Book: The Secret Memoirs of Louis XV./XVI, Complete

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I got her to repeat this conversation, and wrote it down immediately,
that I might not forget it.

An anonymous letter was addressed to the King and Madame de Pompadour;
and, as the author was very anxious that it should not miscarry, he sent
copies to the Lieutenant of Police, sealed and directed to the King, to
Madame de Pompadour, and to M. de Marigny. This letter produced a strong
impression on Madame, and on the King, and still more, I believe, on the
Duc de Choiseul, who had received a similar one. I went on my knees to
M. de Marigny, to prevail on him to allow me to copy it, that I might
show it to the Doctor. It is as follows:

"Sire--It is a zealous servant who writes to Your Majesty. Truth is
always better, particularly to Kings; habituated to flattery, they see
objects only under those colours most likely to please them. I have
reflected, and read much; and here is what my meditations have suggested
to me to lay before Your Majesty. They have accustomed you to be
invisible, and inspired you with a timidity which prevents you from
speaking; thus all direct communication is cut off between the master and
his subjects. Shut up in the interior of your palace, you are becoming
every day like the Emperors of the East; but see, Sire, their fate! 'I
have troops,' Your Majesty will say; such, also, is their support: but,
when the only security of a King rests upon his troops; when he is only,
as one may say, a King of the soldiers, these latter feel their own
strength, and abuse it. Your finances are in the greatest disorder, and
the great majority of states have perished through this cause. A
patriotic spirit sustained the ancient states, and united all classes for
the safety of their country. In the present times, money has taken the
place of this spirit; it has become the universal lever, and you are in
want of it. A spirit of finance affects every department of the state;
it reigns triumphant at Court; all have become venal; and all distinction
of rank is broken up. Your Ministers are without genius and capacity
since the dismissal of MM. d'Argenson and de Machault. You alone cannot
judge of their incapacity, because they lay before you what has been
prepared by skilful clerks, but which they pass as their own. They
provide only for the necessity of the day, but there is no spirit of
government in their acts. The military changes that have taken place
disgust the troops, and cause the most deserving officers to resign; a
seditious flame has sprung up in the very bosom of the Parliaments; you
seek to corrupt them, and the remedy is worse than the disease. It is
introducing vice into the sanctuary of justice, and gangrene into the
vital parts of the commonwealth. Would a corrupted Parliament have
braved the fury of the League, in order to preserve the crown for the
legitimate sovereign? Forgetting the maxims of Louis XIV., who well
understood the danger of confiding the administration to noblemen, you
have chosen M. de Choiseul, and even given him three departments; which
is a much heavier burden than that which he would have to support as
Prime Minister, because the latter has only to oversee the details
executed by the Secretaries of State. The public fully appreciate this
dazzling Minister. He is nothing more than a 'petit-maitre', without
talents or information, who has a little phosphorus in his mind. There
is a thing well worthy of remark, Sire; that is, the open war carried on
against religion. Henceforward there can spring up no new sects, because
the general belief has been shaken, that no one feels inclined to occupy
himself with difference of sentiment upon some of the articles. The
Encyclopedists, under pretence of enlightening mankind, are sapping the
foundations of religion. All the different kinds of liberty are
connected; the Philosophers and the Protestants tend towards
republicanism, as well as the Jansenists. The Philosophers strike at the
root, the others lop the branches; and their efforts, without being
concerted, will one day lay the tree low. Add to these the Economists;
whose object is political liberty, as that of the others is liberty of
worship, and the Government may find itself, in twenty or thirty years,
undermined in every direction, and will then fall with a crash. If Your
Majesty, struck by this picture, but too true, should ask me for a
remedy, I should say, that it is necessary to bring back the Government
to its principles, and, above all, to lose no time in restoring order to
the state of the finances, because the embarrassments incident to a
country in a state of debt necessitate fresh taxes, which, after grinding
the people, induce them towards revolt. It is my opinion that Your
Majesty would do well to appear more among your people; to shew your
approbation of useful services, and your displeasure of errors and
prevarications, and neglect of duty: in a word, to let it be seen that
rewards and punishments, appointments and dismissals, proceed from
yourself. You will then inspire gratitude by your favours, and fear by
your reproaches; you will then be the object of immediate and personal
attachment, instead of which, everything is now referred to your
Ministers. The confidence in the King, which is habitual to your people,
is shewn by the exclamation, so common among them, 'Ah! if the King knew
it' They love to believe that the King would remedy all their evils, if
he knew of them. But, on the other hand, what sort of ideas must they
form of kings, whose duty it is to be informed of everything, and to
superintend everything, that concerns the public, but who are,
nevertheless, ignorant of everything which the discharge of their
functions requires them to know? 'Rex, roi, regere, regar, conduire'--to
rule, to conduct--these words sufficiently denote their duties. What
would be said of a father who got rid of the charge of his children as of
a burthen?

