The Sun King
Page 6
There were few who did not tremble before Louis XIV; his sister-in-law and cousin, the first Madame, had trembled when they were boy and girl together — even the great Condé did. People who went to Court for the first time were told that it was better to get used to seeing the King before daring to address him, since the first contact with his personality often struck dumb. This terrifying side was the reverse of the medal. The King could be most human. When he gave an audience, even if it was to somebody who had displeased him, he would listen attentively and with goodness, only interrupting in order to understand the point which his interlocutor was trying to make. He was polite — perhaps the most truly polite king who ever lived. He always took off his hat to women, even to some small little housemaid, though raising it higher according to their rank. With men, the hat was brought to a fine art; for the dukes it came off though only a little, for others it was tilted, or rested a moment on his ear. If he was in his carriage and saw a priest with the viaticum he would get out, whatever the weather, and kneel on the ground. He was only seen to lose his temper to the point of physical violence three times in his long life, with Louvois, with Lauzun, when he threw his stick out of the window so as not to be tempted to strike a gentleman and, when, deeply upset at hearing of the cowardice of his son du Maine, he struck a footman for stealing a biscuit at his table. ‘This prince,’ says Saint-Simon, ‘so even-tempered and so perfectly controlled, gave way on this unique occasion.’ The astonishment of the bystanders spoke for itself.
Louis XIV loved a joke, and, in his dry fashion could be very witty. The best way of getting out of a difficult situation was to make him laugh; Mme de Montespan’s hold over him was partly due to her funniness. She was never frightened of him, only of losing him.
This year, 1674, Mlle de La Vallière accepted the fact that she had lost him; asked and received permission to leave the Court for good. She threw herself at the Queen’s feet in public and begged forgiveness; then she entered Orders as a Carmelite. All her friends at the Court went to see her take the veil; the spectacle was touching. She said that she left the world without regret though not without pain: ‘I believe, I hope and I love.’ She was only thirty; and she expiated her sin with much mortification of the flesh for another thirty-six years. So it was that she who had once been the very soul of Versailles never had a suite of rooms in the château and never saw it completed.
There was still not enough room at Versailles for all the people by whom the King would have liked to be surrounded, but at least he could now hold his Court there; the splendid suite of seven reception rooms known as the Grand Appartement was ready. The walls and ceilings, decorated by Le Brun and his pupils, are exactly as they were then, but the furniture, the hangings and curtains, of embroidered velvet in winter and flowered silk in summer, the silver candelabra and chandeliers from which flickered a hundred thousand candles, so that the whole place appeared to be on fire, have vanished; and the pictures are in the Louvre. They were: Giorgione’s Musicians, Antonio Moro’s Portrait of a Man, all the Leonardos of the Louvre including ‘La femme d’un Florentin nommée Gioconde’, Andrea del Sarto’s Tobias, Mantegna’s Virgin, Titian’s Entombment, Last Supper, Christ and the Pilgrims at Emmaus, The Virgin and St Agnes, Portrait of a Man, Andromeda, Veronese’s The Pilgrims at Emmaus, The Virgin, St John and St Catherine, Judith and the head of Holofernes, Flight into Egypt, Woman presenting her son to Christ, David and Bathsheba, Guido Reni’s Labours of Hercules, Flight into Egypt, The Good Samaritan, Guercino’s Virgin and St Peter, Raphaël’s St John, La Belle Jardinière, Carracci’s St Sebastian, Aeneas carrying his father, Poussin’s Our Lady of the Columns, Rebecca at the Well and seven others, Rubens’ La Tomi-rice, Labour of Hercules, Marie de Médicis, Domenichino’s The Musicians, Bassano’s Noah’s Ark.
Many of these pictures came from the collection of François I, but Louis XIV also collected. When he came to the throne, he owned about two hundred — when he died, over two thousand. He liked the Venetian and Bolognese schools — in his bedroom he had Caravaggio’s St John the Baptist, Guido Reni’s Mary Magdalene, a self-portrait by Van Dyck (it is still there). Domenichino’s St Cecilia and Veronese’s St Catherine.
