MEMOIRS OF THE COMTESSE DU BARRY
WITH MINUTE DETAILS OF HER ENTIRE CAREER AS FAVORITE OF LOUIS XV
“WRITTEN BY HERSELF”
By Baron Etienne Leon Lamothe-Langon
With a special introduction by Robert Arnot, M.A.
This delightful (piquant, the comtesse would say) pseudonymous work was
in fact written not “by herself” but by Baron Etienne Leon
Lamothe-Langon (1786-1864). The persona created is that of a woman who
always tells the truth as she sees it, but it is made clear to the
reader that what the narrator sees is very seldom exactly the objective
truth. The author ends as well as begins in medias res (in the
middle of the action), thus creating an illusion of a slice of a journal
but simultaneously giving the reader the uneasy feeling that the first
and last chapters seem to be missing.
The French-style quotation marks have, for ease in typesetting and use,
been changed to American-style quotation marks, and the dot after the
name of Louis XV has been removed to conform to American punctuation.
Captions of illustrations are omitted because the illustrations
themselves cannot be inserted. A few minor editing errors have been
silently corrected. No other changes have been made; the irregularity in
italicizing or not italicizing, in translating or not translating French
words, and in punctuating quotations of letters, is in the text itself.
Notes are identified as coming from author, tr. (translator), editor, or
Gutenberg editor.
CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
Letter from Lebel—Visit from Lebel—Nothing
conclusive—Another visit
from Lebel—Invitation to sup
with the king—Instructions of the comte
Jean to the comtesseCHAPTER II
A slight preface—Arrival at Versailles—“La
toilette”—Portrait of
the king—The duc de
Richelieu—The marquis de Chauvelin—The duc de la
Vauguyon-Supper with the king—The first night—The following
day—The
curiosity of comte Jean—Presents from the king—How
disposed ofCHAPTER III
The king’s message—Letter from the countess—A
second supper at
Versailles—The duc d’Ayen—A short
account of M. de Fleury—The duc de
Duras—Conversation
with the king—The next day—A visit from the duc
de
Richelieu—Visit from the duc de la Vauguyon—Visit from comte
Jean—Visit from the king—A third supper—FavorCHAPTER IV
The duc d’Aiguillon—The duc de Fronsac—The
duchesse de Grammont—The
meeting—Sharp words on both
sides—The duc de Choiseul—Mesdames
d’Aiguillon—Letter
from the duc d’Aiguillon—Reply of madame du
Barry—Mademoiselle
Guimard—The prince de Soubise—Explanation—The
Rohans—Madame de Marsan—Court friendshipsCHAPTER V
The duc de la Vauguyon and the comtesse du Barry—The
marquis
de Chauvelin and the comtesse—M. de Montbarrey and
the
comtesse—Intrigues—Lebel—Arrival of the du
Barry family—The comte
d’Hargicourt—The demoiselles du
Barry—Marriage of the comtesse—The
marquis de Bonrepos—Correspondences—The
broken glassCHAPTER VI
Journey to Choisy—The comtesse du Barry and Louis
XV—The king of
Denmark—The czar Peter—Frederick
II—The abbé de la Chapelle—An
experiment—New
intrigues—Secret agents-The comtesse and Louis
XV—Of
the presentation—Letter of the comtesse to the duc
d’Aiguillon—Reply—Prince de SoubiseCHAPTER VII
The comtesse and the duc d’Aiguillon—M. de
Soubise—Louis XV and the
duc d’Aiguillon—Letter from
the comtesse to the king—Answer of
the king-The “Nouvelles
a la Main”—The comtesse and Louis XV—The
supper—The
court ladies mystified—The comtesse and M. de SartinesCHAPTER VIII
The sieur Ledoux—The lettre de cachet—The
duc de la
Vrillière—Madame de Langeac—M. de Maupeou—Louis
XV—The comte JeanCHAPTER IX
The king of Denmark—The courtesans of Paris—The
duc de Choiseul and
the bishop of Orleans—Witty repartees of
the king of Denmark—His visit
to madame du Barry—“The
court of king Petaud,” a satire—Letter of
the duc
d’Aiguillon to Voltaire—The duchesse de Grammont
mystified—Unpublished
letter of Voltaire’sCHAPTER X
When is the presentation to take place?—Conversation
on this subject
with the king—M. de Maupeou and M. de la
Vauguyon—Conversation on
the same subject with the king and
the duc de Richelieu—M. de
la Vrillière—M. Bertin—-Louis
XV and the comtesse—The king’s
promise—The fire-works,
an anecdote—The marquise de Castellane—M. de
Maupeou
at the duc de Choiseul’s—The duchesse de GrammontCHAPTER XI
A word concerning the duchesse de Choiseul—The
apartment of the Comte
de Noailles—The Noailles—Intrigues
for presentation—The comte de
Bearn—M. Morand once
more—Visit of the comtesse Bearn to the comtesse
du Barry—Conversation—Interested
complaisance—The king and the
comtesse du Barry—Dispute
and reconciliationCHAPTER XII
The comtesse de Bearn—The supper—Louis XV—Intrigues
against
my presentation—M. de Roquelaure—The scalded
foot—The comtesse
d’Aloigny—The duc d’Aiguillon and
madame de Bearn—Anger of the king’s
daughters—Madame
Adélaïde and the comtesse du Barry—Dissatisfaction of
the
kingCHAPTER XIII
Of the presentation—The king and the duc de
Richelieu at comtesse du
Barry’s—M. de la Vauguyon—Conversation—Letter
of the duke to the
comtesse du Barry—Reply—The
countess unites herself with the Jesuit
party—Madame Louise—Madame
Sophie—M. Bertin—Madame de BerchenyCHAPTER XIV
The princesses consent to the presentation of madame
du Barry—Ingenious
artifice employed by the king to offer a
present to the duc de la
Vauguyon—Madame du Barry’s letter
respecting it—The duke’s reply—The
king’s letter—The
court in despair—Couplets concerning madame du
Barry—Her
presentation—A change in public opinion—An evening party at
the house of the countess—Joy of her partizans—Conversation
with the
chancellor respecting the lady of the maréchal de
MirepoixCHAPTER XV
The Comte de la Marche, a prince of the blood—Madame
de Beauvoir, his
mistress—Madame du Barry complains to the
prince de Soubise of the
princess de Guémenée—The king
consoles the countess for this—The duc
de Choiseul—The
king speaks to him of madame du Barry—Voltaire writes
to her—The
opinions of Richelieu and the king concerning VoltaireCHAPTER XVI
Unpublished letter of Voltaire to madame du Barry—Reply
of the
countess—The maréchale de Mirepoix—Her first
interview with madame du
Barry—Anecdote of the diamonds of
madame de Mirepoix—The king pays
for them—Singular
gratitude of the maréchale—The portfolio, and an
unpublished
letter of the marquise de PompadourCHAPTER XVII
Conversation of the maréchale de Mirepoix with the
comtesse du Barry
on court friendship—Intrigues of madame de
Bearn—Preconcerted meeting
with madame de Flaracourt—-Rage
of madame de Bearn—Portrait and
conversation of madame de
Flaracourt with the comtesse du Barry—Insult
from the
princesse de Guémenée—Her banishment—Explanation of the
king and the duc de Choiseul relative to madame du Barry—The
comtesse
d’EgmontCHAPTER XVIII
Intrigue of the comtesse d’Egmont with a shopman—His
unhappy
fate—The comtesse du Barry protects him—Conduct
of Louis XV upon the
occasion—The young man quits France—Madame
du Barry’s letter to the
comtesse d’Egmont—Quarrel with the
maréchal de RichelieuCHAPTER XIX
Madame du Barry separates from madame de Bearn—Letters
between
these ladies—Portrait of madame de l’Hôpital—The
ladder—The
bell—Conversation with madame de Mirepoix—First
visit to
Chantilly—Intrigues to prevent the countess from
going thither—The
king’s Displeasure towards the princesses—The
archbishop de SenlisCHAPTER XX
Unpublished letter of Louis XV—Madame du Barry’s
cousin, M. de
Maupeou—The comtesse du Barry saves the life
of a young girl seduced by
the arts of the curé of her village—She
obtains pardon of the comte
and comtesse de Louerne—The king
presents her with Lucienne—A second
meeting with the
youthful prophet—His further predictions—He is sought
for—His mysterious letter to the countessCHAPTER XXI
Extraordinary anecdote of Louis XIV and madame de
Maintenon—The
comtesse du Barry at Chantilly—Opinion
of king and comte de la Marche
respecting the “Iron Mask”—Madame
du Barry visits madame de LagardeCHAPTER XXII
The chevalier de la Morlière—Portrait of the
duc de Choiseul—The
duc de Choiseul and the comtesse du
Barry—No reconciliation
effected—Madame du Barry and
the duc d’Aiguillon—Madame du Barry and
Louis XVCHAPTER XXIII
Dorine—Mademoiselle Choin and the maréchal
d’Uxelles—Zamor—M. de
Maupeou’s wig—Henriette—The
duc de Villeroi and Sophie—Letter from
the comtesse du Barry
to the duc de Villeroi—His reply—The countess
writes
again—Madame du Barry and Sophie—Louis XV and the comtesse
du
BarryCHAPTER XXIV
The prince des Deux Ponts—Prince Max—The
dauphin and Marie
Antoinette—The comtesse du Barry and
Bridget Rupert—The countess and
Geneviève Mathon—Noël—Fresh
amours—Nocturnal adventure—Conclusion of
this intrigueCHAPTER XXV
Madame du Barry succeeds in alienating Louis XV from
the duc de
Choiseul—Letter from madame de Grammont—Louis
XV—The chancellor
and the countess—Louis XV and the
abbé de la Ville—The maréchale de
Mirepoix and madame du
BarryCHAPTER XXVI
Baron d’Oigny, general post-master—The king and
the countess read the
opened letters—The disgrace of de
Choiseul resolved upon—Lettre de
cachet —Anecdote—Spectre
of Philip II, king of Spain—The duc de
Choiseul banished—Visits
to Chanteloup—The princesses—The dauphin and
dauphiness—Candidates for the ministryCHAPTER XXVII
The comte de la Marche and the comtesse du Barry—The
countess and the
prince de Condé—The duc de la Vauguyon and
the countess—Provisional
minister—Refusal of the
secretaryship of war—Displeasure of the
king—The
maréchale de Mirepoix—Unpublished letter from Voltaire to
Madame du Barry—Her replyCHAPTER XXVIII
A few words respecting Jean Jacques Rousseau—The
comtesse du Barry
is desirous of his acquaintance—The
countess visits Jean Jacques
Rousseau—His household
furniture—His portrait—Thérèse—A second visit
from madame du Barry to Jean Jacques Rousseau—The countess relates
her
visit to the king—Billet from J. J. Rousseau to madame
du Barry—The
two duchesses d’AiguillonCHAPTER XXIX
The king’s friends—The duc de Fronsac—The
duc d’Ayen’s remark—Manner
of living at court—The
marquis de Dreux—Brézé—Education of
Louis XV—The
Parc-aux-Cerfs—Its household—Its inmates—Mère
Bompart—Livres expended on the Parc-aur-Cerfs—Good
advice—MadameCHAPTER XXX
Fête given by the comtesse de Valentinois—The
comtesse du Barry feigns
an indisposition—Her dress—The
duc de Cossé—The comte and comtesse
de Provence—Dramatic
entertainment—Favart and Voisenon—A few
observations—A
pension—The maréchale de Luxembourg—Adventure of M.
de
Bombelles—Copy of a letter addressed to him—Louis XV—M.
de Maupeou
and madame du BarryCHAPTER XXXI
Madame du Barry purchases the services of Marin the
gazetteer—Louis
XV and madame de Rumas—M. de Rumas and
the comtesse du Barry—An
intrigue—Dénouement—A
present upon the occasion—The duc de
Richelieu in disgrace—100,000
livresCHAPTER XXXII
A prefatory remark—Madame Brillant—The
maréchale de Luxembourg’s
cat—Despair of the maréchale—The
ambassador, Beaumarchais, and the duc
de Chaulnes—the comte
d’Aranda—Louis XV and his relics—The abbé de
Beauvais—His
sermons—He is appointed bishopCHAPTER XXXIII
M. D——n and madame de Blessac—Anecdote—The
rendezvous and
the Ball—The wife of Gaubert—They wish
to give her to the
king—Intrigues—Their results—Letter
from the duc de la Vrillière to
the countess—Reply—ReconciliationCHAPTER XXXIV
Conversation with the king—Marriage of the
comte
d’Artois—Intrigues—The place of lady of honor—The
maréchale de
Mirepoix—The comtesse de Forcalquier and madame
du Barry—The comtesse
de Forcalquier and madame BoncaultCHAPTER XXXV
Marriage of madame Boncault—The comte de
Bourbon Busset—Marriage of
comte d’Hargicourt—Disgrace
of the comte de Broglie—He is replaced
by M. Lemoine—The
king complains of ennui—Conversations on the
subject—Entry
into ParisCHAPTER XXXVI
Visit from a stranger—Madame de Pompadour and
a Jacobinical
monk—Continuation of this history—Deliverance
of a state prisoner—A
meeting with the strangerCHAPTER XXXVII
A conspiracy—A scheme for poisoning madame du
Barry—The four
bottles—Letter to the duc d’Aiguillon—Advice
of the ministers—Opinion
of the physicians—The
chancellor and lieutenant of police—Resolution
of the
councilCHAPTER XXXVIII
Conclusion of this affair—A letter from the
incognita—Her
examination—Arrest of Cabert the
Swiss—He dies in the Bastille of
poison—Madame Lorimer
is arrested and poisoned—-The innocence of
the Jesuits
acknowledged—Madame de Mirepoix and the 100,000
francs—Forgetfulness
on the part of the lieutenant of police—A visit
from comte
Jean—Madame de MirepoixCHAPTER XXXIX
My alarms—An èlève of the Pare-aux-Cerfs—Comte
Jean endeavours to
direct the king’s ideas—A supper at
Trianon—Table talk—The king is
seized with illness—His
conversation with me—The joiner’s daughter and
the small-pox—My
despair—Conduct of La Martinière the surgeonCHAPTER XL.
La Martinière causes the king to be removed to
Versailles—The young
prophet appears again to madame du
Barry—Prediction respecting
cardinal de Richelieu—The
joiner’s daughter requests to see madame du
Barry—Madame de
Mirepoix and the 50,000 francs—A soirée in the salon
of madame du BarryCHAPTER XLI
Interview with the joiner’s daughter—Consultation
of the physicians
respecting the king—The small-pox declares
itself—the comte de
Muy—The princesses—Extreme
sensibility of madame de Mirepoix—The
king is kept in
ignorance of his real condition—The archbishop of Paris
visits VersaillesCHAPTER XLII
First proceedings of the council—The dauphin
receives the prelates with
great coolness—Situation of the
archbishop of Paris—Richelieu evades
the project for
confessing the king—The friends of madame du Barry
come
forward—The English physician—The abbé Terray—Interview
with the
prince de Soubise—The prince and the courtiers—La
Martinière informs
the king of France the true nature of his
complaint—Consequences of
this disclosureCHAPTER XLIII
Terror of the king—A complication—Filial
piety of the princesses—Last
interview between madame du
Barry and Louis XV—Conversation with the
maréchale de
Mirepoix—The chancellor Maupeou—The fragment—Comte
JeanCHAPTER XLIV
The duc d’Aiguillon brings an order for the immediate
departure of
madame du Barry—The king’s remarks
recapitulated—The countess holds
a privy council—Letter
to madame de Mirepoix and the ducs de Cossé and
d’Aiguillon—Night
of departure—Ruel—Visit from madame de ForcalquierCHAPTER XLV
The duc d’Aiguillon’s first letter—The maréchale
de Mirepoix—A second
letter from the duc d’Aiguillon—Numerous
visitorsA third letter from the duke—The king receives extreme unction—Letter
from madame Victoire to the dauphin—M. de Machault—A
promenade with
the duc de Cossé—Kind attention from the
prince des Deux Pouts—A
fourth letter from the duc
d’Aiguillon—Comte Jean bids me farewell—M.
d’Aiguillon’s fifth letter, containing an account of the death of Louis
XV—The duc de la Vrillière—The Lettre de cachet—Letter
to the
queen—Departure for the abbey of Pont aux Dames
SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY ROBERT ARNOT
Up to the time of the Du Barry the court of France had been the stage
where the whole political and human drama of that country was enacted.
Under Louis XV the drama had been transformed into parades—parades
which were of as much importance to the people as to those who took part
in them. The spectators, hitherto silent, now began to hiss and be moved.
The scene of the comedy was changed, and the play was continued among the
spectators. The old theatre became an ante-chamber or a dressing-room, and
was no longer important except in connection with the Cardinal de Bernis
and the Duc de Richelieu, or Madame de Pompadour and Madame du Barry.
The monarchy had still a step to take towards its downfall. It had already
created the Pare aux Cerfs (Louis XV’s seraglio), but had not yet
descended to the Parisian house of prostitution. It made this descent
leaning on the arm of Madame du Barry. Madame du Barry was a moral sister
to Manon Lescaut, but instead of taking herself off to Louisiana to
repent, she plunged into the golden whirlpool at Versailles as a finish to
her career. Could the coaches of a King mean more than the ordinary
carriage of an abandoned girl?
Jeanne Vaubernier—known in the bagnios by the name of Mademoiselle
Lange—was born at Vaucouleurs, as was Jeanne d’Arc. Better still,
this later Jeanne said openly at Versailles—dared she say otherwise?—that
she was descended in a straight line from the illustrious, the venerated,
the august, sacred, national maid, Jeanne. “Why did Du Barry come to
Paris?’” says Leon Gozlan in that account of the Château de Lucienne which
makes a brilliant and learned chapter in the history of France. “Does one
ever know precisely why things are done? She obeyed the magnet which
attracts to Paris all who in themselves have a title to glory, to
celebrity, or to misfortune. Du Barry had a pretty, provincial face,
bright and charming, a face astonished at everything, hair soft and
ash-colored, blue eyes, veiled and half open, and a skin fair with rose
tints. She was a child of destiny. Who could have said, when she crossed
the great town in her basket cart, which rolled lazily along on its
massive, creaking wheels, that some day she would have equipages more
beautiful than any of those which covered her with mud in passing, and on
her arms more laces and diamonds than any of these ladies attended by
footmen in liveries?”
When Jeanne left the provinces to come to Paris, she found her native
country. She was granted the freedom of the city, and expanded in her joy
like a delicate plant transplanted into a hothouse. She found herself at
home for the first time; and felt that she could rule as a despot over all
frequenters of the streets. She learned fashion and love at one and the
same time. Gourdan had a hat made for her, and, as a reward, initiated her
into the customs. But she was called to other destinies.
One day, when she was walking in the Tuileries, a lunatic—and
lunatics have second sight—asked her favor when she should become
queen. Du Barry said to herself: “This man is mad.” But then she thought
of the Pompadour, blushed—it was the only time—and turned her
eyes towards Versailles.
But Versailles was an unhoped-for shore to such a girl as this, a girl
known to all Paris. Would the King care to be the lover of one who had
ruled all his courtesans? Who could say? The King often wearied of what he
had. Had not a poet already been found who compared her to Venus:
The poet, while not Voltaire, was no less a man than Bouffiers.
While the King was seeking a mistress—a nocturnal reverse of
Diogenes, fleeing from the lanterns of the wise—he found Jeanne
Vaubernier. He thought he could love her for one evening. “Not enough,”
said she, “you must love me until broad daylight.” So he loved her for a
whole day. What should one eat in order to be loved by royalty? Was it
necessary to have a coat of arms? She had them in number, because she had
been loved by all the great names in the book of heraldry. And so she
begged the Viscount Jean du Barry to give her the title of viscountess.
“Better still,” exclaimed Jean, “I will give you the title of countess. My
brother will marry you; he is a male scamp, and you are the female. What a
beautiful marriage!”
So they were united. The newly made countess was solemnly presented at
court by a countess of an ancient date, namely, the Countess de Bearn.
