Book: The Memoirs of Louis XIV., His Court and The Regency, Complete

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Bonnceil, introducer of the ambassadors, being dead, Breteuil obtained
his post. Breteuil was not without intellect, but aped courtly manners,
called himself Baron de Breteuil, and was much tormented and laughed at
by his friends. One day, dining at the house of Madame de Pontchartrain,
and, speaking very authoritatively, Madame de Pontchartrain disputed with
him, and, to test his knowledge, offered to make a bet that he did not
know who wrote the Lord's Prayer. He defended himself as well as he was
able, and succeeded in leaving the table without being called upon to
decide the point. Caumartin, who saw his embarrassment, ran to him, and
kindly whispered in his ear that Moses was the author of the Lord's
Prayer. Thus strengthened, Breteuil returned to the attack, brought,
while taking coffee, the conversation back again to the bet; and, after
reproaching Madame de Pontchartrain for supposing him ignorant upon such
a point, and declaring he was ashamed of being obliged to say such a
trivial thing, pronounced emphatically that it was Moses who had written
the Lord's Prayer. The burst of laughter that, of course, followed this,
overwhelmed him with confusion. Poor Breteuil was for a long time at
loggerheads with his friend, and the Lord's Prayer became a standing
reproach to him.

He had a friend, the Marquis de Gesvres, who, upon some points, was not
much better informed. Talking one day in the cabinet of the King, and
admiring in the tone of a connoisseur some fine paintings of the
Crucifixion by the first masters, he remarked that they were all by one
hand.

He was laughed at, and the different painters were named, as recognized
by their style.

"Not at all," said the Marquis, "the painter is called INRI; do you not
see his name upon all the pictures?" What followed after such gross
stupidity and ignorance may be imagined.

At the end of this year the King resolved to undertake three grand
projects, which ought to have been carried out long before: the chapel of
Versailles, the Church of the Invalides, and the altar of Notre-Dame de
Paris. This last was a vow of Louis XIII., made when, he no longer was
able to accomplish it, and which he had left to his successor, who had
been more than fifty years without thinking of it.

On the 6th of January, upon the reception of the ambassadors at the house
of the Duchesse de Bourogogne, an adventure happened which I will here
relate. M. de Lorraine belonged to a family which had been noted for its
pretensions, and for the disputes of precedency in which it engaged. He
was as prone to this absurdity as the rest, and on this occasion incited
the Princesse d'Harcourt, one of his relations, to act in a manner that
scandalised all the Court. Entering the room in which the ambassadors
were to be received and where a large number of ladies were already
collected, she glided behind the Duchesse de Rohan, and told her to pass
to the left. The Duchesse de Rohan, much surprised, replied that she was
very well placed already. Whereupon, the Princesse d'Harcourt, who was
tall and strong, made no further ado, but with her two arms seized the
Duchesse de Rohan, turned her round, and sat down in her place. All the
ladies were strangely scandalised at this, but none dared say a word, not
even Madame de Lude, lady in waiting on the Duchesse de Bourgogne, who,
for her part also, felt the insolence of the act, but dared not speak,
being so young. As for the Duchesse de Rohan, feeling that opposition
must lead to fisticuffs, she curtseyed to the Duchess, and quietly
retired to another place. A few minutes after this, Madame de Saint-
Simon, who was then with child, feeling herself unwell, and tired of
standing, seated herself upon the first cushion she could find. It so
happened, that in the position she thus occupied, she had taken
precedence of Madame d'Armagnac by two degrees. Madame d'Armagnac,
perceiving it, spoke to her upon the subject. Madame de Saint-Simon, who
had only placed herself there for a moment, did not reply, but went
elsewhere.

As soon as I learnt of the first adventure, I thought it important that
such an insult should not be borne, and I went and conferred with M. de
la Rochefoucauld upon the subject, at the same time that Marechal de
Boufflers spoke of it to M. de Noailles. I called upon other of my
friends, and the opinion was that the Duc de Rohan should complain to the
King on the morrow of the treatment his wife had received.

