Love and Louis XIV: The Women in the Life of the Sun King

by Antonia Fraser

  Although the King might choose to go hunting, leaving the lists of casualties to be read only on his return (gross insensitivity or magnificent aplomb according to taste), he could not avoid the sight of the Dangeau son and his like on their eventual return. While there began to be a noted contrast in the complexions of the courtiers: ‘black and red' indicated those who had fought, while skins ‘too white' were frowned upon as betokening lack of service. Unfortunately all too many of the noble ‘black and red' brigade were visibly mutilated.47

  ‘Princes never want to envisage anything sad,' wrote Maintenon bitterly to the Princesse des Ursins. The selfishness of men, especially royal men, was a persistent theme in her correspondence by this time: since she could not let go in front of the King, she took refuge in her letters for a continuous kind of moan. Courcillon however stood for the many members of the court who had been mutilated: at the age of twenty-two, following two operations, he returned without a leg. Courcillon's irrepressible high spirits saved him: he made little pantalonnades (farces) with his wooden leg. But he had to be pardoned the omission of his sword and hat at court, since he could not manage them.48 And there were many other Courcillons in what Maintenon described as ‘this tragic year'.

  * This male birth was important in the Bourbon dynasty: with Adelaide still childless, the infant Duc de Chartres ensured the continuation of the Orléans branch of the dynasty. The baby was of course Louis's great-nephew, but also his grandchild, via his legitimised daughter Françoise-Marie.

  * The fine memorial to James II displaying the royal arms of England, still to be seen in the church at Saint-Germain, was erected in 1824 by George IV, who had a sentimental attitude to his Stuart relations, now beyond claiming the throne. The text, in French and English, describes James as ‘welcomed to France by Louis/Lewis XIV’.

  * It is important to note Adelaide's ‘French' patriotism, displayed throughout her correspondence, and her total lack of political support for Victor Amadeus, in view of the French historian Michelet's hostility to her in the nineteenth century, including accusations of treachery for which there is absolutely no evidence.

  * His grandfather was César Duc de Vendôme, Henri IV's bastard, who had been legitimised; Vendôme was thus the first cousin once removed of Louis XIV.

  * It has been estimated that 800,000 people died of cold and famine.

  CHAPTER 15

  We Must Submit

  ‘Lalande, we must submit.’

  – Louis XIV to the composer, pointing to the sky, 1711

  Sophie de Dangeau consoled herself for the grievous wounding of her son at Malplaquet with thought of the King, and ‘that it was for him that my son risked himself.’ Others were not so loyal or so resigned. The Dangeaus had been among the first to give up their silver vessels for the war effort: now the courtiers who had done likewise began to complain about the intolerable ‘dirtiness’ of using mere pewter and earthenware.1

  There was no doubt that by the end of 1709, as Adelaide told her grandmother, the War of the Spanish Succession had lasted so long that there was no one who did not wish it was over, while Françoise told the Princesse des Ursins: ‘Our woes augment every day.’ Françoise herself had a naturally pacifist temperament and was far from encouraging the King in his pursuit of war. Her own feeling for the sufferings of the poverty-stricken country was so strong that she tried (in vain) to dissuade the King from building himself a magnificent new chapel at Versailles. Marie-Jeanne d'Aumale reported that Françoise ‘more than doubled’ her charities. Far from avoiding the ragged crowd of dirty, half-naked child beggars, she increasingly disliked Marly because it was cut off from them: there was no one to whom she could give money.2

  Where once Louis had been satirised (and more than half admired) for his priapic adventures, now he was attacked for his failures in battle and the economic state of the country. Even his previous reputation for virility was used against him: ‘The French King's Wedding’ of 1708 described him as impotent nowadays – at war and in bed. ‘The Plagues of War and Wife consent / To send the King a packing. / You cannot give your spouse content …’ Another satirical rhyme ran: ‘Our father that art in Versailles / Thy name is no longer hallowed / Thy Kingdom is no longer so great / Thy will is no longer done either on earth or sea / Give us our daily bread which we can no longer obtain / Forgive our enemies who have beaten us …'3 The fact that France now had a King in his early seventies whose immediate heir, the Dauphin, was, as immediate heirs of senior parents tend to do, beginning to eye the throne, did not increase contentment.