King Voltaire protested, in a satire entitled “The Court of King Petaud”
(topsy-turvy), afterwards denying it. The duc de Choiseul protested,
France protested, but all Versailles threw itself passionately at the feet
of the new countess. Even the daughters of the King paid her court, and
allowed her to call them by their pet names: Loque, Chiffe, and Graille.
The King, jealous of this gracious familiarity, wished her to call him by
some pet name, and so the Bacchante, who believed that through the King
she held all France in her hand, called him “La France,” making him a wife
to his Gray Musketeers.
Oh, that happy time! Du Barry and Louis XV hid their life—like the
sage—in their little apartments. She honeyed his chocolate, and he
himself made her coffee. Royalty consecrated a new verb for the dictionary
of the Academy, and Madame du Barry said to the King: “At home, I can love
you to madness.” The King gave the castle of Lucienne to his mistress in
order to be able to sing the same song. Truly the Romeo and Juliet de
la main gauche.
Du Barry threw out her fish-wifely epithets with ineffable tenderness. She
only opened her eyes half way, even when she took him by the throat. The
King was enchanted by these humors. It was a new world. But someone said
to him: “Ah, Sire, it is easy to see that your Majesty has never been at
the house of Gourdan.”
Yet Du Barry was adored by poets and artists. She extended both hands to
them. Jeanne’s beauty had a penetrating, singular charm. At once she was
blonde and brunette—black eyebrows and lashes with blue eyes,
rebellious light hair with darker shadows, cheeks of ideal contour, whose
pale rose tints were often heightened by two or three touches—a lie
“formed by the hand of Love,” as anthology puts it—a nose with
expressive nostrils, an air of childlike candour, and a look seductive to
intoxication. A bold yet shrinking Venus, a Hebe yet a Bacchante. With
much grace Voltaire says:
“Madame:
“M. de la Borde tells me that you have ordered him to kiss me on both
cheeks for you:
“He showed me your portrait, and be not offended, Madame, when I tell you
that I have taken the liberty of giving that the two kisses.”
Perhaps Voltaire would not have written this letter, had he not read the
one written by the King to the Duc de Choiseul, who refused to pay court
to the left-hand queen:
“My Cousin,
“The discontent which your acts cause me forces me to exile you to
Chanteloup, where you will take yourself within twenty-four hours. I would
have sent you farther away were it not for the particular esteem in which
I hold Madame de Choiseul. With this, I pray God, my cousin, to take you
into His safe and holy protection.
“Louis.”
This exile was the only crime of the courtesan. On none of her enemies did
she close the gates of the Bastille. And more than once did she place a
pen in the hands of Louis XV with which to sign a pardon. Sometimes,
indeed, she was ironic in her compassion.
“Madame,” said M. de Sartines to her one day, “I have discovered a rogue
who is scattering songs about you; what is to be done with him?”
“Sentence him to sing them for a livelihood.”
But she afterwards made the mistake of pensioning Chevalier de Morande to
buy silence.
The pleasures of the King and his favorite were troubled only by the
fortune-tellers. Neither the King nor the countess believed in the
predictions of the philosophers, but they did believe in divination. One
day, returning from Choisy, Louis XV found under a cushion of his coach a
slip of paper on which was transcribed this prediction of the monk
Aimonius, the savant who could read all things from the vast book of the
stars:
“As soon as Childeric had returned from Thuringia, he was crowned King of
France And no sooner was he King than he espoused Basine, wife of the King
of Thuringia. She came herself to find Childeric. The first night of the
marriage, and before the King had retired, the queen begged Childeric to
look from one of the palace windows which opened on a park, and tell what
he saw there. Childeric looked out and, much terrified, reported to the
princess that he had seen tigers and lions. Basine sent him a second time
to look out. This time the prince only saw bears and wolves, and the third
time he perceived only cats and dogs, fighting and combating each other.
Then Basine said to him: I will give you an explanation of what you have
seen: The first figure shows you your successors, who will excel you in
courage and power; the second represents another race which will be
illustrious for their conquests, and which will augment your kingdom for
many centuries; but the third denotes the end of your kingdom, which will
be given over to pleasures and will lose to you the friendship of your
subjects; and this because the little animals signify a people who,
emancipated from fear of princes, will massacre them and make war upon
each other.”
Louis read the prediction and passed the paper to the Countess: “After us
the end of the world,” said she gaily. The King laughed, but the abbé de
Beauvais celebrated high mass at Versailles after the carnival of 1774,
and dared to say, in righteous anger: “This carnival is the last; yet
forty days and Nineveh shall perish.” Louis turned pale. “Is it God who
speaks thus?” murmured he, raising his eyes to the altar. The next day he
went to the hunt in grand style, but from that evening he was afraid of
solitude and silence: “It is like the tomb; I do not wish to put myself in
such a place,” said he to Madame du Barry. The duc de Richelieu tried to
divert him. “No,” said he suddenly, as if the Trappist’s denunciation had
again recurred to him, “I shall be at ease only when these forty days have
passed.” He died on the fortieth day.
Du Barry believed neither in God nor in the devil, but she believed in the
almanac of Liège. She scarcely read any book but this—faithful to
her earliest habits. And the almanac of Liège, in its prediction for
April, 1774, said: “A woman, the greatest of favorites, will play her last
role.” So Madame the Countess du Barry said without ceasing: “I shall not
be tranquil until these forty days have passed.” The thirty-seventh day
the King went to the hunt attended with all the respect due to his rank.
Jeanne wept in silence and prayed to God as one who has long neglected her
prayers.
Louis XV had not neglected his prayers, and gave two hundred thousand
livres to the poor, besides ordering masses at St. Geneviève. Parliament
opened the shrine, and knelt gravely before that miraculous relic. The
least serious of all these good worshippers was, strange to say, the
curate of St. Geneviève: “Ah, well!” said he gaily, when Louis was dead,
“let us continue to talk of the miracles of St. Geneviève. Of what can you
complain? Is not the King dead?”
At the last moment it was not God who held the heart of Louis—it was
his mistress. “Ask the Countess to come here again,” he said.
“Sire, you know that she has gone away,” they answered.
“Ah! has she gone? Then I must go!” So he departed.
His end drew forth some maledictions. There were insults even at his
funeral services. “Nevertheless,” said one old soldier, “he was at the
battle of Fontenoy.” That was the most eloquent funeral oration of Louis
XV.
“The King is dead, long live the King!” But before the death of Louis XVI
they cried: “The king is dead, long live the Republic!”
Rose-colored mourning was worn in the good city of Paris. The funeral
oration of the King and a lament for his mistress were pronounced by
Sophie Arnould, of which masterpiece of sacred eloquence the last words
only are preserved: “Behold us orphaned both of father and mother.”
If Madame du Barry was one of the seven plagues of royalty, she died
faithful to royalty. After her exile to Pont aux Dames she returned to
Lucienne, where the duc de Cossé Brissac consoled her for the death of
Louis XV. But what she loved in Louis was that he was a king; her true
country was Versailles; her true light was the sun of court life. Like
Montespan, also a courtesan of high order, she often went in these dark
days to cast a loving look upon the solitary park in the maze of the
Trianon. Yet she was particularly happy at Lucienne.
I have compared her to Manon Lescaut, and I believe her to have been also
a sister to Ganesin. All three were destroyed by passion.
One day she found herself still young at Lucienne, although her sun was
setting. She loved the duc de Brissac, and how many pages of her past
romance would she that day have liked to erase and forget!
“Why do you weep, Countess?” asked her lover.
“My friend,” she responded, “I weep because I love you, shall I say it? I
weep because I am happy.”
She was right; happiness is a festival that should know no to-morrow. But
on the morrow of her happiness, the Revolution knocked at the castle gate
of Lucienne.
“Who goes there?”
“I am justice; prepare for destiny.”
The Queen, the true queen, had been good to her as to everybody. Marie
Antoinette remembered that the favorite had not been wicked. The debts of
Du Barry were paid and money enough was given to her so that she could
still give with both hands. Lucienne became an echo of Versailles. Foreign
kings and Parisian philosophers came to chat in its portals. Minerva
visited shameless Venus. But wisdom took not root at Lucienne.
For the Revolution, alas! had to cut off this charming head, which was at
one time the ideal of beauty—of court beauty. Madame du Barry gave
hospitality to the wounded at the arrest of the queen. “These wounded
youths have no other regret than that they have not died for a princess so
worthy as your Majesty,” she said. “What I have done for these brave men
is only what they have merited. I consoled them, and I respect their
wounds when I think, Madame, that without their devotion, your Majesty
would no longer be alive. Lucienne is yours, Madame, for was it not your
beneficence which gave it to me? All I possess has come to me through the
royal family. I have too much loyalty to forget it.”
But negro Zamor became a citizen like Mirabeau. It was Zamor who took to
Du Barry her lover’s head. It was Zamor who denounced her at the club of
the Jacobins. “The fealty (faith) of the black man is white,” said the
negro. But he learned how to make it red. Jeanne was imprisoned and tried
before Dumas.
“Your age?”
“Forty-two years.” She was really forty-seven. Coquetry even at the
guillotine.
The public accuser, Fouquier Tinville, was not disarmed by the sweet
voluptuousness still possessed by this pale and already fading beauty. He
accused her of treason against the nation. Could the defender of Du Barry,
who had also defended Marie Antoinette, find an eloquent word? No;
Fouquier Tinville was more eloquent than Chauveau-Lagarde. So the mistress
of Louis was condemned. It was eleven o’clock in the evening—the
hour for supper at Versailles when she was queen!
She passed the night in prayer and weeping, or rather in a frenzy of
fright. In the morning she said it was “too early to die”; she wished to
have a little time in order to make some disclosures. The Comité sent
someone to listen to her. What did she say? She revealed all that was
hidden away at Lucienne; she gave word by word an inventory of the
treasures she had concealed, forgetting nothing, for did not each word
give her a second of time?
“Have you finished?” said the inquisitor. “No,” said Jeanne. “I have not
mentioned a silver syringe concealed under the staircase!”
Meanwhile the horses of destiny stamped with impatience, and spectators
were knocking at the prison gate. When they put her, already half dead, on
the little cart, she bent her head and grew pale. The Du Barry alone—a
sinner without redemption.
She saw the people in the square of Louis XV; she struck her breast three
times and murmured: “It is my fault!” But this Christian resignation
abandoned her when she mounted the scaffold—there where the statue
of Louis XV had been—and she implored of the executioner:
“One moment, Mr. Executioner! One moment more!”
But the executioner was pitiless Sanson. It was block and the knife—without
the “one moment!”
Such was the last bed of the Du Barry. Had the almanac of Liège only
predicted to her that the one who would lead her to her bed for the last
time would not be a King but a citizen executioner, it might have been—but
why moralize?
Robert Arnot
To the Reader
As the early part of Madame du Barry’s career had little to
differentiate it from the life of an ordinary courtezan, the editor has
deemed it best to confine the memoirs to the years in her life which
helped to make history.
CHAPTER I
One morning comte Jean entered my apartment, his face beaming with
delight.
“Read,” said he, giving me a letter, “read, Jeannette: victory is ours.
News from Morand. Lebel is coming to Paris, and will dine with us. Are we
alone?”
“No, there are two of your countrymen whom you invited yesterday.”
“I will write and put them off. Morand alone must dine with Lebel; he
ought to have a place at the feast which he furnishes with such good
music. Come, my dear girl, we touch the moment of importance, it is in
your beauty and power of pleasing that I place all my hopes. I think I may
rely on you; but, above all, do not forget that you are my sister-in-law.”
“Brother-in-law,” said I, laughing, “it is not unnecessary that I should
know decidedly to which of family I am married? The custom in France is
not that a woman be the undivided property of three brothers.”
“That only happens in Venice,” replied the comte; “my brother Elie is too
young, you must be the wife of Guillaume, my second brother.”
“Very well; I am the comtesse Guillaume du Barry; that does famously well;
we like to know whom we are married to.”
After this conversation, comte Jean insisted on presiding at my toilette.
He acquitted himself of the task, with a most laughable attention. During
two good hours, at least, he tormented first Henriette, and then the
female hairdresser, for I had not yet followed the mode, which began to be
very general, of having my hair dressed by a man. Comte Jean passed
alternately from my dressing-room to the kitchen. He knew Lebel was a
gallant and a gourmand, and he was anxious to please him in all senses at
once.
At one o’clock I was under arms, and prepared to receive him on whom my
destiny depended. As soon as I reached the drawing-room, comte Jean
compelled me to submit to the test of a rigid examination.
His serious air amused me much as he gazed at me some time in solemn
silence. At length his forehead relaxed, a smile of satisfaction played on
his lips, and extending his arms to me, without venturing to touch me,
“You are charming, divine,” he said; “Lebel ought to go and hang himself
if he does not fall down at your knees.”
Soon afterwards the folding-doors were hastily opened, and a servant
announced M. Lebel, premier de sa Majesté, with M. Morand. The
comte went to meet the arrivals, and as I now saw Lebel for the first
time, he presented him to me formally.
“Sister, this is M. Lebel, premier de sa Majesté , who has done us
the honor to come and dine with us.”
“And he confers a real pleasure on us,” said I, looking smilingly on M.
Lebel. My look had its effect, for Lebel remained mute and motionless from
admiration at my person. At length he stammered out a few incoherent
words, which I imagined to be compliments. The comte watched Lebel
anxiously, and Morand began to rub his hands, saying:
“Well, sir, what think you of our celestial beauty?”
“She is worthy of a throne,” replied Lebel, bending his head before me,
and taking my hand, which he pressed respectfully to his lips. This reply
was, perhaps, inadvertently made, but I took it as a good augury. “Yes,”
added Lebel, “you are the most lovely creature I ever met, though no one
is more in the habit of seeing handsome females than myself.”
“And of causing them to be seen by others,” replied comte Jean.
This was an opening which was not followed up by Lebel. His first
enthusiasm having passed, he measured me from head to foot, as if he would
take an accurate description of my person.
For my part I began to support the looks of Lebel with more assurance. He
was a man of no particular “mark or likelihood,” but had made his way.
Living at Versailles had given him a certain air of easy impertinence, but
you could not discover anything distinguished in his manners, nothing
which concealed his humble extraction. The direction of the Parc aux
Cerfs gave him much influence with the king, who found the convenience
of such a man, who was willing to take upon himself all the disagreeable
part of his clandestine amours. His duties placed him in contact with the
ministers, the lieutenant of police, and the comptroller-general. The
highest nobility sought his friendship with avidity. They all had a wife,
a sister, a daughter, whom they wished to make the favorite sultana; and
for this it was necessary to get the ear of Lebel. Thus, under a libertine
prince, the destinies of France were at the mercy of a valet de chambre.
I should tell you, however, that I never had occasion but to speak well of
him, and that I have the utmost gratitude for all he did for me. The
attachment he testified on our first meeting has never been altered. He
gave me his protection as far as it was necessary for me, and when the
favor of the king had accorded to me a station, whence all the court
sought to hurl me, Lebel seconded me with all his power in my efforts to
preserve it. I will say, that it is to his vigilance that I owe the
overthrow of more than one conspiracy against me. He was a warm and
sincere friend, and not at all interested in the services he rendered. He
did a great deal of good, as well as harm, in private. I know poor
families whom he has assisted with his own purse, when he could obtain
nothing for them from the king, for Louis was only prodigal in his
pleasures.
However, we dined, and Lebel praised me incessantly to the very skies, and
that with so much warmth, that I was fearful at one time he would fall in
love with me himself, and would not resign me to another. Thank heaven,
Lebel was a faithful servant.
After dinner, when we left the table, Lebel paid me some compliments; then
pulling out his watch, he spoke of an appointment at the Marais, and left
without saying a word of seeing us again.
At this abrupt departure, comte Jean and I looked at each other with
astonishment. As for Morand, he was overjoyed.
“Well, comtesse,” said he, “behold the number of your slaves increased by
an illustrious adorer. You have made a conquest of M. Lebel, and I am
certain he has gone away deeply smitten.”
“I hope we shall see him again,” said comte Jean.
“Do you doubt it?”
“Assure him,” said I, “of the pleasure it will afford us to receive him as
he merits.”
Several persons entered, and M. Morand, profiting by the bustle which
their entrance occasioned, approached me, and said, in a low tone,
“You are in possession of his heart, will you charge me with any message
to him?”
“M. Morand,” was my reply, “what are you thinking of? A woman of my rank
throw herself at any person’s head?”
“No, certainly not; but you can send him a kind word, or some affectionate
token.”
“I could not think of it; M. Lebel appeared to me a most agreeable man,
and I shall be at all times delighted to see him.”
Morand asked nothing more than this, and there our conversation ended.
Two days elapsed without being marked by any event. Comte Jean had spent
them with much anxiety. He was absent, when, on the third morning,
Henriette came hastily into my room. “Madame,” she said, “the valet de
chambre of the king is in the drawing-room, and inquires if you will
receive him.”
At this news I was surprised and vexed. M. Lebel took me unawares; my
toilette was not begun. I gave a hasty glance at my mirror, “Let M. Lebel
come in”; and M. Lebel, who was on the heels of my maid, entered
instantly. After having saluted me, he said,
“It is only you, Madame, whom one might thus surprise. Your beauty needs
no ornament, your charms are decoration sufficient.”
I replied to this compliment with (of course) much modesty, according to
custom. We entered into conversation, and I found that Lebel really
thought me the sister-in-law of comte Jean; and I remarked the involuntary
respect that attended even his familiarity. I left him in his error, which
was material to my interests. He talked to me some time of my attractions,
of the part which a female like myself might assume in France. But fearing
to compromise myself, I made no reply, but preserved the reserve which my
character imposed upon me. I am not clever, my friend, I never could
conduct an intrigue: I feared to speak or do wrong; and whilst I kept a
tranquil appearance, I was internally agitated at the absence of comte
Jean.
Fortune sent him to me. He was passing the street, when he saw at our door
a carriage with the royal livery. Lebel always used it when his affairs
did not demand a positive incognito. This equipage made him suspect a
visit from Lebel, and he came in opportunely to extricate me from my
embarrassment.
“Sir,” said Lebel to him, when he entered, “here is the lady whose extreme
modesty refuses to listen to what I dare not thus explain to her.”
“Is it anything I may hear for her?” said the comte, with a smiling air.
“Yes, I am the ambassador of a mighty power: you are the minister
plenipotentiary of the lady, and with your leave, we will go into your
private room to discuss the articles of the secret treaty which I have
been charged to propose to you. What says madame?”
“I consent to anything that may come from such an ambassador.”
Comte Jean instantly led him into another room, and when they were alone,
Lebel said to him, “Do you know that your sister-in-law is a most
fascinating creature? She has occupied my thoughts since I have known her,
and in my enthusiasm I could not help speaking of her in a certain
quarter. So highly have I eulogized her, that his majesty desires an
interview with her, that he may judge with his own eyes if I am an
appreciator of beauty.”
At these words comte Jean felt a momentary agitation, but soon recovering
himself, he replied:
“I am exceedingly obliged to you, sir, for the favorable disposition you
have evinced towards the comtesse du Barry. She and I have as much respect
as love for his majesty; but my sister-in-law has not been presented, and,
consequently, I can scarcely see how she can be allowed to pay her
respects to his majesty.”
“Do not let that disturb you; it is not intended that she shall go and
partake of the magnificence of Versailles, but be admitted to an intimacy
much more flattering. Would you refuse to grant him that pleasure?”
“It would be a crime of lèse-majesté ,” said the comte Jean,
laughing, “and my family have too much respect for their monarch. We
should not be content with a fugitive favor.”
“You may expect everything from the charms of the comtesse; I am certain
they will have the utmost success; but for me, I can give you no
guarantee. You must run the chance.”
“Your protection, however, is the only thing which encourages my
sister-in-law in this affair. But tell me when is this meeting to take
place?”
“Instantly. The king is impatient to see the comtesse and I have promised
that she will sup with him to-morrow evening in my apartment at
Versailles.”
“How is she to be introduced to the king?”
“I am to entertain four of my friends.”
“Who are they?”
“‘First, the baron de Gonesse.”
“Who is he?”
“The king himself.”
“Well, who next?”
“The duc de Richelieu.”
“Who else?”
“The marquis de Chauvelin.”
“Well?”
“The duc de la Vauguyon.”