In the evening while I was at the King's supper, I was sent for by Madame
de Saint-Simon, who informed me that the Lorraines, afraid of the
complaints that would probably be addressed to the King upon what had
taken place between the Princesse d'Harcourt and the Duchesse de Rohan,
had availed themselves of what happened between Madame de Saint-Simon and
Madame d'Armagnac, in order to be the first to complain, so that one
might balance the other. Here was a specimen of the artifice of these
gentlemen, which much enraged me. On the instant I determined to lose no
time in speaking to the King; and that very evening I related what had
occurred, in so far as Madame de Saint-Simon was concerned, but made no
allusion to M. de Rohan's affair, thinking it best to leave that to be
settled by itself on the morrow. The King replied to me very graciously,
and I retired, after assuring him that all I had said was true from
beginning to end.

The next day the Duc de Rohan made his complaint. The King, who had
already been fully informed of the matter, received him well, praised the
respect and moderation of Madame de Rohan, declared Madame d'Harcourt to
have been very impertinent, and said some very hard words upon the
Lorraines.

I found afterwards, that Madame de Maintenon, who much favoured Madame
d'Harcourt, had all the trouble in the world to persuade the King not to
exclude her from the next journey to Marly. She received a severe
reprimand from the King, a good scolding from Madame de Maintenon, and
was compelled publicly to ask pardon of the Duchesse de Rohan. This she
did; but with a crawling baseness equal to her previous audacity. Such
was the end of this strange history.

There appeared at this time a book entitled "Probleme," but without name
of author, and directed against M. de Paris, declaring that he had
uttered sentiments favourable to the Jansenists being at Chalons, and
unfavourable being at Paris. The book came from the Jesuits, who could
not pardon M. de Paris for having become archbishop without their
assistance. It was condemned and burnt by decree of the Parliament, and
the Jesuits had to swallow all the shame of it. The author was soon
after discovered. He was named Boileau; not the friend of Bontems, who
so often preached before the King, and still less the celebrated poet and
author of the 'Flagellants', but a doctor of much wit and learning whom
M. de Paris had taken into his favour and treated like a brother. Who
would have believed that "Probleme" could spring from such a man? M. de
Paris was much hurt; but instead of imprisoning Boileau for the rest of
his days, as he might have done, he acted the part of a great bishop, and
gave him a good canonical of Saint Honore, which became vacant a few days
afterwards. Boileau, who was quite without means, completed his
dishonour by accepting it.

The honest people of the Court regretted a cynic who died at this time,
I mean the Chevalier de Coislin. He was a most extraordinary man, very
splenetic, and very difficult to deal with. He rarely left Versailles,
and never went to see the king. I have seen him get out of the way not
to meet him. He lived with Cardinal Coislin, his brother. If anybody
displeased him, he would go and sulk in his own room; and if, whilst at
table, any one came whom he did not like, he would throw away his plate,
go off to sulk, or to finish his dinner all alone. One circumstance will
paint him completely. Being on a journey once with his brothers, the Duc
de Coislin and the Cardinal de Coislin, the party rested for the night at
the house of a vivacious and very pretty bourgeoise. The Duc de Coislin
was an exceedingly polite man, and bestowed amiable compliments and
civilities upon their hostess, much to the disgust of the Chevalier. At
parting, the Duke renewed the politeness he had displayed so abundantly
the previous evening, and delayed the others by his long-winded
flatteries. When, at last, they left the house, and were two or three
leagues away from it, the Chevalier de Coislin said, that, in spite of
all this politeness, he had reason to believe that their pretty hostess
would not long be pleased with the Duke. The Duke, disturbed, asked his
reason for thinking so. "Do you wish to learn it?" said the Chevalier;
"well, then, you must know that, disgusted by your compliments, I went up
into the bedroom in which you slept, and made a filthy mess on the floor,
which the landlady will no doubt attribute to you, despite all your fine
speeches."

At this there was loud laughter, but the Duke was in fury, and wished to
return in order to clear up his character. Although it rained hard, they
had all the pains in the world to hinder him, and still more to bring
about a reconciliation. Nothing was more pleasant than to hear the
brothers relate this adventure each in his own way.

