A year later death made far more terrible incursions into the royal family. In February 1712 the enchanting young Duchesse de Bourgogne, who was married to the King’s eldest grandson and heir apparent, contracted a highly infectious disease whose symptoms included a rash and high fever, and which has been tentatively identified as measles, scarlet fever or a form of typhus. Within days of her death on 12 February her husband, the Duc de Bourgogne, also fell dangerously ill and he followed her to the grave on 18 February. The tragedy was compounded when the young couple’s elder son, a child of five, was struck down with the same disease and died on 7 March.
Predictably, the grim succession of fatalities was widely ascribed to poison and, to the horror of Madame, the finger was pointed at her son, who had succeeded his father as Duc d’Orléans in 1701. Not only had Orléans’s own chance of succeeding to the throne been much improved by the snuffing out of so many of his male relations, but he was known to be interested in chemistry, which still had sinister connotations. Madame claimed that the fact that her late husband had also been associated in the public mind with the death of his first wife in 1670 meant that people were more ready to think evil of his son. ‘Whoever dies at court, my son is blamed,’ she wailed in March 1712,44 but though the King heartily disliked his nephew, he did not believe these slanders. When Louis died in 1715, to be succeeded by his five-year-old great-grandson, Louis XV, the Duc d’Orléans was appointed regent.
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The edict of July 1682 had not been concerned solely with poisons, for it was also directed against superstitious abuses. In one respect it represented an advance, because it marked an important stage in the process whereby witchcraft was no longer recognised as an offence. The very existence of witchcraft was implicitly questioned, for penalties were set out only for those who, by pretending they were ‘diviners, magicians or sorcerers’, corrupted the gullible. The edict ordained that all those who fell into this category should leave the realm forthwith on pain of corporal punishment, while anyone convicted of the more serious offence of sacrilege would be sentenced to death.45
Colbert’s adviser Duplessis had stressed the importance of mounting a purge against fortune-tellers and practitioners of magic, stressing that unless all those involved in this ‘detestable commerce’ were driven out of business, the public would assume that such activities were acceptable.46 La Reynie, too, believed it was essential to halt their operations on the grounds that they seduced their clients into crime. Yet though it is clear that the highest priority was attached to cleansing Paris of these parasites, the attempt to eliminate them was an utter failure.
Even at the end of the seventeenth century, successors to Mme Voisin were still at work in Paris and they continued to number people of high rank among their clients. In 1696 a woman of this kind was arrested ‘for the greatest infamies in the world’ and, when her premises were searched, letters were found written to her by the Marquis de Feuquières. More shocking still, the letters made clear that the King’s nephew, the Duc de Chartres (the future Duc d’Orléans), had had dealings with her.47 The King suppressed the evidence and the woman was never brought to trial, but the episode showed that the divineresses were far from eradicated.
In October 1702 La Reynie’s successor as Lieutenant-General of the Paris Police, René Voyer, Comte d’Argenson, reported that the capital was plagued by ‘a great disorder which is growing from day to day and which is not confined to the corruption of morals but tends to the destruction of every principle of religion’. This alarming situation was caused by a proliferation of ‘false diviners, would-be sorcerers, [individuals] who promise to discover treasure or communicate with spirits’, as well as numerous persons ‘who distribute powders, talismans and pentacles’. There was a huge number of these charlatans and their clients were multiplying all the time.48
The details supplied by d’Argenson make familiar reading to anyone acquainted with the Affair of the Poisons. Those rounded up by his officers at the time included one Jemme, who specialised in drawing up pacts with the devil, and another man, Bendrode, who claimed to have the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone. A priest named Père Robert was said to have performed ‘sacrifices’ in order to consummate diabolic pacts and to have supplied clients with pieces of rope retrieved from the neck of a hanged man, which he had blessed with a consecrated wafer. He claimed that whoever possessed a section of this rope ‘would make himself loved by all women, would win at gambling … and would succeed in all affairs’. The Baron de Saugeon and his wife sold ‘a water to re-establish virginity’, while a pregnant woman named Lebrun who had volunteered to surrender her infant to the devil had ‘given birth within a magic circle to a child who was carried off that very instant’.49
What was more, these people catered to prestigious clients. The divineress Marie-Anne de La Ville, who was arrested at this time, numbered among her customers not just the incorrigible Marquis de Feuquières but also Mme de Grancey, an intimate of the late Duc d’Orléans. Another man named Boyer who performed conjurations and told fortunes claimed to have accurately predicted the future to unnamed ‘duchesses’.50
D’Argenson regarded all this as a serious problem, but he did not want the offenders tried in any form of court, not even a secret tribunal. He noted that not only might it prove problematic to obtain convictions when all the witnesses for the prosecution were associates of the accused and themselves of bad character, but also that ‘the impact made on the public by investigating cases of this kind creates the sort of scandal which dishonours religion and makes the Protestants more unruly’.
