Appearances, however, were deceiving. William III needed time to raise troops and money, as well as to obtain Parliament’s consent to a new war. This last was done partly through a process of barter - he signed the Act of Settlement which not only placed the succession to the throne in the House of Hanover should Princess Anne find herself without issue, but also sharply restrained the power of his successors; he pointed out that French troops had quickly occupied the Barrier fortresses in Belgium, the specific purpose of which was precisely to keep France within its borders; and a trading agreement between France and Spain which seemed to threaten the profitable English trade with South America only helped him further. The league between England, Holland, the emperor, and a number of lesser princes, the elector of Hanover first and foremost, was only signed in September 1701, but already in the spring, Leopold I, sure that it was on the way, began hostilities in Italy.
Did Louis XIV make the right choice in this decision, perhaps the most important one of his reign? The answer to that question has been argued for over 300 years, mostly with the benefit of hindsight. That, of course, is hardly fair: Statesmen are restricted to the information they have, so a first appraisal must be made on the basis of the situation as it was in November 1700.
Once that is done, however, the king must also be held accountable for the consequences of his actions in the short term - the dreadful war that ensued - and in the long term - France’s relationship to Spain in the decades that followed.
The situation in 1700 was such, if examined carefully, as to leave Louis XIV with very little choice. Whatever the ministers may have said in Council, whatever the claims made by Monseigneur, it is clear that France could not afford a resurrection of Charles V’s empire. Between the emperor in Vienna and his son in Madrid, the Habsburgs would have ruled over Austria, Hungary, Bohemia (today’s Czechoslovakia), the Tyrol extending to Trieste, Naples, Sicily, Milan, the Spanish Netherlands (today’s Belgium), Spain, and all the Spanish colonies in the Caribbean and Latin America; they would also have encircled France, threatening it on its borders: the one with Italy (the duke of Savoy being an unreliable ally), the one with the German states, the one with the Spanish Netherlands, the one with Spain.
The king had good reason to remember what had happened in the sixteenth century when that situation had been the case: From François I’s defeat at Pavia to Henri II’s weak peace treaties, and through the Wars of Religion which, financed by Spain had racked France into the seventeenth century, the Habsburgs had very nearly added France to their dominions; nor did he forget that in the 1630s, Spanish armies had come within fifty miles of Paris. To leave the throne of Spain to the archduke, therefore, would have been a plain dereliction of duty.
Of course, it was a proud moment for Louis XIV when he announced to his assembled Court that his grandson had become king of Spain, and many historians have been misled by that legitimate emotion into thinking that it was to raise his gloire still further that Louis had accepted the late king’s will, but that is, in fact, putting the cart before the horse. The decision was motivated first by the gravest political considerations, and once he had taken it, Louis derived pride from it.
As for the risks inherent in acceptance, they, too, had been carefully weighed. The king knew, none better, that money was one of the main resources of war, and that the Treasury was still empty. Under those circumstances, a prolonged conflict would prove exceedingly difficult to finance. Then, too, the great generals of the early part of the reign were dead, and the king himself was too old to lead his troops in person. His closest ally, the duke of Savoy, was notoriously treacherous, so once again, France was likely to be fighting the rest of Europe, and there was no guaranty that it would win. Louis, in fact, had been willing to go great lengths to preserve peace as the two treaties, one of succession, the other of partition, had proved: He was under no illusion that the war would be either short or easy.
Still, it was better to fight now, adding the resources of Spain to those of France, than to allow the Habsburgs to resurrect their former European supremacy, since they were then bound to try and crush their old enemy. At least both the Pyrenees and the northern border were safe, and the Spanish possessions could be used to barter for peace.
There can be no doubt, therefore, that with the information at his disposal, Louis XIV made the right choice; even seen in retrospect, the balance remains in his favor. Although the war of the Spanish Succession proved long, very costly, very painful and was, indeed, very nearly lost, the long-term relationship with Spain was everything that could be desired. Until the end of the ancien régime, the cousins on both sides of the Pyrenees remained good friends. The power France had fought almost uninterruptedly ever since 1500 remained its ally: Clearly, the cost in men and money had not been wasted.
Finally, by his own standards, Louis XIV had behaved like a good king: He had carefully listened to the advice offered him, had considered the possibilities and dangers of his decision, the welfare of his kingdom and the rights of his family, and then, with the help of his common sense, reached what turned out to be the proper decision. The responsibility was his; he had been swayed by neither minister nor favorite.
On December 4, after many tearful scenes, King Philip V left Versailles; his brothers accompanied him to the border, and the three took with them fifteen carriages, fourteen post chaises, and forty-six baggage carts, all pulled by 818 horses; and to it was added the equipage of their numerous suite.
Of course, Louis XIV, as he bid his grandson farewell, had reminded him that he must always remain the friend of France: That counsel was in public, but before that, and privately, he had also given him a set of instructions, and they ranged from the most fundamental matters of policy to the minutest particulars. Divided into thirty-three articles, they began with “Always do your duty, especially to God” and ended with the following typical admonition: “Do not allow yourself to be ruled. Be the master; never have either a favorite or a prime minister. Consult your Council, listen to it; but decide yourself. God, who has made you king, will give you all the understanding you need as long as your intentions remain good.” This advice, in fact, is exactly the same as he had given the dauphin over thirty years earlier: In those few words, the spirit of the new monarchy is contained.