Two cruel effects of gambling were noticed at this time. Reineville, a
lieutenant of the body-guard, a general officer distinguished in war,
very well treated by the King, and much esteemed by the captain of the
Guards, suddenly disappeared, and could not be found anywhere, although
the utmost care was taken to search for him. He loved gaming. He had
lost what he could not pay. He was a man of honour, and could not
sustain his misfortune. Twelve or fifteen years afterwards he was
recognised among the Bavarian troops, in which he was serving in order to
gain his bread and to live unknown. The other case was still worse.
Permillac, a man of much intelligence and talent, had lost more than he
possessed, and blew his brains out one morning in bed. He was much liked
throughout the army; had taken a friendship for me, and I for him.
Everybody pitied him, and I much regretted him.

Nearly at the same time we lost the celebrated Racine, so known by his
beautiful plays. No one possessed a greater talent or a more agreeable
mien. There was nothing of the poet in his manners: he had the air of a
well-bred and modest man, and at last that of a good man. He had
friends, the most illustrious, at the Court as well as among men of
letters. I leave it to the latter to speak of him in a better way than I
can. He wrote, for the amusement of the King and Madame de Maintenon,
and to exercise the young ladies of Saint Cyr, two dramatic masterpieces,
Esther and Athalie. They were very difficult to write, because there
could be no love in them, and because they are sacred tragedies, in
which, from respect to the Holy Scriptures, it was necessary rigidly to
keep to the historical truth. They were several times played at Saint
Cyr before a select Court. Racine was charged with the history of the
King, conjointly with Despreaux, his friend. This employment, the pieces
I have just spoken of, and his friends, gained for Racine some special
favours: It sometimes happened that the King had no ministers with him,
as on Fridays, and, above all, when the bad weather of winter rendered
the sittings very long; then he would send for Racine to amuse him and
Madame de Maintenon. Unfortunately the poet was oftentimes very absent.
It happened one evening that, talking with Racine upon the theatre, the
King asked why comedy was so much out of fashion. Racine gave several
reasons, and concluded by naming the principal,--namely, that for want of
new pieces the comedians gave old ones, and, amongst others, those of
Scarron, which were worth nothing, and which found no favour with
anybody. At this the poor widow blushed, not for the reputation of the
cripple attacked, but at hearing his name uttered in presence of his
successor! The King was also embarrassed, and the unhappy Racine, by the
silence which followed, felt what a slip he had made. He remained the
most confounded of the three, without daring to raise his eyes or to open
his mouth. This silence did not terminate for several moments, so heavy
and profound was the surprise. The end was that the King sent away
Racine, saying he was going to work. The poet never afterwards recovered
his position. Neither the King nor Madame de Maintenon ever spoke to him
again, or even looked at him; and he conceived so much sorrow at this,
that he fell into a languor, and died two years afterwards. At his
death, Valincourt was chosen to work in his place with Despreaux upon the
history of the King.

The King, who had just paid the heavy gaming and tradesmen's debts of
Madame la Duchesse, paid also those of Monseigneur, which amounted to
fifty thousand francs, undertook the payment of the buildings at Meudon,
and, in lieu of fifteen hundred pistoles a month which he had allowed
Monseigneur, gave him fifty thousand crowns. M. de la Rochefoucauld,
always necessitous and pitiful in the midst of riches, a prey to his
servants, obtained an increase of forty-two thousand francs a-year upon
the salary he received as Grand Veneur, although it was but a short time
since the King had paid his debts. The King gave also, but in secret,
twenty thousand francs a-year to M. de Chartres, who had spent so much in
journeys and building that he feared he should be unable to pay his
debts. He had asked for an abbey; but as he had already one, the King
did not like to give him another, lest it should be thought too much.

M. de Vendome began at last to think about his health, which his
debauches had thrown into a very bad state. He took public leave of the
King and of all the Court before going away, to put himself in the hands
of the doctors. It was the first and only example of such impudence.
From this time he lost ground. The King said, at parting, that he hoped
he would come back in such a state that people might kiss him without
danger! His going in triumph, where another would have gone in shame and
secrecy, was startling and disgusting. He was nearly three months under
the most skilful treatment-and returned to the Court with half his nose,
his teeth out, and a physiognomy entirely changed, almost idiotic. The
King was so much struck by this change, that he recommended the courtiers
not to appear to notice it, for fear of afflicting M. de Vendome. That
was taking much interest in him assuredly. As, moreover, he had departed
in triumph upon this medical expedition, so he returned triumphant by the
reception of the King, which was imitated by all the Court. He remained
only a few days, and then, his mirror telling sad tales, went away to
Anet, to see if nose and teeth would come back to him with his hair.

