licentiousness which marked the end of the reign. Excessive

dissipation is always supposed to belong particularly to the time of

the Regency, but the abscess had existed for a long time before the

death of Louis XIV. caused it to break. A letter as early as 1680

states, "Our fathers were not more chaste than we are; but ... now the

vices are decorated and refined."[318] The evil had made rapid progress

under the mantle of hypocrisy, which covered the Court of France from

the time of the rule of Mme. de Maintenon. This last well perceived the

danger and groaned over it to no purpose. Strangers were struck with the

conditions. "All is more concentrated," wrote one of them in 1690, "more

reserved, more restrained, than the peculiar genius of the nation can

bear."[319]

The real misfortune was that Louis, who had been brought up and matured

in an entirely formal religion, had permitted himself to be imposed upon

by scoffers, who came disguised as believers, in order to make their

court. The King, who had permitted the representation of _Tartuffe_, had

not sufficiently meditated upon its import.

A final misdeed, and not the least for which the absolute regime is

responsible, was the launching of the nation in pursuit of one of the

most dangerous of political chimeras, that of the need of spiritual

unity. Louis XIV. revoked the Edict of Nantes in the name of the fetich

that a good Frenchman must be of his King's faith. A century later, the

Terror cut off heads in the name of a unity of opinion, because a

Frenchman ought to be virtuous in the fashion of Rousseau and of

Robespierre. The reader may continue for himself the series, and count

the acts of oppression committed in the nineteenth century, while even

the twentieth century, young as it still is, presents examples of the

attempt to enforce upon the nation a uniformity of thought which, if

once attained, would signify intellectual death. For in politics, as in

religion, as in art, in literature, in all, diversity is life.

It is through this capital error that the reign of Louis XIV., so

glorious in many respects, was the precursor of the great Revolution and

really made its coming inevitable. The Jacobins are in some measure the

heirs of the great King. Fundamentally, the mania for spiritual and

moral unity is simply, under a less odious name, the horror of liberty;

a sentiment old as the world, but which in the earlier portion of the

seventeenth century had been far from dominant. The word "liberty"

occurs again and again in the writings of many people of that period,

theorists, jurists, and great nobles, at every point in which they touch

politics. The expression contained for them nothing revolutionary. What

they were demanding was rather a return to past methods, and, above all,

it did not enter their thoughts to associate with liberty the word

"equality." It is the eighteenth century, more philosophical, if perhaps

less reasonable, that first conceived the idea of uniting two really

incompatible things, without perceiving that one of the two was destined

to annihilate the other.

If absolute royalty had remained at Paris, it would have clearly

realised the point at which the nation no longer was in sympathy with

its rule. At Versailles it saw nothing; it shut itself up in its own

tomb. The divorce was consummated between the Court and the Capital, one

contenting itself with being figurative and ornamental, the other

actively controlling opinions, since royalty had renounced the office of

directing the public mind and thoughts.

It will be recollected that the role of universal arbitrator was played

by the "young Court," the youthful King at its head, at the time in

which there was daily contact with Paris, and when the Court was always

in the advance in ideas as in fashions. The residence at Versailles

ended the possibility of these times ever returning; there was no longer

any bond between the King of France and the merchant of the rue St.

Denis. In consequence, Paris employed itself in the eighteenth century

in the evolution of minds. The Court had decided upon the success of the

plays of Moliere, the Parisian parquet criticised those of Beaumarchais.

If it be considered that the interior politics of Louis XIV. were

constantly dominated by a horror of the Fronde, it will be recognised

that this abortive revolution brought in its train consequences almost

as grave as if it had been successful. This is the reason it has seemed

permissible to make the history of the ideas and sentiments existing

during the wars of the Fronde and the succeeding forty years circle

around the incidents in the life of the Grande Mademoiselle. She was a

truly representative figure of this generation, and on this account will

always merit the attention of historians, and by a double claim, through

the interest in her proud conception of life, and through the importance

of the evil for which she was partly responsible and by the results of

which she was herself overwhelmed. No one possessed in a higher degree

than this Princess the great qualities belonging to her epoch, and no

one preserved them so intact without thought of the danger after the

retaining of such opinions had become a cause of disgrace.

Neither Retz nor the great Conde showed signs in their old age of their

characteristics displayed under the Fronde; both had become calmed. The

Grande Mademoiselle remained always the Grande Mademoiselle, and this

steadfastness, while sometimes a difficulty, was more often her real

title to glory.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 264: M. du Honsett, Ancient Intendant of Finance. He had just

purchased the office of Chancellor of Monsieur.]

[Footnote 265: Letter dated April 1, 1671.]

[Footnote 266: Letter dated January 13, 1672.]