The Grand Appartement was essential to the routine of Court life as planned by the King, since the whole establishment could foregather here, and did so every morning for the procession to Mass and three times a week for an evening entertainment which was called Appartement. The gambling, without which it would have been impossible to keep the courtiers amused and happy, took place in the Grand Appartement. Versailles was often known as ‘ce tripot’ (gambling den) and indeed resembled a casino. The nobles played high and, unless the King happened to be in the room, when they more or less controlled themselves, those who were losing fell into audible despair; they howled, blasphemed, made dreadful faces, pulled out their hair and wept. They cheated shamelessly and were not specially blamed for doing so. Those who could remember St François de Sales said that he cheated worse than anybody in his worldly days, though in all other respects the best of fellows. The few who never lost their self control at the tables were remarkable, they included Mazarin’s niece the Comtesse de Soissons, the Venetian Ambassador Giustiniani, the Marquis de Beaumont who gambled away everything he possessed at a single sitting without making any observation, and the Marquis de Dangeau, for years the best card player in France, who generally won and was never suspected of cheating. Dangeau was the author of the dullest but most reliable diary of the period; it was annotated after his death by Saint-Simon, who freely used it in the composition of his memoirs. Voltaire said it was written by Dangeau’s servants, and indeed the entries are in different handwritings.
Whist had not yet been invented; ten or eleven different games were played, of a simple variety, rather like Vingt-et-un. It paid, however, to have card sense, even if but little skill was required. The Queen, who loved gambling and was as stupid at cards as she was at everything else, invariably lost. As well as cards they played Hocca, a sort of roulette at which people lost such enormous sums, and which was generally so crooked, that two Popes forbade it in the Papal States and so did La Reynie, head of the police, in Paris. To his annoyance, the King not only allowed it at the Court but even played it himself. His favourite card game was Reversi, which Napoleon also liked, but Louis preferred billiards to playing cards as it made him fidgety to sit still for any length of time. A billiard table was set up in one of the rooms (Salle de Diane) of the Grand Appartement.
As well as the gambling there were plays, concerts and dances. The King was devoted to music and seldom without any — a band or orchestra was generally playing within his earshot; he woke up to the sound of a band in the courtyard. On summer nights he and his friends would go on the canal in gondolas, followed by Lully and his fiddlers on a sort of floating platform. These gondolas, complete with gondoliers, were sent to the King as a present from the Venetian Republic. He built a village for them, called Little Venice, on the water.
In 1679, Louis XIV with his architect Jules Mansart, began to build Marly, a small house near Versailles where he could go in order to be quiet and peaceful, taking a few friends. The château itself was large enough for him and his family and there were twelve pavilions, eleven which housed two married couples in each and one which was kept for bathrooms. These pavilions were connected with each other and the main building by arbours of sweet-scented shrubs. The etiquette at Marly was quite different from that at Versailles and much easier. Whereas at Versailles no man but Monsieur ever sat down to dine with the King, at Marly the Dauphin and, later on, his three sons, Monsieur and his son Chartres could do so, though generally the Dauphin presided at a second table and the King had the women at his own. The men all ate together at a third. The day at Marly was spent looking at improvements in the gardens, where the King amused himself for the rest of his life turning lakes into forests and forests into lakes; the whole place was a bower of blossom. In the evening there were balls, p
arties, concerts, plays and, of course, gambling.
Invitations to Marly, where one lived so intimately with the King, were much sought after; he liked people to ask for one, so that when it became known that a visit there was in prospect, he would go down the Galerie des Glaces on his way to church to the sound of ‘Sire, Marly?’ from many throats. In fact the same people were asked over and over again, those with whom he felt easy. As at Versailles, he gave parties in the garden before the house was ready — he slept there for the first time in 1686.
