Athénaïs spent her childhood in the medieval castle of Lussac in the countryside of Poitou. At the age of twelve she followed her elder sister Gabrielle into the convent of Ste. Marie des Saintes, which, for a pretty price, educated the daughters of noblemen. There she studied the traditional (and surprisingly well-rounded) curriculum for aristocratic young ladies: sewing and embroidery, dancing, music, history, reading, writing, arithmetic, and geography. She was also taught to act, as it was assumed that all of these girls would be presented at court and would be expected to perform in the king’s ballets and masques. Additionally, Athénaïs became a rather good poet; many of the nasty verses that would later circulate through the gilded corridors of the royal châteaux came from her quills. She also learned to cook at Ste. Marie des Saintes, which served her in good stead during her royal romance, because Louis loved to eat and expected his paramours to have equally healthy appetites. Unfortunately for Athénaïs, corpulence ran in the Rochechouart de Mortemart genes. One of her cousins held the dubious distinction of being the fattest man at court.
The seventeenth century in France was known as the Grand Siècle—the Great Century—a flowering of wit and culture, the age of the playwrights Molière, Racine, and Corneille, of the architect Jules-Hardouin Mansart, the landscaper André Le Nôtre, and the composer Jean-Baptiste Lully. But every courtier was expected to be quick on his feet as well, literally a nimble and graceful dancer, but also ready with a quip or a bon mot. Here, too, Athénaïs excelled. Even the duc de Saint-Simon, one of her greatest detractors at court, acknowledged that Madame de Montespan had “the gift of saying things both amusing and singular, always original, and which no one expected, not even she herself as she said them.”
Athénaïs’s family was known for what they said as well as for how they uttered it—cutting remarks in high, cultivated voices and languid tones that Madame de Montespan’s daughters and even her ladies-in-waiting sought to imitate. However, there would come a time when courtiers would fear to walk beneath Athénaïs’s windows at Versailles. In the mid-1670s, when she presided over a suite of twenty rooms adjacent to the king’s, she delighted in delivering scathing critiques of each passerby for the amusement of her royal audience of one, who stood beside her, eager to hear every clever insult. “Going before the guns,” the courtiers called it.
As soon as she was presented at court, her family connections garnered Athénaïs a post as maid of honor to the new queen, Marie-Thérèse. As a courtier she was expected to participate in the ballets and other court diversions. In her maiden appearance she was cast in the ballet Hercule Amoreux opposite the Sun King himself. But it took some time before she’d catch his eye as anything other than a dance partner—for in 1661 Louis took his first maîtresse en titre, the meek and dewy Louise de La Vallière. Although it seemed that the Grand Monarch had zero interest in her, the ambitious Athénaïs bided her time. Unlike the vapid blond Louise, she had sex appeal and knew it.
In 1663, at the age of twenty-two, having spent two seasons in Paris, Athénaïs became engaged. She was considered old for the era, as aristocratic girls typically wed in their mid-teens. Her fiancé, the marquis de Noirmoutiers, had been selected by her parents. But after the marquis became involved in a duel on the morning of January 21, he was exiled to Portugal, where five years later he died fighting the Spanish.
While Athénaïs was grieving over the banishment of her betrothed she received a condolence call from Louis-Henri de Pardaillan de Gondrin, marquis de Montespan, the brother of the man killed in the duel. He was from Gascony, a region known for producing hotheads, and the stereotype proved true in many cases. Montespan’s dark good looks appealed to Athénaïs, and although he had little to bring to a match beyond his family’s ancient name, he fell in love with her. On January 28, only a week after the fatal duel, their marriage contract was signed, and they were wed on February 6.
Their union would prove to be a textbook example of the adage, “Marry in haste; repent at leisure.”
Montespan’s kinsman, the Archbishop of Sens, was a member of the ultraconservative Jansenist sect critical of the king’s lifestyle, so not only was he persona non grata at court, but the other members of his family were unwelcome as well. Thus, it fell to Athénaïs to advance the young couple’s fortune there. But while his spouse was at court, the marquis de Montespan was busy gambling like mad, amassing debts, and borrowing against her dowry. On one occasion, before Athénaïs was scheduled to dance in a court ballet, she had to schlep him to a lawyer’s office in an effort to prevent his arrest for debt. Another time, he had to pawn her pearl earrings to satisfy a creditor.