His preferred solution was that the culprits should be imprisoned in distant chateaux or confined to workhouses by order of the King. He was confident that such measures, ‘executed by means of the highest authority will make more impression on the public and instil more fear into the inquisitive than a long series of investigations and sixty sentences [passed] by an extraordinary commission’.51 Clearly d’Argenson was aware of the difficulties that had beset the Chambre Ardente and had no wish to be sucked into a similar quagmire.
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D’Argenson’s reluctance to emulate La Reynie is the more understandable in view of the fact that, while it was in being, the Chambre Ardente was considered to have caused great damage to France’s international reputation. When the scandal first broke, it was assumed there must be real substance in the allegations against eminent figures, and at court there was widespread shame at the prospect that people of high rank had committed foul crimes. Mme de Sévigné commented that the accusations of poison, sacrilege and abortion were ‘filling all Europe with horror’ and lamented that henceforth ‘a Frenchman will be synonymous with a poisoner in foreign lands’.52 However, as it became apparent that grand individuals were being called before the commission for ‘mere trifles’, there was a change of emphasis. Not only was it considered deplorable that the superstition and credulity of members of the French élite should be paraded before foreigners, but there was a feeling that by taking such absurdities so seriously the authorities had unnecessarily exposed the kingdom to the mockery of outsiders.
Colbert’s objections to the activities of the Chambre Ardente stemmed partly from his belief that they were damaging to national prestige, and certainly the affair aroused a great deal of interest outside France. Foreign ambassadors stationed there were careful to include details in despatches, and printed accounts of episodes such as the Duchesse de Bouillon’s appearance before the commissioners were also circulated in some countries. The father of M. de Feuquières was serving as French ambassador to Sweden when his son was summoned before the commission, so he was well placed to observe the impact that the affair created overseas. In July 1680 he wrote to inform the King that ‘for the past six months, the affairs of the Arsenal Chamber have caused a sensation in Sweden’. He explained that for fear of being thought partial, he had refrained from drawing attention to this until his son had been discharged by the commissioners. Ne
vertheless, the experience had showed him ‘how disheartening it is, Sire, when one is concerned for the glory of the fatherland, to see it discredited by a low affair’.53 Certainly, it was ironic that Louis XIV, who was so passionate about upholding the glory of France, should have done so much to compromise it by setting up the Chambre Ardente.
By the later years of the reign the perception had developed that the Affair of the Poisons was a painful episode to which it was wiser not to draw attention. In her memoirs, written towards the end of her life, the Duchesse de Montpensier mentioned that the Comtesse de Soissons left the country because ‘she was mixed up in the business of the Chambre Ardente’, but added cautiously, ‘I will not attempt to talk of that; the matter is too delicate and [to do so] one must be better informed about it than I am.’ Mme de Sévigné also gives the impression that the subject was best avoided: in 1689 she wrote that at court ‘one does not talk of poison; that word is forbidden at Versailles and throughout all France’.54
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Shortly before her execution Mme Voisin declared, ‘Debauchery is the primary incentive of all these disorders’ and this pronouncement was thought to contain much truth. Prior to the trial of Mme de Brinvilliers, a lawyer who wrote a tract protesting her innocence had urged his readers not to be prejudiced against her on account of her sexual misconduct, for it was essential to bear in mind ‘the distance which separates dissolute morals from the infamy of crime’.55 However, her conviction and subsequent admission of guilt suggested that, on the contrary, the two were often closely interlinked. The fact that all those at court who were called before the Chambre Ardente were known to have irregular private lives reinforced the idea that there was a connection.
