Because the king had so unexpectedly suspended the war in Flanders, it was generally assumed that he meant, in fact, to have peace. In any event, the winter of 1667-68 was bound to be calm: Seventeenth-century armies did not campaign in winter, partly because supplies were generally unobtainable, partly because sieges required the digging of trenches, a virtual impossibility when the ground was frozen, partly because the generals liked their comfort. It was therefore truly startling when, suddenly, on February 2, 1668, in the middle of the Carnival festivities, the king went off to war.
As usual, Louis XIV moved only after the most deliberate preparation. This time, he was relying on a young man who was to become one of his greatest ministers, and was himself the son of a minister: Here, indeed, is the first example of the king’s propensity to rely on succeeding generations of the same families.
The marquis de Louvois, who was only twenty-nine in 1668, was the son of Le Tellier, the Minister of War; he had already proved his competence and relieved his father, whose attributions extended to a variety of domains, by taking responsibility for supplying of the army during the Flanders campaign. And the king, who watched carefully, noticed that he was doing an outstanding job. Competent as he was, however, Louvois was even more ambitious: He wanted to succeed his father, of course, but also to surpass him, and his pride was soon notorious. Obviously, managing the Flanders campaign had been a step up for him, but he had found himself repeatedly frustrated in his desire for greater control by Turenne’s resistance. In the fall of 1667, therefore, he looked around for an ally against the often bad-tempered maréchal and found him easily in the person of Turenne’s old rival, Monsieur le Prince.
Although by this time Condé had resumed his full role at Court, the king, whose memory was faultless, still did not quite trust him, so the Prince was left behind while Turenne covered himself with glory, and, of course, resented it. He responded all the more eagerly, therefore, when Louvois suggested that, together, they could offer the king a plan to conquer the Franche-Comté swiftly and easily. This idea had the advantage of bringing Louvois to the king’s notice in the most positive way, thus virtually ensuring that he would become Minister of War while giving Condé the revenge for which he was yearning. And when they brought their plan to the king, the expected consequences followed: Easy wars were very much what Louis XIV wanted.
That the Franche-Comté should still, in 1668, be Spanish was itself an anomaly, the last remnant, in fact, of the division of Europe in the early Middle Ages. Burgundy had then been divided into two distinct lordships: the duchy and the county, or Franche-Comté; both belonged to members of the French royal family. Then, in the early fifteenth century, the duke of Burgundy, himself an uncle of King Charles VI of France, had, through his wife, inherited the county, thus reuniting in his person the two separate lordships. With the collapse of the Burgundian realm in 1477, Louis XI took over the duchy, while the Franche-Comté remained the possession of Mary of Burgundy, the last duke’s daughter; through her marriage with Maximilian of Habsburg, it was transmitted to her grandson, Emperor Charles V, from whom, via his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, Charles II of Spain had, in turn, inherited it. Thus, although unquestionably Spanish in law, the province was French-speaking, observed French customary law, and is today, in fact, well within France.
This anomaly now presented a double opportunity: Helped by a number of generous gifts from Louis XIV, the notable men of the province had no trouble convincing themselves that they really ought to be French, and because it bordered on France, Switzerland, and Lorraine (then still occupied by French troops), it was virtually inaccessible to Spanish armies. Thus, the result of the campaign was a foregone conclusion. Following Monsieur le Prince’s plan exactly, the army, headed nominally by the king, conquered the province in just three weeks.
At that, France’s neighbors began to worry: If, apparently, nothing could stop the French armies, there was no telling who might be next, so Holland, within five days, signed alliance treaties with Great Britain and Sweden, and the Dutch Ambassador to the French Court, Van Beuning, asked the king to end the war. Naturally, Louvois’s advice was to ignore this sommation, but both Colbert and Lionne, aware that France might find itself at war not only with those three countries, who were nominally its allies, but also with the emperor, who was probably bribed to support Spain, pleaded for peace. To anyone who knew the king well, the result of this conflicting advice was a foregone conclusion: He sent an embassy to Madrid offering to make peace, and in the Treaty of Aachen returned the Franche-Comté to Spain while keeping the slice of Flanders he had conquered.
