by Hilton, Lisa
When Françoise was eight, her father was released from prison. He took the family to the colony of Martinique to try to make his fortune. Hopeless to the last, he promptly died instead, leaving his widow and children penniless again. When she returned to France, aged twelve, Françoise was taken in by another aunt, Mme. de Neuillant. This one was a fervent Catholic who had obtained a royal order from Anne of Austria to prevent her niece from being brought up as a vile Calvinist. She forced Françoise to work like a peasant in ragged clothes, enduring beatings and starvation designed to purge her of Protestant devils. For a while, she defiantly turned her back to the altar when her aunt dragged her to Mass, but unsurprisingly, she was soon worn down by this miserable existence and agreed to change her faith. In her correspondence, which forms the bulk of what we know of her life, Mme. de Maintenon claims she rescinded her vows to Protestantism only after hearing a learned theological debate at her Ursuline convent and being reassured that her dear Aunt Villette was not to be eternally damned. Nothing in Mme. de Maintenon’s life, it seemed, ever occurred for anything but the most worthy reasons.
On completion of her convent education, Françoise returned to her mother, who introduced her to the forty-year-old Paul Scarron, whom she had met at his rooms in the Hôtel de Troyes with an acquaintance from Martinique. Scarron’s burlesque satires enjoyed a great deal of popularity in his lifetime. He was patronized by Anne of Austria and well known in literary circles. He was famously Z-shaped, a ripple of a man, contorted with rheumatism after a carnival frolic in the Seine, but he held court to a salon of aristocrats, artists, courtesans and intellectuals as he squatted, rootlike, in his wheeled chair. He called himself “the Queen’s invalid,” joking that his patron had founded a hospital to support him since he had assembled in his blasted body all the diseases to which the flesh was prey. Scarron was attracted to Françoise, described at the time as having “a smooth, beautiful skin, light pretty chestnut hair, a well-shaped nose, a sweet, modest expression and the finest eyes you could wish to see,” and he nicknamed her “la belle Indienne,” with reference to her time in the tropics.3 Although she cannot have been physically attracted to him, Françoise in turn enjoyed his wit and appreciated his kindness. Scar-ron offered the impoverished girl his protection, giving her the choice between marriage and enough money to enter a convent.
Mme. de Maintenon may have been an intensely pious Catholic, but the young Françoise wanted to become a woman of the world, and she plumped for marriage. Half a man seemed better than no man at all, especially when the alternative was shivering on one’s knees in the Rue St. Jacques, and however holy she became, at sixteen years old, Françoise was too pretty for the convent. Indeed, throughout her later career at the court, despite her frequent and conventional professions of a desire to retreat from the world, La Maintenon was un-troubled by any conflict between her religious convictions and her worldly ambitions. She was later to interpret the post given to her by Athénaïs as a sign that she ought to enter into court life to recover the soul of the King. All that she cared about was the world’s regard, and her religion, although perfectly sincere in terms of her faith, was no more than a tool in her attempts to obtain it.
During her marriage to Scarron, she began to establish herself socially, holding a serious and intellectual salon in their home in the Rue Neuve St. Louis in the Marais. Scarron educated his wife in Latin, Spanish and Italian, taught her to write verse and encouraged her gift for conversation. During their wedding, when the notary had asked him the customary question on the matter of what he would bring to his wife, Scarron answered “Immortality!” His prediction was correct, though Françoise was not to be remembered as the wife of a forgotten poet, but as a very different kind of spouse: the morganatic wife of the King of France.
When Scarron died, his widow showed no desire to relinquish her purchase on the social world, and Athénaïs’s offer of the position of secret governess to the royal children was the perfect way to establish herself further. Scarron had left her with very little money, despite her careful management of his earnings, and she was attracted by this prestigious, albeit covert role. She was careful, however, to ensure that her acceptance should not be interpreted as evidence of a desire to advance in the world. She consulted her confessor, and agreed with him that it would be improper to accept the charge of Mme. de Montespan’s adulterous offspring, but that if it were the King’s children she was to concern herself with, that would be permissible.Very cleverly, she insisted that Louis himself make a formal request to her to take up the post, and did not begin her duties until his commands had been issued in an interview at St. Germain.