When the Affair of the Poisons was at its height the celebrated preacher Père Bourdaloue gave a sermon at court on 2 February 1680 in which he explicitly linked immorality with far worse offences. He began by praising the King for having taken firm action against those who were currently menacing French society, declaring that ‘there were monsters hidden within France, and your Majesty is the hero whom God has raised up to crush and stifle them’. He then thundered that ‘the sacrilege, impiety and homicide which have spread throughout France’ were the ‘fatal but infallible consequence of debauchery and licentious morals’, before once again encouraging the King to seek out the culprits. ‘It is to you, Sire, to whom the public will be indebted for being purged of them,’ he intoned.56
Bourdaloue’s strictures inevitably made the King reflect and it is notable that from this point Louis made a sustained effort to improve the morals of the court. He now led by example and, though the onset of his forties and the influence of Mme de Maintenon partly accounted for the alterations in his own way of life, the things he had learned during the Affair of the Poisons also played a part. The revelations that emerged in the course of it, and the fact that he had had to contemplate the possibility that his former mistress had committed the most frightful abominations, not only aided his resolve to live a purer life himself but convinced him of the importance of discouraging immorality in others.
The King did what he could to inaugurate a religious revival. Always a sincere believer, his piety became still more pronounced and he evinced what one German diplomat described as ‘a great inclination for devotion’. Though he failed to fill the exacting standards of Mme de Maintenon, who complained he still attached too much importance to outward observance rather than developing an inner spirituality, he strove to be more godly. He also tried to make his courtiers more religious. During a visit to France in 1679 the English philosopher John Locke had noted that traditional fasts enjoined by the Church were now widely ignored. He reported, ‘The observation of Lent at Paris is come almost to nothing. Meat is openly to be had … and dispensation commonly to be had from the curate without any more ado and people of sense laugh at it.’ The King set out to change such disrespectful attitudes. In April 1684 the Marquis de Dangeau recorded in his diary, ‘The King at his levee spoke strongly about courtiers who do not perform their Easter duties, [saying that] he greatly esteemed those who performed them properly, and that he urged them all to think about this very seriously.’57
The King’s desire for reformation soon made a difference. In September 1683, shortly after the death of Queen Marie-Thérèse, Mme de Maintenon wrote exultantly to her brother, ‘I think the Queen asked God for the conversion of the whole court; that of the King is wonderful, and the ladies who seemed farthest from it are never out of churches.’ Noting that Mme de Montespan, her sister Mme de Thianges, the Comtesse de Gramont and the Princesse de Soubise were among the most assiduous, she crowed, ‘Normal Sundays are like Easter days in former times.’58
A few years later Mme de Maintenon again expressed delight that ‘piety is becoming very much in fashion’, but she did worry that not all those who professed devotion were sincere. This was a valid fear. In 1688 the Duchesse d’Orléans observed, ‘It is true that people are wearing diamond crosses, but they are purely for ornament and have no religious significance.’ Eleven years later she went further, declaring, ‘Faith is extinguished in this country to the point where not a single young man is to be found who does not choose to be an atheist. But the most amusing thing is that the same young man who plays the atheist in Paris acts pious at court.’59
Saint-Simon relates a story which suggests that much of the religious enthusiasm at court was indeed feigned. The Marquis de Brissac, Adjutant of the Royal Bodyguard, was sure that many of the ladies who came to the late service, which the King attended twice a week in the chapel at Versailles, only did so because they wanted to be noticed by Louis. Determined to catch them out, one evening the Adjutant dismissed the royal bodyguard before the King appeared. When asked the reason, Brissac said that the King was going to miss evensong on this occasion, whereupon most of the female worshippers filed out of the chapel. Brissac then recalled the bodyguard in time for the King’s arrival and when Louis entered he was mystified to find the chapel virtually empty. The mischievous Brissac then explained how he had tricked ‘the pseudo-saints’.60