His moderation, however, was nothing but a trompe-l’oeil. Having once conquered the Franche-Comté, he knew just how easy it would be to attack it again: Here, it was simply a question of biding his time, especially since Spain was clearly getting steadily weaker. As for Flanders, this new addition to the kingdom had a double advantage: For the first time ever, France now had an easily defensible northern border, and although he did not show it, the king greatly resented the intervention of Holland. Poised on his new fortresses, he was now in a position to attack the Netherlands whenever he chose. Whatever the appearances might be, therefore - and there was a good deal of grumbling in France about the return of the Franche-Comté - the Treaty of Aachen constituted a French triumph.
Triumphs must be celebrated: So on July 18, the king gave a great fete at Versailles; his father’s hunting lodge there had already been transformed into a rather more sizable castle, complete with elaborate forecourt; more important, Le Nôtre’s gardens were, if not completed, at least well under way. Water played in round basins, sculpture was everywhere, long straight alleys led to circular plazas, pavilions, and latticework structures; closer to the castle brightly colored flowers were arranged in abstract patterns copied from embroidery. It was in these gardens that the fete took place.
Such were its splendors that an observer needed sixty closely printed pages to describe them. There were specially built fountains everywhere; at one place, a cabinet de verdure, a room made of greenery, was built to house five tables set up for a light meal. One of these tables looked like a mountain pierced with many grottoes which had been filled with cold meats; another, which looked like the façade of a palace, was made of cakes and candies; another held up pyramids of candied fruit; another still was covered with vases full of every kind of liquor while the fifth offered a composition of caramels. On the small lawn separating these tables, orange and other fruit trees, in silver planters, bore their own candied fruit, and in the center of all this abundance was a thirty-foot-high jet of water.136
All through the gardens, the alleys were lined with fruit trees and sculpture arranged in latticework niches. There was, of course, a theater made entirely of greenery but lined, inside, with tapestries, and lit by crystal chandeliers, with an amphitheater seating 1,200. The stage itself, lined with jets of water, offered a variety of sumptuous architectural sets during the performance of a Molière play - Le Paysan enrichi - with music by Lulli. After that, the king, queen, and Court set off to a dome-topped octagonal temple, adorned inside with vases, fountains, sculptures, and bas-reliefs. There, a table for sixty-four bore in its center a sculptured rock from which ran a fountain that was decorated with sculptures, vases, shells, and figures. This table was surrounded by gilded dolphins, shells, and fountains; crystal chandeliers hung from the roof on scarves of silver gauze linked by festoons of fresh flowers. Interestingly, this area was only for the king, Monsieur, and sixty-two ladies. The queen was in a nearby tent, where tables each seating twenty had been arranged; as for the ambassadors, they had their own special table set up in an artificial grotto. The supper was followed by a ball in an elaborately decorated pavilion, and that in turn by fireworks, and throughout the entire evening, both gardens and castle were brightly illuminated.
All these splendors seemed only fitting for the ruler whom all now compared to Augustus because, like that emperor,
he brought his country power, order, and prosperity. There can be no doubt that Louis XIV himself thoroughly enjoyed it all, and Monsieur, who loved a good party, must have been in heaven. This event, in fact, was one of the last occasions when the king danced in public, not the sort of stately dance appropriate at a royal ball, but the intricate steps, then thought of as ballet, in which he was accustomed to shine. Within two years, he had given up performing in ballets and carrousels - partly because he realized that what befitted a very young man would not suit a more mature monarch, but also because, at the first performance of Britannicus, one of Racine’s masterpieces, he heard the following lines: “Pour toute ambition, pour vertu singulière Il excelle à conduire un char dans la carrière A disputer des prix indignes de ses mains A se donner lui-même en spectacle aux Remains”137 (As his chief ambition, as his main achievement he excels in driving in a chariot race in disputing prizes unworthy of himself In making a show of himself to all Rome). These lines applied to Nero, but the king took them also for himself.