Finally, Montespan decided that the only way to make a name for himself was to fund a regiment and join the army. It kept him out of town, but landed him even deeper in debt. Perhaps it was a good thing he wasn’t around, because seventeenth-century Frenchwomen were not encouraged to bathe during pregnancy, as it was thought to relax the womb. In November 1663, Athénaïs gave birth to a daughter, Marie-Christine. She would bear nine children during the course of her life; only two of them were her husband’s.
Upon her marriage, because she was technically no longer a “maid,” Athénaïs lost her position as maid of honor to the queen. Consequently, it was imperative to find another post. By February 1664, both she and the king’s maîtresse en titre Louise de La Vallière (who’d given birth to a royal bastard around the same time as Athénaïs bore her legitimate daughter) were short-listed for Queen Marie-Thérèse’s six-woman retinue. In accordance with court etiquette, only two marquises, a duo of duchesses, and a pair of princesses would be selected as ladies-in-waiting. As a marquise, only two of those positions were available to Athénaïs.
By now Athénaïs and Louise had spent four years at court, but Madame de Montespan found herself perennially tamping down her envy of the dull-as-dishwater official mistress, while she had to contend with a spendthrift absentee husband. Nonetheless, scintillating and supremely confident in her assets, Athénaïs decided to use her wits and wiles to supersede Louise in the king’s bed, all the while feigning friendship with the insipid girl.
By the summer of 1664, after Montespan had borrowed another fifty-six thousand livres against his wife’s dowry to finance another (failed) military venture, Athénaïs was utterly over him. Louis-Henri’s success at court depended on hers, but he was squandering her money (including her salary) at the gaming tables in Paris, when she needed those funds to maintain her position. Keeping up appearances was costly. Not only that, there was going to be another mouth to feed. On September 9, she bore a son, Louis-Alexandre, who was given one of his father’s lesser titles, that of marquis d’Antin. But the infant would have nothing else to inherit if Monsieur de Montespan didn’t give up his gambling.
Other women in similar straits at court took lovers. Her own sister Gabrielle, the very married marquise de Thianges, was one of the king’s occasional flings. Yet Athénaïs remained faithful to Louis-Henri. Was it part of her strategy to ensnare the sovereign, on the assumption that making herself available for casual sex was not the way to win him permanently?
Louis XIV noticed her, but his reaction was hardly what she was looking for. “She’s desperate to make me fall in love with her,” he once remarked to Louise de La Vallière, as they snickered over Madame de Montespan’s transparency. “She does what she can, but I don’t want her.”
But two years later, in 1666, Louis and Athénaïs both lost their mothers. Free from the restraining influence of the formidable Anne of Austria, Louis no longer felt compelled to remain discreet about his affair with Louise de La Vallière. Ironically, under the court’s incessant scrutiny, the fragile blonde withered. The great chronicler of the age, Madame de Sevigné, described Louise as “that little violet which hid itself under the grass and was ashamed of being mistress.” Not only did it become apparent that she was abundantly lacking in the requisite clever repartee, but she would have to have been made of steel to withstand the per
petual gossip and the constant efforts to undermine her.
And no one tried harder to do so than her dear friend the marquise de Montespan, who by now had become the royal favorite’s confidante. In the parlance of the day, Athénaïs was fighting for the king “avec bec et ongles” (with beak and talons), but with the subtlety of a hawk observing her prey, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop down and pounce. She also managed to charm her other rival, the queen, with her witty anecdotes about how she was perpetually fending off the advances of rakish courtiers.
Louise gave birth to the king’s daughter in October 1666. Only a month later tongues were wagging that the real reason His Majesty so frequently visited her at the Palais de Brion (the charming château was a gift from the king) was to spend time with her glamorous friend. The duc d’Enghien observed, “We are saying at the court that he sighs a little after Mme. de Montespan, and, to tell the truth, she well deserves it, because one could not have more spirit nor more beauty than she has….”
