However, the King was not always so good at detecting sycophancy. One day he was playing backgammon when he made a move that might have been against the rules. The onlookers declined to settle the matter so, when the Comte de Gramont entered, the King appealed to him to adjudicate. Without hesitation Gramont ruled against the King, prompting Louis to demand how he could be so sure without knowing all the circumstances. The King was somewhat nettled when Gramont told him that it must have been absolutely clear that he was in the wrong, for otherwise the courtiers would have unanimously taken his side.77
All this meant that although the King was the object of extravagant adulation, he could never be truly confident that his nobility loved him. There was no doubt that he enjoyed their respect – Primi Visconti wrote, ‘They are as afraid of the King as schoolboys of their master’ – but the extent of their affection for him was debatable. Having noted that the courtiers were in a state of utter subjection to the King, the German Ezechiel Spanheim added, ‘There are not many of them, perhaps, whose acclamations and homage are truly sincere and spring as much from heartfelt sentiments as from self-interest or fear. Without doubt respect has a greater part in it than inclination.’78
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The King did not have a stronger bond with his poorer subjects, making little attempt to endear himself to the public. By the 1670s he rarely appeared in Paris and his attitude to his capital was one of marked ambivalence. He took satisfaction in being the ruler of one of the world’s great cities, and lavished care and expense on urban improvement projects. But while he declared that he wanted ‘to do for Paris what Augustus did for Rome’, he had no love for the city and the Marquis de Sourches actually suggested that he had ‘an extreme aversion’ for it. In 1670 the Savoyard ambassador reported that the mere prospect of spending some time in Paris was enough to put the King in a bad mood; by 1687 it excited comment if Louis even travelled through the city, rather than following his usual practice of making a detour in order to avoid it.79
The King’s distaste for his capital stemmed largely from his love of fresh air and outdoor pursuits, which were denied him in Paris, but he also did not forget that the capital had been disloyal to the Crown during the civil unrest that had occurred during his youth. His sensitivity on such matters is illustrated by the comments he made for the benefit of his son following the 1666 Great Fire of London. He observed that since London had sided against King Charles I during the English Civil War it might seem an obvious assumption that it was ‘not a great misfortune’ for the English monarchy ‘to witness the ruin of a city’ that had in the past been a source of opposition. However, while conceding that ‘heavily populated cities have had their drawbacks and the very one in question was a ghastly case in point’, he grudgingly concluded that the destruction of such an asset could not, on balance, be considered advantageous.80 The Affair of the Poisons would provide the King with fresh evidence of the unruly spirit of Paris, for it showed that the city possessed a subversive subculture entirely independent of royal control. This only intensified the King’s feelings of alienation and mistrust.
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According to the Savoyard ambassador, the King had always believed there was a real possibility that he might meet a violent end and this nervousness was reflected in the strict security precautions which surrounded him at all times. The elaborate ritual that governed the serving of the King’s food was partly designed to protect him from poisoners. When the King ate his midday meal, a table was set up near his own where the food was tasted before being offered to him. His Maître d’hôtel and écuyer also rubbed small pieces of bread on his napkin, plates and cutlery (not forgetting the royal toothpick), and then ate the bread to see if it had been contaminated by poison.81
When the King went hunting strict measures were employed to stave off assassination attempts. Several of the royal hunting forests were surrounded by walls and had guards posted at every gate. When the King wanted to use other areas of woodland for sporting pursuits, the local inhabitants were often denied access. The Marquis de Sourches suspected that such precautions were excessive, and that the King’s guards deliberately misrepresented the dangers that threatened him in order to heighten Louis’s dependence on them and to advance their own careers. Primi Visconti took the same view, complaining that the King’s Captain of the Guard, the Duc de Noailles, kept his master in a state of perpetual agitation by claiming that ‘he saw sinister figures everywhere’. Far from condemning Noailles as an alarmist, the King was annoyed that his other Captain of the Guard, the Duc de Rochefort, had a much more relaxed attitude. He upbraided Rochefort and was not reassured when the latter cheerfully replied, ‘Fear not, Sire! Your subjects are good. The wicked ones are those who give you bad ideas.’ When the Duc de Noailles’s son succeeded his father as Captain of the Guard, he too believed that the dangers facing the King should not be exaggerated, telling Louis that it merely gave rise to the unfortunate impression that he was highly vulnerable. To this the King retorted frostily, ‘Such should be the belief of those who guard me.’82