[Footnote 267: _Memoires de La Fare._ _Cf._ the _Memoires de Choisy,

Segraisiana_, etc.]

[Footnote 268: Louvois had visited Pignerol the preceding year.]

[Footnote 269: The authorities quoted in this and the following chapter,

upon the captivity of Lauzun, are in part unpublished and drawn from the

Archives of the Minister of War, in part borrowed from the _Archives de

la Bastille_, by M. Ravaisson. See also a collection of historic

documents of 1829: _Histoire de la Detention des Philosophes_, by J.

Delort.]

[Footnote 270: Mme. de Montespan and Mlle. de La Valliere were

designated briefly "_les Dames_."]

[Footnote 271: This letter has been lost or destroyed.]

[Footnote 272: Louvois to Saint-Mars, March 2, 1676.]

[Footnote 273: The letter from Saint-Mars (March 23, 1680) giving an

account of the communications between the dungeons has never been found,

any more than that telling of the flight of Lauzun.]

[Footnote 274: Louvois to Saint-Mars, November 28, 1679.]

[Footnote 275: Leopold von Ranke, _Histoire de France_.]

[Footnote 276: _Journal d'Olivier Lefevre d'Ormesson._]

[Footnote 277: Two years after this warning Louis XIV. gave at

Versailles, in honour of Mme. de Montespan, a fete for which special

buildings were created. The ballroom, only used _one night_, was marble

and porphyry; the rest in accordance.]

[Footnote 278: A loss of more than 100,000 crowns was not rare at the

gaming table of the King. March 6, 1670, Mme. de Montespan lost 400,000

pistoles in one night; at eight in the morning she regained 500,000. The

pistole is worth about ten francs. In 1682, three years after her

disgrace, she lost at one time 700,000 crowns which she did not regain.

The King paid her debts.]

[Footnote 279: Letter of Mme. de Chatrier, attached to the House of

Conde; _De La Valliere a Montespan_, by Jean Lemoine and Andre

Lichtenberger.]

[Footnote 280: Letter from Colbert to the Intendant de Rochefort (April

16, 1678).]

[Footnote 281: _Memoires de la Fare._]

[Footnote 282: _Memoires de Mlle. de Montpensier._]

[Footnote 283: _Memoires de l'Abbe de Choisy._]

[Footnote 284: _Souvenirs sur Mme. de Maintenon._--_Les Cahiers de Mlle.

d'Aumale_, with an introduction by M. G. Hanotaux.]

[Footnote 285: _Ibid._]

[Footnote 286: Letter to the Marquis de Trichateau.]

[Footnote 287: Note by La Reynie (December 27, 1679). The documents of

the _Affaire des poisons_ form more than 1300 pages of the _Archives de

la Bastille_, and they are not complete. Certain especial depositions,

particularly compromising for Mme. de Montespan, are lacking, and were

probably burned by order of Louis XIV.]

[Footnote 288: Louvois to Boucherat, President of the _Chambre_,

February 4, 1680.]

[Footnote 289: It included the Comtesse de Soissons, the Marquise

d'Alluye (the King saved both), the Duc de Luxembourg (victim of an

error), the Vicomtesse de Polignac, the Marquis de Feuquieres, the

Princesse de Tingry, the Marechale de la Ferte, the Duchesse de

Bouillon, etc.]

[Footnote 290: Cf. _Archives de la Bastille_, the "_Note autographe_" of

La Reynie, dated September 17, 1679. Was this the first time that these

names had appeared? The destruction of portions of the testimony through

the orders of the King does not permit the real truth to be disclosed.]

[Footnote 291: Louvois to M. Robert, January 15, 1680.]

[Footnote 292: She died there September 8, 1686. Cato seems to have been

dismissed, although she had been placed with Mme. de Montespan by La

Voisin.]

[Footnote 293: Marie-Anne-Christine de Baviere, coming to marry the

Grand Dauphin.]

[Footnote 294: Cf. _Les souvenirs de Mme. de Caylus_ and--among

others--the letter of Mme. de Sevigne dated July 17, 1680.]

[Footnote 295: _Mme. de Montespan et Louis XIV._]

[Footnote 296: _Louis XIV., sa Cour et le Regent_, by Anquetil (Paris,

1789).]

[Footnote 297: The gift to be enjoyed only after the death of

Mademoiselle.]

[Footnote 298: _Memoires de Saint-Simon._]

[Footnote 299: Saint-Simon, _Ecrits inedits_.]

[Footnote 300: At Chalon-sur-Saone.]

[Footnote 301: Exactly, according to the official figures, 284,940

francs.]

[Footnote 302: The coat called a _brevet_, because it could only be worn

with a _brevet_ from the King, was changed every year. It was thus very

out of fashion at the end of twelve years. Lauzun had worn a wig at

Pignerol, to protect his head against the dampness of his dungeon.]

