QUEEN MAINTENON.
It is the winter of 1685. The night is dark and starless. Fast falling
snow makes the air thick and covers the ground as with a white mantle.
An icy blast is blowing, chilling alike to man and beast. As eleven
o'clock strikes, the Archbishop of Paris leaves his palace, spite of
the inclement weather. He is alone in his coach. Midnight is past
when he draws up outside the great gates of Versailles. These open
silently. He drives onward, traversing the vast courtyard, passing the
equestrian statue of Louis XIV., until he reaches the Cour de Marbre,
between the two pavilions of the central portion of the château. Here
the outer portal at the foot of the grand staircase is ajar. Bontemps,
Governor of the Palace of Versailles, valet, confidant, and purveyor
generally to the wants of his Majesty, stands behind it awaiting the
Archbishop. He holds a light, which he carefully shades with his hand.
Monseigneur de Harlay, Archbishop, descends from his coach shivering
all over. His teeth chatter in his head, not only from the cold which
is excessive, but from apprehension of what he is about to engage in.
Bontemps precedes him up the stairs, holding the light in his hand.
They traverse whole suites of rooms, a spacious hall, a long gallery,
and many corridors. No word is spoken, every soul is asleep, and it is
urgent they should remain so. Once within the King's apartments all is
light, warmth, and luxury. The well-nigh frozen dignitary revives.
Before him is the King, dignified, composed, and cheerful. With him
are the Marquis de Montchevreuil and the Chevalier de Forbin, as
witnesses; Père la Chaise is also there to assist the Archbishop. An
altar is dressed in the centre of the room. As soon as his Majesty has
saluted Monseigneur de Harlay, Bontemps is despatched to fetch Madame
de Maintenon. She loses no time in appearing. The marriage rites are
performed by Père la Chaise, confessor to the King; the benediction is
given by the Archbishop.
The marriage is to be secret; but Louis XIV. henceforth addresses her
as "_Madame_." He receives his Ministers in her saloon; the Marquis
de Maintenon the while sitting upon a fauteuil in his presence. These
are royal honours. Monseigneur le Dauphin and the princes of the
blood never forgive the marriage. The contempt and hatred they feel
towards Madame de Maintenon cannot be concealed. As favourite they
had tolerated her; as wife they rebel against her. Yet her will is
law. The Duc de Maine and the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne, son and
daughter-in-law to Monseigneur, are the only exceptions.
* * * * *
We are again at Choisy. Every window is a blaze of light, the terraced
garden flashes with millions of coloured lamps. The Dauphin and his
consort, the princes and princesses, courtiers, singers, actors, and
poets, fill the foreground. Brocade and satin sweep the terraces;
cocked hats and feathers, ribbons, lace, plumes, jewels, orders, wave
and glitter. There is the sound of laughter and mad jest—joyous music
and voluptuous feasting, _petit soupers_ and masked balls, theatricals
and concerts.
Long flights of marble stairs descend through bosky groves, sweet with
the scent of lilac and honeysuckles, to the Seine, on whose grassy
banks, illuminated by torches and bonfires, a flotilla of boats are
moored under the overhanging woods. If the essence of all the fêtes
given in France was concentrated, the result would be Choisy before
the Revolution. In the hands of Monseigneur it is a miniature court,
rivalling what Versailles was; a court where youth, joy, and beauty
reign supreme. Louis, now old, desires that all the world should be old
likewise—fast, pray, confess, and hear sermons like himself. Choisy
is a scandal to him. The Dauphin receives orders to quit, and take up
his abode at Meudon. Monseigneur, a short, stout, thick-set man, with
a fair complexion, and what would have been handsome features had his
nose not been broken, appears before Madame de Maintenon, the real
ruler of France. She is seated in her apartments, working as usual at
her tapestry. She does not rise at his entrance, and her aspect is
severe and repellant.
"Madame," says the Dauphin, seating himself at a gesture she makes,
"can you explain to me what motive has induced his Majesty to banish me
from my favourite residence at Choisy?"
Madame de Maintenon does not raise her eyes from her work. "Banishment
you call it, Monseigneur; you mistake the term. Not banishment, simply
a change of abode designed for your good, by his Majesty, your august
father."
"For my good? surely I am of an age to judge for myself! If I cannot
live where I please, I am under arrest. I am not aware in what I have
merited the royal displeasure."