"A time will come, Sire, when the people shall be enlightened--and that
time is probably approaching. Resume the reins of government, hold them
with a firm hand, and act, so that it cannot be said of you, 'Faeminas et
scorta volvit ammo et haec principatus praemia putat':--Sire, if I see
that my sincere advice should have produced any change, I shall continue
it, and enter into more details; if not, I shall remain silent."

Now that I am upon the subject of anonymous letters to the King, I must
just mention that it is impossible to conceive how frequent they were.
People were extremely assiduous in telling either unpleasant truths, or
alarming lies, with a view to injure others. As an instance, I shall
transcribe one concerning Voltaire, who paid great court to Madame de
Pompadour when he was in France. This letter was written long after the
former.

"Madame--M. de Voltaire has just dedicated his tragedy of Tancred to you;
this ought to be an offering of respect and gratitude; but it is, in
fact, an insult, and you will form the same opinion of it as the public
has done if you read it with attention. You will see that this
distinguished writer appears to betray a consciousness that the subject
of his encomiums is not worthy of them, and to endeavour to excuse
himself for them to the public. These are his words: 'I have seen your
graces and talents unfold themselves from your infancy. At all periods
of your life I have received proofs of your uniform and unchanging
kindness. If any critic be found to censure the homage I pay you, he
must have a heart formed for ingratitude. I am under great obligations
to you, Madame, and these obligations it is my duty to proclaim.'

"What do these words really signify, unless that Voltaire feels it may be
thought extraordinary that he should dedicate his work to a woman who
possesses but a small share of the public esteem, and that the sentiment
of gratitude must plead his excuse? Why should he suppose that the
homage he pays you will be censured, whilst we daily see dedications
addressed to silly gossips who have neither rank nor celebrity, or to
women of exceptional conduct, without any censure being attracted by it?"

M. de Marigny, and Colin, Madame de Pompadour's steward, were of the same
opinion as Quesnay, that the author of this letter was extremely
malicious; that he insulted Madame, and tried to injure Voltaire; but
that he was, in fact, right. Voltaire, from that moment, was entirely
out of favour with Madame, and with the King, and he certainly never
discovered the cause.

The King, who admired everything of the age of Louis XIV., and
recollected that the Boileaus and Racines had been protected by that
monarch, who was indebted to them, in part, for the lustre of his reign,
was flattered at having such a man as Voltaire among his subjects. But
still he feared him, and had but little esteem for him. He could not
help saying, "Moreover, I have treated him as well as Louis XIV. treated
Racine and Boileau. I have given him, as Louis XIV. gave to Racine, some
pensions, and a place of gentleman in ordinary. It is not my fault if he
has committed absurdities, and has had the pretension to become a
chamberlain, to wear an order, and sup with a King. It is not the
fashion in France; and, as there are here a few more men of wit and
noblemen than in Prussia, it would require that I should have a very
large table to assemble them all at it." And then he reckoned upon his
fingers, Maupertuis, Fontenelle, La Mothe, Voltaire, Piron, Destouches,
Montesquieu, the Cardinal Polignac. "Your Majesty forgets," said some
one, "D'Alembert and Clairaut."--"And Crebillon," said he. "And la
Chaussee, and the younger Crebillon," said some one. "He ought to be
more agreeable than his father."--"And there are also the Abbes Prevot
and d'Olivet."--"Pretty well," said the King; "and for the last twenty
years all that (tout cela) would have dined and supped at my table."

Madame de Pompadour repeated to me this conversation, which I wrote down
the same evening. M. de Marigny, also, talked to me about it.
"Voltaire," said he, "has always had a fancy for being Ambassador, and he
did all he could to make the people believe that he was charged with some
political mission, the first time he visited Prussia."

