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

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I thought that our headquarters were to be in this village of Seckenheim,
and, in company with several officers took possession of a large house
and prepared to pass the night there. While we were resting from the
fatigues of the day we heard a great noise, and soon after a frightful
uproar. It was caused by a body of our men, who, searching for water,
had discovered this village, and after having quenched their thirst had,
under the cover of thick darkness, set themselves to pillage, to violate,
to massacre, and to commit all the horrors inspired by the most unbridled
licence: La Bretesche, a lieutenant-general, declared to me that he had
never seen anything like it, although he had several times been at
pillages and sackings. He was very grateful that he had not yielded to
my advice, and taken off his wooden leg to be more at ease; for in a
short time we ourselves were invaded, and had some trouble to defend
ourselves. As we bore the livery of M. de Lorges, we were respected,
but those who bore that of M. de Joyeuse were in some cases severely
maltreated. We passed the rest of the night as well as we could in this
unhappy place, which was not abandoned by our soldiers until long after
there was nothing more to find. At daylight we went to the camp.

We found the army beginning to move: it had passed the night as well as
it could without order, the troops constantly arriving, and the last
comers simply joining themselves on to the rest. Our camp was soon,
however, properly formed, and on the 24th July, the bridges being ready,
all the army crossed the Rhine, without any attempt being made by the
enemy to follow us. On the day after, the Marechal de Joyeuse permitted
me to go to Landau, where I remained with the Marechal and the Marechale
de Lorges until the General was again able to place himself at the head
of his army.

Nothing of importance was done by our other armies; but in Flanders an
interesting adventure occurred. The Prince of Orange, after playing a
fine game of chess with our army, suddenly invested Namur with a large
force, leaving the rest of his troops under the command of M. de
Vaudemont. The Marechal de Villeroy, who had the command of our army in
Flanders, at once pressed upon M. de Vaudemont, who, being much the
weaker of the two, tried hard to escape. Both felt that everything was
in their hands: Vaudemont, that upon his safety depended the success of
the siege of Namur; and Villeroy, that to his victory was attached the
fate of the Low Countries, and very likely a glorious peace, with all the
personal results of such an event. He took his measures so well that on
the evening of the 13th of July it was impossible for M. de Vaudemont to
escape falling into his hands on the 14th, and he wrote thus to the King.
At daybreak on the 14th M. de Villeroy sent word to M. du Maine to
commence the action. Impatient that his orders were not obeyed, he sent
again five or six times. M. du Maine wished in the first instance to
reconnoitre, then to confess himself, and delayed in effect so long that
M. de Vaudemont was able to commence his retreat. The general officers
cried out at this. One of them came to M. du Maine and reminded him of
the repeated orders of the Marechal de Villeroy, represented the
importance of victory, and the ease with which it could be obtained: with
tears in his eyes he begged M. du Maine to commence the attack. It was
all in vain; M. du Maine stammered, and could not be prevailed upon to
charge, and so allowed M. de Vaudemont's army to escape, when by a single
movement it might have been entirely defeated.

All our army was in despair, and officers and soldiers made no scruple of
expressing their anger and contempt. M. de Villeroy, more outraged than
anybody else, was yet too good a courtier to excuse himself at the
expense of M. du Maine. He simply wrote to the King, that he had been
deceived in those hopes of success which appeared certain the day before,
entered into no further details, and resigned himself to all that might
happen. The King, who had counted the hours until news of a great and
decisive victory should reach him, was very much surprised when this
letter came: he saw at once that something strange had happened of which
no intelligence had been sent: he searched the gazettes of Holland; in
one he read of a great action said to have been fought, and in which M.
du Maine had been grievously wounded; in the next the news of the action
was contradicted, and M. du Maine was declared to have received no wounds
at all. In order to learn what had really taken place, the King sent for
Lavienne, a man he was in the habit of consulting when he wanted to learn
things no one else dared to tell him.