“What, the devotee?”
“The hypocrite. But never mind: the main point is, that you must not
appear to recognize the king. Instruct your sister-in-law to this effect.”
“Certainly; if she must sin, she had better do so with some reason.”
While these gentlemen were thus disposing of me, what was I doing? Alone,
in my room, I waited the result of their conference with mortal
impatience. The character I had to play was a superb one, and at the
moment was about to enter on the stage, I felt all the difficulties of my
part. I feared I should not succeed, but fail amid the insulting hisses of
the Versailles party.
My fears at once disappeared, and then I pictured myself sitting on a
throne, magnificently attired; my imagination wandered in all the
enchantments of greatness;—then, as if from remorse, I recalled my
past life. The former lover of Nicholas blushed before the future mistress
of Louis XV. A thousand different reflections crowded upon me, and mingled
in my brain. If to live is to think, I lived a whole age in one quarter of
an hour. At length I heard some doors open, a carriage rolled away, and
comte Jean entered my chamber.
“Victory!” cried he, embracing me with transport. “Victory! my dear
Jeanne, to-morrow you sup with the king.”
On this information I turned pale, my strength forsook me, and I was
compelled to sit down, or rather to fall into a chair; for, according to
Jean Jacques Rousseau, my legs shook under me (flageolaient). This,
however, was the only movement of weakness which I betrayed. When I
recovered a little, the comte Jean told me the conversation he had had
with Lebel. I joked about the title of baron de Gonesse, and I promised to
treat the king as if ignorant of his incognito. One thing only made me
uneasy, and that was supping with the duc de Richelieu, who had seen me
before at madame de Lagarde’s; but the idea that he would not remember me
gave me renewed courage.
On so important an occasion, comte Jean did not forget to repeat his
instructions over again. These are nearly his words, for I think I learnt
them by heart.
“Remember that it is on your first interview that your safety depends. Let
him learn, through you, those utter tendernesses which have been sought
for him in vain heretofore. He is like the monarch of old, who was willing
to pay the half of his crown for an unknown pleasure. Lebel is wearied in
seeking every week for new fruit. He is quite disposed to serve you, and
will second you in the best manner. You are about to become the centre of
attraction to all courtiers, and noble courtisanes. You must expect
that they will endeavor to cry you down, because you will have carried off
from them a gem to which every family has its pretensions. You must at
first stand firmly before the storm, but afterward you will find all
enlist themselves under your banner, who have no wife, sister, nor
daughter; that is, all who have no mistress to offer to the king. You must
attach these to you by place and favor: they must be first thought of, and
then you must think of yourself and me, my dear girl.”
“All this is well enough,” I replied, “but as yet I am nothing.”
“Morbleu! to-morrow you will be everything,” cried comte Jean, with
his determined energy. “But we must think about this morrow. Make haste,
noble comtesse; go to all the milliners, seek what is elegant rather than
what is rich. Be as lovely, pleasing, and gay as possible; this is the
main point, and God will do all the rest.”
He pronounced this blasphemy in a laughing tone, and I confess I could not
help joining in the laugh, and then hastened to comply with his
directions.
CHAPTER II
The chances against our succeeding in our enterprise were at least a
thousand to one. The sea upon which, trusting to the favorable influence
of my leading star, we were about to venture, was filled with rocks and
shoals which threatened the poor mariner who should direct his bark near
them. In the first place, I had to dread my obscure birth, as well as the
manner in which my life had been passed; and still more had I to fear the
indifferent reputation of comte Jean. There was more than sufficient in
all this to disturb a head far stronger than I could boast. However,
thanks to my thoughtfulness, no troublesome thoughts interfered to break
my rest on the night preceding a day so important to me, and I slept as
tranquilly as though upon waking I had no other occupation for my time
than a walk on the boulevards, or a drive to the Bois de Boulogne.
Comte Jean, however, had passed a very different night; for once, the
whisperings of ambition had overcome even his natural indifference and
carelessness, and tired of tossing upon a sleepless pillow, he arose at
the first break of day, reproached me for slumbering so long, and allowed
me neither peace nor rest till I joined him dressed for our journey. At
length, we set out according to our agreement with Lebel; I was closely
muffled up in my large calèche—the carriage rolled along till
we reached Versailles, where we had for the last month engaged a lodging,
which might be useful to us in all events; we alighted, and after vainly
seeking a few moments’ repose, proceeded on foot to Lebel, in whose
apartments we were to attire ourselves in a suitable manner.
“You are welcome,” said the comte, “pray consider yourself as at home.”
“I accept your augury,” replied I, “it would be amusing enough to find
that my young prophet had predicted rightly.”
“Well then,” said my conductor, laughing, “I recommend you to manage a
slip on the staircase, it would be taking possession after the manner of
the ancients.”
“No, no, I thank you,” answered I; “no falls if you please, they are not
propitious in France.”
Whilst we were thus speaking, we were crossing a long suite of chambers,
and reached the one at which we were expected. We knocked cautiously at a
door, which was opened to us with equal caution. Scarcely had we entered,
than Lebel came eagerly forward to receive us.
“Ah, madame!” cried he, “I began to fear you might not come, you have been
looked for with an impatience—”
“Which can hardly equal mine,” interrupted I; “for you were prepared for
your visitor, whilst I have yet to learn who is the friend that so kindly
desires to see me.”
“It is better it should be so,” added Lebel; “do not seek either to guess
or discover more, than that you will here meet with some cheerful society,
friends of mine, who will sup at my house, but with whom circumstances
prevent my sitting down at table.”
“How!” said I, with affected surprise, “not sup with us?”
“Even so,” replied Lebel; and then added with a laugh, “He and I
sit down to supper together! What an idea! No! you will find that just as
the guests are about to sit down at table, I shall suddenly be called out
of the room, and shall only return at the close of the repast.”
All this was but of small import to me. Nevertheless, I affected to regret
the unavoidable absence of Lebel. In fact, I believe that the first breath
inspired at court is fraught with falsehood and deceit, entirely
destructive to every feeling of natural candor.
Lebel, with the most ceremonious gallantry, conducted me to a private
dressing-room, where I found several females waiting to assist me at my
toilet; I abandoned myself to their cares, which were, indeed, most
skilfully exercised in my behalf. They wrought wonders in my appearance,
bathing me after the Eastern fashion, adorning my hair and person, till I
issued from their hands blooming and beauteous as an houri.
When I returned to the room in which Lebel was expecting me, his surprise
was almost overpowering.
“You are, indeed,” exclaimed he, “the new sun which is to rise upon
Versailles.”
“Excellent!” cried I, laughing extravagantly, “but like the planet you are
pleased to compare me with, I must reserve my splendid rising till I have
obtained fresh powers from the aid of night.” *
The comte entered, and joined his congratulations upon the beauty of my
appearance; all at once the hasty, sound of a bell, violently pulled, was
heard.
“The object of your attack approaches,” said Lebel to me, “it would be as
well to reconnoitre a little. Remember, not a word of his rank, no cast
down, timid looks at his sovereign power; no bending of knees, or
faltering of voice.”
The advice thus given was useless. Comte Jean, who bore the reputation of,
at least, a man of much cool impudence, was, I am certain, more deficient
than myself in courage upon the occasion, and I verily believe, asked
himself several times whether he dared appear before his prince with one
whom he was falsely asserting to be his sister-in-law. However these
thoughts might or might not have disturbed him, we proceeded onwards till
we reached the apartment where our invited friends were expecting us; and
here I will, with the reader’s permission, digress awhile, in order to say
a few introductory words respecting the four personages with whom I had
the honor of supping.
And first, Louis XVth, king of France (or as he was upon the present
occasion styled the baron de Gonesse), was one of those sentimental
egotists who believed he loved the whole world, his subjects, and his
family; while in reality, the sole engrossing object was self.
Gifted with many personal and intellectual endowments, which might have
disputed the palm with the most lively and engaging personages of the
court, he was yet devoured by ennui, and of this he was well aware, but
his mind was made up to meet this ennui, as one of the necessary
accompaniments of royalty. Devoid of taste in literary matters, he
despised all connected with the belles-lettres, and esteemed men
only in proportion to the number and richness of their armorial bearings.
M. de Voltaire ranked him beneath the lowest country-squire; and the very
mention of a man of letters was terrifying to his imagination from its
disturbing the current of his own ideas; he revelled in the plenitude of
power, yet felt dissatisfied with the mere title of king. He ardently
desired to signalize himself as the first general of the age, and
prevented from obtaining this (in his opinion) highest of honors,
entertained the utmost jealousy of Frederick II, and spoke with
undisguised spleen and ill-humor of the exploits of his brother of
Prussia.
The habit of commanding, and the prompt obedience he had ever met with,
had palled upon his mind, and impressed him with feelings of indifference
for all things which thus appeared so easily obtained; and this satiety
and consequent listlessness was by many construed into melancholy of
disposition. He disliked any appearance of opposition to his will; not
that he particularly resented the opposition itself, but he knew his own
weakness, and feared lest he should be compelled to make a show of a
firmness he was conscious of not possessing. For the clergy he entertained
the most superstitious veneration; and he feared God because he had a
still greater awe and dread of the devil. In the hands of his confessor he
confidently believed was lodged the absolute power to confer on him
unlimited license to commit any or every sin. He greatly dreaded
pamphlets, satires, epigrams, and the opinion of posterity and yet his
conduct was that of a man who scoffs at the world’s judgment. This hasty
sketch may with safety be taken as the portrait of Louis XV, although much
might be added; yet for the present I will confine myself to the outline
of my picture, which I shall have frequent occasion to retouch in the
course of my journal; it is my intention to present him in all possible
lights before the reader, and I flatter myself I shall produce a perfect
resemblance of the man I seek to depict. Let us now proceed to consider
the duc de Richelieu.
This nobleman, when in his seventy-second year, had preserved, even in so
advanced an age, all his former pretensions to notice; his success in so
many love affairs, a success which he never could have merited, had
rendered him celebrated; he was now a superannuated coxcomb, a wearisome
and clumsy butterfly; when however, he could be brought to exercise his
sense by remembering that he was no longer young, he became fascinating
beyond idea, from the finished ease and grace of his manner, and the
polished and piquant style of his discourse; still I speak of him as a
mere man of outward show, for the duke’s attainments were certainly
superficial, and he possessed more of the jargon of a man of letters than
the sound reality. Among other proofs of consummate ignorance he was
deficient even in orthography, and was fool enough to boast of so
disgraceful a fact, as though it conferred honor on him; perhaps, indeed,
he found that the easiest way of getting over the business.
He possessed a most ignoble turn of mind; all feelings of an elevated
nature were wanting within him. A bad son, an unkind husband, and a worse
father, he could scarcely be expected to become a steady friend. All whom
he feared, he hesitated not to trample under foot; and his favorite maxim,
which he has a hundred times repeated to me, was, that “we should never
hesitate to set our foot upon the necks of all those who might in any way
interfere with our projects—dead men [he would further add] tell no
tales!” There was one person, nevertheless, whom he detested and flattered
at the same time, and this was Voltaire, who well repaid him in like coin.
He called the duc de Richelieu, the tyrant of the tennis-court* (tripot),
and the duke returned the compliment by invariably designating him
“Scoundrel” and “Poetaster”; the only difference was that the duc de
Richelieu only treated the poet thus in sotto voce, whilst M. de
Voltaire sought not to conceal, either in his writings or conversation,
his candid opinion of the illustrious duke and peer; and he might justly
accuse the duke of ingratitude, for he, no doubt, owed a considerable
portion of the reputation he enjoyed as a general, to the brilliant verses
in which Voltaire had celebrated his exploits.
The marquis de Chauvelin was equally skilful as a warrior and diplomatist.
Gentle, graceful, and witty, he joined to the most extreme versatility of
talent the utmost simplicity of character. Once known, he could not fail
of being valued and esteemed, and the king entertained the most lively
regard for him. The noble minded marquis was far from taking advantage of
his sovereign’s favor, far from it; he neither boasted of it, nor presumed
upon it. This truly wonderful man died, unhappily, too soon for me, for
the king on whom he bestowed the sagest counsels, and for foreign courts
who knew and appreciated his worth. I shall have occasion to speak of him
hereafter; he had a brother, a wicked little hump-backed creature, brave
as Caesar, and a bitter enemy to the Jesuits, whom he did not a little
contribute to overturn in the parliament of Paris, to which he belonged.
The king detested this man as much as he loved and cherished the brother,
and that is saying not a little.
The fourth guest was the duc de la Vauguyon, the really perpetual
tutor to the princes of France, for he had educated four successively. He
had displayed in the army both bravery and talent, but he was a confirmed
Jesuit, and conducted himself towards me upon the strictest principles of
his order. He will appear again on the scene hereafter, but for the
present I must lay him aside, whilst I return to my entrée to the
saloon, which I was about to enter.
Immediately after Lebel had conducted me into it, he was called away, and
quitted us. The king rose and approached me, saluting me with the most
admirable gallantry, and addressing to me the most encouraging and
gratifying words. His gentle, yet polished manners, fine countenance,
noble air, and the free and unrestrained glances of admiration which
sparkled in his eyes, communicated to me a feeling of support and
confidence which effectually reassured me, and roused me from the
involuntary emotion I had felt at the moment when I first appeared in his
presence. The king addressed a few words to comte Jean, and then regarded
him steadily, as tho’ he were trying to recall his features; but his eye
quickly turned on me again, upon whom he bestowed the most intoxicating
attention. Never was first sight more effective, and never did a flame so
rapidly increase as did the passion of my noble adorer. Ere we had seated
ourselves at the supper-table, he was ages gone in love.
It would have provoked a smile from any countenance to perceive how the
respect and admiration with which the three courtiers regarded me
increased in proportion as the sentiments of the king towards me betrayed
themselves more and more. At first I had been considered as a person of
little or no importance. Soon, however, as their sagacious eyes discovered
the state of their master’s mind, the air of familiarity with which they
had regarded me gave place to a more studied politeness, which, in its
turn, as matters progressed, was superseded by the most delicate
attention; and ere we rose from table these gentlemen watched my looks
with the most eager anxiety to obtain the honor of my notice, and hopes of
future patronage from one whom they easily foresaw would be fully
qualified to bestow it. Comte Jean observed all that was passing in
profound silence. As for me, I talked and laughed with perfect freedom
from restraint, and my frank unaffected mirth appeared to enchant the
king; I knew that he was weary of the nice formalities of courtly beauty,
and desired to refresh his eyes and ears with something less refined, and
I gratified him to his heart’s wish. The conversation became lively and
animated, the merits of men of letters were discussed, the French and
Italian theatre passed in review before us, and finally, we amused
ourselves with anecdotes relative to the intrigues of court. The baron de
Gonesse related to us a circumstance which had just been communicated to
him by a county magistrate. I must here apprize the reader that these
administrators of justice were directed to collect all the facts,
scandalous, horrible, ridiculous, or piquant, which occurred within their
jurisdiction, in order that, being forwarded to the king, they might aid
in distracting his mind from the heavy cares of government. Alas! how many
strange and eventful things have I since learned by similar channels.
The supper terminated, the king’s friends remained some time conversing
with us. Whilst these noblemen were busily celebrating my praises in words
sufficiently loud to reach the king’s ear, the baron de Gonesse, standing
by my side, was prosecuting his suit in the most ardent terms. I received
his overtures with becoming grace and modesty. As I have before said, the
exterior of the king was very prepossessing, and what he wanted in youth,
he made up by all the mature graces of dignified royalty. At last Lebel
appeared, and made me a sign to rise from my seat. Up to this period
nothing had arisen to betray the incognito of the august monarch, and in
order to keep up my pretended ignorance of his grandeur, I quitted the
apartment with little ceremony. Lebel conducted me to an adjoining
chamber, furnished with the utmost magnificence. When we were seated, he
turned to the comte Jean, who had followed us, and said, “It rests with
yourself whether you will return to Paris, or remain at Versailles. But as
for milady, who seems much fatigued, she will, we trust, honor us
by accepting a bed at the castle.”
My self-created brother-in-law understood as well as I did the
significance of these words, and clearly read in their import how far I
had attracted the favor of the king. In order to have rendered the
impression more lasting, we could have wished that matters had been less
precipitated, but we were under a roof where everything yielded to the
caprices of its master, and resignation to his will became a matter of
course. And here I trust I may be pardoned if I pass over certain details
which could not, at this lapse of time, interest or amuse any one;
besides, altho’ I have found no difficulty in reciting former events of my
life, I find my pen more prudish and coy than were my ears or mouth. All I
shall say is, that the following day, as soon as I was left alone in my
chamber, Lebel entered, and prostrating himself at the side of my bed,—
“Madame la comtesse,” said he, “is queen and mistress here. Not only has
your noble lover failed to communicate to me the usual signal of disgust
or dislike, but he has spoken of you to me in the most favorable light,
declaring, that, for the first time in his life, he felt the influence of
a true and sincere affection; for this reason he desired I would not
convey to you the contents of this casket, as originally intended.”
“And what does it contain?” asked I, with childish eagerness.
“Oh, a trifle unworthy of her who is now the mistress of his warmest love;
only a purse containing a hundred louis, and a suit of emeralds worth a
similar sum. He bade me say it might have served to recompense a mere
fleeting fancy, but that it is unworthy of your charms, nor can he insult
you by the offer of it.”
“Will he then see me again?” inquired I.
“To-morrow evening, if agreeable to you.”
“Only say that his wishes are mine.”
“Would you wish to see the comte Jean before you rise? He has been waiting
with the utmost impatience to see you since seven o’clock this morning.”
“Let him come in.”
The comte entered, and I saw by the triumphant joy painted on his face,
that Lebel had told him of propitious state of things. He ran up to me
with outstretched arms, congratulating me upon my success, and putting at
the same time several questions, to which, either from mere womanly
caprice, or presuming upon my recent elevation to the character of prime
favorite, I refused to reply.
My folly drew down on me his severe anger, and several oaths escaped his
lips, which, echoed back by walls so unused to similar violence, struck
Lebel with terror. That faithful ally placed his hand over his mouth,
imploring of him to recollect himself, and the place he was in. As for me,
dreading some foolish burst of his impetuosity, I tried some of my
sweetest smiles, and inviting him to sit beside me, related to him and
Lebel those particulars which my pen refuses to retrace. Amongst other
things, I told them I had said to the king, that I had perfectly known who
he was all the preceding evening when supping with him, and that he had
the simplicity to say, “he was surprised I had not appeared more
embarrassed in his presence.”
Our conversation terminated, I wished to return to Paris, and I was,
without further hindrance, allowed to depart. Scarcely had I arrived there
an hour, than I received from his majesty a magnificent diamond agraffe,
worth at least 60,000 francs, and bank notes to the amount of 200,000
livres.
Comte Jean and myself were well nigh stupefied with astonishment at the
sight of such treasures; to us, who had never in our lives possessed such
sums, they appeared inexhaustible. My brother-in-law divided them into two
equal portions, one of which he put into his pocket, and the other into my
escritoire. With this arrangement I did not interfere; nothing
seemed to me more simple than that he should satisfy his need out of my
superfluity. I bestowed two thousand crowns upon Henriette, and expended
in the course of the day at least a quarter of my riches in trifles, as
unnecessary as useless; and all this without once remembering that as I
owed my present abundance to a momentary inclination on the part of the
king, so the turn of an hour, or a fresh fancy on the part of my
munificent adorer, might reduce me to the unprovided state in which I had
been so lately. That evening was passed tête-à-tête with comte
Jean; he thought, as I did, that the foundation of our treasure was firm
as a rock, and he gave me many counsels for the future which I promised to
observe; for indeed it was to my own interest to do so. Upon how many
follies did we then debate, which, but a few days afterwards we found
practicable. The different ministers passed in review before us; some we
determined upon retaining, whilst others were dismissed, and already I
began in idea to act with sovereign power over these illustrious
personages, amongst whom I anticipated shortly playing so important a
part. “After all,” said I, “the world is but an amusing theatre, and I see
no reason why a pretty woman should not play a principal part in it.”