The people heard of the attempt on the King's life with transports of
fury, and with the greatest distress. Their cries were heard under the
windows of Madame de Pompadour's apartment. Mobs were collected, and
Madame feared the fate of Madame de Chateauroux. Her friends came in,
every minute, to give her intelligence. Her room was, at all times, like
a church; everybody seemed to claim a right to go in and out when he
chose. Some came, under pretence of sympathising, to observe her
countenance and manner. She did nothing but weep and faint away. Doctor
Quesnay never left her, nor did I. M. de St. Florentin came to see her
several times, so did the Comptroller-General, and M. Rouilld; but M. de
Machault did not come. The Duchesse de Brancas came very frequently. The
Abbe de Bernis never left us, except to go to enquire for the King. The
tears came in his eyes whenever he looked at Madame. Doctor Quesnay saw
the King five or six times a day. "There is nothing to fear," said he to
Madame. "If it were anybody else, he might go to a ball." My son went
the next day, as he had done the day the event occurred, to see what was
going on at the Castle. He told us, on his return, that the Keeper of
the Seals was with the King. I sent him back, to see what course he took
on leaving the King. He came running back in half an hour, to tell me
that the Keeper of the Seals had gone to his own house, followed by a
crowd of people. When I told this to Madame, she burst into tears, and
said, "Is that a friend?" The Abbe de Bernis said, "You must not judge
him hastily, in such a moment as this." I returned into the drawing-room
about an hour after, when the Keeper of the Seals entered. He passed me,
with his usual cold and severe look. "How is Madame de Pompadour?" said
he. "Alas!" replied I, "as you may imagine!" He passed on to her
closet. Everybody retired, and he remained for half an hour. The Abbe
returned and Madame rang. I went into her room, the Abbe following me.
She was in tears. "I must go, my dear Abbe," said she. I made her take
some orange-flower water, in a silver goblet, for her teeth chattered.
She then told me to call her equerry. He came in, and she calmly gave
him her orders, to have everything prepared at her hotel, in Paris; to
tell all her people to get ready to go; and to desire her coachman not to
be out of the way. She then shut herself up, to confer with the Abbe de
Bernis, who left her, to go to the Council. Her door was then shut,
except to the ladies with whom she was particularly intimate, M. de
Soubise, M. de Gontaut, the Ministers, and some others. Several ladies,
in the greatest distress, came to talk to me in my room: they compared
the conduct of M. de Machault with that of M. de Richelieu, at Metz.
Madame had related to them the circumstances extremely to the honour of
the Duke, and, by contrast, the severest satire on the Keeper of the
Seals. "He thinks, or pretends to think," said she, "that the priests
will be clamorous for my dismissal; but Quesnay and all the physicians
declare that there is not the slightest danger." Madame having sent for
me, I saw the Marechale de Mirepoix coming in. While she was at the
door, she cried out, "What are all those trunks, Madame? Your people
tell me you are going."--"Alas! my dear friend, such is our Master's
desire, as M. de Machault tells me."--"And what does he advise?" said
the Marechale. "That I should go without delay." During this
conversation, I was undressing Madame, who wished to be at her ease on
her chaise-longue. "Your Beeper of the Seals wants to get the power into
his own hands, and betrays you; he who quits the field loses it." I went
out. M. de Soubise entered, then the Abbe and M. de Marigny. The
latter, who was very kind to me, came into my room an hour afterwards. I
was alone. "She will remain," said he; "but, hush!--she will make an
appearance of going, in order not to set her enemies at work. It is the
little Marechale who prevailed upon her to stay: her keeper (so she
called M. de Machault) will pay for it." Quesnay came in, and, having
heard what was said, with his monkey airs, began to relate a fable of a
fox, who, being at dinner with other beasts, persuaded one of them that
his enemies were seeking him, in order that he might get possession of
his share in his absence. I did not see Madame again till very late, at
her going to bed. She was more calm. Things improved, from day to day,
and de Machault, the faithless friend, was dismissed. The King returned
to Madame de Pompadour, as usual. I learnt, by M. de Marigny, that the
Abbe had been, one day, with M. d'Argenson, to endeavour to persuade him
to live on friendly terms with Madame, and that he had been very coldly
received. "He is the more arrogant," said he, "on account of Machault's
dismissal, which leaves the field clear for him, who has more experience,
and more talent; and I fear that he will, therefore, be disposed to
declare war till death." The next day, Madame having ordered her chaise,
I was curious to know where she was going, for she went out but little,
except to church, and to the houses of the Ministers. I was told that
she was gone to visit M. d'Argenson. She returned in an hour, at
farthest, and seemed very much out of spirits. She leaned on the
chimneypiece, with her eyes fixed on the border of it. M. de Bernis
entered. I waited for her to take off her cloak and gloves. She had her
hands in her muff. The Abbe stood looking at her for some minutes; at
last he said, "You look like a sheep in a reflecting mood." She awoke
from her reverie, and, throwing her muff on the easy-chair, replied, "It
is a wolf who makes the sheep reflect." I went out: the King entered
shortly after, and I heard Madame de Pompadour sobbing. The Abbe came
into my room, and told me to bring some Hoffman's drops: the King himself
mixed the draught with sugar, and presented it to her in the kindest
manner possible. She smiled, and kissed the King's hands. I left the
room. Two days after, very early in the morning, I heard of M.
d'Argenson's exile. It was her doing, and was, indeed, the strongest
proof of her influence that could be given. The King was much attached
to M. d'Argenson, and the war, then carrying on, both by sea and land,
rendered the dismissal of two such Ministers extremely imprudent. This
was the universal opinion at the time.