This Lavienne had been a bath-keeper much in vogue in Paris, and had
become bath-keeper to the King at the time of his amours. He had pleased
by his drugs, which had frequently put the King in a state to enjoy
himself more, and this road had led Lavienne to become one of the four
chief valets de chambre. He was a very honest man, but coarse, rough,
and free-spoken; it was this last quality which made him useful in the
manner I have before mentioned. From Lavienne the King, but not without
difficulty, learned the truth: it threw him into despair. The other
illegitimate children were favourites with him, but it was upon M. du
Maine that all his hopes were placed. They now fell to the ground, and
the grief of the King was insupportable: he felt deeply for that dear son
whose troops had become the laughing stock of the army; he felt the
railleries that, as the gazettes showed him, foreigners were heaping upon
his forces; and his vexation was inconceivable.

This Prince, so equal in his manners, so thoroughly master of his
lightest movements, even upon the gravest occasions, succumbed under this
event. On rising from the table at Marly he saw a servant who, while
taking away the dessert, helped himself to a biscuit, which he put in his
pocket. On the instant, the King forgets his dignity, and cane in hand
runs to this valet (who little suspected what was in store for him),
strikes him; abuses him, and breaks the cane upon his body! The truth
is, 'twas only a reed, and snapped easily. However, the stump in his
hand, he walked away like a man quite beside himself, continuing to abuse
this valet, and entered Madame de Maintenon's room, where he remained
nearly an hour. Upon coming out he met Father la Chaise. "My father,"
said the King to him, in a very loud voice, "I have beaten a knave and
broken my cane over his shoulders, but I do not think I have offended
God." Everybody around trembled at this public confession, and the poor
priest muttered a semblance of approval between his teeth, to avoid
irritating the King more. The noise that the affair made and the terror
it inspired may be imagined; for nobody could divine for some time the
cause; and everybody easily understood that that which had appeared could
not be the real one. To finish with this matter, once for all, let us
add here the saying of M. d'Elboeuf. Courtier though he was, the upward
flight of the illegitimate children weighed upon his heart. As the
campaign was at its close and the Princes were about to depart, he begged
M. du Maine before everybody to say where he expected to serve during the
next campaign, because wherever it might be he should like to be there
also.

After being pressed to say why, he replied that "with him one's life was
safe." This pointed remark made much noise. M. du Maine lowered his
eyes, and did not reply one word. As for the Marechal de Villeroy he
grew more and more in favour with the King and with Madame de Maintenon.
The bitter fruit of M. du Maine's act was the taking of Namur, which
capitulated on August 4th (1695). The Marechal de Villeroy in turn
bombarded Brussels, which was sorely maltreated. The Marechal de
Boufflers, who had defended Namur, was made Duke, and those who had
served under him were variously rewarded. This gave occasion for the
Prince of Orange to say, that the King recompensed more liberally the
loss of a place than he could the conquest of one. The army retired into
winter-quarters at the end of October, and the Generals went to Paris.

As for me, I remained six weeks at Landau with M. and Madame de Lorges.
At the end of that time, the Marechal, having regained his health,
returned to the army, where he was welcomed with the utmost joy: he soon
after had an attack of apoplexy, and, by not attending to his malady in
time, became seriously ill again. When a little recovered, he and Madame
de Lorges set out for Vichy, and I went to Paris.




CHAPTER VIII

Before speaking of what happened at Court after my return, it will be
necessary to record what had occurred there during the campaign.

M. de Brias, Archbishop of Cambrai, had died, and the King had given that
valuable preferment to the Abbe de Fenelon, preceptor of the children of
France. Fenelon was a man of quality, without fortune, whom the
consciousness of wit--of the insinuating and captivating kind--united
with much ability, gracefulness of intellect, and learning, inspired with
ambition. He had been long going about from door to door, knocking for
admission, but without success. Piqued against the Jesuits, to whom he
had addressed himself at first, as holding all favours in their hands,
and discouraged because unable to succeed in that quarter, he turned next
to the Jansenists, to console himself by the reputation he hoped he
should derive from them, for the loss of those gifts of fortune which
hitherto had despised him.