CHAPTER III
Early the following day I received a message from the king, accompanied
with a bouquet of flowers tied round with a string of diamonds. A short
letter was annexed to this splendid gift, which I would transcribe here,
had it not been taken from me with many others. My reply, which I wrote
upon the spur of the moment, was concise, and, as I preserved the rough
copy, under the impression of its being one day useful, I can give the
reader the exact words.
“The billet traced by your noble hands, renders me the happiest of women.
My joy is beyond description. Thanks, monsieur le Baron, for your charming
flowers. Alas! they will be faded and withered by to-morrow, but not so
fleeting and short-lived are the sentiments with which you have inspired
me. Believe me, the desire you express to see me again is entirely mutual;
and in the impatience with which you await our next interview, I read but
my own sentiments. The ardor with which you long to embrace me, is fully
equalled by the affection which leads me to desire no gratification
greater than that of passing my whole life in your society. Adieu,
monsieur le baron; you have forbidden my addressing you as your rank and
my respect would have me, I will therefore content myself with assuring
you of the ardent affection of the
“COMTESSE Du Barry.”
The signature I adopted was a bold piece of falsehood, but it was too late
to recede; besides, I was addressing myself in my letter, not to the king,
but to the baron de Gonesse; for Louis, by I know not what unaccountable
caprice, seemed to wish to preserve his incognito. I have since learned
that Francis I assumed the same name, altho’ upon a very different
occasion. Replying to a letter from Charles V, in which that emperor had
given himself a long string of high sounding titles, he contented himself
with simply signing his letter, “François, baron de Gonesse.” Louis
XV was very fond of borrowed appellations. Unlike the vanity so common to
mankind, of seeking to set off their pretensions by assumed titles, it is
the pleasure of royalty to descend to a lower grade in society when
concealment becomes desirable, either from policy or pleasure; and Louis
sought in the familiarity in which a plain baron might safely indulge, a
relief from the ennui attendant upon the rigid etiquette of a regal state.
I had omitted in my letter to the baron, to remind him that we were to
meet that very evening, but that did not prevent my repairing to
Versailles punctually at the appointed hour. I was conducted into the same
apartment as before, where I found the same females who had then assisted
at my toilette again prepared to lend their aid; and from this moment I
had a regular establishment of attendants appointed for my use.
The moment the king was informed of my arrival, unable to restrain his
impatience, he hastened to me to assist at my dressing table, and he
continued standing beside me so long as the operation lasted; I felt
greatly embarrassed, not knowing whether I durst take the liberty of
requesting him to be seated. However, my silence on the subject was
greatly admired, and ascribed to my perfect acquaintance with polished
life, when in reality it originated from mere timidity. My triumph was
complete; the monarch smiled at and admired every word as it fell from my
lips, kissed my hands, and played with the curls of my long hair,
sportively twisting his fingers amidst my flowing ringlets with all the
vivacity of a lover of twenty. The company upon this evening was different
from that of the former occasion, consisting of the duc de Duras, first
gentleman of the bedchamber, and the duc d’Ayen, who had the reputation of
being a great wit; however, in my opinion, he was much more deserving the
character of a real fiend; his very breath was poisonous, and his touch
venomous as the bite of an adder. I well remember what M. de Fleury said
of him to the king in my presence. “Sire,” said he, “the thing I most
dread in the world next to a bite from M. d’Ayen, is the bite of a mad
dog.” For my own part, I did not in the end look upon him with less
terror, and well he paid me for my fears. Upon one occasion, when the king
was speaking of me to him, he said, “I am well aware that I succeed St.
Foix.”
“Yes, sire”; replied the duke, “in the same manner as your majesty
succeeds Pharamond!”
I never forgave him those words, dictated by a fiendish malice. However,
upon the evening of my first introduction to him, he behaved to me with
the most marked politeness. I was then an object of no consequence to his
interests, and his vision had not yet revealed to him the height I was
destined to attain. He looked upon me but as one of those meteors which
sparkled and shone in the castle at Versailles for twenty-four hours, and
sank to rise no more.
The duc de Duras was not an ill-disposed person, but inconceivably stupid;
indeed, wit was by no means a family inheritance. Both father and son,
good sort of people in other respects, were for ever saying or doing some
good thing in support of their reputation for stupidity at court. One day
the king quite jokingly inquired of the duc de Duras, what was done with
the old moons. “Upon my word, sire,” replied he, “I can give you no idea,
never having seen, but with your majesty’s permission, I will endeavor to
learn from M. de Cassini*!” To such a pitch did the poor man’s simplicity
extend. Both father and son were nominated to attend the king of Denmark,
when on his road to visit France. The king observed to a person who
repeated it to me: “The French are generally styled a clever, witty
nation; I cannot say I should ever have been able to discover it, had I
been tempted to form my opinion from the specimen they have sent me.”
As far as I am concerned, after saying so many unfavorable things of the
Messrs. de Duras, I must do them the justice to say, that their conduct
towards me was everything that could be desired. I was always glad to see
them; it gave my own imagination a sort of sedative dose to converse with
these two simple-minded beings, whose interests I was always ready to
promote by every means in my power, and I trust the memory of what I have
done will be long remembered by the noble house of Duras.
This supper did not pass off so gaily as the former one. The duc de Duras
spoke as little as possible, in the dread of making some unlucky speech,
and the duc d’Ayen sat devouring the spleen he could not give vent to, and
meditating fresh objects upon whom to exercise his malignity; he vainly
endeavored to lead me on to make some ridiculous observation, but without
success; happily for him, the king did not perceive his aim. My royal
lover was indeed so entirely engrossed by me, that he lost all the duke’s
manoeuvres; his transports appeared too much for his senses to sustain,
and he vowed that I should never quit him more, but remain to be elevated
by his power to the first place at court. At the monarch’s sign, the two
guests withdrew.
When the duc d’Ayen quitted the room, “That nobleman is by no means to my
taste,” said I to the king, “he has the air of a spy, who wishes me no
good.”
“Do you really think so, my lovely comtesse?”
“I am certain of it; and I already shudder at the bare anticipation of an
enemy having access to your majesty’s ear.”
“Reassure yourself,” said the king, with the utmost tenderness, “in me you
have a sure defender, who will never forsake you; look upon me from this
minute as your natural protector, and woe to him on whose head your
displeasure shall fall.”
After this conversation the king and myself retired to rest, and when he
quitted me in the morning, he entreated me not to return to Paris, but to
give him my company for a whole week. Lebel made his appearance to beg I
would consider myself mistress of the apartments I occupied, and that he
had received orders to provide me with an establishment upon the most
handsome scale.
That very day Henriette, whom I had sent for, and instituted as my head
waiting-woman, informed me, that an old gentleman, attired as tho’ for a
grand gala, but who refused to send in his name, begged to be permitted to
pay his respects. I bade her admit him; it was the duc de Richelieu.
“Madame la comtesse,” said he, bowing low, “I come to complain of your
want of condescension; unless, indeed, your memory has been at fault. Was
it possible that when I had the honor of supping with you the other night,
you did not recollect your former old friend?”
“If, indeed, my forgetfulness were a fault, monsieur le maréchal, it was
one in which you bore an equal share; you were not more forward than
myself in displaying marks of recognition.”
“That arose only from the dazzling increase of your beauty. You were but a
nymph when last my eyes had beheld you, and now you are matured into a
goddess.”
The duke then made some slight allusion to the family of madame Lagarde,
but guessing with his admirable tact, that such reminiscences could not be
particularly agreeable to me, he dexterously turned the conversation, by
requesting permission to present to me his nephew, the duc d’Aiguillon,
that he might leave a worthy substitute and champion near the king when
state affairs called him into Gascony; he craved my kind offices to obtain
the intimate acquaintance of comte Jean. They were subsequently at daggers
drawn with each other, but this haughty overbearing lord conducted himself
at first with the most abject servility. The third favor he had to solicit
was that I would name him to the king as frequently as opportunities
occurred to form one of our supper parties. All this I engaged to do, nor
indeed could I refuse after the violent protestations of friendship he
made me.
“You will, ere long,” said he, “see the whole court at your feet, but
beware of considering them all as your friends; have a care, above all, of
the duchesse de Grammont. She has been long endeavoring to obtain the
king’s affections, and she will see with hatred and fury another more
worthy engrossing the place she has so vainly contended for; she and her
impertinent brother will call in the aid of the devil himself to
dispossess you of your elevated seat; you are lost if you do not twist
both their necks.”
“How, monsieur le maréchal, shall I mark my career by a murder?”
“You take me too literally; I only mean that in your place I would not be
at the trouble of keeping any terms with them.”
“Ah, monsieur le duc, I understand you now; yet it seems a bad augury to
have to begin my reign by cabals and intrigues.”
“Alas! my fair comtesse, you are too good, too guileless for a court life;
between ourselves we are all hypocrites more or less; mistrust every one,
even those make the finest protestations.”
“In that case the first object of my suspicion would be my old and
esteemed friend the maréchal de Richelieu.”
“Ah, madame! this is not fair usage, thus to turn my weapons against
myself, and to fight me with my own arms.”
Upon this the duke quitted me, and scarcely had he left the room, when the
duc la Vauguyon entered. This gentleman offered me no advice; he contented
himself by styling the Jesuits his “very good friends,” and continually
turning the conversation upon their merits. I allowed him to express his
attachment, without interruption, for these disagreeable men, whom I
determined in my own mind to have nothing to do with, recollecting all I
had heard of their dislike to our sex. After an hour passed in amusing
talk, the duc de la Vauguyon retired, well pleased with his visit, and his
place was immediately supplied by comte Jean, to whom I communicated all
that had passed between my late visitors and myself.
“For heaven’s sake,” said he, “let us not be the dupes of these great
lords; before we range ourselves under the banners of either of them let
us secure our own footing; let us wait till you are presented.”
“But, my good friend, I must be a married lady to obtain that honor.”
“And so you will be shortly, do not be uneasy about that. I have written
to my brother William to set out without delay for Paris. Your swain will
be easily induced to marry you. What do you think of that?”
I gave comte Jean to comprehend, by signs, that I left my destiny in his
hands, and he kissed my hands and withdrew. The king managed to steal a
few minutes to converse with me.
“You did not intrust me, my sweet friend,” said he, “with the circumstance
of your having formerly known the duc de Richelieu; less reserved on the
subject than you were, he told me he had seen you at the house of madame
Lagarde, who considered you one of her dearest friends.”
“Sire,” replied I, “I was too much occupied with your majesty, to think of
any other person in the world.”
My answer delighted him, he looked at me in the most gracious manner.
“You would almost persuade me that you love me,” said he, smiling.
“Indeed, your majesty,” said I, “I only pray that you desire the
continuance of my affection.”
“In that case,” replied he, kissing my hand with fervor, “you do but
partake of my tenderness for you.”
These words flattered my vanity, and here I must declare that if I never
felt for the king that violent attachment which is termed love, I ever
entertained for him the warmest esteem. He was so attentive, so kind to
me, that I must have been a monster of ingratitude could I have looked
upon him with indifference.
Our supper on this night was again lively as the first had been. The duc
de Richelieu entertained us with several amusing anecdotes; not that they
contained any thing very piquant, but the duke related them well, and we
were all in the humor to be pleased, and laughed heartily at what he said.
Comte Jean, whose eye constantly followed me, appeared perfectly satisfied
with all I said or did. As for the king, he seemed enchanted with me, and
seemed wholly occupied in watching my looks, that he might anticipate my
wants. After supper, in the tête-à-tête which followed, he
explained himself in terms which left me no doubt how securely my empire
over him was established. Had he been less explicit on the subject, the
flattering marks of favor, and the adulatory compliments I received from
all on the following day, would well have assured me of it. I was no
longer an obscure and friendless individual, but the beloved mistress of
the king; I was, to use the expression of Lebel, a new sun which had
arisen to illumine horizon of Versailles. I could no longer doubt my power
when I saw noble personages present themselves to solicit the most servile
employments about my person. Amongst others, I might instance a certain
lady de St. Benoit, who continued first lady of my chamber, during the
whole time of my regency;—my justly-valued Henriette being contented
to take the second place of honor.
CHAPTER IV
The duc de Richelieu, who was in haste to go to Guienne, lost no time in
presenting to me the duc d’Aiguillon. He was not young, but handsome and
well made, with much amiability and great courage. A sincere friend, no
consideration could weaken his regard; an adversary to be dreaded, no
obstacle could repress his boldness. His enemies—and amongst them he
included the whole magistracy—his enemies, I say, have used him
shamefully, but he treated them too ill for them to be believed in any
thing they say of him. If he were ambitious, he had the excuse of superior
merit, and if he showed himself too severe in one particular, it proceeded
from an energy of mind which did not allow him to have more pity for
others than they had for him. Do not, my friend, think that the attachment
I had for him can transport me beyond just limits. Since he is in his
grave, my illusions, if I had any, have dissipated. I only give to my
deceased friends the tribute due to them—truth and tears. But
really, without thinking of it, I am attributing to myself these virtues
without necessity, forgetting that you are not one of those who would fain
render me as black as possible in the eyes of posterity.
In proportion as the first sight of the uncle had prejudiced me against
him, so much more did it propitiate me towards the nephew. I saw in him a
generous heart, and a genius capable of lofty actions which you would
vainly have sought for in the maréchal de Richelieu. No doubt at the
beginning of our liaison the duc d’Aiguillon only saw in me a woman
who could be useful to his projects and plans; but soon his heart joined
the alliance, and a devotion of calculation was succeeded by a vehement
passion, of which I was justly proud, as it subdued to my chains the most
accomplished of courtiers.
Our first interview was lively. The maréchal and he supported the
conversation with much gaiety. M. de Richelieu, as I have already told
you, had neither wit nor information, but possessed that ease of the first
circles, those manners of high breeding, those courtly graces, which often
surpass wit and information.
“My nephew,” said he to the duke, “madame can do much for us, but we must
first do something for her. Without support, without friends, she will be
lost at Versailles; let us be her partisans if she will allow it, and let
her youth have the benefit of our experience.”
The tone in which the duc d’Aiguillon replied delighted me. He said he was
but too happy to serve me, and begged me to rely on him as I would on
myself.
“But,” he continued, “but we have to struggle with a powerful party. The
duchesse de Grammont and her brother are not the persons to give up the
field without striking a blow. But, madame, by the assistance of your
happy and lovely star, I will enter the lists with pleasure, and if a
glance of your eyes will recompense a conqueror, I shall be he.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the duke, “my nephew’s a second Amadis in gallantry, and
of undaunted courage. You will be satisfied with him, madame, much more
than with my son, who only resembles the family in his defects.”
The duc de Fronsac was justly hated by his father; he was what is called a
decided scamp, without one redeeming point or virtue. Dissipated without
agreeableness, a courtier without address, a soldier without courage, he
thoroughly deserved his bad reputation. He was not hated, because hatred
implies a species of honor, but he was universally despised. His father
hated him; he hated his father. The reciprocity was edifying. I have often
seen the duc de Fronsac, and always with disgust. He had incurred the
extremity of punishment; when trying to carry off a butcher’s daughter, he
rendered himself guilty of the triple crimes of arson, rape, and robbery.
This was the most splendid deed of his life, at least his father said so,
the only one in which he had shown—guess what for, my friend, I will
not pen the cynical word made use of by his father. It must be confessed
that we sometimes kept very bad company at Versailles. The king, who
abhorred degrading actions, did not like the duc de Fronsac, but was full
of kindly feeling towards the duc d’Aiguillon. The latter experienced the
extent of his favor in his long and obstinate struggle with the parliament
of Bretagne. It must be owned, that if he gained the victory at court, he
decidedly lost it in the city, and I was publicly insulted on this account
in the most brutal manner. However, the friendship which his first
interview inspired me with, I have always preserved unaltered.
The week glided away, and each day my fortune seemed more fully assured.
The love of the king increased, he heaped presents on me perpetually, and
seemed to think he never could do enough for me. The bounties of Louis XV
were known, and instantly aroused against me the two enemies with whom I
had been threatened—the duc de Choiseul and the duchesse de
Grammont, his sister. I must say, however, that, at first, the brother
contented himself with despising me, but the duchesse was furious; I had
offended her feminine self-love, and she could not forgive me. I have told
you that she obtained possession of the king by stratagem. This is fact.
She was in a place of concealment during a regal debauch, and when Louis
left the table, with his head heated by wine, she awaited him in his bed
to commit a sort of violence on him. What curious ambition! As soon as
this noble lady learned my position, she was desirous of knowing who I
was, and I have been told since all the measures she took to learn this.
She did not confine her search to the circle of Versailles, but hastened
to prosecute her inquiries in Paris with M. de Sartines. The lieutenant of
police not suspecting the favor that awaited me, as well as that which I
already enjoyed, and on the other hand persuaded of that of the Choiseul
family, set all his bloodhounds on my traces. They did not fail to bring
him back a thousand horrible tales about me, with which he gratified the
duchesse, who, thinking thereby to do me a severe injury, spread in the
château a multitude of prejudicial tales against me, hoping that they
would reach the ears of the king and disgust him with his amour. It was at
this juncture that appeared in the “Nouvelles a la Main” those
infamous articles, collected in what they call the Collection of
Bachaumont. From the same source proceeded the songs à la Bourbonnaise
which filled Paris, and were sung about everywhere. These scandals
produced no other effect than increasing the attachment which the king had
for me, and to diminish that which he felt for the duc de Choiseul.
Passion never reasons; if it had common sense, it would perceive that it
cannot disgust a lover by vilifying his mistress, but, on the contrary,
interests his self-love in supporting her. Thus all these intrigues
scathed me not; I did not mention to my counsellor comte Jean an insult
which I met with in the park at Versailles from madame de Grammont. I did
not tell it to the king, not wishing to create any disturbance at court. I
avenged myself by myself, and think I conducted myself remarkably well in
this adventure, which was as follows:
I was walking in the garden with Henriette, who had given me her arm; it
was early in the morning, and the walks appeared solitary. We walked
towards towards the side of the Ile d’Amour, when we heard the steps of
two persons who came behind us. Henriette turned her head and then said to
me, “Here are mesdames de Brionne and de Grammont.” I knew the latter but
very slightly, and the former not at all. Certainly she could not have
been there by chance; they knew I should be there, and wished to see me
closely. Not suspecting what was to follow, I was delighted at the
rencontre. They passed us with head erect, haughty air; looked at me with
a disdainful stare, laughed rudely and walked away. Altho’ such behavior
offended me, it did not put me out of humor; I thought it very natural for
madame de Grammont to be irritated against me. Henriette had less
magnanimity. She repeated so often how impertinent it was thus to insult a
female honored by the bounties of the king, and so far excited my
feelings, that instead of returning as prudence suggested, I followed the
steps of these ladies. I did not proceed far before I rejoined them; they
were seated on a bench, awaiting my arrival as it appeared. I passed close
to them, and at that moment the duchesse de Grammont, raising her voice,
said,
“It must be a profitable business to sleep with every body.”
I was excessively nettled, and instantly retorted, “At least I cannot be
accused of making a forcible entry into any person’s bed.” The arrow went
to the mark and penetrated deeply. The whole countenance of the duchesse
turned pale, except her lips, which became blue. She would have said
something foolish, but madame de Brionne, more cool because touched less
nearly, placed her hand over her companion’s mouth. I in my turn walked
away with Henriette, laughing till tears came into my eyes at this
pleasing victory.
The duchesse de Grammont, who had no further inclination to laugh, told
the whole to her brother. He, who loved her excessively, too much so
perhaps, reprimanded her, nevertheless, and pointed out to her the
disadvantage in an open struggle with me. Madame de Brionne was enjoined
to secrecy, but that did not prevent her from confiding the affair to the
dowager duchesse d’Aiguillon.
This latter was a lady of most superior merit, uniting to much wit more
solid acquirements. She spoke English like a native. Her death, which
happened in 1772, was a great misfortune to her son, to whom she gave the
most excellent counsel. She told my adventure to her daughter-in-law, who,
excessively ambitious, saw, without any pain, the increasing attachment of
her husband for me. I must tell you, in a parenthesis, that I always lived
on the best terms with her, and that, in my disgrace, her friendship did
not weaken. I must do her this justice. All my faithful friends
have not been equally faithful towards me.