  It was against the background of ‘these recent and unhappy years’, in Françoise's phrase to Maréchal de Villeroi, that the battle of the marriage of the Duc de Berry, youngest son of the Dauphin, was fought. Adelaide managed to give birth to another healthy boy on 10 February 1710 shortly after the third birthday of Bretagne; he was created Duc d'Anjou, the traditional title of the second son, which Philip V had enjoyed before his accession to the Spanish throne. Her labour was long and intense, her sufferings so great that those males present by tradition retreated from the room. However, high infant mortality meant that the succession was not necessarily secure with two knaves in the hand; Berry's future, bringing hope of more children, was also important.

  The King had announced that there was to be no question of a match with a foreign princess, given the international situation, and the economic realities of the time. The Stuart princess, Louisa Maria, was Madame de Maintenon's candidate, as being the daughter of her adored Mary Beatrice, but nobody else thought that was a solution. Taking into account the real possibilities at Versailles, it was Adelaide who took a prominent part in advocating the candidature of Philippe and Françoise-Marie's daughter Marie-(Louise)-Élisabeth. Her motives for this, a campaign which would lead in the end to disaster all round, were not of the finest. Her chief aim was to keep out the daughter of Madame la Duchesse, known as Mademoiselle de Bourbon. Both these girls were granddaughters of Louis XIV, via their legitimised mothers. But their characters were very different.

  Marie-Élisabeth was fifteen. She was her father's favourite out of his numerous daughters.4* Unpleasant gossip gathered around their too-intimate relationship; certainly she consoled him for the loveless marriage he had been forced to make. Marie-Élisabeth had also been brought up by her father to despise her mother for ‘the defilement of her adulterous birth’, an act of revenge on his part. The girl was from the start highly unstable, with a violent temper whenever her will was crossed; no one had ever tried to control her – not her notoriously lazy mother and certainly not her doting father, whom she treated ‘like a negro slave’ and ruled much as Françoise ruled the King according to Saint-Simon. Vivacity was Marie-Élisabeth's strong suit, that, and a certain wit, reminding courtiers that she was Athénaïs's granddaughter.

  Physically however she allowed her appetites to hold sway: Marie-Élisabeth became grossly fat quite young, so that the King shuddered with distaste. Once upon a time when she had been a little girl, Marie-Élisabeth had charmed him, like other little girls; at the age of twelve after hunting she had been invited to dine with him, an unusual honour for a person of her rank. Now he suggested that she was so fat that she might be infertile. Liselotte's pen portrait of her granddaughter was not flattering: pale blue eyes with pink rims, a short body with long arms, a clumsy walk and in general lacking any grace in anything that she did; only her neck, arms and hands were flawlessly white. Nevertheless the tyrannical Marie-Élisabeth must have had something: Liselotte had to admit that her son Philippe was convinced ‘Helen was never so beautiful’.5

  Adelaide's refusal to back the far more suitable Mademoiselle de Bourbon, aged seventeen in 1710, was partly based on her strong dislike of her mother. Madame la Duchesse had scorned the little Princess of Savoy from the start, the pretty child who had displaced her as the young star of the court; and then there was Madame la Duchesse's unforgivable behaviour over Bourgogne's military troubles. But as Adelaide he
aded towards thirty – the age at which she had decided to give up dancing – she also feared that Mademoiselle de Bourbon, with her charming teasing ways, would replace her in the old King's affections. She certainly employed her own apparent naïvety in the cause of Marie-Élisabeth. Adelaide observed innocently out loud on one occasion what a lovely bride the Orléans princess would make for the Duc de Berry, and then stopped as though aghast at her own temerity: ‘Tante, what have I just said? Did I say something wrong?'6

  As Adelaide supported Marie-Élisabeth (who went on a special diet, eating only when she was walking to improve her chances), the two mothers in question, Françoise-Marie and Madame la Duchesse, were also locked in a poisonous struggle. Old sibling rivalries came into it – Madame la Duchesse's humiliation at having to yield precedence to her younger sister for example. And then the Dauphin, as father of the bridegroom, had some say in it all, even if the King gave the ultimate verdict.