All the buildings at Marly, except one or two lodges and gardeners’ houses, were destroyed after the French Revolution, but the site is still one of the most beautiful parks in the Ile de France.
5. THE GOVERNESS
Sa compagnie est délicieuse.
MME DE Sévigné, of Mme Scarron
In 1674 Mme Scarron began what in later life she used to call her ‘long struggle for the King’s soul’. In this struggle her chief adversary was Mme de Montespan and her most powerful weapon the little Duc du Maine. He was a particularly fascinating baby who had inherited all his mother’s looks and charm. Mme Scarron brought him on, taught him to read at a very early age and never punished or frightened him, so that he was confident with grown-up people. The King loved him much more than his other children and he responded naturally. It was the greatest pity that Louis never took such a fancy to the Dauphin, who was much better human material but was being ruined by a different sort of upbringing. His father, whose own schooling in practical government, with Mazarin’s brilliant manoeuvres as an example, had been unique, but whose book-learning left much to be desired, was particularly anxious for the Dauphin to have a good general education. He appointed Bishop Bossuet, the greatest living manipulator of French prose, as his tutor. His governor was the Duc de Montausier. No doubt from excellent motives these two men beat the Dauphin cruelly every day at his lessons. On one occasion it was even thought that they had broken his arm. Montausier was a brute but Bossuet ought to have known better. Presumably he had no understanding whatever of children. The Dauphin was far from stupid — some of his contemporaries go as far as to say that he was a brilliant little boy — but all this punishment put him off books for ever; he became timid in society and terrified of his father; and of course this reacted on the King. As a result his natural fondness for children was concentrated on his bastards, especially on du Maine.
Mme de Montespan, for all her brilliance, was a bad psychologist. She thought that when golden curls, blue eyes and high spirits are not enough to hold a lover he must be brought back by spells; she never saw an alternative close at hand in the form of a little boy. But Mme Scarron knew nothing that links two people as much as a child — the dullest woman can hold a man, particularly if he is not very young, by talking to him about that extension of himself, his son; she saw the King every day in order to do so. He had got over the aversion he used to have for her and she was quite at her ease with him. Presently their conversation began to include such subjects as the state of his soul. ‘Sire, you love your musketeers. Now what would you say if one of them left his wife and lived with a married women?’ The King laughed. ‘I spoke to him as a Christian and as a real friend of Mme de Montespan.’
Years later she defended her behaviour in these terms:
Mme de Montespan and I were the greatest friends in the world; she loved my company and I, in the simplicity of my nature, gave myself up to this friendship. She was attractive and brilliant, I was in her confidence and she told me everything. Then, there we were, on bad terms, without however wanting to break off relations. It was certainly not my fault and yet if anybody had a grievance she had; she could say, with perfect truth: ‘I put her where she is, I made the King like her; then she becomes the favourite and I am sent away.’ On the other hand was I wrong to accept the King’s friendship? Was I wrong to give him good advice and to use my influence to make him lead a virtuous life? If, loving Mme de Montespan as I loved her, I had launched an intrigue for wicked reasons, if I had given bad advice as regards either God or the world; if, instead of urging her to break with the King I had shown her the best way of keeping him, then indeed I would have given her ammunition with which to destroy me. Am I not right in saying that there is nothing so clever as not only not being in the wrong but having always and with everybody an irreproachable conduct?
The King’s thoughts were turning towards reconciliation with the Church. Bossuet and the other great preachers of the day had been admonishing him from the pulpit for years. He put up with their criticism but he could not be said to like it. He had a great respect for God, whom he regarded as his feudal overlord, and was grateful to Him for the military successes and civilian splendours of his reign; he wanted to show his gratitude. Besides, if God became really angry He might take away what He had given. Long, interesting conversations with Mme Scarron were the order of the day.