Many people talk of the letter of the Comte d'Argenson to Madame
d'Esparbes. I give it, according to the most correct version:

"The doubtful is, at length, decided. The Keeper of the Seals is
dismissed. You will be recalled, my dear Countess, and we shall be
masters of the field."

It is much less generally known that Arboulin, whom Madame calls Bou-bou,
was supposed to be the person who, on the very day of the dismissal of
the Keeper of the Seals, bribed the Count's confidential courier, who
gave him this letter. Is this report founded on truth? I cannot swear
that it is; but it is asserted that the letter is written in the Count's
style. Besides, who could so immediately have invented it? It, however,
appeared certain, from the extreme displeasure of the King, that he had
some other subject of complaint against M. d'Argenson, besides his
refusing to be reconciled with Madame. Nobody dares to show the
slightest attachment to the disgraced Minister. I asked the ladies who
were most intimate with Madame de Pompadour, as well as my own friends,
what they knew of the matter; but they knew nothing. I can understand
why Madame did not let them into her confidence at that moment. She will
be less reserved in time. I care very little about it, since I see that
she is well, and appears happy.

The King said a thing, which did him honour, to a person whose name
Madame withheld from me. A nobleman, who had been a most assiduous
courtier of the Count, said, rubbing his hands with an air of great joy,
"I have just seen the Comte d'Argenson's baggage set out." When the King
heard him, he went up to Madame, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "And
immediately the cock crew."

"I believe this is taken from Scripture, where Peter denies Our Lord. I
confess, this circumstance gave me great pleasure. It showed that the
King is not the dupe of those around him, and that he hates treachery and
ingratitude."

Madame sent for me yesterday evening, at seven o'clock, to read something
to her; the ladies who were intimate with her were at Paris, and M. de
Gontaut ill. "The King," said she, "will stay late at the Council this
evening; they are occupied with the affairs of the Parliament again." She
bade me leave off reading, and I was going to quit the room, but she
called out, "Stop." She rose; a letter was brought in for her, and she
took it with an air of impatience and ill-humour. After a considerable
time she began to talk openly, which only happened when she was extremely
vexed; and, as none of her confidential friends were at hand, she said to
me, "This is from my brother. It is what he would not have dared to say
to me, so he writes. I had arranged a marriage for him with the daughter
of a man of title; he appeared to be well inclined to it, and I,
therefore, pledged my word. He now tells me that he has made inquiries;
that the parents are people of insupportable hauteur; that the daughter
is very badly educated; and that he knows, from authority not to be
doubted, that when she heard this marriage discussed, she spoke of the
connection with the most supreme contempt; that he is certain of this
fact; and that I was still more contemptuously spoken of than himself. In
a word, he begs me to break off the treaty. But he has let me go too
far; and now he will make these people my irreconcilable enemies. This
has been put in his head by some of his flatterers; they do not wish him
to change his way of living; and very few of them would be received by
his wife." I tried to soften Madame, and, though I did not venture to
tell her so, I thought her brother right. She persisted in saying these
were lies, and, on the following Sunday, treated her brother very coldly.
He said nothing to me at that time; if he had, he would have embarrassed
me greatly. Madame atoned for everything by procuring favours, which
were the means of facilitating the young lady's marriage with a gentleman
of the Court. Her conduct, two months after marriage, compelled Madame
to confess that her brother had been perfectly right.