Some old reprobates simply proved incapable of reformation. The famously promiscuous Maréchale de la Ferté, who had featured peripherally in the Affair of the Poisons, did not die till 1714, when she was aged over eighty. Towards the end of her life she attended a Lenten service in the company of her equally notorious sister, the Comtesse d’Olonne. The priest preached a sermon on hellfire and the need for fasting and repentance, thoroughly alarming the elderly pair. The Maréchale quavered, ‘Sister, this is becoming serious; it is no laughing matter; if we do not do our penance we shall be damned. Sister, what must we do?’ There was a long pause. ‘My dear,’ replied Mme d’Olonne, ‘this is what we must do: we must let the servants fast.’61
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Now that the King was doing his best to suppress all forms of licentious behaviour, the excesses of his youth were succeeded by what Saint-Simon called ‘the long years of gravity’. Looking back on what France had been like when he arrived there seven years earlier, Primi Visconti remarked that by 1680, it seemed like ‘a different country’. The balls, banquets and concerts, which had enlivened the court in the past, were now a rarity, and life there was much quieter. ‘Few people have fun and … circumspection is necessary, particularly at court,’ Visconti lamented. ‘Debauchery, [frequenting] places of ill repute, drunkenness, indecent clothing … and even obscene speech ruins a man with the King.’62
The King’s sister-in-law, the Duchesse d’Orléans, was one of those who had difficulty adapting. In 1685 the King ordered her confessor to reprimand her for being too free in her speech (she herself admitted that she often talked ‘about crapping and pissing’) and for permitting her maids of honour to have lovers. The King said he had been so annoyed about this that were it not for the fact that she was his sister-in-law he would have banished her from court. Despite her anger at being treated ‘like a chambermaid’, Madame wrote to apologise for her c
oarse language, saying she had not realised the King was offended by it. With regard to her maids, she said that it was hard for her to control their behaviour and – doubtless remembering a time when her household had been dubbed ‘the nursery garden for mistresses of the King’ – added slyly that she ‘knew such conduct to be not without precedent and quite usual at any court’. Finding the new strait-laced atmosphere of the court uncongenial she grumbled, ‘The King thinks he is being pious when he arranges for everyone to be eternally bothered and pestered.‘63
In 1690 another observer commented on the great change that had taken place at court, which now bore little resemblance to its former incarnation. Ezechiel Spanheim noted, ‘Debauchery, dissoluteness, blasphemy and other scandalous vices [which were] formerly fairly commonplace at court are no longer tolerated nor unpunished.’ Gallantry was neither ‘in vogue nor in credit, which can be attributed to the King having immersed himself in piety’. Spanheim added that while he made no claim ‘to guarantee the virtue of all the ladies at the French court or to make of them so many vestals’, the fact remained that flighty ladies were now frowned upon rather than being welcomed as in the past.64
In one area the King’s will could not prevail for, despite his strong convictions, he never managed to curb homosexuality at court. This was not for want of trying, but the fact that so many men in the highest echelons of the nobility had homosexual predilections ultimately frustrated him. In June 1682 there was a major scandal when ‘a large number of important persons’ were sent away from court, which was now said to resemble ‘a little Sodom’. Devastatingly for the King, they included not only one of the Princes of the Blood, the Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon (whose exile was only brief) but also Louis’s son by Louise de La Vallière, the Comte de Vermandois, who died not long afterwards, still in disgrace. Three years later there was another wave of expulsions after intercepted letters were found to contain shocking details of ‘ultramontane debauch’. Even so, what the Duchesse d’Orléans called ‘that horrible sodomy’ showed no signs of declining. In 1699 Madame lamented that it was now ‘so much the fashion here that no one attempts to conceal it any longer’; two years later she declared that that species of vice was now more common in France than in Italy.65
The Affair of the Poisons: Murder, Infanticide, and Satanism at the Court of Louis XIV Page 48