  The matter was concluded when Philippe was persuaded by Saint-Simon to write a letter to the King proposing Marie-Élisabeth as a bride for Berry, with Saint-Simon advising on its contents. A moment was chosen to present this letter when the King was reported by one of his doctors to be in a good mood; he took it away unopened. The next day Louis announced that he agreed in principle, but needed some time to talk round the Dauphin, which he proceeded to do ‘in the tone of a father, mixed with that of King and master.’ This was a different approach from the one he had recently taken over the sons of Maine and Bénédicte: then ‘that most severe and tyrannical of parents’ had humbled himself to the Dauphin and Bourgogne in order to establish that the boys should have the same rank as their father.7 The whole matter of the bastards, their descendants and their degree was a delicate one, as time would show. But Louis was on surer ground when it came to the marriage of a (legitimate) grandson.

  Up till now, no one had thought to ask the opinion of Berry himself. Aged nearly twenty-four, he had grown up from his mischievous boyhood into being a mild-mannered and good-natured young man who was especially devoted to his brother Bourgogne (and to Adelaide, whom he had known since childhood). He certainly displayed no jealousy of his two elder brothers' superior destinies. When Philip was made King of Spain, Berry sensibly announced: ‘I will have less trouble and more fun than you,’ and gave as an example that he would now be able to hunt the wolf ‘all the way from Versailles to Madrid.’ Somehow his education had been neglected, perhaps because the Dauphine's death had left ‘my little Berry’ motherless at the age of three and a half. He was certainly not as intelligent as Bourgogne or Philip V, and tended to be inarticulate in public as well as terrified of his grandfather (just as the Dauphin had been). Nevertheless, with his fine head of fair hair and his fresh complexion, Berry was positively handsome by the standards of a Bourbon prince; quite apart from his rank, Marie-Élisabeth could be pleased with her catch. As for his own feelings, Berry, told by his grandfather that Marie-Élisabeth was the highest-ranking princess in France, was uneasily non-committal.

  So the betrothal was announced on 5 July 1710. The event led to glacial exchanges between the sisters. It was even suggested to Madame la Duchesse by Françoise-Marie – surely a gratuitous act of triumph – that another Orléans daughter might marry a Bourbon-Condé son. Madame la Duchesse merely replied that her son would not be of an age to be married for a long time and besides he had only a small fortune. But worse lay ahead for her. At the formal ceremony, Mademoiselle de Bourbon, the slighted fiancée, was next in rank and thus by etiquette had to carry the train of Marie-Élisabeth. This was intolerable!

  The King, who believed in etiquette but was also kind-hearted where these matters were concerned, suggested that Marie-Élisabeth's younger sisters should be hauled back from their convent to perform the task (their rank being higher than that of Mademoiselle de Bourbon). At least that pleased the two little girls in question, known respectively, as Mademoiselle de Chartres and Mademoiselle de Valois, who at eleven and nine had bewailed their incarceration. The decision to put them in a convent was generally ascribed to Françoise-Marie's laziness over her maternal duties, and the girls were so upset passing through Paris, that the curtains of their coach had to be drawn. Although the times did not ‘permit much entertainment’, the wedding was described by Adelaide to her grandmother as being as magnificent as policy permitted.’8

  Unfortunately this brilliant marriage – in worldly terms – had the effect of encouraging Marie-Élisabeth in her vile behaviour, and Berry had no resources to cope with it. At first he was quite mesmerised by his bride, according to Liselotte, although the passion wore off thanks to her behaviour. The rest of the court was more horrified than mesmerised. ‘Terrifyingly bold … wildly proud, vulgar beyond the bounds of decency': these were some of the descriptions she merited from Saint-Simon. She gorged prodigiously in public (gone were the days of the diet) and scarcely ever failed to drink herself unconscious, ‘rendering in all directions the wine she had swallowed.’ Having no religion herself – she proclaimed she did not believe in God – she mocked those like her husband who did. At one particular supper-party given by Adelaide at Saint-Cloud, Marie-Élisabeth became so ‘sottish’ that the effects, ‘both above and below’, were embarrassing to all present. Her father was also drunk on the same occasion – but the daughter was the drunker of the two.9

  Liselotte tried to take a hand in the education of her wayward granddaughter, calling her ‘my pupil.’ It is true that Marie-Élisabeth showed a rare graciousness in her reluctance to take precedence over her grandmother (which as the wife of the Duc de Berry she was now entitled to do): ‘Push me forward, Madame, so as to propel me in front of you. I need time to grow accustomed to that honour …’ But when it came to a question of a beautiful necklace of pearls and yellow diamonds which had belonged to Anne of Austria, which she coveted for a court ball, Marie-Élisabeth's behaviour to her mother was the reverse of gracious. When her mother refused to hand it over, Marie-Élisabeth insolently pointed out that the necklace belonged to her father by descent from Monsieur and he would certainly let her have it.