A strange adventure, which happened at this time, terrified everybody,
and gave rise to many surmises. Savary was found assassinated in his
house at Paris he kept only a valet and a maid-servant, and they were
discovered murdered at the same time, quite dressed, like their master,
and in different parts of the house. It appeared by writings found
there, that the crime was one of revenge: it was supposed to have been
committed in broad daylight. Savary was a citizen of Paris, very rich,
without occupation, and lived like an epicurean. He had some friends of
the highest rank, and gave parties, of all kinds of pleasure, at his
house, politics sometimes being discussed. The cause of this
assassination was never known; but so much of it was found out, that no
one dared to search for more. Few doubted but that the deed had been
done by a very ugly little man, but of a blood so highly respected, that
all forms were dispensed with, in the fear lest it should be brought home
to him; and, after the first excitement, everybody ceased to speak of
this tragic history.

On the night between the 3rd and 4th of June, a daring robbery was
effected at the grand stables of Versailles. All the horse-cloths and
trappings, worth at least fifty thousand crowns, were carried off, and so
cleverly and with such speed, although the night was short, that no
traces of them could ever afterwards be found. This theft reminds me of
another which took place a little before the commencement of these
memoirs. The grand apartment at Versailles, that is to say, from the
gallery to the tribune, was hung with crimson velvet, trimmed and fringed
with gold. One fine morning the fringe and trimmings were all found to
have been cut away. This appeared extraordinary in a place so frequented
all day, so well closed at night, and so well guarded at all times.
Bontems, the King's valet, was in despair, and did his utmost to discover
the thieves, but without success.

Five or six days afterwards, I was at the King's supper, with nobody but
Daqum, chief physician, between the King and me, and nobody at all
between one and the table. Suddenly I perceived a large black form in
the air, but before I could tell what it was, it fell upon the end of the
King's table just before the cover which had been laid for Monseigneur
and Madame. By the noise it made in falling, and the weight of the thing
itself, it seemed as though the table must be broken. The plates jumped
up, but none were upset, and the thing, as luck would have it, did not
fall upon any of them, but simply upon the cloth. The King moved his
head half round, and without being moved in any way said, "I think that
is my fringe!"

It was indeed a bundle, larger than a flat-brimmed priest's hat, about
two feet in height, and shaped like a pyramid. It had come from behind
me, from towards the middle door of the two ante-chambers, and a piece of
fringe getting loose in the air, had fallen upon the King's wig, from
which it was removed by Livry, a gentleman-in-waiting. Livry also opened
the bundle, and saw that it did indeed contain the fringes all twisted
up, and everybody saw likewise. A murmur was heard. Livry wishing to
take away the bundle found a paper attached to it. He took the paper and
left the bundle. The King stretched out his hand and said, "Let us see."
Livry, and with reason, would not give up the paper, but stepped back,
read it, and then passed it to Daquin, in whose hands I read it. The
writing, counterfeited and long like that of a woman, was in these
words:--"Take back your fringes, Bontems; they are not worth the trouble
of keeping--my compliments to the King."

The paper was rolled up, not folded: the King wished to take it from
Daquin, who, after much hesitation, allowed him to read it, but did not
let it out of his hands. "Well, that is very insolent!" said the King,
but in quite a placid unmoved tone--as it were, an historical tone.
Afterwards he ordered the bundle to be taken away. Livry found it so
heavy that he could scarcely lift it from the table, and gave it to an
attendant who presented himself. The King spoke no more of this matter,
nobody else dared to do so; and the supper finished as though nothing had
happened.

Besides the excess of insolence and impudence of this act, it was so
perilous as to be scarcely understood. How could any one, without being
seconded by accomplices, throw a bundle of this weight and volume in the
midst of a crowd such as was always present at the supper of the King, so
dense that it could with difficulty be passed through? How, in spite of
a circle of accomplices, could a movement of the arms necessary for such
a throw escape all eyes? The Duc de Gesvres was in waiting. Neither he
nor anybody else thought of closing the doors until the King had left the
table. It may be guessed whether the guilty parties remained until then,
having had more than three-quarters of an hour to escape, and every issue
being free. Only one person was discovered, who was not known, but he
proved to be a very honest man, and was dismissed after a short
detention. Nothing has since been discovered respecting this theft or
its bold restitution.