Splendid as the fete was, however, one of the guests found it the bitterest of torments: The duchesse de La Vallière, now maitresse déclarée, was expected to be highly visible, decorative, and cheerful, but she knew very well that, although the king still occasionally slept with her, he was in love with Mme de Montespan, and that lady saw to it that her predecessor was constantly made aware of the fact. To make her plight even worse, she must have compared her situation that night, officially honored when her heart was broken, to the one she enjoyed during the other great fete, the Plaisirs de l’Ile Enchantée some four years earlier when she had had neither title nor position at Court but was the heroine of the occasion: Louis XIV was passionately in love with her and, for the first time, was making it plain to all eyes.
Indeed, it is difficult not to feel sorry for La Vallière: Unlike most of her successors, under both Louis XIV and Louis XV, she had not a particle of ambition; she cared nothing for money or honors, had no grasping family to establish. She had become Louis’s mistress after the hardest-fought resistance and only because she was desperately in love with him; now, and for the next few years, she was made to endure a long, drawn-out calvary as, remaining at Court, she watched her rival’s triumphs.
As for the king, who was unquestionably cruel to her, he had, as usual, good reasons to behave as he did. The first, and most honorable, is that he still loved her and did not want to do without her; the second was that Mme de Montespan was a married woman. A double adultery, openly displayed, had not lost its power to shock, so La Vallière served as a screen behind which the king could indulge his passion.
Except for that inconvenient and not infrequently obstreperous husband, however, Mme de Montespan seemed far more suited than the shy and tender La Vallière for the post of royal mistress. In the midst of a splendid Court, she was herself the most dazzling of creatures: Beautiful, blond, with an admirable if abundant body, she knew how to outdress and outshine all the other ladies. She loved magnificence, in herself, her jewels, her apartments. She enjoyed life on a large scale, eating, drinking, gambling, making love. She could be majestic or uproarious, severely brilliant or extraordinarily funny. Just as the king himself had begun to seem larger than life, so Mme de Montespan seemed bolder and brighter than all her contemporaries; as for her rages, which did not spare Louis XIV himself, they were justly celebrated.
With all that, however, appearances were respected, at least minimally. Mme de Montespan’s apartment, for instance, was behind La Vallière’s, so the king would, visibly, go in to the duchesse’s and send away his attendants, only to cross over, privately, to Mme de Montespan’s. When, in 1669, she became pregnant, the fact was carefully concealed and she gave birth in the deepest of secrecy.
No matter where he looked, in fact, the king had reason to be pleased. His Court was the most brilliant in Europe, and now began to be copied. The great leonine wig, for instance, soon spread from France to the rest of Europe, as did fashions in clothes and decor. What might aptly be termed the French century had begun; for the next 120 years, the fluctuations of politics notwithstanding, France was the lodestar which the rest of Europe followed, and why not? Mansart in architecture, Le Brun in painting, Lulli in music, Molière and Racine in the theater, all contributed to the supremacy of the French style. New, becoming fashions for men replaced the oddities of the early sixties, and with only slight modifications, they lasted until the end of the eighteenth century. Knee breeches were worn with stockings and buckled shoes; a coat open in front came almost to the knees, with a closed waistcoat worn underneath and a lace cravat around the neck. Women adopted straight lines: tightly corseted waists, straight but sumptuous underskirts with an overskirt open in front and looped at the back. And jewels were everywhere, sewn to men’s coats and women’s dresses, worn on hats and shoes, as buttons and tiaras, so that the overall look was both dignified and dazzling.
All this transformation was based on an upsurge of prosperity, reflected, in turn, in the yearly budget. When Louis XIV looked at his little notebook in 1670, he could see that his revenues had risen from 63 million livres in 1664 to 74 million now while keeping taxes at the same level, and because of the financial reforms, the percentage taken up by the service on the debt was minute. Indeed, that year, a number of categories rose substantially: The military establishment was given 16 million more; nearly an additional 2.5 million was spent on fortifying the newly acquired northern cities; the navy, under Colbert’s impulsion, was given 9.5 million more; and finally, the king saw to his own pleasures - his outlay for buildings went from 2 to 5 million. Best of all, this increase was done on a balanced budget. In fact, as it turned out, 1670 ended with a 4-million deficit due to the lack of accuracy of certain estimates, but that sum was made up the next year.