In between these two admonitions, the advice runs from the bland: “Always declare yourself for virtue and against vice” to the practical: “Love the Spanish and all the subjects attached to your crowns and to your person; do not prefer those who flatter you most; keep your esteem for those who, for your good, will make bold to displease you: they are your true friends.
“… Only go to war when you are forced to do so.”
Naturally, the new king was advised to reorganize his finances, keep up his fleets, watch over the Indies; he was warned never to neglect business for pleasure, but also to keep some time free for relaxation; he was reminded that it was important to get to know his more important subjects so that he might make use of them. Then came the most important parts of the instructions:
“Do not seem shocked by the extraordinary appearance of the people you will see; do not make fun of them; each country has its own manners and you will soon grow accustomed to what seemed to you most shocking.
“Never forget that you are French …
“Have complete trust in the duc d’Harcourt*; he is clever and reliable and will give you advice which will be to your own advantage.”266
Indeed, this last item was the most important of all. The duc d’Anjou, until his sudden rise, had been no more than a younger brother of the heir presumptive, and he had been brought up accordingly - just as Monsieur had been two generations earlier. While the duc de Bourgogne was raised to rule, the duc d’Anjou was trained to obey; he was carefully allowed to remain somewhat backward, since the great object of his education was to ensure he would never lead an opposition against his elder brother. Unfortunately, given the sudden change in his position, his govern
or had succeeded perfectly: The young man was dull, lazy, indecisive, and very pious. When, in 1701, he discovered sex, it turned into an obsession, and for the rest of the world, he cared very little.
Thus, it was perfectly obvious to those who knew him well that he was quite incapable of governing the ramshackle Spanish kingdoms at this moment of crisis: Oddly enough,* this Bourbon was remarkably like the last of the Habsburgs. That, of course, left a power vacuum: Someone was going to govern through the king. At the start, that someone was to be a combination of the clever and charming duc d’Harcourt and Cardinal Portocarrero, the head of the Junta, and the man most responsible for the late king’s will. But since Philip must marry, it seemed highly likely that his wife would rule him, and, clear-eyed as always, Louis XIV provided for this probability also.
Whether or not the princess he chose was pretty, agreeable, or bright was not much of a consideration: She might rule her husband, but someone could be provided to rule her in turn; still, in this case, political considerations went hand in hand with a happy selection. It was extremely important to keep the duke of Savoy from reneging on the French alliance and the best way to do that, it seemed, was by marrying his youngest daughter, Maria Luisa, to Philip V. But, as the sister of the enchanting duchesse de Bourgogne, it also seemed probable that she would be very pleasing.
For the duke of Savoy to have one daughter married to the heir presumptive of France and the other to the king of Spain was obviously a great achievement, but being both practical and unscrupulous, he preferred enlarging his states to this kind of gloire, and so the negotiations ran into some difficulties. On July 29, 1701, Louis XIV wrote his grandson: “I have thought it best to delay your marriage because I have been advised that the Duke of Savoy was not sincere. You know what he is like. I had written to the marquis de Castel Rodrigo to suspend negotiations but have learned that they are already concluded. Do not be surprised, though, if he [the Duke] creates some difficulties: I hope he will find the means to do so.”267
In fact, the marriage actually took place by procuration on September 11, and the young king promptly fell in love with Maria Luisa, who turned out to be a good deal brighter than her husband. Still, lively though she undoubtedly was, the queen was only thirteen - old enough to let her husband discover the joys of sex, but hardly experienced enough to govern the realm.
Louis XIV, however, had provided for that as well. As Maria Luisa’s new Camarera Mayor,* he had chosen a lady whose energy, intelligence and desire to please him were all beyond compare. The princesse des Ursins had led a long - she was fifty-nine - and rather checkered life. Born a La Trémouille, one of the greatest French families, she had married a Talleyrand, the prince de Chalais, who, mistaking Louis XIV for Mazarin, had disobeyed the edict forbidding duels. That error, and the princess’s sharp tongue, had thoroughly annoyed the king, with the result that the Chalaises were forced to leave France in a hurry. Shortly after that, the prince died in Venice of a fever, and his widow found herself penniless and still disgraced, so she installed herself in a Roman convent and looked around.
The result of her contemplation turned out to be a second marriage even more brilliant than the first. Don Flavio Orsini, a man past his youth and racked with gout, was also the foremost nobleman in Rome; his family was traditionally pro-French, so it made sense for him to marry Mme de Chalais, but he also found her captivating, so much so, indeed, that he took her without a dowry. From that moment on, the princesse des Ursins, as she called herself since Orsini sounded far too foreign to a French ear, worked very hard, indeed, at regaining Louis XIV’s favor. In the many disputes which gave life in Rome such interest as it had, she invariably took the French side; because she was both clever and determined, she proved to be a considerable asset.