These two ladies knowing this occurrence, the duc d’Aiguillon was not long
kept in ignorance that something had happened. He came in haste to see me,
and inquired what it was. But he asked in vain, I would not tell him. My
secrecy hurt him, and on his return home he wrote to me. As I have great
pleasure in telling you all that recalls this amiable gentleman to my
mind, I will transcribe his letter, which will give you an opportunity of
judging of the turn of his mind.
I am very unhappy, madame. I had flattered myself with having obtained
your confidence, but the obstinate silence which you have kept with me has
cruelly informed me of my mistake. Allow the deep interest with which you
have inspired me to offer a suggestion. You know nothing of forms, you are
unacquainted with our usages: you require a friend who shall direct and
counsel you. Why should you not select a man entirely devoted to you, and
as equally so to the king, the king whose affections you possess—and
who could refuse them to you? I pause. Nothing is more dangerous than to
use a pen where we have a heart overflowing like mine. Be more gracious
towards me, I ask it of you in charity, and take no pleasure in driving me
to twofold desperation. Adieu, madame, etc.
“Signed, the Duc D’A.”
I read and read again this epistle: it delighted me from beginning to end.
I found in it a depth of passion which did not displease me: I perfectly
comprehended the obscurity of the latter phrase. I needed a sort of mentor
superior to comte Jean, and I preferred the duc d’Aiguillon to any other,
because he pleased me. This feeling decided me, and I replied to him in
these terms:—
“You are wrong, monsieur, to be annoyed, and to think that I am not
disposed to grant you my confidence. It seems to me that I cannot place
myself in better hands. However, we do not know each other well enough for
me to repose in you at once: see me frequently, and then, with the habit
of being in your company, I will allow myself to glide quietly into that
state of confidence which you desire. Yes, I am indeed a stranger to all
that passes around me; my only support is the protection with which the
king honors me. That is all-powerful, but I will not employ it
unseasonably or improperly. I know that I need the counsels of an
honorable, prudent, and well-informed man. I accept, therefore, of yours;
I even ask them from you, if your friendship go along with them. Adieu,
monsieur. My regards are due to your uncle, the maréchal, the first time
you write to him.”
This letter filled the duc d’Aiguillon with joy. Some days afterwards, the
prince de Soubise, who also wished to give me his advice, did not attain
the same success. It must be owned, that, for a man of the world, he went
about it in a very clumsy way. He committed the extreme error of selecting
mademoiselle Guimard as mediatrix between himself and me. This lady came
to me on the strength of our former acquaintance; she had so little sense
as not to perceive the immense distance between us which a few days had
caused, and that the opera-dancer kept by the prince de Soubise could have
no relation with the favorite of the king of France. I endeavored, in
vain, to make her perceive it, without mortifying her too much. She always
called me her dear friend, and fairly slaughtered me with saying that her
prince would protect me. It was singular for her to speak thus to me; to
me from whom her prince solicited protection. She did not confine
herself to this, she even insinuated to me that I should be a gainer in
some way. I laughed outright at this, and said to the valet de chambre,
who was stationed at the door, “Call mademoiselle’s servants.” This
annoyed her excessively; all the muscles of her face were contracted with
rage; but she restrained her wrath, saluted me with an assumed respect,
and went away, after having so worthily acquitted herself of her foolish
embassy.
She had quitted me for an hour, when I received a letter from him who had
sent her. The prince de Soubise begged me to grant him an interview, in
which he could enter into an explanation. I replied that I would receive
him, and he came the same day.
“I am much pained, madame,” said he, on entering, “that mademoiselle
Guimard has communicated with so little address what I wished to say to
you.”
“Prince, I think you would have done better to have been the bearer of
your own message. You know my station here, and would not have ridiculed
me as she has done.”
M. de Soubise, much puzzled to know what she had said, asked me the
question.
“Why,” I replied, “she said, that if I would follow your counsels, you
would pay me for my condescension.”
“Ah! madame,” he exclaimed, “she has completely murdered me. I only
charged her to offer my services to you, and throw myself at your feet, as
I do now.”
“Rise, prince, I do not accuse you of such folly, and promise not to
mention it: it is necessary, however, that you should know I have but one
part to play here, that of pleasing the king. Any other character will not
suit me. Honor me with your friendship, and accept mine in return. I
cannot, must not, have any other union with you.”
Thus terminated this interview; it did not suit me to give the prince de
Soubise any hopes. He and all the Rohans would have lived on it; they
would have turned my confidence to their gain, and as they were for the
most part sharpers, or something akin to it, my name would soon have been
mixed up with some dirty transaction. His family was a hydra of avarice,
and would alone have swallowed up all the wealth of France. If the king
had taken one of the Rohan family for his mistress, I believe that the
finance department would not have sufficed for one year’s expenditure of
this prodigal family. I had no objection to the prince de Soubise coming
to supper with me, but I did not feel myself disposed to give him any
control over my mind. I should have been ill-guided by a man who had no
government of himself.
If M, de Soubise did not depart satisfied, madame de Marsan, his relative,
to whom he related the bad success of his attempt, was not more so. She
was a woman to have governed a kingdom, had she been allowed to do so.
There was in her woman’s head a capacity superior to that of all the men
of her family. She had a great deal of ambition, and all her actions were
the results of a premeditated plan. She would have ruled the king, the
princes, the princesses, favorites, mistresses, the court, the city, the
parliaments, and the army! Nothing would have been impossible to her; she
was adequate to any thing. Circumstances did not give her the opportunity
of displaying her genius. With great talents and keen perception, she was
reduced to the government of her own family alone; that was but a trifling
matter! In spite of her discontent, madame de Marsan preserved a sort of
neutrality towards me. She allowed all sorts of ill to be spoken of me
without ever repressing a word. She was then mute and motionless. She saw
me torn to pieces without any emotion. However, when we were together she
tried to cajole me in a thousand ways, all the time detesting me in her
heart; and I, who could scarcely endure the sight of her, paid her a like
number of little attentions. Thus surrounded by hypocrites, I became one
myself. We learn to howl in the society of wolves.
CHAPTER V
The prince de Soubise was not the only person who wished to act in the
capacity of mentor to me. M. the duc de la Vauguyon attempted also to be
the guide of my youth. This nobleman was too much of a Jesuit not to have
a nose of prodigiously fine scent. He perceived that the wind was in my
favor, and approached me in consequence. I have mentioned to you his first
visit, and he made me a second a few days afterwards. He appeared very
affable, very conciliating, and insisted particularly several times, and
that without any apparent motive, that the king, not being now engaged in
the ties of wedlock, he should choose some agreeable companion, and
assuredly could not do better than select me. The day after this visit,
early in the morning, the duke sent me a splendid bouquet, a homage which
he afterwards repeated, and then called on me a third time.
During this visit after a conversation on the embarrassments of an
introduction at Versailles, he proposed that I should avoid them.
“You cannot conceal from yourself,” he said, “how powerful will be the
cabal against you; and, without including the Choiseuls, you will have
especially to fear the pious party, who will only see in your intimacy
with the king, allow me to say, a crying scandal, and one not profitable
for religion.”
“If the pious party unite with those who are not so to destroy me,” I
rejoined, laughing, “I shall have all France against me.”
“No; but perhaps all the château. But there is a way of averting the
storm. Attach yourself to the party of honest men who have been so greatly
calumniated—the Jesuits. Philosophy, supported by the duc de
Choiseul, has repressed them; but the high clergy and the mesdames
royales are attached strongly to them, and you would interest them in
your fortune by favoring these worthy fathers.”
“What! monsieur le duc,” cried I, “will messeigneurs the clergy of
France, and mesdames royales and their suite be favorable to me, if
I use my influence with the king in espousing the cause of the society of
Jesus?”
“Certainly, madame, and I am authorized to promise you. I give you my word
for this. Endeavor to re-establish the order, and there will not be one of
us but will be zealous in supporting you.”
“I certainly am desirous of pleasing your friends; but I can see that,
from the first moment of my appearance at court, I shall be at open war
with the Choiseuls and the parliaments.”
“What matters it? I confess that the victory will not be easy at first,
but there is no need to exaggerate the difficulties. It is true that the
king has esteem for the duc de Choiseul, but he has much affection for
you, which avails much more.
“As for the parliaments, he hates them, and for many years has been
desirous of ridding himself of them entirely, and he will effect this by
the help of God and your interference.”
“This will be hard work for one so weak as I am.”
“Oh, you are sufficiently powerful, I assure you. Only confide in me, the
intermediary between you and my friends, let me guide you, and I will
steer to the right port. What do you think of this, madame?”
“Oh! monsieur le duc, it is not at a moment that we can give a positive
reply to such grave matters. I content myself in assuring you, that I have
for you as much confidence as respect, and should be very happy to obtain
your protection.”
“My protection! Oh, heaven, madame, you are jesting. It is I who should be
honored by your friendship.”
“It is yours; but as yet I am nothing at court, and can do nothing there
until I have been presented. It is for my speedy presentation that my
friends should labor now.”
“We will not fail, madame; and if you will allow me to come from time to
time to converse with you, we can take our measures.”
“Your visits will always be agreeable.”
Such was the conversation which I had with the duc de la Vauguyon. I have
given it somewhat at length, because it was the preface to a deep intrigue
which made a vast noise. I think I extricated myself very well from the
net in which the duke sought to catch me. I knew that his situation at
Versailles compelled me to act with caution towards him. He was in good
odor with mesdames, had the ear of the young dauphin and the
princes his brothers. He deceived me like a true Jesuit as he was, in
telling me that the mesdames were well disposed towards me; and on
my side I cheated him with a promise of confidence and, friendship which I
never bestowed. Ah! my friend, again and again must I exclaim, what a
villainous place is a court!
Whilst the duc de la Vauguyon was seeking to enlist me under the banners
of heaven or the Jesuits, the marquis of Chauvelin also essayed to make me
his pupil; but as frank as he was amiable, this nobleman did not go to
work in a roundabout manner. He came to me loyally, requesting me to
consider his interests and mine.
“The king likes me,” said he, “and I am attached to him body and soul. He
tenderly loves you, and I should have no difficulty in doing the same
thing; but as I am no longer of an age to inspire you with the passion
which I should feel towards you, I content myself with your friendship. I
have no enemy here, and no wish to hurt any person. Thus you need not fear
that I shall urge you to any measures that might compromise you. It is the
hatred of the kingdom that you will have to fear. France is about to march
in a better track, and the best plan is to follow its lead. It pains me,
madame, to use language which may appear severe to you; we ought only to
talk to you of your beauty and the love which it inspires. But in your
situation, even that beauty may serve the interests of France, and it is
for that motive that I come to solicit you.”
I replied to M. de Chauvelin with equal frankness. I told him that my sole
intentions were to confine myself to the circle of my duties; that I had
none but to please the king, and no intention of mixing myself up with
state affairs. This was my plan I can assure you. I flattered myself that
I could follow it, not dreaming of those political nuisances into which I
was precipitated in spite of myself. I added, nevertheless, that in my
situation, which was delicate, I would not refuse the counsels of a
faithful servant of the king, and that under this title M. de Chauvelin
should be consulted on important occasions.
The marquis de Chauvelin had too much good sense, too much knowledge of
the world, not to perceive a refusal concealed under this politeness. The
secret inclination of my heart had already led me to select the duc
d’Aiguillon for my director, and I could not reconcile myself to any
other. He contented himself with asking me again for my friendship, which
I willingly accorded him, and I have always found myself fortunate in his.
Thus did I accept the offers of service from the prince de Soubise, the
duc de la Vauguyon, and the marquis de Chauvelin.
A fourth sought to swell the ranks; the comte, afterwards prince, de
Montbarrey. This gentleman made up in pretensions for what he lacked in
talent. He was weak, self-important, selfish, fond of women, and
endeavored to preserve all the airs of a man of good breeding in the midst
of the grossest debauchery. He was full of respect for himself and his
house, of which in time of need he could cite the whole genealogy. His
nomination was a real scandal; no one dreamt of his ever being minister of
war. It was one of the thousand follies of old Maurepas, whom the late
king knew well, and called the ballad-maker of the council.
The comte de Montbarrey, whom I had known at Paris, came to me one fine
day, fully powdered, performed, and apparelled. He had a smile on his lip,
a loud tone, and an insolent look. He came not to ask my friendship, but
my obedience. He told me that he loved me to distraction, and of course my
head must be equally towards him. He amused me. I let him run out the full
length of his line; and when he had spun it all out, I said to him,
“Monsieur, be so good as to call me to the recollection of madame de
Merfort.”
She was one of the gambling ladies, and at her house I had formerly met
the chevalier de Montbarrey. My reply confounded him: he saw that he had
gone the wrong way to work with me; and, raising the siege, he left me
excessively embarrassed.
Figure to yourself, my friend, what confidence a man, lost in the crowd of
lower courtiers, could inspire me with; for to judge of the proceedings of
the comte de Montbarrey, it would have been necessary to have seen him as
he then was, and not what he became since the imbecility of M. de
Maurepas. When I told comte Jean of his visit, he would not believe such
insolence. You must know that my brother-in-law also wished to direct me,
but I did not consider him sufficiently clever. His marvellous genius was
eclipsed in politics. He swore at my ingratitude, and I could only appease
him by an offering of plenty of money.
In the midst of this cross-fire of intrigues, one was devised against me
which might have terminated in my ruin; but, thanks to the indefatigable
activity of comte Jean, only served to fix me more firmly in my situation.
Lebel, of whom I have said nothing for this age, came to me one day: his
face was sad, and his look serious. By his manner I augured that my reign
had passed, and that I must quit my post. I awaited what he should say
with mortal impatience. At length he began thus:
“Madame, you have many bitter enemies, who are laboring to effect your
ruin with a blood-thirstiness which nothing can assuage. They have now
spread a report that you are not married. This infamous calumny—”
“Ah, is that all?” said I with joy; “no, my dear Lebel, this time they do
not calumniate me. The worthy creatures for once are right.”
“What,” said Lebel, in a tone of alarm almost comic, “what, are you really
not married?”
“No.”
“Are you not the wife of the comte Guillaume du Barry?”
“No.”
“Then you have deceived the king, and played with me.”
“Lebel, my friend, take another tone. No one has any right to complain.
You have given me to the king as a person to please him; I do so. The rest
can be no matter of yours.”
“Pardon me, madame; it is a matter of the greatest consequence to me. I am
terribly compromised in this affair, and you with me.”
Lebel told me that the duchesse de Grammont had begged him to call upon
her, and had bitterly reproached him about the mistress he had procured
for the king; the duchesse affirmed that I was a nameless and unmarried
creature; and added, that it was his duty to make the king acquainted with
these particulars, unless I, the pretended wife of du Barry, would consent
to go to England when a large pension should be assured to me.
“No, my dear Lebel, I will not go to England; I will remain in France, at
Versailles, at the château. If I am not married I will be; the thing is
easily managed.”
Lebel, somewhat assured, begged me to send for comte Jean, and when he
came he (Lebel) recommenced his tale of grief.
“You are drowning yourself in a glass of water,” said my future
brother-in-law to him, beginning to treat him with less ceremony; “go back
to the duchesse de Grammont, and tell her that madame was married at
Toulouse. She will have an inquiry set on foot; in the mean while my
brother will arrive, and the marriage will take place. Then we will show
the rebels a real comtesse du Barry; and whether my sister-in-law be a
lady of six months’ standing or only of yesterday, that is of no
consequence to the king of France.”
After this conversation Lebel delivered the message to the duchesse de
Grammont, who told him that she should write to Toulouse to the
attorney-general. This was what the comte Jean wished and he was prepared
for her.
But, you will say to me, was it certain that your asserted husband would
marry you? Were there no difficulties to fear? None. Comte Guillaume was
poor, talented, and ambitious; he liked high living, and would have sold
himself to the devil for riches. He was happy in marrying me. Comte Jean
would not have ventured such a proposal to his other brother, the comte
d’Hargicourt, who had much good sense and great notions of propriety, and
who at Versailles was called the honnéte homme; a distinction not
over flattering to his two brothers.
The same evening the whole family arrived, and was presented to me the
next day. My two future sisters-in-law frightened me at first with their
provincial manners and southern accent; but, after a few minutes, I found
that this Gascon pronunciation had many charms with it. Mesdemoiselles du
Barry were not handsome but very agreeable. One was called Isabelle, whom
they had nicknamed Bischi, the other’s name was Fanchon, and her
name had been abbreviated to “Chon.” The latter had much talent,
and even brought to Versailles with her, an instinctive spirit of
diplomacy which would have done honor to a practised courtier. She would
have been thought simple, unsophisticated, and yet was full of plot and
cunning.
I was soon much pleased with her, and the king became equally so. He was
always very much amused at hearing her talk patois (provincially),
or recite the verses of one Gondouli, a poet of Languedoc. He used to make
her jump upon his knees; and altho’ she had passed the first bloom of
youth, he played with her like a child. But what most particularly
diverted the king, was calling my sister-in-law by her nickname; “Petite
Chon, grande Chon,” he was always saying, “do this, go there, come
here.” Louis XV did the same with his own daughters: he had amongst them a
Loque, a Graille, a Chiffe, and they were the ladies
Victoire, Adélaïde, and Sophie, whom he thus elegantly designated. I so
soon saw the taste of the king for nicknames that I gave him one, it was
Lafrance. So far from being angry with me, he laughed to tears every time
that I called him so. I must confess, en passant, that the anecdote
about the coffee is true.* I will only justify myself by saying, that if I
expressed myself coarsely it was not in consequence of my vulgar
education, but because the king liked such modes of expression.
Let me revert to my marriage, which was performed secretly at the parish
of Saint Laurent. I believe the king knew of it, altho’ he never alluded
to it any more than myself. Thus the malice of my enemies was completely
balked in this affair. Some days afterwards comte Jean received a letter
from the attorney-general of the parliament of Toulouse, M. the marquis de
Bonrepos-Riquet. This gentleman informed my brother-in-law that he had
been applied to, to institute an inquiry at all the notaries, and amongst
all the registers of the parishes for the proof of my marriage; that he
warned us to be on our guard, and that whatever diligence he might be
desired to employ, he should do nothing without informing us. We felt the
obligation of this proceeding, and my brother-in-law thanked the
attorney-general in my name as well as in his own. He told him that it was
not at Toulouse that the parties interested should make their researches
for my marriage certificate, but at Paris, either at the parish church of
Saint Laurent, or at the notary’s, Lepot d’Auteuil. M. de Bonrepos gave
part of this reply to the duchesse de Grammont. Great was the bustle
amongst the Choiseuls! I leave you to judge of the fury of the lady or
ladies, for the contesse de Grammont was no less irritated than the other,
always prepossessed with the idea, that to please the king was to wrong
their family. The comtesse de Grammont had not half the talent of the
duchesse, she had only her faults. She showed herself so rude and
impertinent towards me, that I was at length compelled, not to exile her
of my own accord, but to allow that she should be so served. But I
anticipate, for this did not occur until the following year.
The king by all his kindnesses endeavored to recompense me for these
attacks: he appeared charmed to see me surrounded by my husband’s family.
He placed amongst the pages the vicomte Adolphe du Barry, son of comte
Jean, a young man of great promise, but whose destiny was so brief and so
unfortunate. My husband’s family testified much affection for me, as did
the duc d’Aiguillon, to whom I daily attached myself. He carefully kept
from me all that could give me pain, and took a thousand precautions that
no unpleasant reports should reach me. If we passed a short time without
meeting he wrote to me, and I confess I was delighted with a
correspondence which formed my own style. Mademoiselle Chon, my
sister-in-law, and I also wrote to each other, and that from one room to
another. I remember that one day, having broken a glass of rock crystal
which she had given me, I announced my misfortune in such solemn style,
and with so well feigned a tone of chagrin, that the letter amused the
whole family. The king saw it, and was so much pleased that he kept it,
and next day sent me a golden goblet enriched with stones, which I gave to
Chon, to whom it rightfully belonged.