At first, the job was not without its disadvantages. “If this step was the beginning of Mme. de Maintenon’s singular good fortune, it was likewise the beginning of her difficulties and embarrassments,” wrote Mme. de Caylus. Because of the need for absolute discretion while Athénaïs remained technically married and the children’s paternity could be claimed by Montespan, the children were living with their nurses in separate houses in Paris. The governess therefore had to shuttle between them without making any obvious changes to her usual lifestyle that might arouse suspicion. Mme. Scarron famously described this awkward arrangement in her memoirs.
This strange kind of honor caused me endless trouble and difficulty. I was compelled to mount ladders to do the work of upholsterers and mechanics who might not be allowed to enter the house. I did everything myself, for the nurses did not put their hands to a single thing lest they be tired and their milk not good. I would go on foot and in disguise from one nurse to another, carrying linen or food under my arm. I would sometimes spend the whole night with one of the children who was ill in a small house outside Paris. In the morning I would return home by a little back gate and, after dressing myself, would go out at the front door to my coach, and drive to the Hôtels d’Albret or Richelieu, so that my friends might perceive nothing, or even suspect that I had a secret to keep.4
So anxious was the royal governess to conceal the existence of her charges that she had herself bled before her social engagements to prevent herself from blushing if she were asked any difficult questions. She grew thin and exhausted, but she executed her strategems so well that no one suspected the reason — not even the nosey Mme. de Sévigné, with whom she frequently dined. But this complicated arrangement was far from ideal, and when Athénaïs’s third child by the King, the Comte de Vexin was born in 1672, it was clear that a proper establishment was needed.
A pretty house (which may still be seen today) was purchased on the Rue Vaugirard, near the Luxembourg Gardens, in what was then a quiet, leafy suburb. It was secluded, with a large walled garden where the children could play in private. After taking up residence here, Mme. Scarron virtually disappeared from society, though she did continue to see a few old friends from the Hôtel d’Albret, including Mme. de Sévigné and Mme. de Lafayette, both of whom remarked on her new carriage and horses, and the magnificent materials of her dresses. Mme. Scarron’s wardrobe was as elegantly understated as Athénaïs’s was flamboyant: she favored plain, dark dresses and discreet jewelry, but now the dresses were beautifully made in the most sumptuous fabrics. Paris society was very curious about Mme. Scarron’s new lifestyle which, according to one of Mme. de Sévigné’s friends, was “astonishing. Not a single soul has any communication with her. I have received a letter from her, but take care not to boast about it, for fear of being overwhelmed with questions.”5 Many of the rumors which circulated were less than flattering to Mme. Scarron’s virtue, which must have been particularly galling for such a woman, but she maintained her reserve, even going so far as to take in another little girl, the child of a lady-in-waiting, to allay any suspicions. And soon Athénaïs had two more daughters of her own by Louis, Mlle. de Nantes, born in 1673, and Mlle. de Tours, born in 1674, to join the household.6
The eldest child, born in 1669, died during the Vaugirard years. Athénaïs’s reaction to the death is not record
ed, but it may be imagined from her response to the loss of her three other children who died young. Her daughter by Montespan, Marie-Christine, never reached her teens, and the little Comte de Vexin died aged eleven in 1683, outliving his little sister Mlle. de Tours, who only reached the age of seven, by which time the children had been established at court. Athénaïs wrote movingly to her elder son, the Duc du Maine:
I do not speak to you of my grief, you are naturally too good not to have experienced it for yourself. As for Mlle. de Nantes, she has felt it as deeply as if she were twenty, and has received the visits which the Queen, Madame la Dauphine and all the court have paid her, with marvelous grace. Everyone admires her, but I confess I have paid too dearly for these praises to derive any pleasure from them. Every place where I have seen that poor little one affects me so deeply that I am very glad to undertake a journey which is in itself the most disagreeable that can be imagined, in the hope that the distraction will diminish to some extent the faintness which has not left me since the loss we have sustained.7
In describing her daughter’s fortitude, Athénaïs seems to be trying to bolster her own courage. The letter gives the impression of an effort to contain terrible grief in a measured framework of words. Despite the frequency of infant death in the seventeenth century, there is no reason to suppose that such bereavements were experienced with any less pain than they would be today.