CHAPTER XV

On the 12th August, Madame de Saint-Simon was happily delivered of a
second son, who bore the name of Marquis de Ruffec. A singular event
which happened soon after, made all the world marvel.

There arrived at Versailles a farrier, from the little town of Salon, in
Provence, who asked to see the King in private. In spite of the rebuffs
he met with, he persisted in his request, so that at last it got to the
ears of the King. The King sent word that he was not accustomed to grant
such audiences to whoever liked to ask for them. Thereupon the farrier
declared that if he was allowed to see the King he would tell him things
so secret and so unknown to everybody else that he would be persuaded of
their importance, demanding, if the King would not see him, to be sent to
a minister of state. Upon this the King allowed him to have an interview
with one of his secretaries, Barbezieux. But Barbezieux was not a
minister of state, and to the great surprise of everybody, the farrier,
who had only just arrived from the country, and who had never before left
it or his trade, replied, that not being a minister of state he would not
speak with him. Upon this he was allowed to see Pomponne, and converse
with him; and this is the story he told:

He said, that returning home late one evening he found himself surrounded
by a great light, close against a tree and near Salon. A woman clad in
white--but altogether in a royal manner, and beautiful, fair, and very
dazzling--called him by his name, commanded him to listen to her, and
spake to him more than half-an-hour. She told him she was the Queen,
who had been the wife of the King; to whom she ordered him to go and say
what she had communicated; assuring him that God would assist him through
all the journey, and that upon a secret thing he should say, the King,
who alone knew that secret, would recognise the truth of all he uttered.
She said that in case he could not see the King he was to speak with a
minister of state, telling him certain things, but reserving certain
others for the King alone. She told him, moreover, to set out at once,
assuring him he would be punished with death if he neglected to acquit
himself of his commission. The farrier promised to obey her in
everything, and the queen then disappeared. He found himself in darkness
near the tree. He lay down and passed the night there, scarcely knowing
whether he was awake or asleep. In the morning he went home, persuaded
that what he had seen was a mere delusion and folly, and said nothing
about it to a living soul.

Two days afterwards he was passing by the same place when the same vision
appeared to him, and he was addressed in the same terms. Fresh threats
of punishment were uttered if he did not comply, and he was ordered to go
at once to the Intendant of the province, who would assuredly furnish him
with money, after saying what he had seen. This time the farrier was
convinced there was no delusion in the matter; but, halting between his
fears and doubts, knew not what to do, told no one what had passed,
and was in great perplexity. He remained thus eight days, and at last
had resolved not to make the journey; when, passing by the same spot,
he saw and heard the same vision, which bestowed upon him so many
dreadful menaces that he no longer thought of anything but setting out
immediately. In two days from that time he presented himself, at Aix,
to the Intendant of the province, who, without a moment's hesitation,
urged him to pursue his journey, and gave him sufficient money to travel
by a public conveyance. Nothing more of the story was ever known.

The farrier had three interviews with M. de Pomponne, each of two hours'
length. M. de Pomponne rendered, in private, an account of these to the
King, who desired him to speak more fully upon the point in a council
composed of the Ducs de Beauvilliers, Pontchartrain, Torcy, and Pomponne
himself; Monseigneur to be excluded. This council sat very long, perhaps
because other things were spoken of. Be that as it may, the King after
this wished to converse with the farrier, and did so in his cabinet. Two
days afterwards he saw the man again; at each time was nearly an hour
with him, and was careful that no one was within hearing.

The day after the first interview, as the King was descending the
staircase, to go a-hunting, M. de Duras, who was in waiting, and who was
upon such a footing that he said almost what he liked, began to speak of
this farrier with contempt, and, quoting the bad proverb, said, "The man
was mad, or the King was not noble." At this the King stopped, and,
turning round, a thing he scarcely ever did in walking, replied, "If that
be so, I am not noble, for I have discoursed with him long, he has spoken
to me with much good sense, and I assure you he is far from being mad."

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