With these characters, it can be said that modern love, profound, tender, melancholy, impregnated with soul, and at the same time troubled by the obscure influences of the nervous life, makes its entrance into French literature. Oreste shows a sadness, a despair, a madness, which a century and a half later burst forth in love romances. Louis XIV. had not waited for Racine for his education in passion. When Marie Mancini fascinated him, he was one of the first examples of the modern type of those "possessed by love," and he had never forgotten this crisis; in fact he never forgot anything. This episode in the life of the young King had been a good apprenticeship for the comprehending of the love of Oreste or of Phédre as the true love malady, as a fatality against which our single will is only a feeble weapon.
Around the King, Mme. Henriette, Mme. de Montespan, all the young Court and some shrewd spirits of the old, with Condé at the head, rendered justice to the truth of the "anatomies of the heart," in the tragedy of Racine. Mademoiselle was incapable of this; she believed too firmly in the superhuman strength of the heroes of Corneille, with whom the will laughs at resistance, whether the opposition arises in the soul or in the exterior world, to admit the fatality of passion. Nevertheless, it was the Grande Mademoiselle herself who was going to demonstrate clearly to all France that it was impossible to escape fate, when this fate points to love. Here we meet the great misfortune of her life!
An atmosphere of passion, and an intimacy with people whose sole occupation was to render themselves attractive, was somewhat dangerous for an old maid, sensitive without realising it. Mademoiselle had the singular desire, which later cost her dearly, to make an ally of Mme. de Montespan and thus to form a part of the chosen society of the Court.
She sought the company of the mistress and received service from her. Mme. de Montespan was her interpreter with the King. In return Mademoiselle endeavoured to calm M. de Montespan who, for serious or for trivial reasons202 "flew into passions," like a "madman" or "wild person," against Madame his wife. "He is my relative and I scolded him," says the Mémoires of Mademoiselle. As a connoisseur, Mademoiselle hugely enjoyed the original wit of Mme. de Montespan. The pleasure found in returning the ball in conversation was the foundation of the intimacy.
With the growing idleness of the Court, pleasure in pure cleverness increased. The play of the mind was the sole resource against ennui. Wit, no matter at whose expense, became the enjoyment. The wise and prudent Mme. de Maintenon succumbed like Mademoiselle, when her turn came, to the irresistible charm of a conversation which "renders agreeable the most serious matters, and ennobles the most trivial."203
During the sharpest quarrel between Mademoiselle and Mme. de Montespan, the enjoyment of the opponent's wit was so keen that they parted with pain. "Mme. de Montespan and I," wrote Mme. de Maintenon in 1681,204 "have to-day taken a walk, holding each other's arms and laughing heartily; we are not more in accord for this." There can never be too much cleverness, but there is an inconvenience in there being nothing behind the wit, and this is one of the rocks towards which Louis XIV. was pushing the French nobility. He made it impossible for those pacing his antechambers to indulge in any intellectual effort other than that of seeking pretty phrases to amuse the listeners.
A gentleman of quality commences his day at eight in the morning standing in waiting before the door of the king. Salutes are given and returned. The elegants comb their locks, glancing out of the corner of their eyes at those entering. Molière permits us to be present at the "final assault" through verses but little known:
Grattez du peigne a la porte205
De la chambre du Roi;
Ou si, comme je prévoi,
La presse s'y trouve forte,
Montrez de loin vôtre chapeau,
Ou montez sur quelque chose
Pour faire voir votre museau,
Et criez sans aucune pause,
D'un ton rien moins que naturel;
"Monsieur l'huissier, pour le marquis un tel"
Jetez-vous dans la foule, et tranchez du notable,
Coudoyez un chacun, point du tout quartier,
Pressez, poussez, faites le diable
Pour vous mettre le premier.206
M. le Marquis enters. The chamber is already crowded. He "gains ground step by step," succeeds in seeing the King put on his shoes, for Louis performs this act with his own royal hands, and thus passes the first hour. The exciting event is repeated in the evening when the King takes off his shoes. The Marquis had already, at one o'clock, witnessed the consumption of the royal soup, and two or three times in the course of the day had delighted his eyes with the sight of the King passing to and fro on his way to mass or to take the fresh air.