He remained a considerable time undergoing the process of initiation, and
succeeded at last in being of the private parties that some of the
important Jansenists then held once or twice a week at the house of the
Duchesse de Brancas. I know not if he appeared too clever for them, or
if he hoped elsewhere for better things than he could get among people
who had only sores to share; but little by little his intimacy with them
cooled; and by dint of turning around Saint Sulpice, he succeeded in
forming another connection there, upon which he built greater
expectations. This society of priests was beginning to distinguish
itself, and from a seminary of a Paris parish to extend abroad.
Ignorance, the minuteness of their practices, the absence of all patrons
and of members at all distinguished in any way, inspired them with a
blind obedience to Rome and to all its maxims; with a great aversion for
everything that passed for Jansenism, and made them so dependent upon the
bishops that they began to be considered an acquisition in many dioceses.
They appeared a middle party, very useful to the prelates; who equally
feared the Court, on account of suspicions of doctrine, and the Jesuits
for as soon as the latter had insinuated themselves into the good graces
of the prelates, they imposed their yoke upon them, or ruined them
hopelessly;--thus the Sulpicians grew apace. None amongst them could
compare in any way with the Abbe de Fenelon; so that he was able easily
to play first fiddle, and to make for himself protectors who were
interested in advancing him, in order that they might be protected in
turn.

His piety, which was all things to all men, and his doctrine that he
formed upon theirs (abjuring, as it were, in whispers, the impurities he
might have contracted amongst those he had abandoned)--the charms, the
graces, the sweetness, the insinuation of his mind, rendered him a dear
friend to this new congregation, and procured for him what he had long
sought, people upon whom he could lean, and who could and would serve.
Whilst waiting opportunities, he carefully courted these people, without
thinking, however, of positively joining them, his views being more
ambitious; so that he ever sought to make new acquaintances and friends.
His was a coquettish mind, which from people the most influential down to
the workman and the lackey sought appreciation and was determined to
please; and his talents for this work perfectly seconded his desires.

At this time, and while still obscure, he heard speak of Madame Guyon,
who has since made so much noise in the world, and who is too well known
to need that I should dwell upon her here. He saw her. There was an
interchange of pleasure between their minds. Their sublimes amalgamated.
I know not if they understood each other very clearly in that system, and
that new tongue which they hatched subsequently, but they persuaded
themselves they did, and friendship grew up between them. Although more
known than he, Madame Guyon was nevertheless not much known, and their
intimacy was not perceived, because nobody thought of them; Saint Sulpice
even was ignorant of what was going on.

The Duc de Beauvilliers became Governor of the children of France almost
in spite of himself, without having thought of it. He had to choose a
preceptor for Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne. He addressed himself to
Saint Sulpice, where for a long time he had confessed, for he liked and
protected it. He had heard speak of Fenelon with eulogy: the Sulpicians
vaunted his piety, his intelligence, his knowledge, his talents; at last
they proposed him for preceptor. The Duc de Beauvilliers saw him, was
charmed with him, and appointed him to the office.

As soon as installed, Fenelon saw of what importance it would be to gain
the entire favour of the Duc de Beauvilliers, and of his brother-in-law
the Duc de Chevreuse, both very intimate friends, and both in the highest
confidence of the King and Madame de Maintenon. This was his first care,
and he succeeded beyond his hopes, becoming the master of their hearts
and minds, and the director of their consciences.