Athénaïs was more than a great beauty of her day; there were some, including the king, who were convinced she was the most gorgeous woman in France. Louis was an exceptionally acquisitive man, and so he doubtless felt the urge to append her to his collection of adornments the same way he might add a brilliant statue, a spectacular fountain, or the Mona Lisa. With her spectacular curvaceous figure, enormous china blue eyes, and tumbling honey blond curls that she arranged in a style she called the Hurluberlu (pulled off her forehead and cascading in soft ringlets about her face—a coiffure copied by every woman at court, including the queen), the glorious Madame de Montespan was herself a status symbol.
Yet toward the end of the year Athénaïs declared, “Heaven defend me from becoming the King’s mistress, but were such a misfortune to befall me, I should certainly not have the audacity to appear before the Queen!”
Was she being coy, deflecting attention from her true stratagem, or did she really mean it? A ruthless and calculating personality has historically been attributed to Athénaïs, but at the time, that opinion was far from universal. Madame de Caylus, a noblewoman and cousin of the king’s secret wife Madame de Maintenon, whose impressions of the court were edited by Voltaire, insisted that “far from being born debauched, the character of Mme. de Montespan was naturally distanced from gallantry [a catchall word for flirtations and affairs], and drawn towards virtue.” Regardless of her long-term adulterous relationship, Athénaïs was devout throughout her life, once angrily retorting to a duchess who expressed surprise at her adherence to the Church’s prescribed fast days, “What, Madame? Because I commit one sin am I to commit all others?”
Nevertheless, Athénaïs needed to believe that her own fine qualities, rather than any calculated agenda, had won the king’s heart. She believed, as did Louise de La Vallière to a point, that the only excuse for adultery was true love.
Louis XIV spent most of his long reign at war, and for several years during the earlier part of his rule, when he decamped for the front he was accompanied by an entourage that included the most important women in his life. In May of 1667 the conflict in question was the War of Devolution in the Spanish Netherlands, now Belgium. Athénaïs and the queen were among the party, both determined to bear the long hours on the road like troupers. But it was the beginning of the end for Louise when, in an uncharacteristic and rather desperate display of bravado, she rode out in great state to greet her royal lover, utterly humiliating her boss, the queen, thereby causing considerable embarrassment to His Majesty. The maîtresse en titre’s breach of etiquette became a chasm and Louis began to stray.
Most historians believe that he and Athénaïs became lovers during this military campaign. The story, though it may be apocryphal, goes like this: Athénaïs was staying at the home of friends. Louis disguised himself in the livery of her hostess’s servants and surprised Madame de Montespan in her bath—but the king was allegedly more dumbstruck by the sight of the voluptuous marquise than she was by his intrusion. He stood rooted to the floor, transfixed by her beauty. It fell to her to dispel the tension, which she purportedly did by dropping her towel.
A new age was about to dawn. Their royal romance would span the most successful and dazzling years of the Sun King’s reign, earning the era the nickname l’ge Montespan.
People at court began to notice a change in the winds when the guard at the door to the king’s apartments was removed, and it was remarked that Louis seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time in there. Athénaïs started to neglect her customary responsibilities as lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, and her roommate was suddenly making herself scarce in advance of the visits the marquise would receive from Louis—in disguise. When the queen inquired what was keeping him from her bed till four a.m., he muttered something about being busy with military dispatches. It was all quite risky, in addition to being risqué. Louis’ new liaison was being conducted right under his wife’s nose, as well as that of Louise, who still held the position of maîtresse en titre.
After the sovereign returned to Paris from the battlefield, courtiers had noticed his swagger; he’d grown more confident around women. Athénaïs had changed, too. She was no longer just another very pretty woman at court who was also smart and pious. Her glorious conquest had hardened her, as though inside and out she had been coated with a veneer of shellac. Victorious in love, she became imperious, capricious, and coquettish. Or were people seeing only what they wanted to see, attributing a different color to her usual behavior, now that she was in the throes of a royal romance? Was it Athénaïs who had changed, or the courtiers’ point of view?