At various times in the reign plots against the King’s life were uncovered, although it is difficult to gauge how much of a genuine threat they represented. In the summer of 1669 there was understandable concern when the Duke of York (brother of King Charles II of England) sent warning that an individual named Le Roux, Sieur de Marcilly had been overheard uttering threats against Louis XIV. Le Roux was shadowed when he left England and seized by French agents in Switzerland. He was taken to the Bastille where he tried to commit suicide by cutting off his own genitals but, amazingly, he survived long enough to receive a summary trial. Having been condemned to be broken on the wheel, he shouted such horrible imprecations against the King on the scaffold that he was gagged before being put to death. When informed, the King merely commented coolly, ‘Monsieur le Lieutenant Criminel, see how we are rid of a wicked man.’83
In the spring of 1673 the Savoyard diplomat Saint-Maurice learned that three Dutchmen had been arrested after the King received a warning that they were conspiring against his life. It was reported that one of the trio had been found in possession of a flick knife, but when Saint-Maurice heard that they were being interrogated by the Minister of War, Louvois, he became sceptical. Suspecting that Louvois was manipulating the affair for his own ends, he noted sagely that such ploys were often used ‘to envenom minds, prevent peace and make war more bloodthirsty’.84
Before the Affair of the Poisons there were also occasional references to plots to poison the King but it is even more difficult to tell if there was any substance to such stories. In 1664 a Burgundian was arrested after it was allegedly discovered that he had planned to poison Louis by feeding toxic substances to chickens, which he then sold to the royal kitchens for the King’s consumption. In October 1672 Saint-Maurice reported that the sudden death of a royal cupbearer had caused panic for, when his body was searched, poison was found in his pocket. Unfortunately, after writing this, Saint-Maurice made no further mention of the incident, so there is no way of knowing whether there was legitimate cause for concern.85
Since the King’s grandfather, Henri IV, and the latter’s immediate predecessor, Henri III, had both been assassinated by solitary fanatics, it was understandable that there were fears that Louis himself might fall victim to a similar attack. However, the harsh treatment meted out to individuals who merely voiced sentiments hostile to the King excited some criticism. In July 1668 a woman whose son had been killed in a fall during construction work at Versailles presented the King with a blank petition and then started shrieking abuse. Startled, the King asked her if she was addressing him; when she said yes she was seized and condemned to be whipped ‘with extreme rigour’. The senior judge, Olivier d’Ormesson, recorded, ‘Many people have found fault with this severe punishment’, for it was clear that the woman had been unhinged by grief. A few days later a man aged about sixty was arrested for having uttered ‘similar extravagances’, albeit not in the pr
esence of the King. He had burst out that Louis was a tyrant and that France needed virtuous men like Ravaillac (the assassin of Henri IV) who could set matters right. He was sentenced to having his tongue cut out and then to serve in the galleys for the remainder of his life. This caused murmurs of disapproval for, though the customary punishment for blasphemers was to have a hole bored in their tongue, cutting it out altogether was not an established penalty. It was felt that in their eagerness to please the King the Grand Provost and his colleagues in the criminal courts had resorted to arbitrary measures.86
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The King never managed to form a deep emotional bond with his Spanish consort, Queen Marie-Thérèse, whom he had married when he was twenty-one. Her appearance was not the problem: at the time of the marriage it was widely agreed that she was very pretty, although her blond hair and fine complexion were somewhat marred by a dumpy figure and poor teeth. Unfortunately, all at court, starting with the King, quickly concluded that she was extremely boring. It did not help that she never perfectly mastered French, pronouncing certain words with such a strong Spanish accent that it made purists wince. Her confessor was also partly to blame for he insisted that she shut herself away for large parts of the day to worship in her oratory. All too often she could be heard weeping and groaning as she prayed, and though the King might with justice have reflected that his own behaviour perhaps contributed to her grief, these pious excesses were held to have lessened his affection for her.87
In fact, it seems that the Queen’s reputation for dullness was not wholly merited. Mlle de Montpensier sometimes quotes examples of her self-deprecating humour and notes that, if people at court had not been so dismissive, they would have discovered that she could be quite amusing. The Marquis de Saint-Maurice also recorded that she was much more intelligent than was commonly allowed and declared it unfair that her attributes went unnoticed.88 As it was, however, the court treated her with the outward respect that the King desired, but otherwise took little notice of her.