Madame de Maintenon dined regularly once a week at the house of one or
other of the two Dukes, fifth of a little party, composed of the two
sisters and the two husbands,--with a bell upon the table, in order to
dispense with servants in waiting, and to be able to talk without
restraint. Fenelon was at last admitted to this sanctuary, at foot of
which all the Court was prostrated. He was almost as successful with
Madame de Maintenon as he had been with the two Dukes. His spirituality
enchanted her: the Court soon perceived the giant strides of the
fortunate Abbe, and eagerly courted him. But, desiring to be free and
entirely devoted to his great object, he kept himself aloof from their
flatteries--made for himself a shield with his modesty and his duties of
preceptor--and thus rendered himself still more dear to the persons he
had captivated, and that he had so much interest in retaining in that
attachment.

Among these cares he forgot not his dear Madame Guyon; he had already
vaunted her to the two Dukes and to Madame de Maintenon. He had even
introduced her to them, but as though with difficulty and for a few
moments, as a woman all in God, whose humility and whose love of
contemplation and solitude kept her within the strictest limits, and
whose fear, above all, was that she should become known. The tone of her
mind pleased Madame de Maintenon extremely; her reserve, mixed with
delicate flatteries, won upon her. Madame de Maintenon wished to hear
her talk upon matters of piety; with difficulty she consented to speak.
She seemed to surrender herself to the charms and to the virtue of Madame
de Maintenon, and Madame de Maintenon fell into the nets so skilfully
prepared for her.

Such was the situation of Fenelon when he became Archbishop of Cambrai;
increasing the admiration in which he was held by taking no step to gain
that great benefice. He had taken care not to seek to procure himself
Cambrai; the least spark of ambition would have destroyed all his
edifice; and, moreover, it was not Cambrai that he coveted.

Little by little he appropriated to himself some distinguished sheep of
the small flock Madame Guyon had gathered together. He only conducted
them, however, under the direction of that prophetess, and, everything
passed with a secrecy and mystery that gave additional relish to the
manna distributed.

Cambrai was a thunderbolt for this little flock. It was the
archbishopric of Paris they wished. Cambrai they looked upon with
disdain as a country diocese, the residence in which (impossible to avoid
from time to time) would deprive them of their pastor. Their grief was
then profound at what the rest of the world took for a piece of amazing
luck, and the Countess of Guiche was so affected as to be unable to hide
her tears. The new prelate had not neglected such of his brethren as
made the most figure; they, in turn, considered it a distinction to
command his regard. Saint Cyr, that spot so valuable and so
inaccessible, was the place chosen for his consecration; and M. de Meaux,
dictator then of the episcopacy and or doctrine, consecrated him. The
children of France were among the spectators, and Madame de Maintenon was
present with her little court of familiars. No others were invited; the
doors were closed to those who sought to pay their court.

The new Archbishop of Cambrai, gratified with his influence over Madame
de Maintenon and with the advantages it had brought him, felt that unless
he became completely master of her, the hopes he still entertained could
not be satisfied. But there was a rival in his way--Godet, Bishop of
Chartres, who was much in the confidence of Madame de Maintenon, and had
long discourses with her at Saint Cyr. As he was, however, of a very ill
figure, had but little support at Court, and appeared exceedingly simple,
M. de Cambrai believed he could easily overthrow him. To do this, he
determined to make use of Madame Guyon, whose new spirituality had
already been so highly relished by Madame de Maintenon. He persuaded
this latter to allow Madame Guyon to enter Saint Cyr, where they could
discourse together much more at their ease than at the Hotel de Chevreuse
or Beauvilliers. Madame Guyon went accordingly to Saint Cyr two or three
times. Soon after, Madame de Maintenon, who relished her more and more,
made her sleep there, and their meetings grew longer. Madame Guyon
admitted that she sought persons proper to become her disciples, and in a
short time she formed a little flock, whose maxims and language appeared
very strange to all the rest of the house, and, above all, to M. de
Chartres. That prelate was not so simple as M. de Cambrai imagined.
Profound theologian and scholar, pious, disinterested, and of rare
probity, he could be, if necessary, a most skilful courtier; but he
rarely exerted this power, for the favour of Madame de Maintenon sufficed
him of itself. As soon as he got scent of this strange doctrine, he
caused two ladies, upon whom he could count, to be admitted to Saint Cyr,
as if to become disciples of Madame Guyon. He gave them full
instructions, and they played their parts to perfection. In the first
place they appeared to be ravished, and by degrees enchanted, with the
new doctrine. Madame Guyon, pleased with this fresh conquest, took the
ladies into her most intimate confidence in order to gain them entirely.
They communicated everything to M. de Chartres, who quietly looked on,
allowed things to take their course, and, when he believed the right
moment had arrived, disclosed all he had learnt to Madame de Maintenon.
She was strangely surprised when she saw the extraordinary drift of the
new doctrine. Troubled and uncertain, she consulted with M. de Cambrai,
who, not suspecting she had been so well instructed, became, when he
discovered it, embarrassed, and thus augmented her suspicions.