None of this enrichment, certainly, would have been possible without Louis XIV’s constant efforts, but he was also helped by ministers of genius. Colbert, the universal man as always, watched over every aspect of the economy, oversaw the king’s rapidly increasing constructions, and also took care of details; on May 5, 1670, for instance, he was writing the king: “Sire, Mlle de Blois [the King’s illegitimate daughter] has had smallpox … the Sieur Bruger looked after her: she is now, thank God, almost over it. M. le comte de Vermandois [her brother] has a bad cold, which has upset him. Your Majesty may be sure that my wife is taking good care of him.”138 Colbert’s many achievements, however, did not exempt him from the exact obedience the king demanded of all his servants. Thus, in the spring of 1671, he chose to disregard Colbert’s advice in regards to the army; the minister reiterated it forcefully and complained that his master was listening to other people. This assertion of superiority by one of his ministers was precisely what Louis XIV was determined to prevent, but he was also aware of, and grateful for, Colbert’s unceasing efforts, so off went a letter that, in its blend of firmness and kindness, was absolutely typical of the king. “Do not think that my regard for you can be abated as long as your services continue, that will never happen, but you must render them such as I wish, and believe that I do all for the best.
“The preference you fear my giving others must not worry you. I only wish to avoid injustice and work for the best of my service. That is what I will do when you will all be near me.
“Believe in the meantime that I have not changed in my feelings toward you and that these are such as you can wish.”139 It might almost be a letter to a jealous lover, and indeed, that was one strong element of Colbert’s devotion to the king.
Louis XIV, too, felt strong ties to Colbert: Absolute master though he was, he knew very well that only the best advisers allowed him to function successfully, and while his other ministers each played an essential role in a limited area, it was Colbert who saw not just to his very extensive official duties but also to all the awkward events which fell outside regular jurisdictions. An incident which took place early in 1670, and which, twenty years earlier would have had the gravest con
sequences, is a perfect example, both of the minister’s usefulness and of the king’s power.
This event involved no less a personage than Monsieur. Still utterly without occupation, although he had behaved with conspicuous bravery during the Flanders campaign, the duc d’Orléans, married to a wife he detested and who did her best to annoy him, had fallen passionately in love with the chevalier de Lorraine, a penniless youngest son of a younger son of the illustrious Lorraine family. Entitled by birth to attend the Court, he counted on his good looks and seductiveness to supply his lack of funds; looking, as he did, to both sexes for support, he was already eminently successful when Monsieur, who had always been attracted to handsome young men, fell head over heels in love with him. That the chevalier immediately responded hardly needs saying: Monsieur might not be powerful, but he was very rich and able, intermittently, to obtain favors from the king, and since jealousy tends to ensure continued love, Lorraine, beside his affair with the prince, was seen to court - some thought successfully - Madame as well.
Naturally, Louis XIV was well aware of all this intrigue, and since it was his policy to keep Monsieur satisfied, he occasionally granted his brother’s requests regarding the chevalier. Ormesson tells us what happened next: “The news of the death of the Bishop of Langres having reached St. Germain, M. le duc d’Orléans, who had promised the chevalier de Lorraine the two abbeys* belonging to M. de Langres, went to ask the King for permission to proceed. The King answered that his conscience would not allow him to do so, and despite [Monsieur’s] repeated pleas, refused him, so Monsieur, gravely annoyed, ordered that his apartment be packed up as he was leaving the Court. The King [sent], in the meantime, M. Le Tellier to see Monsieur and try to convince him to stay, but he was unable to, Monsieur saying that if he had had a house that was a thousand leagues away, he would go there.”
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