During the intervals, the courtiers were charged with certain puerile occupations. The round of homages were made to the various members of the royal family and the prominent personages of the day, and there was gambling and other pleasures. The only relief for this complete idleness was to be found in an active campaign if there happened to be a war on hand. Let the courtier be admired for being able under such adverse circumstances to keep his wit awake and alert for attack and response, and also for the capacity of finding the military virtues when again called upon to exercise them.
Fortunately, the latter virtues were deeply ingrained in the breasts of the French gentlemen of this period, and it is not to their discredit if the other faculties, mental and physical, the exercise of which was plainly discouraged by the King, should have so fallen into disuse that their children suffered. The final descendants of four or five generations of those living this absurd life were the émigrés of the great Revolution, all heroes, almost all clever, or at least appearing so, and in general people of wit, but without character. This fact can hardly be too much emphasised: never has a monarch laboured with greater skill and method than Louis XIV. in the successful attempt to annihilate the nobility and to ruin its reputation. This is one of the most serious souvenirs of the wars of the Fronde.
It was with the women as with the men – the same subjection, the same emptiness of life, from which arose the weakness of Mademoiselle for Mme. de Montespan. The situation of recognised mistress "affects nothing"; Mademoiselle had never considered that the virtue of others concerned her. The novelty of the situation, the unexpected prerogatives accruing to the new position, and the habits resulting, gave rise to some of the most curious incidents of the reign, and also strengthened an intimacy which survived many shocks.
As soon as Louis XIV. formally established his mistresses at Court, it had been needful to frame new rules of etiquette. At first these rules were understood rather than formulated, but contemporary writers give evidence of their existence. It was the new regulations which gave scandal, rather than the fact of a weakness too common to all men of all times. The people had found the phrase suitable enough when it ran to gaze on "the three queens" in one carriage; Mlle. de La Vallière and Mme. de Montespan were publicly at the same time occupying the rank of secondary wives to the King. When the royal family made its solemn visits to any of its members who were mortally ill, these two ladies arrived after the King and Queen. Mademoiselle met them at the death-bed of Mme. Henriette; "Mme. de Montespan and La Vallière came." She met them again over the cradle of a daughter of Louis XIV. and of Marie-Thérèse, who died as an infant. "I found her in the last extremity… We staid almost the entire night watching her die; Mme. de Montespan and Mme. de La Vallière were also there." The latter escaped from such honours as often as she could. Mme. de Montespan liked them better, and added to them. She had placed herself upon the footing of the Queen in regard to ordinary visits, which she never returned. "Never," says Saint-Simon, "not even to Monsieur or Madame or to the Grande Mademoiselle, or to the Hôtel de Condé."
The same hauteur was displayed in the manner of receiving the princes and princesses of the blood, and this "exterior of Queen" followed her into the retreat! All were accustomed to it.
"The habit of respect was preserved without murmur," says again Saint-Simon, who recalled Mme. de Montespan, disgraced and passing her time in penitence, nevertheless continuing to hold court in her convent,207 with as royal an etiquette as at Saint-Germain or Versailles:
The back of her armchair was formed by the foot-piece of the bed, and there was no other chair in the room. Monsieur and the Grande Mademoiselle had always loved her, and often went to see her; for these, chairs were brought, and also for Madame la Princesse; but Mme. de Montespan did not dream of deranging herself for her own people nor for those they brought with them… One can judge by this how she received "all the world."
The "all the world," which included some of the most distinguished, contented themselves with small "chairs with backs," or simple camp stools. No one was offended, and "all France came"; I do not know by what fantasy it was considered a duty to make visits from time to time. She spoke to each like a queen holding her court, who honours in "addressing." Marie-Thérèse herself, in the time in which Mme. de Montespan was the actual sovereign, had submitted to the long empire of custom. In 1675, the fourth year of the war in Holland, Louis XIV. being with the army while Mme. de Montespan was at her château at Clagny, one of their sons was "slightly ill."208 The Queen considered it her duty to visit the child and to comfort the mother. She went to seek Mme. de Montespan, and led her one day to the Trianon, another to dine in some favourite convent, an example which brought the crowd to Clagny and made an end of hesitancy. "The wife of her firm (solide) friend," wrote Mme. de Sévigné, "visited her, and afterward the entire family in turn. She takes precedence of all the Duchesses." (July 3, 1675.)