CHAPTER VI
Up to this period I had resided constantly at Versailles or Paris,
according to the pleasure of the king, but had never followed his majesty
in any of his journeys. He wished to pass some days at his delightful
château at Choisy, situated on the banks of the Seine. It was decided that
I should be of the party, taking the name of the baroness de Pamklek, a
German lady, as that would save me from the embarrassment in which I
should be placed with the king in consequence of my non-presentation. The
prince de Soubise, the ducs de la Trimoulle, d’Ayen, d’Aiguillon, and the
marquis de Chauvelin, were also to attend the king. The king remained
nearly the whole time with me, and the entrée to my apartment
became a favor not accorded to every body. A small committee met there,
and talked of every thing except what is rational; and I can assure you
that with such conversation time passes very quickly.
One day the king entered my apartment holding in his hand a letter.
“I am about to receive,” said he, “a visit that will not give me much
pleasure. My brother of Denmark is traversing Europe, and is about to come
to France. Mon Dieu! what inconvenient persons are your travelling
kings! Why do they leave their kingdoms? I think they are very well at
home.”
“Yes, sire, but there is an excuse for them: they are weary of admiring
your majesty at a distance, and wish for the happiness of knowing you.”
At this compliment the king rubbed his hands with a smile, which he always
did when he was satisfied, and then said,
“There is not in the hearts of foreign potentates the same affection
towards my person as you feel. It is not me but France they wish to see. I
remember that when very young I received a visit from the czar Peter the
Great, Peter the First I mean to say. He was not deficient in sense, but
yet behaved like a boor: he passed his time in running over the academies,
libraries, and manufactories: I never saw such an ill-bred man. Imagine
him embracing me at our first interview, and carrying me in his arms as
one of my valets would have done. He was dirty, coarse, and ill-dressed.
Well, all the Frenchmen ran after him; one would have supposed by their
eagerness that they had never seen a regal countenance.”
“Yet there was no occasion to run very far to see the handsome face of a
king.”
“Hold your tongue, madame la baronne de Pamklek, you are a flatterer.
There is a crowned head which for thirty years has desired to visit
France, but I have always turned a deaf ear, and will resist it as long as
possible.”
“Who, sire, is the king so unfortunate as to banished by you from your
majesty’s presence?”
“Who? The king of philosophers, the rival of Voltaire, my brother of
Prussia. Ah, my dear baronne, he is a bad fellow; he detests me, and I
have no love for him. A king does wisely, certainly, to submit his works
to the judgment of a Freron! It would be outrageous scandal if he came
here. Great and small would crowd around him, and there would not be
twenty persons in my train.”
“Ah! sire, do you think so?”
“I am sure of it. The French now-a-days do not care for their kings, and
la Fronde will be renewed at an early day. After all, philosophers
believe that Frederick II protects them: the honest man laughs both at
them and me.”
“At you, sire? Impossible.”
“No, no; I know the impertinences he is guilty of towards me: but let him.
I prefer making my court to the pretty women of my kingdom instead of to
my pages. You may depend upon it that if he came to Versailles he would
debauch some of them.”
The king, charmed at having said this malicious speech, rubbed his hands
again.
“Really, sire,” I replied, “I am astonished that this prince, having such
disgusting inclinations, can have much éclat attached to his name.”
“Ah, that is because he has great qualities: he will not allow himself to
be cheated. Do you know that he is acquainted with the disposal of his
finances to the last farthing?”
“Sire, he must be a miser.”
“No, madame, he is a man of method. But enough of him. As to his majesty
of Denmark, altho’ he would have been as welcome to stay at home, I shall
receive him with as much attention as possible. The kings of Denmark and
Sweden are my natural allies.”
The king changed the subject, and said, “There is an abbé, named la
Chapelle, whom I think half cracked. He flatters himself that he can,
thro’ the medium of some apparatus, remain on the water without sinking.
He begs my permission to exhibit his experiment before me; and if it would
amuse you, we will have the exhibition to-morrow.” I accepted the king’s
proposal with pleasure.
On the next day we went in a body to the terrace of the château. The king
was near me with his hat in his hand; the duc de Duras gave me his arm. M.
l’ abbé waited us in a boat: he flung himself bodily into the water,
dressed in a sort of cork-jacket, moved in any direction in the water,
drank, ate, and fired off a gun. So far all went off well, but the poor
abbé, to close the affair, wrote a letter to the king. The letter was
carried in great pomp to his majesty. It contained two verses of Racine,
which had some double allusion to the experiment. This, you may be sure,
was interpreted in the worst manner. The duc d’Ayen gave the finishing
stroke to the whole, on his opinion being asked by the king.
“Sire,” said he, “such men ought to be thrown into the water; but all we
can wish for them is, that they should remain there.”
The abbé was not more fortunate in the evening. He presented himself at
supper, but the king did not address a word to him, and he was compelled
to bear the malicious jokes of the courtiers. But let us leave Choisy and
the experimentalist, and return to Versailles and myself.
My friends were excessively desirous for my presentation, which would
decide my position at the château. As yet I only had an equivocal
existence, having rank neither at play, theatre, or public festival; so
that if the king should be capricious I could be dismissed as one of the
demoiselles of the Parc-aux-Cerfs. The duc d’Aiguillon, whose
attachment to me increased, calculated accurately all the advantages of
this presentation. It would place me on the same footing with madame de
Pompadour, and compel the ministers to come and work with me. The duke did
not doubt but that M. de Choiseul would refuse to pay his devoirs
to me, and that his resistance would lead to his fall. But for my
presentation, it was necessary not only that the king should consent, for
of that I was certain, but that he should desire it, and his desire could
not be depended on.
Louis XV was excessively timid: with an air which appeared of a
dreadnaught quality, he was fearful at heart. The clamors of Versailles
kept him in alarm; and he kept at his own court and at foreign courts
secret agents, whose only care was to report to him the complaints of the
people and the sarcasms and satires of society. The king was attached to
them; and when the force of circumstances compelled him to abandon them,
he still supported them clandestinely with all his power. A proof of what
I advance may be known as regards the chevalier or chevalière d’Eon, I
know not which. But these secret agents were, unknown to the king, all
devoted to the parliaments, and consequently inimical to courtiers,
favorites, and especially mistresses. God knows how they disposed of us!
By these unpropitious channels the king had learnt all the hatred which
was borne to madame de Pompadour. He was afraid of exciting the discontent
of the people by announcing another mistress, and was no less intimidated
at the severity of madame Louise, and the ill-humor of his other children.
He loved his pleasure much, but his ease more.
Comte Jean, who was restrained by no considerations, advised me to
overleap all difficulty, by asking the king myself for the favor which I
coveted. His advice seemed rational, and I was besides urged on to do so.
Each day brought to me impertinences said of me by the noble ladies of the
château. I learnt that they boasted that I should never set foot in the
great apartments, but should remain the obscure mistress of the king. This
made me impatient, and by degrees deprived me of my natural gaiety.
One day when the king was with me, he perceived my want of spirits.
“What ails you?” said be, with the greatest solicitude.
“What ails me!” replied I, “I wish I were dead, rather than see myself the
butt of all the scandal of the foul-mouthed gossips of your court.”
The king, suspecting the confidence I was about to repose in him, was
sorry he had asked for it, and was silent. He began to play a tattoo with
his fingers on the chimney-piece. At this moment mademoiselle Chon came
in. The king, delighted at seeing her, instantly inquired into her state
of health. She, after a profound reverence, said,
“Sire, how can I be well when there is trouble in my family?”
“Ah, bon Dieu! what is this?” said he, turning to me.
“I am insulted, hooted: they say that I have the misfortune to be no
longer in the good graces of your majesty.”
“Ah, tell them they lie in their throats,” replied the king, kissing me on
the forehead; “you are the woman of my heart, and she whom I would fain
load with honors.”
“Your majesty speaks to me,” I answered, “with great condescension [my
sister-in-law left the room that she might not spoil the explanation], but
yet you are the cause of the insolences which I am subjected to from the
vile crew.”
“What is the matter with you to-day? In truth you are a perfect little
devil.”
“I wish I were, that I might punish evil tongues, since there is no king
of France to avenge me.”
“You are severe, madame,” replied Louis XV, turning his imposing and
handsome face towards me, and to which he vainly endeavored to give an air
of anger. I saw my success, and added,
“Yes, sire, it is insupportable for me to think that I am supposed not to
possess your friendship, and that I only play the part of a temporary
friend. It makes me wretched: you must not be angry if I complain of you
to your royal self.”
“Well, well, you madcap, what must I do? Whom must I banish?”
“Oh, sire, no one: with your august support I fear no person; nothing but
appearances.”
“You are an excellent creature; in your place madame de Pompadour would
have imprisoned half France.”
“That was because she loved revenge better than she loved your majesty. As
for me, I should be miserable if I were the cause of one single family
complaining against you.”
The king, delighted at these words, which really came from my heart,
embraced me tenderly two or three times, and said,
“I wish your enemies could understand you, for they would soon be at your
knees. But if we imprison or exile no person, how shall we strike terror
into them?”
“It is not terror but envy that I would excite. Let me be presented at
court, and all my wishes will be satisfied.”
“I cannot for the life of me divine why you should lay so much stress on
coming to weary yourself with the ceremonies of myself and daughters.
Heaven preserve you from all the irksomeness of court ceremony!” And Louis
XV sighed. “Did you ever think,” he added, “of all the vanities, all the
interests I have to manage; all the intrigues that are perpetually
agitating, and all the opposition made to me? The court, the city, the
people, will rise against me: they will clamor, groan, complain; verse,
prose, epigram, and pamphlet will appear in uninterrupted succession. You
would be first attacked, and hatred will perhaps extend to me. I shall see
again the times when the Damiens, in the name of the parliaments, as one
party says, in the name of the Jesuits, as the other party says, and, what
is more true, in the name—”
The king suddenly paused; a deep shade of melancholy settled on his
features, his noble head dropped on his bosom. Louis XV remained for some
time motionless; at length,
“Well,” he exclaimed, attempting to force a smile, “well! I will write to
the ladies de Grammont, to inform them that they need not give themselves
the trouble to remain near me at the château.”
On his saying these words I darted towards the door, and went into my
chamber. The king followed, and finding there mademoiselle Chon, who was
working at some tapestry, said to her,
“Mademoiselle, I confide to your care, and by oral lettre de cachet,
the most amiable little devil in France. And now, mademoiselle du Barry,
having nothing further to add, I pray God to take you to His powerful and
holy keeping.”
After this pleasantry the king, delighted at the gay termination of a
somewhat serious scene, went, or rather vanished; for to use a proverbial
expression, he ran like a thief.
As soon as I was alone with my sister-in-law, I told her all that had
passed.
“I see,” said she, “that the king is fearful of offending the duc de
Choiseul, and giving annoyance to his daughters. But a step must be
determined on which will place you out of the reach of complete disgrace.
Would it not be best to get some nobleman, who can do so with influence,
to speak to him on the subject? If the duc de Richelieu were here—”
“But,” I instantly exclaimed, “have we not his nephew, the duc
d’Aiguillon? He is well with the king, and I am certain will take the most
lively interest in all that concerns me.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Chon, with a sly look. “Write to him to
come, and you can arrange your ulterior proceedings.”
On this advice, which was quite to my taste, I went instantly to my
writing-table, the last present which the king had made me. It was made of
silver gilt, and china slabs beautifully painted. When I opened it, a
glass was lifted which reflected my countenance. I sat down and wrote the
following note to the duc d’Aiguillon:—
“You must be content. I want your assistance, I really want it. The moment
has come for deserving all my confidence. Will you have it at all risks
and perils? Reflect well before you undertake this: if you accept, come
to-day at five o’clock precisely, neither later nor sooner.”
A little while afterwards the following reply was brought.
“One thing displeases me in your letter which else enchants me. You appear
to doubt my obedience. Am I not your slave? And when you say to me go,
will I not go? Rely on me as on yourself; even more: for your
vivacity may lead you into error, and I shall preserve my reason. Yes,
madame, I will, when near you, preserve my reason when your interests are
at stake. At the fixed hour I shall have the honor to lay at your feet my
respectful homage and boundless devotion.”
It was impossible to express a real sentiment with more delicacy. I was
charmed at it, no longer doubting that the duke would consider my
interests as his own. I awaited the hour of five with impatience, when my
good fortune brought the prince de Soubise. After the first compliments,
“Well, madame la comtesse, when is your presentation to take place?”
“I do not know, monsieur le maréchal; there are obstacles in the way. I
fear that they who wish to injure me abuse their influence with the king.”
“I see that his majesty hesitates, altho’ he is desirous of giving you
station. He must be stimulated to know that he is master; and that if he
shows any wavering in this particular, it will be made use of to govern
him hereafter.”
Heartily did I applaud the language of M. de Soubise: I did not suspect
that the dear prince had another motive behind. At the end of the
interview he said,
“Madame, you would not have been as you now are had you been more
conciliatory towards me. I know the king, and know how to manage him. I
flatter myself that you would have been now presented had you deigned to
hear my advice.”
“Did I reject it? Was I wrong in declining to have mademoiselle Guimard as
ambassadress? Were you assured of her silence? Might she not have
compromised us?”
“You are right; I did as one would have done at your age, and you have
done as I should do at mine; but there is always time to amend.”
“Certainly, prince.”
“You accept my advice, then.”
“Yes,” I replied, seeing the defile in which he wished to entrap me, “yes,
if I am presented thro’ your influence, from that moment you become my
guide and mentor. But it is important that the presentation be not
delayed; I rely on you to speak to the king this day about it; and I know
that he will give me every particular of the immense service you will
render me.”
For once the madcap girl got the better of the practised courtier. M. de
Soubise, taken in his own snare, politely excused himself, and left me
with an assurance that he would speak to the king. He did speak, but
obtained nothing more than any other. You will see in my next letter that
I did not arrive at the accomplishment of my wishes without much trouble.
There were in this affair more intrigues for and against me than were
afterwards set on foot to decide war with America.
CHAPTER VII
I was still triumphing at the skill which I had displayed in my conference
with the prince de Soubise when the duc d’Aiguillon entered.
“Good heaven,” said he, kissing my hand very tenderly, “into what
inquietude did you throw me by your dear and cruel letter. The ambiguity
of your style has caused me inexpressible sorrow; and you have added to it
by not allowing me to come to you at the first moment.”
“I could not: I thought it would be dangerous for you to appear before the
king previously to having seen me.”
“Would the king have thought my visit strange?” asked the duke, not
without some emotion.
“That is not the point. The black spite of my enemies has not yet deprived
me of the counsels of a friend. But as it is necessary to speak to the
king in my favor, I wish that he should not know that you do so at my
request.”
After this I related to the duke my conversation with the king.
“Your situation is delicate,” said he to me, “but it should not trouble
you. The king is weak, we must give him courage. It is his pliancy of
disposition rather than his resistance that we must contend with, and I go
to act upon it.”
I then instructed the duke with what had passed between me and the prince
de Soubise. When I had done, the duke replied:
“Expect nothing from the prince de Soubise: he will speak, no doubt; but
how? In a jesting, laughing way. If, however, you think he can at all
serve you, give him all your confidence.”
“No, no, never,” I replied with quickness; “it is not a thing to be done
lightly; we do not select a confidant, counsellor, or friend, at random.
Do you not know this, M. le duc? It is requisite that the heart of the one
who speaks should repose itself on the heart of the friend who listens. I
repeat to you that I have no feeling of confidence towards M. de Soubise.
In fact,” I added with visible and troubled emotion, “my choice is made,
and you have too much heroism to wish to combat it.”
At these flattering words the duke precipitated himself at my feet, and
swore to support my cause with all his power and interest. I replied that
I fully relied on his devotion and prudence. Comte Jean entered, and it
was agreed between us three that I should say no more to the king of my
presentation before the duc d’Aiguillon had spoken to him of it; that I
should content myself with complaining without peevishness, and that we
should leave the opening measure to the prince de Soubise, and let him
break the ice to his majesty.
The prince de Soubise behaved exactly as the duke had told me: he came to
me the next morning with a mysterious air, which already informed me of
all he had to say. He said that he had vainly tormented the king; that his
majesty wished things to remain just as they were, and desired that until
a new order of things nothing should be altered.
“I am sorry for it, monsieur le maréchal,” I replied. “Whilst I am in this
precarious situation, whilst I remain in a corner of the stage as a
confidante of tragedy, I can do nothing for my friends, particularly for
you, monsieur le maréchal.”
“On the contrary, madame,” he replied, “the king will be more disposed to
listen to you whilst he will suppose that your influence is unknown.”
“Oh,” cried I with a feeling of anger, “you gentlemen courtiers think of
nothing but politics. As for me, who am a woman, I have other matters for
consideration: I must have honors, title, rank. My self-love suffers
cruelly when I see myself immolated by the fear which the ladies de
Grammont and three or four other intriguers of their party are able to
excite.”
The prince was somewhat startled at the freedom of language which I used
towards ladies in such credit at court: he begged me to moderate my
feelings, and be less moved and excited. By this the prince de Soubise
lost the esteem which I might have accorded him, and the second place in
my counsels, which I might have given him.
I told the duke, who came to see me the moment afterwards, of the failure
of the prince’s attempt. He told me that he had not hoped for a better
result. He went to the king, flattering himself with hopes of better
success, but did not find him.
The daughters of Louis XV had united against me with a fury which nothing
could justify. They were incessantly talking scandal of my past life, as
if there were only saints at court, as if they had no pranks of their own
to reproach themselves with. All the château knew of their lovers, and
there was living evidence of the tenderness of madame Adélaïde: as
for madame Louise she was an angel upon earth, and was the only one who
did not join in the cry against me. On the other hand, the king, whilst he
had but little love for his dear daughters, preserved towards them a
complaisance and external appearance of kindness which was a substitute
for parental love. When mesdames royales cried out, he stopped his
ears with his two hands, and seemed, whilst looking proudly at France, to
say, “Am not I a good father, and are not my daughters very happy, for I
let them cry out with all their might?”
The next day the duc d’Aiguillon went again to the king, and found him
bewildered with family scenes and the murmurings of the Choiseuls. When my
ambassador had delivered his message, the king asked him if he, as well as
the prince de Soubise, had been set upon his haunches by me.
The duke, nothing intimidated at this, told the king that far from having
wished that he should be my interpreter, I had requested him not to allude
to the matter.
“Why, then,” said Louis XV laughing, “do you not follow the advice of the
comtesse?”
“Because I entertain a sincere attachment for her, and that I am vexed to
hear it said that there are persons who lead your majesty.”
“Who are the insolents that hold such language?”
“They surround you, sire. There is not a female here but affirms that you
dare not decide on the presentation of the comtesse.”
“I alone am master, and will let them know it when the opportunity
arrives; but the present moment is not fitting. The comtesse knows how
well I love her; and if she will prove her friendship towards me, she will
remain quiet for some time.”
The duke thought it best to be silent, and came to me. After relating the
conversation, he added, “Do not appear at all dejected; the king would not
then visit you lest he should find you out of temper. Were I you I should
write to him; a word of peace would set him at ease.”
I approved this advice, and instantly penned the following letter:—
“Sire—They tell me that your majesty has been tormented on my
account. It is a treason of which I alone could believe myself capable.
But why should I complain? You have done so much for me that I ought to
esteem myself happy: your august friendship consoles me thro’ all my
annoyances. Be assured that henceforth I shall pout no more; I will be the
best sheep in the world, relying on my shepherd for not having my fleece
cut too closely; for after all I think I am the petted ewe, etc.”
A short time afterwards a page brought me a splendid box of bonbons
with a pair of ruby ear-rings surrounded with diamonds, and this short
billet:—
“Yes, assuredly you are my pet ewe, and always shall be. The shepherd has
a strong crook with which he will drive away those who would injure you.
Rely on your shepherd for the care of your tranquillity, and the peace of
your future life.”
In the evening the king visited me. He was embarrassed, but I set him at
ease by showing him a laughing countenance, talking only of his present,
which I had in my ears, and shaking my head about to keep the drops in
motion, which sparkled with great brilliancy. He was pleased at this, and
did not leave me all the evening. In the morning we were the best friends
in the world.
Some days elapsed, when comte Jean came to me, bringing two infamous
articles which had appeared in the “Nouvelles a la Main,” and were
directed against me. They were atrocious and deeply chagrined me: I placed
them on the mantel-piece, where all who came in could see them. The duc de
Duras read them, and said, “Conceal these atrocities from the king.”