Mme de Montespan began to be uneasy. She wanted now to get rid of her friend, not that she regarded her as a rival, but the King was spending hours with Mme Scarron when he might have been with her; the thought of their deep talks together bored her, besides, she was not at all anxious for him to become godly. However, Mme Scarron was not a nursery maid who could be given notice; she would clearly have to have an enormous reward for her services. Athénaïs thought she might like a husband. She cast about and presently found an old Duc de Villars-Brancas who, for the kind of dowry recently bestowed on Nevers, was ready to marry. Mme Scarron refused. Mme de Montespan then suggested a nunnery; the King could make her the abbess of some rich foundation. She energetically refused and the King was displeased — he told Mme de Montespan that he had no wish for Mme Scarron to leave the Court. He had a better idea: he would give her an estate and a title. A large and beautiful château near Chartres was purchased, Mme Scarron took its name and was henceforth known as the Marquise de Maintenon.
Mme de Maintenon kept Bossuet informed of the King’s new frame of mind and he now brought up all his ammunition. The year 1675 was a jubilee of the Church and the priests were anxious that Louis should go to his Easter duties for once. Bourdaloue came to Court to preach the Lenten sermons; of all the divines he had the most influence over a congregation. His sermons were noted for their length (women who were not certain of being able to hold out for the necessary hours used to arrive at the chapel with a small china receptacle which they concealed under their skirts and which was called a Bourdalou) but this did not put people off them; they were profound, solidly composed and delivered at enormous speed; intensely stirring. Maréchal de Gramont was so much affected during one of them that he burst out with: ‘Mordieu, he is quite right’, upon which Madame gave a huge guffaw, Bourdaloue lost his place and all was confusion. He did not mince his words during this Lent; he said right out that the King must give an example; he even spoke of debauchery. The courtiers trembled; Louis appeared to be unmoved.
But when Easter came he sent Mme de Montespan to her house at Clagny. Both he and she confessed and communicated. When he went off to join the army without saying good-bye to Athénaïs, everybody thought the love affair was over.
Mme de Montespan took the whole thing very calmly. She was no longer irked by the presence of Mme de Maintenon, who was at a watering place in the south with du Maine. The little boy had a half paralysed leg, shorter than the other, which seemed to be getting worse. The doctors tortured him for years during his childhood, pulling the short leg with a sort of rack until it was longer than the good one and very weak; he bore everything with courage and patience. Mme de Maintenon devoted herself to him, she was determined that he should be cured and in the end he was, more or less, though he always limped. During their tour he was received by the provincial notables and common people exactly as if he had been a legitimate prince of France, with wild enthusiasm.
Meanwhile his mother was enjoying herself at Clagny, where there were still twelve hundred workmen, inside and out, who greatly diverted her; she spent a g
ood deal of time at Saint-Cloud, playing cards with Monsieur, and went for a while to take the waters at Bourbon. The Queen paid her a visit at Clagny: she went all over the house and gardens, inspected the nursery, where Vexin lay ill (he was delicate and died at the age of twelve), expressed the greatest interest in everything she saw and spent an hour alone with Athénaïs in her room. She was not the only visitor; Bossuet often called on Mme de Montespan. She treated this awe-inspiring man in a most lively way; carrying the war into the enemy’s camp and accusing him of wanting to reform the King out of spiritual pride. When he did not bother to defend himself she made violent scenes; then she put on charm and finally tried bribery, holding out hopes of great ecclesiastical honours. Of course none of this had the slightest effect; she cannot really have expected to get round Bossuet. She had to find some other way of winning her cause.
Mme Voisin also went to Clagny, with some constructive suggestions. She sent to Normandy for the receipts of a certain Galet, who trafficked in all sorts of interesting drugs such as love philtres and poudres à héritage, a kind of medicine for disposing of old, unwanted rich relations. Rivals in love were also dealt with by M. Galet. Mme de Montespan’s case was rather special since there seemed to be no rival; the issue was between God and Satan. If she really had Black Masses celebrated on her account it was now that she began; she certainly tried more spells. Several different love philtres, in the form of powder, a black, a white and a grey, were delivered to her at Clagny.