There had been a time in which this fashion of ignoring rank would have excited the indignation of Mademoiselle; but this time was far distant, farther than she herself realised. In 1667 she had cried very loud because her second sister, Mademoiselle d'Alençon, had made a mésalliance in marrying a simple seigneur, the Duc de Guise, and she had looked very gloomily at the pair. The time had passed for such pride, as the poor woman was herself ready for a worse mésalliance. Her patience was at an end. Her agitation while Louis XIV. was attempting marriage negotiations with the Duc de Savoie must not be forgotten. No prince had thought of her since this affront. She was considered too old. She would not confess this to be the case, but she felt it, and a tempest gathered in the depths of her heart. The storm burst in 1669. It is impossible to say in what measure nature alone was responsible, and what was due to the atmosphere of moral disorder and voluptuousness which Mademoiselle was now inhaling at the Court in the frequent companionship of the favourite. One thing is certain, the Grande Mademoiselle did not try to struggle against the passion which seized her; her attitude was rather that of a person who sought its sway.
CHAPTER V
The Grande Mademoiselle in Love – Sketch of Lauzun and their Romance – The Court on its Travels – Death of Madame – Announcement of the Marriage of Mademoiselle – General Consternation – Louis XIV. Breaks the Affair
IN the spring of 1669, Louis XIV. one day was listening to the Comtesse de Soissons sing. She was the second of the Mazarin nieces, and the only really wicked one in the family. She sang a new song containing many naughty couplets, in which mud was thrown upon some of the courtiers. Men and women received their packet under the guise of mock praise, according to a fashion much in vogue. The phrase "mock praise" had become the name of a form of satire, which made an almost unique literature. The King permitted the couplets to pass in silence. He did not even protest at this one:
Et pour M. Le Grand,209
Il est tout mystère;
Quand il est galant,
Il a comme La Vallière
L'esprit pénétrant.
The Countess then arrived at a couplet on Puyguilhem, better known under the name of Lauzun.210
De la cour
La vertu la plus pure
Est en Péguilin…
At this place the King interrupted: "If it is wished to vex him, they are wrong, but when people act as he has done, they must be let alone; as for others, they are badly treated." The sudden displeasure of the King at the mention of Puyguilhem caused a general silence, and the song stopped at this point.
The Grande Mademoiselle was present at this scene, and was surprised to discover that she was not indifferent to its import. Up to this time, she had scarcely known Lauzun, who did not belong to her coterie. "It pleased me," says her Mémoires, "to hear the manner in which the King spoke of him; I felt some instinct of the future." This was the first warning of the passion which had already insinuated itself into the depths of her heart; but she did not yet comprehend it. The idea came to her, however, of seizing an occasion to converse with Lauzun. She felt an inclination for this at once. "He has," said she, "a manner of explaining himself which is very extraordinary." Mademoiselle was interested, but she still believed that it was only the conversational capacity which pleased her in the little cadet of Gascony. She began to query, however, why, having been sufficiently content during her five years of exile, she was now so willing to remain a fixture. The year had ended before she found a satisfactory response to this question: "I went in the month of December (the 6th) to Saint-Germain, from which I did not depart. I soon accustomed myself to it. Ordinarily, I only stayed three or four days, and my present long sojourn surprised every one."
On the 31st, she decided at length to return to Paris: "I was very bored there, and could not discover what I had done at Saint-Germain which had so much diverted me." She hastened to rejoin the Court, without knowing why, and commenced again her conversations with Lauzun, but still remained unconscious of any sentiment. She only knew that she was troubled and agitated, and discontented with her condition, and that she felt a desire to marry. The desire dated back a long time, but of late it had become so insistent that Mademoiselle was forced to examine herself seriously.