That, alone, would not have secured her the post of Camarera Mayor; just as important, in those long ago days when she was still Mme de Chalais, she had been one of Mme Scarron’s closest friends. Forty years later, Mme de Maintenon remembered this detail, and when it was decided to govern Spain through the queen, and the queen through the camarera mayor, she suggested Mme des Ursins.
It was a brilliant choice. Her years notwithstanding, the princesse was energetic, able to learn and ambitious; she knew that only the closest alliance between Spain and France would keep Philip and Maria Luisa on their throne, and that only the most intimate friendship between herself and Mme de Maintenon would lead to the reward for which she longed - nothing less than an independent principality.
Thus a highly unorthodox, and confidential, chain of command was established. Louis XIV had an official ambassador in Madrid, whose task it was to relay instructions from Versailles and requests from Madrid. But, in no time at all, really weighty matters were settled through the correspondence between Mme de Maintenon and Mme des Ursins: They it was who ran Spain and the war. Of course, it must be added that Mme de Maintenon was only Louis XIV’s intermediary, and that it was the king’s policy she expounded in her letters. Still, as the war progressed, Mme de Maintenon developed a position of her own, and so did Mme des Ursins, the first being markedly defeatist, the second irredentist, and the feelings of these two ladies did not simplify an already very complex situation.
That Mme des Ursins should suddenly have found herself in a position of such power was due, of course, to circumstances rather than outright design; that she, specifically, should have been chosen reflected Mme de Maintenon’s growing power. In 1700, Louis XIV had already been holding meetings of the Council in Mme de Maintenon’s apartment for a number of years, but the meeting at which Charles II’s will was discussed marked the first time her contribution actually mattered. It was a telling step: Henceforth her opinion, usually solicited but sometimes simply proffered, carried a great deal of weight, especially when it came to personnel. On March 19, 1702, William III died and was succeeded by his sister-in-law, Princess, now Queen, Anne; and from then on, the War of the Spanish Succession might well have been renamed the War of the Three Ladies.
One more unforeseen event also went far to bolster Mme de Maintenon’s new position: Early in 1701, Barbezieux, the War Minister, died suddenly of apoplexy. The king, determined not to have another minister he disliked, promptly appointed Chamillart to his office, while at the same time maintaining him as contrôleur général. It was hardly a clever move. Chamillart, who had come to the king’s attention because he was a good billiards player, was certainly hardworking, honest and eager to do well. Unfortunately, he was also limited, lacking in energy and short of the most essential knowledge. Already as contrôleur général, he was ill suited to manage what was sure to be a severe financial crisis; adding the responsibility of the war department to this duty was bound to be disastrous, and so Chamillart, who was nothing if not honest, told the king. That step, however, was the best way to keep both jobs: Louis XIV was now thoroughly convinced he could do any minister’s job better than the holder of the office. Chamillart’s open avowal of ignorance therefore turned out, quite unintentionally, to be the cleverest kind of flattery: His very lack of knowledge would underline the fact that it was the king, in person, who was actually governing.
Louis XIV then compounded that very serious error by choosing his generals according to their position at Court instead of their talents: The duc du Maine and the comte de Toulouse were given commands, when one had proved a coward and the other was, as yet, incompetent, but the duc de Chartres, who had shown evidence of real military talent, was kept at Versailles despite Monsieur’s unusually determined complaints. As for the prince de Condé and the prince de Conti, a brilliant young man, they, too, were refused commands. If France had enjoyed overwhelming superiority over her enemies, all that might not have mattered; under the circumstances, this policy, which was certainly neither new nor surprising, might also well prove catastrophic.
To Monsieur, however, what mattered was the insult to his son, and therefore to himself. The king, when he was trying to arrange Mlle de Blois’s marria
ge to Chartres, had promised to look after the young man as if he were his son, instead of his son-in-law on the wrong side of the blanket. True to his word, he had lavished money on the young couple, but when it came to furthering Chartres’s career, all promises were forgotten.
The young man reacted to this treatment by plunging into the most spectacular kind of debauchery. On June 8, 1701, Monsieur came from his castle at Saint Cloud, where he was now spending most of his time, to Marly, to lunch with the king. He had long been angry that his son was refused a command, or, indeed, any place in the army when the war was starting up; so when Louis XIV angrily criticized Chartres’s infidelity to his wife, Monsieur blew up and told the king, according to Saint-Simon, that fathers who had themselves led loose lives were hardly in a position to blame their children (in-law) who did the same.
The king then said that at least his daughter should be spared the knowledge of her husband’s misbehavior, upon which Monsieur reminded his brother that he, himself, had so little spared his wife as to have his mistresses travel in her very carriage. At that point, the brothers started to shout so loudly at each other that they were clearly heard from the next room; Monsieur, reiterating the king’s unfulfilled promises went on to say that the people who told him that all he would get out of the marriage would be shame were quite right. The king, incensed, answered that, in that case, since the war would force him to retrench, the first pensions he would cut would be those attributed to Monsieur and his family, and upon that, lunch being served, the two men, purple in the face and eyes glittering, emerged from the king’s cabinet.
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