Suddenly Madame Guyon was driven away from Saint Cyr, and prohibited from
spreading her doctrine elsewhere. But the admiring disciples she had
made still gathered round her in secret, and this becoming known, she was
ordered to leave Paris. She feigned obedience, but in effect went no
further than the Faubourg Saint Antoine, where, with great secrecy, she
continued to receive her flock. But being again detected, she was sent,
without further parley, to the Bastille, well treated there, but allowed
to see nobody, not even to write. Before being arrested, however, she
had been put into the hands of M. de Meaux, who used all his endeavours
to change her sentiments. Tired at last of his sermons, she feigned
conviction, signed a recantation of her opinions, and was set at liberty.
Yet, directly after, she held her secret assemblies in the Faubourg Saint
Antoine, and it was in consequence of this abuse of freedom that she was
arrested. These adventures bring me far into the year 1696, and the
sequel extends into the following year. Let us finish this history at
once, and return afterwards to what happened meanwhile.

Monsieur de Cambrai, stunned but not overpowered by the reverse he had
sustained, and by his loss of favour with Madame de Maintenon, stood firm
in his stirrups. After Madame Guyon's abuse of her liberty, and the
conferences of Issy, he bethought himself of confessing to M. de Meaux,
by which celebrated trick he hoped to close that prelate's mouth. These
circumstances induced M. de Meaux to take pen in hand, in order to expose
to the public the full account of his affair, and of Madame Guyon's
doctrine; and he did so in a work under the title of 'Instruction sur les
Etats d'Oyaison'.

While the book was yet unpublished, M. de Cambrai was shown a copy. He
saw at once the necessity of writing another to ward off the effect of
such a blow. He must have had a great deal of matter already prepared,
otherwise the diligence he used would be incredible. Before M. de
Meaux's book was ready, M. de Cambrai's, entitled 'Maximes des Saints',
was published and distributed. M. de Chevreuse, who corrected the
proofs, installed himself at the printer's, so as to see every sheet as
soon as printed.

This book, written in the strangest manner, did M. de Cambrai little
service. If people were offended to find it supported upon no authority,
they were much more so with its confused and embarrassed style, its
precision so restrained and so decided, its barbarous terms which seemed
as though taken from a foreign tongue, above all, its high-flown and far-
fetched thoughts, which took one's breath away, as in the too subtle air
of the middle region. Nobody, except the theologians, understood it, and
even they not without reading it three or four times. Connoisseurs found
in it a pure Quietism, which, although wrapped up in fine language, was
clearly visible. I do not give my own judgment of things so much beyond
me, but repeat what was said everywhere. Nothing else was talked about,
even by the ladies; and a propos of this, the saying of Madame de Sevigne
was revived: "Make religion a little more palpable; it evaporates by dint
of being over-refined."