"Observe, Monseigneur le Dauphin," answers the Marquise, fixing her
black eyes upon him, "the King feels no displeasure; on the contrary,
he desires your more constant presence at his Court, near his person."
The Marquise spoke these words with special emphasis.
"Madame, I am most grateful for the amiable manner in which you express
his Majesty's flattering wish, but might not some plan be found to
unite my presence at Court with my residence at Choisy?"
"Impossible, your highness. In a monarchy there can be but one
sovereign. The Court must surround that sovereign. Now, permit me to
observe, there are two courts, and something like two sovereigns."
"I am not conscious, madame," replies the Dauphin, with dignity, "what
action of my life justifies such an accusation. If his Majesty desires
to reprimand me, as a father, I ask the favour of hearing it from his
own lips."
"Monseigneur," replies Madame de Maintenon, with affected humility, "it
is his Majesty who speaks by my voice. I am less than nothing other
than through him. If you desire to know what causes his displeasure, it
is that in the magnificent fêtes you give at Choisy he observes that
one most important element of society is omitted—an element his Majesty
considers essential."
"What element, madame?"
"That of the Church, your Highness."
The Dauphin is suddenly convulsed with a fit of violent laughter. He
takes a hasty leave.
"The Church at Choisy, _ma foi_!" he says aloud when he has safely
passed the anteroom and is well beyond hearing. "My old master Bossuet,
and Bourdaloue, and the Versailles Jesuits assisting at midnight fêtes
at Choisy—what a notion! I must tell this to Mademoiselle Choin. How
she will laugh!"
Charlotte de Bavière, second wife of Philippe d'Orléans, brother of
the King, hated the "old woman," as she called Madame de Maintenon.
She saw through her and despised her. Madame de Maintenon returned
her animosity with interest, but she dared not provoke her. There was
something about this frank, downright German princess that was not
to be trifled with. Whatever her eccentricities might be, they were
respected; she was left in peace to drink as much beer and to eat as
many _saucissons_ as the peculiarity of her constitution required.
In person she was actually repulsive; her pride was a by-word and a
jest; but she was a faithful friend and a true wife, and continued to
live with her heartless and effeminate husband, Monsieur, in peace.
On her son, the Duc de Chartres, afterwards the Regent Orléans, she
doted. In her eyes he was perfect. She was either blind or indifferent
to his vices. But even he was not exempt from the violence of her
temper. When she was told that he had consented to a marriage with
Mademoiselle de Blois, daughter of Madame de Montespan, she struck
him in the face. Then she flew to the King. The doors of the royal
bedchamber are closed by the attendant Swiss, but the angry voices of
Charlotte (Madame) and Louis in angry altercation, penetrate into the
gallery of the Œil de Bœuf, where the Court awaits the moment of the
royal lever.
"Sire," Madame is heard to say in her guttural German-French accent, "I
am come to forbid the marriage of my son with Mademoiselle de Blois."
"How, my sister?" replies the full, deep voice of the King, that voice
which usually created so profound an impression on the nerves of those
whom he addressed.
"Yes, to forbid it. Had your Majesty desired an alliance between my son
and a daughter of your consort, Maria Theresa, I should have considered
it my duty to submit."
"Oh!" exclaims the King in a loud voice, and quick steps are heard
pacing up and down the room, "you would have condescended to accept a
princess-royal for your daughter-in-law."
"Certainly, Sire; but because I committed a _mésalliance_ myself in
marrying your brother, Philippe de Orléans——"
"_Pardieu!_ Madame," breaks in the King. "Do you talk of a
_mésalliance_ with a grandson of Henry the Great?"
"Certainly I do, your Majesty. What was Henry the Great, but an obscure
Prince of Béarn, a beggarly little State among the valleys of the
Pyrenees? Does your Majesty think that the hundred quarterings of my
escutcheon will gain lustre by the arms of Bourbon?"
Louis is heard to stamp on the floor. "Madame," he cries, so loud that
his words echo into every corner of the Œil de Bœuf, "Madame, you
forget yourself. How dare you come here to insult me?"
"Sire, I come here to tell you the truth. My son, the Duc de Chartres,
has forgotten himself by listening for one instant to your proposal.
With my own hand I have chastised him as he deserves. I do not forget
myself, whatever others may do. Philippe is too good for any princess
in Europe. The blood in his veins is that of my ancestors—the Princes
Palatine of the Rhine. We laugh at your modern houses—we laugh!
Philippe is the best man in your Court. He knows everything—painting,
music, poetry, science. None of you can understand him. You are too
ignorant."