The poor Queen could not even console herself with the pleasures of motherhood. Though she bore the King six children in all, only her firstborn, the Dauphin, survived to adulthood. Of the others the majority died shortly after birth, though Princess Marie-Thérèse lived five years, dying in 1672, and the Duc d’Anjou was aged three when he died in 1671.
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As Mme de Caylus remarked, it was the Queen’s misfortune that the King seemed to love all women save his own wife. Saint-Maurice declared that this was not just because they afforded him physical pleasure but also because Louis genuinely enjoyed their company. They in turn found him extremely attractive for, in the words of Mme de Caylus, the King was endowed with ‘every pleasing quality.’ Quite apart from his charisma and charm he was handsome, with fine legs and a well-modulated voice, and Saint-Simon had no doubt that ‘had he been born into private life he would still have … caused innumerable broken hearts’. Obviously, however, the real secret of his appeal lay elsewhere and there were few court ladies who could honestly say that they would not welcome his advances. Primi Visconti, for one, was quite sure that ‘there is not one lady of quality who does not cherish the ambition of becoming the King’s mistress.’89
With so many women vying for the same goal, the atmosphere at court sometimes became unpleasant. For example, in March 1667, when it was widely suspected that the King was tiring of his mistress, Louise de La Vallière, the Duc d’Enghien reported, ‘There have been a thousand intrigues at Versailles.’ He explained that while it was hard to make sense of the quarrels that had broken out between various ladies, the fundamental problem was that ‘all are extremely jealous of Mlle de La Vallière and there are very few of them who do not feel great envy of her … Being thus inclined it does not require much to exasperate them.’90
But it was not just the ladies who thought that a love affair with the King would be a rewarding experience. Primi Visconti declared, ‘The worst thing is that their families, fathers, mothers and even certain husbands would take pride in it.’ He insisted that numerous women, both married and single, had stated that, if they allowed themselves to be loved by the King, they would not be wronging their husbands and fathers, or even God himself. Visconti concluded, ‘One must thus have some indulgence for the King if he falls in error, for he is surrounded by so many devils, intent on tempting him.’91
It is true that such complaisance on the part of husbands or family members was not universal, as the King found out to his cost. M. de Montespan objected strongly to his wife’s liaison with the King and her brother, the Duc de Vivonne, was also said to disapprove, though his opposition was more muted. There are, however, plenty of examples to support Visconti’s claims. The brother of the King’s first acknowledged mistress, Louise de La Vallière, showed his enthusiasm for her association when he danced in a court ballet in 1664. His costume was adorned with a device depicting a phoenix illuminated by the sun (already recognised as the King’s emblem) and bearing the motto ‘It is fortunate to be scorched by such a fire.’92 He was rewarded for his endorsement of the relationship when the King arranged for him to marry a rich heiress and then awarded him the command of the Dauphin’s light horse.