Not a word was heard in praise of the book; everybody was opposed to it,
and it was the means of making Madame de Maintenon more unfavourable to
M. de Cambrai than ever. He sent the King a copy, without informing her.
This completed her annoyance against him. M. de Cambrai, finding his
book so ill-received by the Court and by the prelates, determined to try
and support it on the authority of Rome, a step quite opposed to our
manners. In the mean time, M. de Meaux's book appeared in two volumes
octavo, well written, clear, modest, and supported upon the authority of
the Scriptures. It was received with avidity, and absolutely devoured.
There was not a person at the Court who did not take a pleasure in
reading it, so that for a long time it was the common subject of
conversation of the Court and of the town.

These two books, so opposed in doctrine and in style, made such a stir on
every side that the King interposed, and forced M. de Cambrai to submit
his work to an examination by a council of prelates, whom he named.
M. de Cambrai asked permission to go to Rome to defend his cause in
person, but this the King refused. He sent his book, therefore, to the
Pope, and had the annoyance to receive a dry, cold reply, and to see
M. de Meaux's book triumph. His good fortune was in effect at an end.
He remained at Court some little time, but the King was soon irritated
against him, sent him off post-haste to Paris, and from there to his
diocese, whence he has never returned. He left behind him a letter for
one of his friends, M. de Chevreuse it was generally believed, which
immediately after became public. It appeared like the manifesto of a man
who disgorges his bile and restrains himself no more, because he has
nothing more to hope. The letter, bold and bitter in style, was besides
so full of ability and artifice, that it was extremely pleasant to read,
without finding approvers; so true it is that a wise and disdainful
silence is difficult to keep under reverses.






VOLUME 2.




CHAPTER IX

To return now to the date from which I started. On the 6th of August,
1695, Harlay, Arch-bishop of Paris, died of epilepsy at Conflans. He was
a prelate of profound knowledge and ability, very amiable, and of most
gallant manners. For some time past he had lost favour with the King and
with Madame de Maintenon, for opposing the declaration of her marriage--
of which marriage he had been one of the three witnesses. The clergy,
who perceived his fall, and to whom envy is not unfamiliar, took pleasure
in revenging themselves upon M. de Paris, for the domination, although
gentle and kindly, he had exercised. Unaccustomed to this decay of his
power, all the graces of his mind and body withered. He could find no
resource but to shut himself up with his dear friend the Duchesse de
Lesdiguieres, whom he saw every day of his life, either at her own house
or at Conflans, where he had laid out a delicious garden, kept so
strictly clean, that as the two walked, gardeners followed at a distance,
and effaced their footprints with rakes. The vapours seized the
Archbishop, and turned themselves into slight attacks of epilepsy. He
felt this, but prohibited his servants to send for help, when they should
see him attacked; and he was only too well obeyed. The Duchesse de
Lesdiguieres never slept at Conflans, but she went there every afternoon,
and was always alone with him. On the 6th of August, he passed the
morning, as usual, until dinner-time; his steward came there to him, and
found him in his cabinet, fallen back upon a sofa; he was dead. The
celebrated Jesuit-Father Gaillard preached his funeral sermon, and
carefully eluded pointing the moral of the event. The King and Madame de
Maintenon were much relieved by the loss of M. de Paris. Various places
he had held were at once distributed. His archbishopric and his
nomination to the cardinalship required more discussion. The King learnt
the news of the death of M. de Paris on the 6th. On the 8th, in going as
usual to his cabinet, he went straight up to the Bishop of Orleans, led
him to the Cardinals de Bouillon and de Fursternberg, and said to them:-
"Gentlemen, I think you will thank me for giving you an associate like M.
d'Orleans, to whom I give my nomination to the cardinalship." At this
word the Bishop, who little expected such a scene, fell at the King's
feet and embraced his knees. He was a man whose face spoke at once of
the virtue and benignity he possessed. In youth he was so pious, that
young and old were afraid to say afoul word in his presence. Although
very rich, he appropriated scarcely any of his wealth to himself, but
gave it away for good works. The modesty and the simplicity with which
M. d'Orleans sustained his nomination, increased the universal esteem in
which he was held.

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