“No,” was my reply, “I wish him to read them, that he may know how his
affections are respected, and how the police of Paris are employed in
doing their duty to the throne.”
These last words annoyed M. de Duras, between whom and M. de Sartines
there was a connection: the duke was indebted to the lieutenant-general of
police for the special surveillance which he kept over a young girl of
whom he, the duc de Duras, was foolishly enamoured. Trembling for his dear
friend M. de Sartines, he wrote to him in haste, but had not courage
or talent enough to undertake the defence of the guilty person.
The king came as usual; his general station was at the chimney-piece,
where he amused himself with looking at the baubles that ornamented it.
The “Nouvelles a la Main” fell in his way. He read them once, then
again; then, without uttering a word, threw them into the fire. I observed
him, and saw that he was full of emotion which he sought to conceal, but
the anger burst forth soon. The prince de Soubise, who supped with us that
evening, asked the duc de Duras if he had read the “Gazette de France.”
“No,” was the reply; “I seldom read such nonsense.”
“And you are quite right,” said the king. “There is at present a most
inconceivable mania for writing. What is the use, I ask you, gentlemen, of
this deluge of books and pamphlets with which France is inundated? They
only contain the spirit of rebellion: the freedom of writing ought not to
be given to every body. There should be in a well-regulated state seven or
eight writers, not more; and these under the inspection of government.
Authors are the plague of France; you will see whither they will lead it.”
The king spoke this with an animated air, and if at this moment M. de la
Vrillière had come to ask for a lettre de cachet against a writer,
the king would not have refused it.
“Besides,” added the king, in a tone of less anger, but no less
emphatically, “I see with pain that the police do not do their duty with
regard to all these indignities.”
“Yet,” said the duc de Duras, “M. de Sartines does wonders.”
“Then why does he tolerate such insults? I will let him know my
discontent.”
The duc de Duras was alarmed, and kept his mouth closed. The king then,
resuming his gaiety, joked the two gentlemen on their secret intrigues:
then changing the conversation suddenly, he talked of the expected arrival
of the king of Denmark.
“Duc de Duras,” said he, “you and your son must do the office of master of
ceremonies to his Polar majesty. I hope you will endeavor to amuse
him.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Mind, what you undertake is no joke. It is no easy matter to amuse a
king.”
This was a truth which I perceived at every moment, and our monarch was
not the one to be amused with trifling exertion. Frequently when he
entered my apartment he threw himself on an ottoman, and yawned most
excessively, yes, yawned in my company. I had but one mode of rousing him
from this apathy, but it was a sure one. I spoke of the high magistracy
and its perpetual resistance to the throne. Then the king aroused,
instantly sprung from his seat, traversed the room with rapid strides, and
declaimed vigorously against the black gowns; thus he styled the
parliaments. I confess, however, that I only had recourse to the “black
gowns” at the last extremity. Little did I think that at a later period I
should league myself against them. On the one hand, the duc d’Aiguillon
hated them mortally, and on the other, the comte Jean, like a real
Toulousian, would have carried them in his slippers; so that wavering
between the admiration of the one and the hatred of the other, I knew not
which to listen to, or which party to side with. But to return to present
matters.
The king was always thinking of the “ Nouvelles a la Main,” and
determined to avenge me as openly as I had been attacked. Two or three
days afterwards he gave a supper, to which he invited the duchesse and
comtesse de Grammont, madame de Forcalquier, the princess de Marsan, the
maréchale de Mirepoix, and the comtesses de Coigny and de Montbarrey. They
were seated at table laughing and amusing themselves; they talked of the
pleasure of being to themselves, of having no strangers;
they pierced me with a hundred thrusts; they triumphed! And yet the king
was laughing in his sleeve. At a premeditated signal the duc d’Aiguillon,
one of the guests, asked his majesty if he had seen the comtesse du Barry
that day. This terrible name, thrown suddenly into the midst of my
enemies, had the effect of a thunder-clap. All the ladies looked at each
other first and then at the king, and the duc d’Aiguillon, reserving
profound silence. His majesty then replied, that he had not had the
happiness of visiting me that day, not having had one moment’s leisure;
then eulogized me at great length, and ended by saying to the duke, “If
you see the comtesse before I do, be sure to say that I drank this glass
of wine to her health.”
The ladies did not anticipate this. The duchesse de Grammont particularly,
in spite of long residence at court, turned pale to her very ears, and I
believe but for etiquette she would have fallen into a swoon. I learnt
afterwards from the maréchale de Mirepoix, that the duchesse, on going
home, gave herself up to a fit of rage, which did not terminate even on
the following day. When the king related this occurrence to me, he was as
proud of it as if he had done a most courageous deed.
But I have omitted a day which was of great importance to me in its
consequences. I mean the day which followed that on which I had complained
to the duc de Duras of M. the lieutenant of police. In the morning early
my sister-in-law came into my room.
“Sister,” said she, “comte Jean is here with M. de Sartines, who begs to
pay his respects to you. Will you receive him?”
“M. de Sartines! Yes, let him come in; I will treat him as he deserves.”
Comte Jean then came in, preceded by the lieutenant of police: he wore a
large peruke with white powder, and curled with the utmost care. Wigs were
his mania, and he had a room filled from floor to ceiling with these
ornaments. The duc d’Ayen said, that he never should be in trouble about
the council of state, for in case of need, it might be found and
replenished from the house of the lieutenant of police. Let us leave wigs
and revert to M. de Sartines.
He appeared before me with the air of Tartuffe, and, forgive the phrase,
en vrai capon.
“Madame,” said he to me, “I have been informed that I am in disgrace with
you, and have come to inquire how I may extricate myself from this
misfortune.”
“You ought to know, sir. Twice in one month have I been shamefully
insulted; and yet the first intimation of such a thing ought to have put
you on your guard.”
M. de Sartines, whom my tone had much surprised, endeavored to justify
himself, when comte Jean said to him,
“My dear lieutenant of police, all you have said goes for nothing. One
thing is certain, and that is, that there is a deficiency of respect
towards my sister-in-law. You say that it is not your fault: what proof do
you give us of this? What inquiries have you made? What measures have you
taken? Any? Why do you come to us if you aid our enemies?”
M. de Sartines would fain have ensconced himself in his own dignity.
“M. du Barry,” was his reply, “I shall render an account of my conduct to
the king.”
“Very well, sir,” I replied, “but do not suppose that either you or the
Choiseuls can give me any cause of fear.”
M. de Sartines was thunderstruck; my boldness astonished him. At length he
said,
“Madame, you are angry with me causelessly; I am more negligent than
culpable. It is useless to say this to the king.”
“I will not conceal from you, sir, that he knows it all, and is greatly
discontented with you.”
“I am lost then,” said M. de Sartines.
“Lost! not precisely,” replied comte Jean; “but you must decide at once
and for ever what party you will join. If you are with us they will use
you harshly; if you take the opposite party look to yourself. Choose.”
After some turnings and twistings, accompanied with compliments, M. de
Sartines declared that he would range himself under our banner. Then I
extended to him my hand in token of reconciliation; he took it with
respect, and kissed it with gallantry. Up to this time we had conversed
with feelings of restraint and standing; but now we seated ourselves, and
begun a conference in form, as to the manner of preventing a recurrence of
the offensive outrages against me. As a proof of good intention M. de
Sartines told me the author of the two articles of which I complained. He
was a wretch, named Ledoux, who for twelve hundred livres per annum wrote
down all those who displeased the duchesse de Grammont. This lady had no
fear of doing all that was necessary to remove every obstacle to the
publication of such infamies.
After M. de Sartines had given us all the details which we desired, and
after I had promised to reconcile him to his master, he went away
delighted with having seen me. Believe me, my friend, it is necessary to
be as handsome as I am, that is to say, as I was, to seduce a lieutenant
of police.
CHAPTER VIII
On that very evening, the king having come to me, I said to him,
“Sire, I have made acquaintance with M. de Sartines.”
“What! has he been to make friends with you?”
“Something like it: but he has appeared to me less culpable than I
thought. He had only yielded to the solicitation of my personal enemy.”
“You cannot have one at my court, madame; the lieutenant of police would
have done well not to have named her to you.”
“Thanks to him, however, I shall now know whom I ought to mistrust. I know
also who is the author of the two scurrilous paragraphs.”
“Some scamp, no doubt; some beggarly scoundrel.”
“A monsieur Ledoux.”
“Ah, I know the fellow. His bad reputation has reached me. It must be
stopped at last.”
So saying, Louis XV went to the chimney, and pulled the bell-rope with so
much vehemence that ten persons answered it at once.
“Send for the duc de la Vrillière; if he be not suitably attired let him
come in his night-gown, no matter so that he appear quickly.”
On hearing an order given in this manner a stranger might have supposed
the king crazy, and not intent on imprisoning a miserable libeller. I
interceded in his favor, but Louis XV, delighted at an opportunity of
playing the king at a small cost, told me that it was no person’s
business, and he would be dictated to by no one. I was silent, reserving
myself until another opportunity when I could undertake the defence of the
poor devil.
The duc de la Vrillière arrived, not in a dressing-gown, as the king had
authorized, but in magnificent costume. He piqued himself on his
expenditure, and always appeared superbly attired, altho’ the splendor of
his apparel could not conceal the meanness of his look. He was the oldest
secretary of state, and certainly was the least skilful, least esteemed,
least considered. Some time after his death some one said of him in the
presence of the duc d’Ayen, that he had been an unfortunate man, for he
had been all his life the butt of public hatred and universal contempt.
“Rather say,” replied the duke, “that he has been a fortunate man; for if
justice had been rendered to him according to his deserts, he would have
been hanged at least a dozen times.”
The duc d’Ayen was right: M. de la Vrillière was a brazen-faced rogue; a
complete thief, without dignity, character, or heart. His cupidity was
boundless: the lettres de cachet emanated from his office, and he
carried on an execrable trade in them. If any person wished to get rid of
a father, brother, or husband, they only had to apply to M. de la
Vrillière. He sold the king’s signature to all who paid ready money for
it. This man inspired me with an invincible horror and repugnance. For his
part, as I was not disgusting, he contented himself with hating me; he was
animated against me by his old and avaricious mistress, madame de Langeac,
alias Subutin. Langeac could not endure me. She felt that it was better to
be the mistress of Louis XV than that of the petit la Vrillière ,
for so her lover was called at court. I knew that she was no friend of
mine, and that her lover sided with the Choiseuls against me; and was
consequently the more delighted to see the little scoundrel come to
receive the order for avenging me. He entered with an air of
embarrassment; and whilst he made me a salute as low as to the king, this
latter, in a brief severe tone, ordered him to send the sieur Ledoux to
Saint Lazare forthwith. He departed without reply, and half an hour
afterwards returned, to say that it was done. The king then said to him,
“Do you know this lady?”
“No, sire.”
“Well, I desire you henceforward to have the greatest consideration for
her as my best friend, and whoever wishes to prove his zeal for me, will
honor and cherish her.”
The king then invited him to sup with us, and I am sure that during the
whole repast I was the hardest morsel he had to digest.
Some days afterwards I made acquaintance with a person much more important
than the little duke, and destined to play a great part in the history of
France. I mean M. de Maupeou, the late chancellor, who, in his disgrace,
would not resign his charge. M. de Maupeou possessed one of those firm and
superior minds, which, in spite of all obstacles, change the face of
empires. Ardent, yet cool; bold, but reflective; the clamors of the
populace did not astonish, nor did any obstacles arrest him. He went on in
the direct path which his will chalked out. Quitting the magistracy, he
became its most implacable enemy, and after a deadly combat he came off
conqueror. He felt that the moment had arrived for freeing royalty from
the chains which it had imposed on itself. It was necessary, he has said
to me a hundred times, for the kings of France in past ages to have a
popular power on which they could rely for the overturning of the feudal
power. This power they found in the high magistracy; but since the reign
of Louis XIII the mission of the parliaments had finished, the nobility
was reduced, and they became no less formidable than the enemy whom they
had aided in subduing.
“Before fifty years,” pursued M. de Maupeou, “kings will be nothing in
France, and parliaments will be everything.”
Talented, a good speaker, even eloquent, M. de Maupeou possessed qualities
which made the greatest enterprises successful. He was convinced that all
men have their price, and that it is only to find out the sum at which
they are purchasable.* As brave personally as a maréchal of France, his
enemies (and he had many) called him a coarse and quarrelsome man. Hated
by all, he despised men in a body, and jeered at them individually; but
little sensible to the charms of our sex, he only thought of us by freaks,
and as a means of relaxation. This is M. de Maupeou, painted to the life.
As for his person, you know it as well as I do. I have no need to tell
you, that he was little, ugly, and his complexion was yellow, bordering
upon green. It must be owned, however, that his face, full of thought and
intelligence, fully compensated for all the rest.
You know how, as first president of the parliament of Paris, he succeeded
his father as vice-chancellor. At the resignation of the titular M. de
Lamoignon*, the elder Maupeou received his letters of nomination, and as
soon as they were registered, he resigned in favor of his son. The
Choiseuls had allowed the latter to be nominated, relying on finding him a
creature. I soon saw that the Choiseuls were mistaken.
It was in the month of October, that Henriette, always my favorite, came
to me with an air of unusual mystery, to say, that a black* and ugly
gentleman wished to see me; that on the usual reply that I was not
visible, he had insisted, and sent, at the same time, a cautiously sealed
note. I took it, opened, and read these words:—
“The chancellor of France wishes to have the honor of presenting his
respectful homage to madame la comtesse du Barry.”
“Let him come in,” I said to Henriette.
“I will lay a wager, madame, that he comes to ask some favor.”
“I believe,” replied I, “that he is more frequently the solicited than the
solicitor.”
Henriette went out, and in a few minutes led in, thro’ the private
corridors which communicated with my apartment, his highness monseigneur
Rene Nicolas Charles Augustin de Maupeou, chevalier and chancellor of
France. As soon as he entered I conceived a good opinion of him, altho’ I
had only seen him walk. His step was firm and assured, like that of a man
confident in the resources of his own talents.
“Madame la comtesse du Barry,” he said, “would have a right to complain of
me, if I did not come and lay my person at her feet. I had the more
impatience to express to her my devotion, as I feared she had been
prejudiced against me.”
“How, monseigneur?”
“The gate by which I entered the ministry—”
“Is not agreeable to me, as being that of my enemies, but I feel assured
that you will not side with them against me.”
“Certainly not, madame; it is my wish to give you pleasure in every thing,
and I flatter myself I may merit your friendship.”
After many other compliments, the Chancellor asked me, with much
familiarity, when my presentation was to take place, and why it had not
yet occurred. I replied, that the delay arose from the intrigues of
Choiseul, and the king shrunk from the discontent of a handful of
courtiers.
“I am sorry for it,” said M. de Maupeou; “in the first place, madame,
because of the interest I take in you, and also because for his majesty,
it would be a means of striking terror into the opposing party. You know,
madame, how annoying parliaments are to all your friends, and with what
bitterness those of Bretagne and Paris, at this moment, are pursuing the
duc d’Aiguillon.”
“Do you think,” I replied with emotion, “that matters are unfavorable
towards him?”
“I hope not, but he must be warmly supported.”
“Ah! I will aid him with all my influence. He is no doubt innocent of the
crimes imputed to him.”
“Yes, certainly. He has done no other wrong than to defend the authority
of the crown against the enmity of the parliaments.”
We continued some time to talk of parliaments and parliament men: then we
agreed that M. de Maupeou should see me again, accompanied by the duc
d’Aiguillon, who should have the credit of presenting him, and he left me
with as much mystery as he had entered.
When the king came to see me, I said to him, “I have made acquaintance
with your chancellor: he is a very amiable man, and I hope that he will
not conduct himself improperly towards me.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Here, sire, and but a short time since.”
“He came then to visit you?”
“Yes, in person, that he might obtain the favor of being permitted to pay
his court to me.”
“Really what you tell me seems perfectly unaccountable. He has then burst
from the hands of the Choiseuls? It is amusing. Poor Choiseul, when
soliciting for Maupeou, he most tremendously deceived himself.”
“At least, sire, you must own that he has given you no fool.”
“True. The chancellor is a man full of talents, and I do not doubt but
that he will restore to my crown that power which circumstances have
deprived it of. However, if you see him familiarly, advise him not to
persuade me to extreme measures. I wish all should work for the best,
without violent courses and without painful struggles.”
These last words proved to me the natural timidity of the king.
“I knew very well,” added the king, “that Maupeou would not prove a man
for the Choiseuls. The main point is, that he should be mine, and I am
content.”
Louis XV was then satisfied with the chancellor, but he was not equally so
with the comte Jean.
“I do not like,” said he to me, “your Du Barry monkey. He is a treacherous
fellow, who has betrayed his party, and I hope some of these mornings we
shall hear that the devil has wrung his neck.”
CHAPTER IX
From this moment, and in spite of all that comte Jean could say against
it, a new counsellor was admitted to my confidence. He was the chancellor.
The duc d’Aiguillon and he were on very good terms, and these two, with
the abbé Teray, of whom I shall speak to you presently, formed a
triumvirate, which governed France from the disgrace of M. de Choiseul to
the death of the king. But before I enter upon a detail of those politics,
of which you will find that I understand something, allow me to continue
the history of my presentation, and also to give some account of Christian
VII.
You know that his Danish majesty was expected with anything but pleasure
by the king of France, and with curiosity by the rest of the nation. Men
and women were impatient to see a king, under twenty years of age, who was
traversing Europe with a design of attaining instruction. Married to a
lovely woman, Caroline Mathilde, he had left her on the instant, without
suspecting that this separation would prove fatal to both. At Paris, the
real character of this prince was not known, but a confused report of his
gallantry was spread abroad, on which all the courtesans of note in the
city began to try all arts to please him, each hoping to attract him to
herself, and dip into his strong box. M. de Sartines amused us one
evening, the king and myself, by telling us of the plans of these ladies.
Some were going to meet his Danish majesty, others were to await him at
the barrier, and two of the most renowned, mesdemoiselles Gradi and
Laprairie, had their portraits painted, to send to the young monarch as
soon as he should arrive.
Christian VII entered Paris the latter end of the month of October, 1768.
MM. de Duras complimented him in the king’s name, and informed him that
they were charged with the office of receiving his commands during his
residence in Paris. The interview of the king and the illustrious stranger
took place at Versailles. Christian VII came thither in the
state-carriage, and was conducted by the duc de Duras into the apartment
of the dauphin, where he remained until Louis XV was prepared to receive
him. I had heard much discussion about this reception. It was said, that
to make a distinction between sovereign of a petty state and that of the
superb kingdom of France, it was requisite that the former should await
for some time the audience which the latter accorded. I am sure that when
the peace with Frederick was agitated, the face of Louis XV was not more
grave and serious than during this puerile debate about etiquette.
The duc de Choiseul, who had the control of foreign affairs, was in the
apartment to receive his Danish majesty, with his colleagues, the duc de
Praslin, the comte de Saint-Florentin (whom I have called by anticipation
duc de la Vrillière), M. Bertin, M. Mainon d’Invau, controller of the
finances, and M. de Jarente, bishop of Orleans and one of the ministry. He
kept himself somewhat in the background, as tho’ from humility. The duc de
Choiseul came up to him, and said, with a smile,
“Monseigneur, what brings you in contact with a heretic?”
“To watch for the moment of penitence.”
“But what will you do if it become necessary to teach him his credo?”
M. de Jarente understood the joke, and was the first to jest upon his own
unepiscopal conduct, replying to the duc de Choiseul,
“There is a person present who knows it; he will whisper it to me, and, if
necessary, the Veni Creator also.”
The king of Denmark was congratulated by the duc de Choiseul, who
discharged this duty with as much grace as wit. Afterwards M. Desgranges,
master of the ceremonies, having announced that Louis XV was visible, the
king of Denmark, preceded by his gentlemen and the French ministers and
lords, went to the king’s cabinet, in which two arm-chairs precisely alike
were prepared, but his majesty of Denmark positively refused to be seated.