"Madame," the King is heard to say, "have a care—you are going too far!"
"No, my brother, I have not gone far enough," rejoins Madame. "You have
forgotten the siege of Mons, where he fought under your own eyes—also
Steinkerque and Nerwinde. It is your fault that Philippe does not
command your armies. He is equal to it. Who would not have such a
husband? Sire, my son, the Duc de Chartres, shall never wed with your
bastard!"
Again Louis is heard to stamp upon the floor. Then, in a voice hoarse
with rage, he replies, "Madame, I shall hold my brother responsible for
your insolence."
"Why have you provoked it, then?" is the reply in a calmer tone.
Charlotte de Bavière has evidently relieved her own violence by
exciting that of the King. "I have a right to resist such a
disgraceful proposal. Withdraw your marriage, and I am again your good
sister and friend as heretofore."
"We shall see, Madame, we shall see!" shouts the King, whose usual
courtesy towards women is not proof against such an attack.
"Yes, Sire, we shall see. No person on earth shall make me sanction a
blot on my name. My opposition shall not be only in words. The Duc de
Chartres is my only son. I will stop the marriage in your presence. I
will stop it at the altar of the chapel-royal."
"Madame, your pride has turned your head. But your husband, my brother,
shall obey me."
"Your brother, Sire, will, I know, in this, as in all else, be advised
by me. I can defend the honour of his house much better than he can
himself, and he knows it. Your brother will do his duty, I shall do
mine. I wish your Majesty good-day."
The sound of the King's cane is audible, striking heavily on the floor
as he strides up and down the room. The door of his bedchamber opens;
Charlotte de Bavière, crimson in the face, appears. She calls her
people together, and hastily departs, followed by the wondering glances
of the courtiers, standing in groups about the Œil de Bœuf.
The King, fearing that there was no chance of overcoming the opposition
of Madame, either by persuasions or by threats, consulted Madam de
Maintenon. With characteristic duplicity, she advised that what could
not be done openly, must be brought about by stratagem. She sent for
the Abbé Dubois, the _âme damnée_ of the young Duke, his tutor and
his companion, and by promises of money and speedy preferment she
completely made him her own. Dubois promised to hurry on the marriage
with or without the consent of Madame. The Duke, who loved his mother,
and respected her scruples, only yielded when Dubois artfully presented
to him the certain loss of all influence, as well as the personal
animosity of the King, if he refused.
Philippe d'Orléans met Mademoiselle de Blois in the apartment of Madame
de Maintenon. The marriage took place at Versailles.
[Illustration: GASTON, DUKE OF ORLEANS.
FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING.]
Madame was furious at what she termed her "dishonour." She wept,
abused, menaced, and scolded by turns. But finding that there was no
redress, that the marriage was legal, and that further opposition
might arouse the vengeance of the King, she gradually cooled down and
received her new daughter-in-law with tolerable civility; particularly
as the marriage with Mademoiselle de Blois continued the possession of
the Palais Royal, with all its pictures, sculptures, and valuables, in
the Orléans family, a gift which somewhat served to gild the bitter
pill she was called on to swallow.
This marriage did not improve the Duke's conduct or character. He was
galled by what he had been forced to do; his temper was soured; his
excesses increased. Nor was the Duchess of a disposition to endear
herself to any husband. Imperious, luxurious, and bitter-tongued,
she always forgot that her mother, Madame de Montespan, was not the
wife of her father, and treated the Duke as her inferior. He bore her
extravagant pride, and listened to her harangues, reproaches, and
taunts (expressed with real eloquence) in silence. Sometimes he
called her _Madame Lucifer_.
With such parents their children grew up in habits of licentiousness,
only equalled by the imperial ladies of Old Rome.
The Duchesse de Berry—the eldest of the Regent's daughters—kept her
Court at the Luxembourg with regal pomp. She received embassadors
seated on a throne, surmounted by a canopy sprinkled by the lilies of
France. But she did not think it beneath her dignity to do the honours
of certain _petits soupers_ at the Palais Royal—too well known to need
further mention here.
Her sister, Mademoiselle de Valois, was as remarkable for her beauty as
for her lack of virtue.
Mademoiselle d'Orléans—third daughter of the Regent—was, if possible,
more wanton than her sisters. To the eternal disgrace of the Church she
was elected Abbess of Chelles. "_Tel père, tel fils_," says the proverb.