The passage in which she relates her discovery is charmingly natural and significantly true:
I reasoned with myself (for I did not speak to any one) and I said, 'this is no longer a vague thought; it must have some object.' I did not discover who it was. I sought, I dreamed, but could not find out. Finally, after some days of anxiety, I perceived that it was M. de Lauzun whom I loved, who had glided into my heart. I thought him the most worthy man in the world, the most agreeable; nothing was lacking to make me happy but a husband like him, whom I should love and who would love me devotedly; that heretofore I had never been loved; that it was necessary once in life to taste the sweetness of being adored by some one, which would make worth while the sufferings caused by the pangs of love.
This explanation of her own heart was followed by days of intoxication. Mademoiselle lived in a dream, and all was easy, all was arranged: "It appeared to me that I found more pleasure in seeing him and in talking to him than heretofore; that the days in which he was absent, I was bored, and I believe that the same feeling came to him; that he did not care to confess this, but the pains he took to come wherever he was likely to meet me made the fact clear." In the absence of Lauzun, she sought solitude in order to think of him freely. "I was delighted to be alone in my chamber; I formed plans of what I could do for him which would give him a higher position."
One single thought, characteristic of her generation, came to trouble her happiness; she queried of herself if the great princesses of the theatre of Corneille would have married a cadet of Gascogne. Assuredly, passion blows where it listeth. Corneille had never denied this; but he had maintained that the will should render us masters of our affections, and his plays bear witness that love, even when founded in a just feeling of admiration, can efface itself before the sentiment of the duty owed to rank. Happily, poets, even when they are named Corneille, sometimes contradict themselves, and Mademoiselle, who had seen plays since the days of swaddling clothes, well knew her répertoire. She now recalled for her comfort a passage in the Suite du Menteur which clearly established the "predestination of marriage, and the foresight of God," so that it was a Christian duty to submit without resistance to sentiments sent to us "from the sky."
Although sure of her own memory, which was indeed excellent, Mademoiselle sent in great haste to Paris to secure a copy of the play, and found the page (Act IV.) in which Mélisse confides to Lise his love for Dorante:
Quand les ordres du ciel nous ont faits l'un pour l'autre,
Lise, c'est un accord bientôt fait que le nôtre.
Sa main entre les cœurs, par un secret pouvoir,
Sème l'intelligence avant que de se voir;
Il prépare si bien l'amant et la maîtresse,
Que leur âme au seul nom s'émeut et s'intéresse.
On s'estime, on se cherche, on s'aime en un moment;
Tout ce qu'on s'entredit persuade aisément;
Et, sans s'inquiéter de mille peurs frivoles,
La foi semble courir au-devant des paroles.
How was it possible to doubt for a single instant after having read these verses that there is impiety in disobeying the "commands" to love which come to us from on high? Nevertheless, serious conflicts took place in the soul of the royal pupil of Corneille. Sometimes she represented to herself with vivacity the joys of marriage, among the keenest of which would be the witnessing the vexation of her heirs, who were already beginning to find that she was making them wait too long, and whom she longed to disappoint. Sometimes her mind could only dwell upon the scandal which such a mésalliance would cause, the reprobation of some, and the laughter of others, and then her pride rose in arms. She thus on one day desired the marriage eagerly, while on the next she detested the thought of it, the vacillation depending upon the fact of her having between times seen or not seen M. de Lauzun.
This struggle between the head and the heart was prolonged during several weeks;
finally, after having often passed and repassed the pro and con through my brain, my heart decided the affair, and it was in the Church of Recollects in which I took my final resolution. Never had I felt so much devotion in church, and those who regarded me perceived that I was much absorbed; I believe that God surprised me with His commands. The next day, which was the second of March, I was very gay.
If Mademoiselle had been of the age of Juliet, this would have been a pretty romance. But she was perhaps slightly too mature to play with the grand passion.
The man who was the cause of these agitations is one of the best-known figures of his times. Traces of him are found in all the contemporary writings. The singularity of his personality joined to the prodigies of his luck, good and bad, had made him an object of interest to his contemporaries. It was of him that La Bruyère said: "No one can guess how he lives."211 The political world, the ministers at the head, observed him with an anxious attention, because he had accomplished the miracle of becoming the favourite of the King, while possessing precisely the defects which Louis XIV. feared the most. Lauzun did not attain the position of such a favourite as the Constable de Luynes under Louis XIII., but he secured sufficient influence to accumulate offices and honours.