In 1671 the King was thought to be attracted to Mlle de Grancey, a young lady who had recently arrived at court. At once her uncle, the Marquis de Villarceaux, volunteered his services as a pander. He told the King that if he found his niece appealing, ‘he begged him to make use of him; that the affair would go better in his hands than in others’. The King was still too much in love with Mme de Montespan to avail himself of this offer, but even he was somewhat shocked by the proposal. He burst out laughing and said, ‘Villarceaux, you and I are too old to pounce on young ladies of fifteen.’93
Behaviour of this sort would have made it easier for the King to believe certain allegations that were made during the Affair of the Poisons. He was told that the husband of the Vicomtesse de Polignac had been aware that she had been engaging in black magic in hopes of making the King fall in love with her. Far from trying to stop her, M. de Polignac had considered this an excellent plan, although perhaps he would have been less enthusiastic had he realised that his wife was also casting spells designed to bring about his death.94
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Between 1661–80 the King always had a maîtresse-en-titre but he slept with many other women during those years. He had a voracious sexual appetite so it is impossible to estimate the total number of partners. The ladies whom he was said to have bedded included the Princesse de Monaco, the Comtesse de Gramont, Mme de Soubise, Mlle de Theobon, Mme de Roquelaure, Mlle des Oeillets and Mme de Ludres. Almost certainly he had in addition numerous casual encounters. The King’s sister-in-law recalled, ‘Often he took gallantry to the point of debauchery. Nothing came amiss to him as long as it was female – peasants, gardeners’ daughters, ladies of quality. They need only pretend to be in love with him.’ According to her, ‘He has slept with women he didn’t know at all’ and the Marquis de Saint-Maurice provides further insights on his promiscuity. Having informed the Duke of Savoy that the King had recently slept with Mme de Saint-Martin he confided, ‘He uses those sort of women like post horses, that one mounts once and never sees again.’95
Some people believed there was little emotional depth even in the King’s more lengthy attachments. Mme de Caylus thought that, though the King had many lovable qualities, he was not himself capable of real love. The Comte de Bussy was sure the King’s relationship with both Louise de La Vallière and Mme de Montespan was driven primarily by lust. He took the view that ‘What he felt for them was not passion, it was debauchery, and I think a good deal of habit also came into it. Those ladies are not, properly speaking, mistresses; they are the sort of women with whom their masters sleep.’96
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The Queen was obliged to tolerate her husband’s infidelities. She was not only required to receive the royal mistresses at court but on occasion had to visit them, and in due cou
rse their children by the King were paraded before her. On the whole she accepted the situation with what the Marquis de Saint-Maurice considered to be exemplary patience. He told the Duke of Savoy that though she despised the royal mistresses for their lack of virtue, she felt no hatred or jealousy. The most she permitted herself was to make occasional ‘gallant little jokes’ at their expense, ‘which never cause offence’.97
If the Queen dared not voice any complaints about her husband’s conduct, it was hardly to be expected that the courtiers would be more critical. The sole exception was the Duc de Mazarin, who in 1664 secured a private audience with the King and informed him that his infidelity with Louise de La Vallière was scandalising all France. The King had little difficulty ignoring the opinions of a man who was himself a notorious cuckold and whose eccentricities included protecting the milkmaids on his estate from impure thoughts by forbidding them to touch cows’ udders, and believing that he was a tulip, who must be regularly watered and exposed to the sun. When the Duc had had his say the King demanded forcefully, ‘Have you finished?’ Then, tapping his forehead meaningfully, he told him, ‘I have known for some time there’s something wrong there.’ When news of this exchange became known everyone at court agreed that the Duc had ‘neither the authority nor the character’ to raise such matters with the King. Mazarin found himself so mocked and ostracised that he had to withdraw from court.98
However, while there was little open criticism of the King’s philandering, this does not necessarily mean it was viewed with universal approval. It has been suggested that if one compares the scurrilous rhymes circulated in the reign of Henri IV, Louis XIV’s grandfather, with those current in Louis’s day, it shows that, whereas the public had an amused tolerance for Henri’s infidelities, the attitude towards Louis’s extramarital activities was much more censorious. In 1668 the Marquis de Saint-Maurice wrote that the life the King led with his mistresses aroused much hostility against him, though he attributed this to the French tendency to ‘complain about everything’. When Louis’s younger son, the Duc d’Anjou, died in July 1671, Saint-Maurice further claimed that the public regarded this as divine chastisement on the King for his sins and that there was much murmuring against the fact that he continued to lead an immoral life.99
The Affair of the Poisons: Murder, Infanticide, and Satanism at the Court of Louis XIV Page 12