I saw my friend, Madame du Chiron. "Why," said she, "is the Marquise so
violent an enemy to the Jesuits? I assure you she is wrong. All
powerful as she is, she may find herself the worse for their enmity." I
replied that I knew nothing about the matter. "It is, however,
unquestionably a fact; and she does not feel that a word more or less
might decide her fate."--"How do you mean?" said I. "Well, I will
explain myself fully," said she. "You know what took place at the time
the King was stabbed: an attempt was made to get her out of the Castle
instantly. The Jesuits have no other object than the salvation of their
penitents; but they are men, and hatred may, without their being aware of
it, influence their minds, and inspire them with a greater degree of
severity than circumstances absolutely demand. Favour and partiality
may, on the other hand, induce the confessor to make great concessions;
and the shortest interval may suffice to save a favourite, especially if
any decent pretext can be found for prolonging her stay at Court." I
agreed with her in all she said, but I told her that I dared not touch
that string. On reflecting on this conversation afterwards, I was
forcibly struck with this fresh proof of the intrigues of the Jesuits,
which, indeed, I knew well already. I thought that, in spite of what I
had replied to Madame du Chiron, I ought to communicate this to Madame de
Pompadour, for the ease of my conscience; but that I would abstain from
making any reflection upon it. "Your friend, Madame du Chiron," said
she, "is, I perceive, affiliated to the Jesuits, and what she says does
not originate with herself. She is commissioned by some reverend father,
and I will know by whom." Spies were, accordingly, set to watch her
movements, and they discovered that one Father de Saci, and, still more
particularly, one Father Frey, guided this lady's conduct. "What a
pity," said Madame to me, "that the Abbe Chauvelin cannot know this." He
was the most formidable enemy of the reverend fathers. Madame du Chiron
always looked upon me as a Jansenist, because I would not espouse the
interests of the good fathers with as much warmth as she did.

Madame is completely absorbed in the Abbe de Bernis, whom she thinks
capable of anything; she talks of him incessantly. Apropos, of this
Abbe, I must relate an anecdote, which almost makes one believe in
conjurors. A year, or fifteen months, before her disgrace, Madame de
Pompadour, being at Fontainebleau, sat down to write at a desk, over
which hung a portrait of the King. While she was, shutting the desk,
after she had finished writing, the picture fell, and struck her
violently on the head.. The persons who saw the accident were alarmed,
and sent for Dr. Quesnay. He asked the circumstances of the case, and
ordered bleeding and anodynes. Just, as she had been bled, Madame de
Brancas entered, and saw us all in confusion and agitation, and Madame
lying on her chaise-longue. She asked what was the matter, and was told.
After having expressed her regret, and having consoled her, she said, "I
ask it as a favour of Madame, and of the King (who had just come in),
that they will instantly send a courier to the Abbe de Bernis, and that
the Marquise will have the goodness to write a letter, merely requesting
him to inform her what his fortune-tellers told him, and to withhold
nothing from the fear of making her uneasy." The thing was, done as she
desired, and she then told us that La Bontemps had predicted, from the
dregs in the coffee-cup, in which she read everything, that the head of
her best friend was in danger, but that no fatal consequences would
ensue.

The next day, the Abbe wrote word that Madame Bontemps also said to him,
"You came into the world almost black," and that this was the fact. This
colour, which lasted for some time, was attributed to a picture which
hung at the foot of his, mother's bed, and which she often looked at. It
represented a Moor bringing to Cleopatra a basket of flowers, containing
the asp by whose bite she destroyed herself. He said that she also told
him, "You have a great deal of money about you, but it does not belong to
you;" and that he had actually in his pocket two hundred Louis for the
Duc de La Valliere. Lastly, he informed us that she said, looking in the
cup, "I see one of your friends--the best--a distinguished lady,
threatened with an accident;" that he confessed that, in spite of all his
philosophy, he turned pale; that she remarked this, looked again into the
cup, and continued, "Her head will be slightly in danger, but of this no
appearance will remain half an hour afterwards." It was impossible to
doubt the facts. They appeared so surprising to the King, that he
desired some inquiry to be made concerning the fortune-teller. Madame,
however, protected her from the pursuit of the Police.

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