Antonin Nompar de Caumont, Marquis de Puyguilhem, later Comte de Lauzun, was born in 1633 (or 1632) of an ancient family of Périgord. His parents had nine children and nothing to give to the younger ones; but their birth assured to this youthful throng access to the Court and hope of aid from it. The third of the boys resembled Poucet in form and also possessed his keenness of mind. It was decided to send him to seek his fortune, not in the forest, as with the hero of the tale, but in the vicinity of the Court of France, the parents being convinced that with his acuteness he would not permit himself to be eaten by the ogre, but would rather succeed in devouring others.
The Maréchal de Gramont, first cousin of the old Lauzun, saw arrive at his mansion a very little man, with the face of "a flayed cat,"212 surrounded with flaxen hair, who claimed to be fourteen years of age. This grotesque person was as lively as a sparrow and Gascon to the tips of his fingers.
The Marshal kept him and provided for his education. In winter the little man went to the "academy" to learn to dance, to shoot, and to ride. In the summer he campaigned with a cavalry regiment belonging to his uncle. There was apparently no plan for serious study of any kind, nor even any attention paid to making the youth read. Complete ignorance was still accepted among the nobility without remark; there had been little change for the better in this respect since the previous century. The parents of Lauzun had well judged. In a short time the boy had wormed himself into the most imposing mansions, the most sacred chambers. He was seen with the King, he was met in the company of beautiful ladies. The Court and the city became familiar with his furtive and impudent physiognomy, which soon grew haughty and insolent. At eighteen, his father gave him his first military charge. At twenty-four, he possessed a regiment; then suddenly, when the King came to power, he received advancements, favours, an always increasing and inexplicable credit, which aroused for him the hatred of Louvois, for in the frequent discussions in relation to the service, "the favourite always conquered." One of his tricks, which was unparalleled for impudence, and the discovery of which might well have crushed him for ever, ended in proving his strength.
At about the time when he attracted the attention of the Grande Mademoiselle, the insatiable little man extracted from his master (under the condition of secrecy for fear of Louvois) the promise of being shortly made Grand Master of Artillery. Lauzun was foolish enough not to be silent. Louvois, once warned, made such strong and convincing opposition that the King was aroused, and the favourite heard no more of the appointment. In his anxiety he appealed to Mme. de Montespan. She was his great friend and promised her aid; but he was distrustful and wished to "have his mind clear"; then occurred a scene which outraged Saint-Simon himself, as he related it long after. This writer avows in his Mémoires that it would have been incredible "if the truth had not been attested by all the Court."
Like most great workers, Louis XIV. was orderly and methodical in everything. He had fixed hours for his ministers and for appearing in public, hours for his wife and for his mistresses. It could always be known where he was and what he was doing. Mme. de Montespan's hour was in the afternoon. With the complicity of a chambermaid Lauzun was introduced into the room, concealed himself under the bed, and by keeping his ears open soon "cleared his mind." Mme. de Montespan did not forget him in her conversation, but he heard himself severely criticised and his bad character exploited; the slight dependence which could be placed upon him and his arrogance towards Louvois were also emphasised. All these charges were made with so much wit that the King, carried away, replied with almost as little charity.
The listener under the bed, through rage and constraint, was thrown into a "great perspiration." Finally the King returned to his own affairs and Mme. de Montespan to hers, which were to attire themselves for a ballet. After her toilet, Madame found Lauzun at her door. He offered his hand and demanded if he dared flatter himself that she had remembered him with the King. She assured him that she had not failed to do so, and expatiated upon "all the services which she had just rendered him." M. de Lauzun permitted her to finish, only forcing her to walk slowly, and then softly in a low voice repeated, word for word, all that had passed between the King and herself, without leaving out a single phrase; and always retaining the sweet and gentle voice, he proceeded to call her the most infamous names, assured her that he would "spoil her face," and led her most unwillingly to the ballet, more dead than alive, and almost without consciousness.