Mme. Scarron grieved with Athénaïs. She was extremely attached to her charges, and loved Du Maine in particular as though he were her own son. Indeed, she was an excellent governess and truly devoted to the children, for whom she cared tenderly. Unfortunately, she often found herself disagreeing on childcare matters with Athénaïs who, on her fleeting visits, would spoil her babies with sweets and keep them up late, disrupting their routine and leaving them fretful and overexcited. Mme. de Montespan’s detractors often seek to prove that among her other crimes she was a bad mother, which certainly was not the case, but it is true that she lacked the governess’s firm patience. Although Athénaïs accepted that her position as mistress, which involved duties as well as perquisites, precluded looking after the children herself, she still felt guilty and frustrated and tended to overcompensate when she did see them. So she often found herself losing her temper with Françoise, whose virtuous reputation seemed like a mute reproach to the immorality of her own life. It must have been hard not to be jealous when the children seemed to respond better to their steady, quiet governess than they did to their distant, glamorous mother, and Athénaïs frequently vented her frustration in passionate tears. She felt the governess’s assumed superiority particularly when she was pregnant. “In God’s name,” she wrote to Françoise of a projected visit to court, “do not make any of your great eyes at me.”8 It is typical of Mme. Scarron’s character that she was able to take the moral high ground with Athénaïs, to whose “sin,” after all, she owed her good fortune. The King was never included in any of this implied disapproval.
Yet Louis did not take to Mme. Scarron at first. Intimidated by intellectuals, he disliked précieuses and bluestockings, and he was put off by Mme. Scarron’s frigid reserve. Athénaïs made sure she kept her own displays of intelligence light and amusing, whereas Mme. Scar-ron seemed serious and, perceived through the prism of the court fashion for mocking the précieuses, rather ridiculous. Louis referred to her to Athénaïs as “votre belle esprit,” “your learned lady.” But gradually, as he got to know his children, he began to appreciate and respect her. Initially he spent very little time with his illegitimate children, but in 1672 the baby boys, the Duc du Maine and the Comte de Vexin, were brought to court for the first time. The nurse came in with them, while Mme. Scarron waited outside.
“Whose children are these?” asked the King.
“They surely belong to the woman who lives with us,” replied the nurse, “if one judges by how upset she is when the least harm comes to any of them.”
“And who do you believe to be their father?”
“I don’t know anything,” said the nurse. “But I imagine that it is a duke or a president of the Parlement.”
The King found the nurse’s ingenuousness hilarious, and he warmed to Mme. Scarron because of the care she took over his children. He came to enjoy her quiet humor and sound good sense, and remarked once that there would be pleasure in being loved by her, as she knew how to love.
It has been argued that Mme. Scarron had laid her plans for the King’s soul — and even that she became his lover — at this early stage, but the latter suggestion is ridiculous. Louis was far too much in love with Athénaïs (and still involved in complications with Louise), to consider another serious attachment, and Mme. Scarron would have accepted nothing less. She was far too calculating to believe that she could hold the King on the strength of a one-night stand — Athénaïs would have chased her out in an instant. Moreover, Mme. Scarron loathed sensuality, and had a pious abhorrence for sex, indeed for any kind of passionate feeling: “Her lips were never touched with fire, and no flame, holy or unholy, ever burned in the depths of her heart.”9 She confessed rather sadly that her mother had never kissed her as a child, so she may always have been uneasy with physical affection. And whatever sexual relationship she had had with Scarron must have destroyed any pleasure she might have taken in lovemaking. Although paralyzed, Scarron had retained the use of his right hand, and, it was rumored in Paris, of another member, and salacious gossip abounded as to the unnatural gratifications he demanded from his young wife. The type of satisfaction Scarron required to accommodate his deficiencies might well have disgusted a sixteen-year-old girl.