Perhaps they condemned her for being brazen about her royal liaison, rather than diffident, like the “violet” Louise de La Vallière. Madame de Montespan was not embarrassed about her doubly adulterous affair, and she enthusiastically enjoyed sex in an era when women typically considered “commerce”—intercourse—to be anything from an inconvenience to an annoyance to an outright burden. And Louis was a man of large appetites. He had a libido like JFK and “needed” to make love to Athénaïs three times a day, so hot and impatient for her that often he began to disrobe before her attendants had quit the room. Her ardor equaled his, and in this, as well as in their massive egos and desire for public acknowledgment of their grandeur, they were perfectly matched.
The foundation of their love was clearly physical. And they were both sensualists, sharing a passion for spicy food, heady perfumes (particularly jasmine), and tactile textiles.
Soon, the marquise found herself criticized for turning the king libertine, but he had been raising petticoats with impunity long before their liaison began. It was true, however, that he seemed in thrall to her. “Her tears moved him, not because she was pained, but because he found her beautiful in tears,” it was said. What made Athénaïs different was that she took the time to study her royal lover’s amatory habits as well as his preferences outside the boudoir, and assiduously strove to please and excite him.
And yet, as heady as the first flush of the love affair was, the king was still sleeping with Louise de La Vallière. Madame de Montespan had much to consider. Was she just an entertaining diversion during Louise’s pregnancy? Could she maintain the monarch’s affection for the long haul? And what would be the ultimate fate of her rival? Louise, still maîtresse en titre, bore her fourth royal bastard during the autumn of 1667, and, as with her three previous children, this infant (a boy who was immediately made comte de Vermandois) was smuggled out of the court on the day of his birth.
In July of 1668, Louis hosted a Grand Divertissement, an opulent outdoor spectacle, ostensibly to celebrate a peace treaty, but in truth intended to impress Athénaïs. The hedonistic theme of the event, hardly martial, was Les Fêtes de l’Amour et Bacchus. Louise was seated beside the king as maîtresse declarée, and the queen hosted her own table. But Louis had eyes only for Athénaïs, who was laughing up a storm with her friends, including Françoise Scarron, the attractive, intellectual widow of a
poet and playwright as famous for his crippled form as for his satirical wit.
The pyrotechnics at the Grand Divertissement—the waterfalls and fireworks, cascades, and candles—demonstrated Louis’ dominance of the elements. As three thousand guests danced the night away, dazzled by the aura and brightness of the handsome young king, the monarchy was being mythologized. The sun was his emblem, and he adopted the god of light and music, the healer and the civilizer, as his avatar. Although dreary Marie-Thérèse was the crowned queen of France, it was glittering Athena, as ambitious for power and splendor as her lover, who would truly reign beside her gleaming Apollo.
At the time, however, adultery was a criminal offense in France. A guilty woman could be immured in a convent for life—although a man suffered no similar punishment. It was simply assumed he would literally go to hell. The king’s other mistresses had all been unwed, and when His Majesty was the only cheater in the relationship, most people, even among the clergy (several of whom also had female lovers), tiptoed around the subject. But Louis’ liaison with Madame de Montespan created a scandal not merely because he already had a maîtresse en titre, but because Athénaïs was married as well. A double adultery was a sin of considerable magnitude, indefensible even for a king.
Two key players who remained unaware of this new romance were the queen and the marquis de Montespan, who in 1667 was off fighting near the Spanish border while his wife was pleasuring the king at another battlefront in Flanders. His Majesty dispatched a notice that vastly overpraised the marquis’ modest military efforts, but Louis-Henri’s sizable vanity didn’t permit him to think anything unusual was amiss. “The king claims to be very satisfied with the bravery and bearing which you have shown in this encounter and His Majesty will give proof of this when he has occasion,” de Montespan was informed. To celebrate whatever this good fortune might be, the marquis disguised himself as one of his own cavalrymen and kidnapped a local serving girl. Her family eventually located her and demanded that the bailiff imprison her for her own safety, whereupon de Montespan provoked a fight with the bailiff. He left the wench in the frontier town of Perpignan with twenty pistoles as a parting gift and returned to Paris and his old habits, once again borrowing a good deal of money. He was surprised to find that his wife had moved across the Seine to lodgings on the Right Bank, but Athénaïs quickly explained that the new digs were closer to the queen and a shorter commute to work.
Royal Romances: Titillating Tales of Passion and Power in the Palaces of Europe Page 6