The King and Mme. de Montespan both believed that it was only the devil himself who could have so accurately reported what had been said. Royalty and the mistress were in trouble, and in a "horrible rage"; they had not yet recovered their equanimity when the favourite recommenced his intrigues.
Three days after this apparently inexplicable event, he came to break his sword before the King, declaiming that he would no longer serve a prince who forswore his word for a – (the word cannot be repeated). The conduct of Louis XIV. at this juncture has remained famous. He opened the window and threw out his cane, saying that he should regret having struck a gentleman.
The next day Lauzun found himself in the Bastile, and it might have been supposed for a long sojourn, under a monarch who never as a child had pardoned a lack of respect. The public was still more astonished to learn, at the end of the second month, that it was the King who sought pardon, and Lauzun who held his head high, refusing recompense and asserting that the prison was preferable to the Court.
The feelings of Louvois and others can be imagined during the strange interchange of visits between Saint-Germain and the Bastile, for the purpose of obtaining from this dangerous personage the acceptance of the much-desired charge of Captain of the Body Guard; also the alarm at the prompt213 return of the favourite, more of a spoiled child than before the punishment.
Whence came this credit with a prince so little susceptible to influence, who had always pretended to be as opposed to the rule of favourites as of prime ministers? In what did this little Lauzun show special merit? and what attracted women who pursued and sought his favour through cajoleries and gifts? Little Poucet he still was; for he had not increased in stature. "He is," wrote Bussy-Rabutin, "one of the smallest men God has ever made."214 He had not become more beautiful. We can on this point believe the testimony of Mademoiselle herself. However strong her passion, she is yet able to paint Lauzun in these terms, writing to Mme. de Noailles: "He is a small man. No one can say that his figure is not the straightest, prettiest, most agreeable. The limbs are fine; he has good presence in all that he does; but little hair, blond mixed with grey, ill-combed, and often somewhat greasy; fine blue eyes, but generally red; a shrewd air; a pretty countenance. His smile pleases. The end of his nose is pointed and red; something elevated in his physiognomy; very negligent in attire; when, however, it appeals to him to be careful, he looks very well. Behold the man!"
This is not an alluring picture. There was but little to attract. It was murmured that he possessed secret methods of making himself beloved. "As for his temper and manners," continues Mademoiselle, "I defy any one to understand them, to explain or to imitate them." The world was not entirely of this opinion. It could recognise at least that M. de Lauzun was "the most insolent little man born in the century,"215 also the most malicious. Many cruel traits were ascribed to him, and his fashion of turning on his heel and plunging into the crowd before his victims had regained their composure was well known.
The world was also well assured that the favourite was an intriguer. Lauzun was always occupied with some machination, even against those to whom he was indifferent; this kept his hand in. For the rest, Mademoiselle was right; he was not understood. He was very intelligent. His clever phrases were repeated. For example, his response to the wife of a minister who said rather foolishly, in emphasising the trouble her husband gave himself: "There is nothing more embarrassing than the position of the one who holds la queue de la poêle, is there?" "Pardon, Madame, there are those who are within."
But Lauzun also loved to play the imbecile and to utter with the tone of a simpleton phrases without sense; he indulged in this singular taste even before the King. The contrast was great between his pretensions to the "haughty air" and the desire to be imposing and the habit of adorning himself in grotesque costumes in order to see whether any one dared to laugh at M. de Lauzun. He was once found at home arrayed in a dressing gown and great wig, his mantle over the gown, a nightcap upon his wig, and a plumed hat above all. Thus attired, he walked up and down scanning his domestics, and woe to him who did not keep his countenance.
He was at once avaricious and lavish, ungrateful and the reverse, delighting in evil but at the same time loyal as relative or friend while not ceasing to be dangerous. He undertook at one time to advance in the world his nephew, lately come from Périgord. He furnished him with a purse and took the trouble to present him at Court, at which their apparition was an event. They were pointed out to every one, and no one, not even the King, composed as he was by profession, could help laughing; Lauzun had indulged in the fantasy of dressing his nephew in the costume of his grandfather. The poor lad felt so ridiculous that he almost died from shame, and fled from Paris without daring to show himself again.