Perhaps Françoise Scarron offered up her marital sufferings to God, with whom she was always on excellent terms, and if she took any interest in physical matters it may have been that they offered her a taste of the only pleasure she would ever covet, which was power. She was not particularly interested in personal attachments for any other reason; indeed, her own explanation of her emotions was always rather dismally priggish: “I did not desire to be loved in particular by anybody. I wished my name to be uttered with admiration and respect.” The governess, then, was quietly concerned with her own advancement, which she interpreted as a service to God. As for the King, it would be a long time before his passion for Athénaïs began to wane.
There is ample proof of this in the fact that, in 1673, Louis legitimized his children by Athénaïs. This was a difficult maneuver, because if Montespan chose to exercise his rights, he could cause a terrible scandal. Given Louis’s diplomatic ambitions in Europe, he could hardly be seen to be engaging in litigation against one of his subjects in so delicate a matter. But the King was determined to find a solution, motivated by the desire not only to resolve the legal issue, but to demonstrate his affection for his children and their mother. Athénaïs was equally set on achieving a secure position for her children, and Louis could hardly refuse the reigning mistress what he had already granted the displaced one. Furthermore, Athénaïs knew that the acknowledgment of the children would finally bring her recognition as the official maîtresse declarée and, after six years of hiding behind Louise de La Vallière’s petticoats, her ambition was no longer prepared to tolerate an ambiguous role.
A legal precedent had to be found to authorize an act of legitimization in which the mother was not named. Louis’s grandfather, Henri IV, had legitimized two of his bastards by married women, César de Vendôme, the son of Gabrielle d’Estrées, and Antoine de Moiret, son of Jacqueline de Bueil, but he had been able to name the mothers because their marriages, mere contracts of convenience, had been annulled, and no such judgment had as yet dissolved the sacred and legal union of Athénaïs and her husband. M. de Harlay, Louis’s procurer general, suggested a solution. The Duc de Longueville, who had recently perished in battle on the borders of Flanders, had a son from an affair with the wife of the Maréchal de Ferte, and had requested in his will that his mother should pursue the legitimization of this natural grandson, to whom he h
ad left a large fortune. No mention was made of the identity of the child’s mother. The dowager duchess, who adored her lost son, accordingly petitioned the King, who was delighted to grant her request.
Longueville’s will was most fortuitous, since it allowed Louis to establish the necessary legal precedent while appearing to generously grant the dying wish of a hero. So, on 7 September 1673, letters patent were issued to legitimize the child, giving him the title of Chevalier d’Orléans. On 18 December, Mlle. de Nantes, born at Tournai while Athénaïs was following the campaign of 1673, was baptized Louise-Françoise at St. Sulpice. The register of baptism leaves the names of father and mother blank, mentioning only Louis-Auguste, the baby’s elder brother, the Duc du Maine, as godfather, and, extraordinarily, Louise de la Beaume le Blanc, Duchesse de La Vallière, as godmother. The rather brutal use of Louise as a cover to divert attention from the child’s maternity is explained by the fact that on 20 December, letters patent were issued to legitimize all three children. Presumably, it was thought necessary to conceal the King’s intentions lest Montespan intervene at the eleventh hour.
In the documents, Louis merely announces that “the affection with which Nature inspires Us for our children and many other reasons which serve to considerably augment these sentiments within us compel us to recognize Louis-Auguste, Louis-César and Louise-Françoise.” The children were given their official titles, but Athénaïs had to remain disguised by the phrase “many other reasons.” It was hardly on a par with the effusive compliments dished out to “our well-beloved Louise de La Vallière.” But if her exclusion rankled, Athénaïs still had much to be pleased about. There could be no doubt now that the King regarded her as his official mistress, and her children had had their royal blood acknowledged. As a woman who took delight in the flimsiness of words, she could not have been too distressed by the verbal precautions her lover had taken.