[Footnote 303: _Ecrits inedits_, Saint-Simon.]

[Footnote 304: Saint-Simon, _Memoires_. Saint-Simon takes his details

from an eye-witness.]

[Footnote 305: Saint-Simon, _Ecrits inedits_.]

[Footnote 306: Sevigne.]

[Footnote 307: _Memoires de la Cour de France_, by Mme. de La Fayette.]

[Footnote 308: Sevigne, January 6, 1689.]

[Footnote 309: Letter of M. d'Amfreville, general-officer of the marine

to Seignelay, in the _Histoire de Louvois_, by Camille Rousset.]

[Footnote 310: Saint-Simon, _Ecrits inedits_.]

[Footnote 311: _[Oe]uvres completes_, of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre

(Paris, 1830), vol. i.; _Essai sur la Vie_ by Aime-Martin.]

[Footnote 312: Cf. the _Gazette_ for 1693, and the series of the

_Mercure Galant_ monthly periodical, founded in 1672 by Donneau de

Vise.]

[Footnote 313: Saint-Simon, _Memoires_.]

[Footnote 314: Saint-Simon says fifteen. He is mistaken; the act of

marriage says fourteen.]

[Footnote 315: _Memoires_, Saint-Simon.]

[Footnote 316: Saint-Simon, _Memoires_.]

[Footnote 317: The royal ordinance is dated July 7, 1668. Louis XIV. was

ever ignorant of the fact that the councillors of the Hotel de Ville had

passed nights in copying what was to be burned, so that the documents

supposed to be destroyed still exist.]

[Footnote 318: From La Riviere to Bussy-Rabutin.]

[Footnote 319: _Relation de la Cour de France_, by Ezechiel Spanheim,

envoy extraordinary from Brandenbourg.]

INDEX

A

Absolute monarchy, establishment of, in France, 7, 118, 142;

a Spanish importation, 371

Adickes, Erich, _Kant als Mensch_ by, 220

Aime-Martin, _Essai sur la Vie_, by, 365

Aix, Court at, 100-102

Aix-la-Chapelle, treaty of, 258

Albret, Marechal d', 282

_Alceste_ (Lulli), 218

Alencon, Elisabeth, Mlle, d', daughter of Monsieur, 77, 133, 186;

marriage of, 235, 294

Allier, Raoul, _La Cabale des Devots_, by, 83, 85, 157, 181, 198

Alluye, Marquise d', 344

Alphonse VI., King of Portugal, 142-145, 160, 185

_Amadis_, 216

_Amants Magnifiques, Les_ (Moliere), 202

_Amaryllis_, 18

_Ambassadeur de la Fuente au roi d'Espagne, L'_, 189

Amboise, Chateau of, 27, 44, 354

Amfreville, M. d', 364

Amiens, 263

"Amours of Hercules," 120

Andilly, Arnauld, d', 79

_Andromaque_ (Racine), 225, 228

Angelique, Mother, 88, 92

Angennes, Julie d', 264

Anjou, Philippe, Duc d' (the little Monsieur), proposed marriage of,

with Mademoiselle, 59, 73, 272-278;

character of, 74, 102, 105, 152, 196, 261, 262, 271, 272;

becomes Duc d'Orleans, 102;

marries Henrietta of England, 136, 151, 152;

marries Princess Palatine, 156, 315;

daughters of, 277;

opposed to mesalliance of Mlle., 285

Anjou, son of Louis XIV., 285

Anne of Austria, regency of, 1;

education of her sons, 31, 63-65, 74, 371;

relations of, with Mazarin, 62, 63, 82, 112, 304;

reception of Mademoiselle, 57-59, and lack of Court etiquette, 76-79,

82;

member of Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement, 87, 103, 148, 158, 198;

prevents marriage of Louis and Marie Mancini, 82, 97;

receives Conde, 100;

interview of, with Philip IV., 108-110;

favours absolute monarchy, 118, 146, 371;

be friends Marie-Therese, 118, 149;

detests Madame, 122;

reproaches Louis, 153, 170;

influence of, 153, 159, 192, 194, 195, 208;

illness and death of, 194-197;

effect of death of, 195, 197, 200, 201, 206, 208, 209

Anquetil, _Louis XIV., sa Cour et le Regent_, by, 349

_Archives de la Bastille_ (Ravaisson), 189, 201, 209, 282, 293, 312,

343, 344

_Archives de Chantilly_, 117, 174, 175, 186

_Archives_ of Eu. _See_ Eu

_Ariane_ (Monteverde), 214

Armagnac, Louis de Lorraine, Comte d', 237

Arras, siege of, 23, 161

_Artamene, ou le Grand Cyrus_ (Scudery), 11