  Sure enough, in a moment of weakness Philippe did. But the matter did not rest there. Françoise-Marie complained bitterly and Liselotte took a hand, going to the King herself. Louis hated this kind of trouble among women and was furious. In the end Marie-Élisabeth was induced to apologise to her mother and the matter was smoothed over. The whole unpleasant incident, so trivial and yet so important by the values of Versailles, made it clear that Marie-Élisabeth was more than unruly: she was quite out of control, and even the King found it difficult to check her.

  Furthermore, there was no large, consoling brood of royal children to make it all seem worthwhile in dynastic terms. A year after her marriage, the Duchesse de Berry miscarried: because ‘it had been female’, wrote Saint-Simon, ‘everyone was soon consoled.’10 All the same, it was to be well over a year before Marie-Élisabeth conceived again, and by then the balance of power at court had been radically altered.

  Sudden death is ‘the ruffian on the stair’ where hereditary monarchy is concerned.11 Nobody would have predicted in the spring of 1711 that the Dauphin, a healthy, well-set-up man in his fiftieth year, would fall victim to smallpox, although it was the universal and egalitarian killer of the time. He is supposed to have caught the infection by kneeling at the wayside when a priest was passing carrying the sacred host. The Dauphin was unaware that the priest in question had just visited a victim of smallpox.

  The people of Paris, with whom he was by far the most popular member of the royal family Duc to his bluff cheerfulness (and visible self-indulgence), sent a deputation of market-women promising him a Te Deum to celebrate his recovery. ‘Not yet, wait till I am well again,’ was the message from the Prince. But by midnight he was all too obviously at death's door. The Dauphin, Louis de France, died on 11 April. Bourgogne and Adelaide were both completely dazed and ‘pale as death.’ Berry lay on the floor sobbing loudly. Upstairs Mademoisell
e de Choin, his long-term mistress and (probably) morganatic wife, was Condémned, by the harsh rules of Versailles, to lurk unseen in an attic room. No one brought the news of the Dauphin's death and she only realised what had happened ‘when she heard the sounds of lamentations.’ Two friends bundled her into a hired coach and took the unacknowledged widow away to Paris. It was the King who continued to act with patient dignity even though his eyes kept filling with tears. Liselotte even went so far as to admit that Louis needed Françoise at this time for consolation, although she was currently laid low by one of her bouts of illness.12

  Saint-Simon excoriated on the subject of the late Dauphin: he had been ‘without vice, virtue, knowledge or understanding’ and was quite incapable of acquiring any such qualities: ‘Nature fashioned him as a ball to be rolled hither and thither.’13 Fortunately Father François Massillon, a great orator in the tradition of Bossuet and Bourdaloue (both now dead), did rather better at his funeral. But perhaps the kindest verdict was the fact that both Mademoiselle de Choin and the people of Paris truly mourned him.

  In the end it was Louis himself who found the right words. Michel-Richard de Lalande, composer and church organist, had become an increasingly important figure in the rituals of court music. He was able to produce a stream of the kind of grand motets on which the court of Louis XIV flourished; he had overseen the musical education of Louis's illegitimate daughters. One critic, Le Cerf de la Viéville, had heard one of his motets at a Mass and commented with enthusiasm: ‘It seems to me that the King is served in music as well as he ought to be … in sum, better than in any other place in his kingdom.’ Two of the composer's daughters died about the time of the death of the Dauphin. Lalande did not like to mention their deaths, and thought it presumptuous to commiserate with his sovereign. It was Louis who brought up the subject: ‘We must submit, Lalande,’ he said, pointing towards the sky.14