He entered into conversation, and felicitated himself on seeing a monarch,
whose renown filled Europe, and whom he should take as his model. During
this conversation Christian VII displayed the greatest amiability. Our
king, speaking to him, said, “I am old enough to be your father”; to which
he replied, “All my conduct towards you shall be that of a son.” This was
thought admirable; and at the termination of the interview Louis XV
appeared charmed with his brother of Denmark. “He is a complete
Frenchman,” said he to me, “and I should be sorry if he left me
dissatisfied.”
That same evening Christian VII visited monseigneur the dauphin, in whom
he did not find the urbanity of his grandfather. The conversation was
short and abridged out of regard to our prince, who only stammered,
without being able to find one polished phrase. Never was there in his
youth a more timid and awkwardly conducted prince than the present king. I
shall mention him and his brothers hereafter, but will now direct my
immediate attention to the king of Denmark. He supped the same evening
with Louis XV at a table with four and twenty ladies of the court,
selected from amongst those most celebrated for the charms of their
persons or their wit. As his Danish majesty was greatly struck with madame
de Flaracourt, the king asked him how old the lady might be in his
opinion.
“Thirty, perhaps,” was the reply.
“Thirty, brother! she is fifty.”
“Then age has no influence at your court.” I shall not copy the “Gazette
de France” to tell you of the sojourn of Christian VII at Paris. I am
not writing the journal of this prince but of myself. The king one day
said to me,
“My brother of Denmark has expressed to the duc de Duras a great desire to
pay his respects to you, if you will accede to his wishes. I leave you
entirely sovereign mistress of yourself, not without some fear however
that the young king will steal away your heart from me.”
“Ah, sire,” I replied, “that is an unjust suspicion; I should be angry
about it if it were not a joke, and would refuse to see the king of
Denmark did I not know how fully you are assured of my attachment to you.”
“I should not be so jealous, madame, if I did not set so much value on
it,” was the reply of the king, as he kissed my hand.
The duc de Duras came the next day to inform me of the request of his new
king. It was agreed, in order to keep the interview secret, that I should
receive him at my own mansion in the Rue de la Jussienne, and that he
should come there without suite, and with the strictest incognito. At the
day and hour agreed he entered my house, escorting two strangers of
admirable presence. One was the king of Denmark, under the name of comte
de ———, and the other a nobleman of his suite. Christian
VII appeared to me a very handsome man. He had large and singularly
expressive eyes; too much so, perhaps, for their brilliancy was not of
good augury; and I was not surprised at hearing subsequently that his
reason had abandoned him, altho’ he possessed and exerted his wit most
perfectly during our conversation, in which he displayed the greatest
gallantry. I could not reproach him with one single expression that was
objectionable, altho’ the subject of conversation was delicate. He
discoursed of the feelings of the king towards me, and yet said not a word
that was unsuited or out of place, nothing but what was in the best taste,
and expressed with the utmost delicacy. I asked him if the ladies of
Denmark were handsome. “I thought, madame,” was his reply, “until now,
that the ladies of my kingdom were the most lovely in Europe.”
We did not talk of myself only: Christian VII spoke of Paris with
enthusiasm. “It is the capital of the world,” he remarked, “and our states
are but the provinces.” He sought out our most celebrated savants
and literati, and was particularly delighted with d’Alembert,
Diderot, la Harpe, and M. the comte de Buffon. He greatly regretted that
Voltaire was not in Paris, and expressed his great desire to see at Ferney
the great genius (as he termed him) who instructed and amused the world.
He appeared weary of the fêtes which were given, and especially with the
deadly-lively company of the two Duras. It was enough to kill you to have
only one of them, and you may imagine the torture of being bored with
both. The duke had promised Louis XV to be as amusing as possible too!
After a conversation of three hours, which his majesty (of course) said
had appeared but of a moment, he left me delighted with his person, wit,
and manners.
When Louis XV saw me, he inquired my opinion of his Danish majesty.
“He is,” I replied, “a well-educated king, and that they say is a rarity.”
“True,” said Louis XV, “there are so many persons who are interested in
our ignorance, that it is a miracle if we escape out of their hands as
reasonable beings.”
I went on to tell the king our conversation.
“Ah,” cried he, “here is one who will increase the vanity of the literary
tribe: they want it, certainly. All these wits are our natural born
enemies; and think themselves above us; and the more we honor them, the
greater right do they assume to censure and despise us.”
This was the usual burden of his song: he hated men of learning. Voltaire
especially was his detestation, on account of the numerous epigrams which
this great man had written against him; and Voltaire had just given fresh
subject of offence by publishing “La Cour du Roi Petaud” (“The
Court of the King Petaud,” ) a satire evidently directed as strongly
against the king as your humble servant. M. de Voltaire had doubtless been
encouraged to write this libel by the Choiseul party. He was at a
distance, judged unfavorably of me, and thought he could scourge me
without compromising himself.
It was comte Jean who brought me these verses, in which there was less
poetry than malevolence. I read them, was indignant, and wept. The duc
d’Aiguillon came, and finding me in tears, inquired the cause.
“Here,” said I, giving him the poem, “see if you can bear so gross an
insult.” He took the paper, cast his eyes over it, and having folded it
up, put it into his pocket.
“It was ill done,” said he, “to show this to you. I knew of it yesterday,
and came now to talk with you of it.”
“I rely on you to do me justice.”
“Miséricorde!” cried the duke, “would you lose yourself in the eyes
of all France? You would place yourself in a fine situation by declaring
yourself the persecutrix of Voltaire. Only an enemy could have thus
advised you.”
“That enemy was comte Jean.”
“Then your imprudence equals your zeal. Do you not perceive the advantage
it would give to your adversaries were we to act in this manner? To the
hatred of the court would be united that of the literati, women,
and young persons. Voltaire is a god, who is not to be smitten without
sacrilege.”
“Must I then tamely submit to be beaten?”
“Yes, for the moment. But it will not last long; I have just written this
letter to M. de Voltaire, that peace may be made between you:—
“SIR,—The superiority of your genius places you amongst the number
of the potentates of Europe. Every one desires, not only to be at peace
with you, but even, if it be possible, to obtain your esteem. I flatter
myself with being included in the ranks of your admirers; my uncle has
spoken to you many times of my attachment to your person, and I embrace
the opportunity of proving this by a means that now presents itself.
“Persons in whom you place too much confidence have spread abroad, under
your name, copies of a poem, entitled ‘La Cour du Roi Petaud.’ In
this, wherein insult is cast on a personage who should be exempt from such
offence, is also outraged, in a most indecent way, a lovely female, whom
you would adore as we do, if you had the happiness to know her. Is it for
the poet of the lover of Gabrielle to carry desolation into the kingdom of
the Graces?
“Your correspondents use you ill by leaving you in ignorance, that this
young person has immense favor here; that we are all at her feet; that she
is all powerful, and her anger is to be particularly avoided. She is the
more to be propitiated, as yesterday, in Presence of a certain person whom
your verses had greatly irritated, she took up your defence with as much
grace as generosity. You see, sir, that you ought not to be on bad terms
with her.
“My uncle allows me to see, as one of the initiated, what you call your
scraps, which are delicious feasts to us. I read them to the lady in
question, who takes great delight in reciting, or hearing others recite,
your verses, and she begs you will send her some as a proof of your
repentance. Under these circumstances, if your bellicose disposition urges
you on to war, we hope, before you continue it, that you will loyally and
frankly declare it.
“In conclusion, be assured that I shall defend you to my utmost, and am
for life,
“Yours, etc.”
Whilst we were awaiting Voltaire’s reply, I determined to avenge myself on
the duchesse de Grammont, who had encouraged him in his attack; and thus
did I serve this lady. Persuaded that she did not know the writing of his
Danish majesty, I wrote the following letter to her:—
“MADAME LA DUCHESSE,—I have struggled to this time to avoid
confessing to you how I am subdued. Happy should I be could I throw myself
at your feet. My rank alone must excuse my boldness. Nothing would equal
my joy if this evening, at the theatre at madame de Villeroi’s, you would
appear with blue feathers in your head-dress. I do not add my name; it is
one of those which should not be found at the bottom of a declaration of
love.”
In spite of all her penetration, the duchesse de Grammont did not
perceive, in the emphatic tone of this letter, that it was a trick. Her
self-love made her believe that a woman of more than forty could be
pleasing to a king not yet twenty. She actually went in the evening to
madame de Villeroi’s dressed in blue, with a blue plumed head-dress. She
was placed next to his Danish majesty. Christian VII addressed her in most
courteous terms, but not one word of love.
The duchesse imagining that the prince was timid, looked at him with eyes
of tenderness, and endeavored to attract and encourage him by all means
she could devise, but the monarch did not understand her. The duchesse
then addressed a few words, which she hoped would lead to an explanation,
but, to her dismay, his majesty did not appear to understand her. Madame
de Grammont was furious at this affair. The duc d’Aiguillon, who was close
to her, had seen all, heard all, and related particulars to me. The same
day I told the king of my trick and its success. He laughed excessively,
and then scolded me for at all compromising his Danish majesty.
“How, sire?” was my reply. “I did not sign his name; I have not forged his
signature. The vanity of the duchesse has alone caused all the ridiculous
portion of this joke. So much the worse for her if she did not succeed.”
I did not, however, limit my revenge to this. A second letter, in the same
hand, was addressed to my luckless enemy. This time she was informed that
she been made a butt of, and mystified. I learned from M. de Sartines,
who, after our compact, gave me details of all, the methods she had
pursued to detect the author of these two epistles, and put a termination
to all these inquiries, by denouncing myself to M. de Sartines; who then
gave such a turn to the whole matter, that the duchesse could never arrive
at the truth.
Voltaire, in the meantime, was not slow in reply; and as I imagine that
you will not be sorry to read his letter, I transcribe it for you:—
“MONSIEUR LE DUC,—I am a lost, destroyed man. If I had strength
enough to fly, I do not know where I should find courage to take refuge.
I! Good God! I am suspected of having attacked that which, in common with
all France, I respect! When there only remains to me the smallest power of
utterance, but enough to chant a De profundis, that I should employ
it in howling at the most lovely and amiable of females! Believe me,
monsieur le duc, that it is not at the moment when a man is about to
render up his soul, that a man of my good feeling would outrage the
divinity whom he adores. No, I am not the author of the ‘Cour du Roi
Petaud.’ The verses of this rhapsody are not worth much, it is true;
but indeed they are not mine: they are too miserable, and of too bad a
style. All this vile trash spread abroad in my name, all those pamphlets
without talent, make me lose my senses, and now I have scarcely enough
left to defend myself with. It is on you, monsieur le duc, that I rely; do
not refuse to be the advocate of an unfortunate man unjustly accused.
Condescend to say to this young lady, that I have been before embroiled
with madame de Pompadour, for whom I professed the highest esteem; tell
her, that at the present day especially, the favorite of Caesar is sacred
for me; that my heart and pen are hers, and that I only aspire to live and
die under her banner.
“As to the scraps you ask for, I have not at this moment any suitable.
Only the best viands are served up at the table of the goddesses. If I had
any I would present them to the person of whom you speak to me. Assure
her, that one day the greatest merit of my verse will be to have them
recited by her lips; and entreat her, until she bestows immortality on me,
to permit me to prostrate myself at her beautiful feet.
“I will not conclude my letter, monsieur le duc, without thanking you a
thousand times for the advice you have given me. This proof of your
kindness will, if possible augment the sincere attachment I bear to you. I
salute you with profound respect.”
As it is bold to hold the pen after having transcribed anything of M. de
Voltaire’s, I leave off here for to-day.
CHAPTER X
In spite of the love of the duchesse de Grammont, the king of Denmark
departed at last. Louis XV having resumed his former habits, I began to
meditate seriously on my presentation; and my friends employed themselves
to the utmost in furthering my desires and insuring my triumph.
The chancellor, who each day became more attached to my interests, opened
the campaign. One day, when the king was in a rage with the parliaments,
the chancellor seized the opportunity to tell him that the cabal, who were
opposed to my presentation, testified so much resistance, under the idea,
and in the hope, that they would be supported by the parliaments of Paris.
“If your majesty,” added the chancellor, “had less condescension towards
these malcontents, they would fear your authority more.”
“You will see,” replied the king, “that it will be their audacity which
will urge me on to a step, which otherwise I should wish to avoid.”
Whilst the hatred which M. de Maupeou bore towards the parliaments served
me in this way, the love of M. de la Vauguyon for the Jesuits turned to
even more advantage. The good duke incessantly talked to me of his dear
Jesuits; and I as constantly replied, that my influence would not be
salutary until after my presentation, M. de la Vauguyon had sense enough
to perceive the embarrassment of my situation, and saw that before I could
think of others I must think of myself. Having taken “sweet counsel” with
the powerful heads of his company, he freely gave me all his influence
with the king.
Fortune sent me an auxiliary not less influential than these two
gentlemen; I mean the maréchal duc de Richelieu. In the month of January,
1769, he returned from his government of Guienne to enter on service. He
had much credit with the king, and this (would you believe it?) resulted
from his reputation as a man of intrigue. He told the king every thing
that came into his head: he told him one day, that the Choiseuls boasted
that he, the king of France, never dared introduce his mistress into the
state apartments at Versailles.
“Yes,” added the duke, “they boast so loudly, that nothing else is talked
of in the province; and at Bordeaux, for instance, there is one merchant
who, on the strength of the enemies of the comtesse, has made a bet that
she will never be presented.”
“And why do you not imprison these persons?” inquired the king, angrily.
“Because, sire, it appears to me injustice to punish the echo of the
fooleries of Paris.”
“I will conduct myself as regards the presentation of madame du Barry in
the manner which I think best. But is it not an inconceivable contrariety,
that one party should wish it with the utmost desire, and another place
every obstacle in the way? In truth, I am very unfortunate, and a cruel
tyranny is exercised over me.”
The duc de Richelieu, not wishing to appear as one of the tyrants of the
king, gave a different turn to the conversation.
My presentation was, however, a matter of first-rate importance to me and
to my partizans, and the duc de la Vrillière was gained over to my side,
by making him believe that the king would yield to my desires, and that
then I should remember all those who opposed my elevation. The duc
d’Aiguillon also drew over to my party M. Bertin, who bore no love to the
Choiseuls, and who saw that the preponderance of interest was on my side
of the scale. When I was assured of a considerable number of defenders, I
thought I might venture on the master stroke, and thus I went to work.
One evening the king was with me, and the MM. de Maupeou and de Richelieu
were there also. We were discoursing of different things, and the king was
perfectly tranquillized, little anticipating the scene that was in store
for him. I rose suddenly from my arm-chair, and going up to his majesty,
after a profound courtesy cast myself at his feet. Louis XV would have
raised me, but I said,
“No, I will remain where I am until you have accorded me the favor I ask.”
“If you remain in this posture I shall place myself in a similar one.”
“Well, then, since you will not have me at your knees I will place myself
on them”; and I seated myself in his lap without ceremony.
“Listen to me, sire,” I said, “and repeat what I say to the king of France
word for word. He must authorize my presentation; for else, some fine day,
in the presence of the whole court, I will go to the state apartments, and
try whether I shall be repulsed at the door.”
“Will she have the boldness?” inquired the king to the chancellor.
“I have no doubt of it, sire. A female, young, beautiful, honored with
your kindness, may venture to do anything.”
“Is it not distressing to me,” I added, “that, graced with your majesty’s
favors, I remain thus concealed, whilst women whom you detest annoy you
with their presence.”
“Madame is right,” replied the duc de Richelieu, “and I see that you look
for her every evening where she is not, and where she ought to be.”
“What! you too, duc de Richelieu, do you join the cry of the chancellor?”
“I would tear out the eyes of these gentlemen,” I added, “if they thought
differently from me.”
“Oh,” said the king, laughing, “this punishment would not be one for M.
Maupeou: justice ought to be blind: and as for you, M. de Richelieu, you
have your baton left.”
“Which he has nobly gained,” I replied, “by fighting against your
majesty’s enemies, and of which he still continues worthy, by now
defending me from my foes.”
“This rebellion,” said the king, “cannot last, and I see myself compelled
to hold a lit de justice (a judicial sitting or bed).”
“And I swear to you, that I will receive nobody into mine until I have
been presented.”
This sally amused the king, who said, “Well, since it must be so, you
shall be presented.”
At this I leaped on the king’s neck, giving a cry which might have been
heard by my rivals. After that, I advanced to the two gentlemen who had
advocated my cause so well, extending a hand to each, which they took and
kissed with great gallantry.
Louis XV became thoughtful, and continued to mutter between his teeth, “I
wash my hands of it—they will cry out, they will clamor, but it must
be so.” I saw the feelings of the king, and took care not to allow him to
go away in this state. Whilst I sought to compose him by my caresses, the
duc de Richelieu told us one of his thousand and one adventures, which he
told so well. I know not if it will please you, but such as it is I shall
give you an abridgment of it.
“I was, you know,” he began, “a very good-looking, a very wild fellow:
women have no objection to this. I was travelling, and in my way thro’ D——,
M., the intendant of the city, insisted on my taking up my abode at his
house. His lady added her entreaties, and I consented. I must tell you
that the lady was handsome. I had passed the night with her; but when, on
the next morning, as I sought to go out of her apartment, I found the
outer door double locked and bolted. I looked round me on all sides, but
found no egress. Whilst I was lamenting this with the lady’s femme-de-chambre,
who was nearly as much distressed as her mistress, I saw in a detached
closet a great many machines covered with paper, and all of different
shapes. On inquiry, I was informed that the following Monday was the
lady’s birthday, which they were to celebrate with fireworks. I looked at
the beautiful fusees and brilliant suns with much admiration. Suddenly,
thinking of the lady’s honor which might be compromised, I took a light
and set fire to a Roman candle; in a moment the whole was in flames, and
everybody took alarm. Great was the consternation in the house, which was
turned out of windows; and in the uproar, the house-door being broken
open, a crowd of persons rushed in; I ran this way and that way; everybody
admired and praised my exertions. I was compelled to quit the house at
last, and ordered my carriage, whilst M. the intendant was thanking me for
the vast service I had rendered him. I assure you, sire, that I never
laughed more heartily.” *
This tale amused the king, and M. de Richelieu assured him that he had
never told it before. A thousand considerations had induced him to keep it
to himself until the present time. “But now,” said he, “the third
generation of madame l’intendante is no longer young, and I have no fear
of being called out to fight a duel.”
Next day there was a general rumor of my presentation. My friends asserted
that I had the king’s promise. This was imprudent on their part, and they
injured my interest whilst they flattered my vanity. They put the Choiseul
cabal to work, who intrigued so well that not a person could be found who
would perform the office of introductress. You know the custom: the
presentation is effected by the intermediation of another lady, who
conducts the person to be presented to the princesses, and introduces her.
This custom had passed into a law, and it would have been too humiliating
to me to have dispensed with it.
This was a dire blow for me: it distressed me sadly, and I wept over it
with my friends. The duc de Richelieu said to me,
“With money and promises everything can be managed at court. There is no
place where they know better how to value complaisance, and the price at
which it is sold. Do not give yourself any uneasiness; we shall find the
lady we want.”
And we did find her, but her compliance was dearly bought. Two ladies who
were applied to stipulated for most outrageous conditions. One, the
marquise de Castellane, consented to present me, but demanded that she
should be created a duchess, and have a gift of five hundred thousand
livres: the other, whose name I forget, asked for her husband the order of
the Holy Ghost and a government, a regiment for her son, and for herself I
forget what. These ladies seemed to think, like Don Quixote and Sancho
Panza, that governments and five hundred thousand livres were to be picked
up on the highway. In truth, they spoke out without disguise.
At this juncture the chancellor had a singular conversation concerning me
with the Choiseuls. He had been one morning to call on the duke, and
whilst they were discoursing, the duchesse de Grammont came into her
brother’s apartment, and entered at once into conversation.
“Ah, my lord, I am glad to see you. Your new friends carry you off from
your old ones. You are wrong to adore the rising sun.”
“That was the idolatry of a great number of persons: but I beg of you to
be so very kind as not to speak to me in figures, if you would wish me to
understand you.”
“Oh, you play off the ignorant. You know as well as I do what I mean, and
your daily visits to this fille.”
“Which, madame? There are so many at court!”
This sarcastic reply made the brother and sister smile; both of them being
fully competent to understand the merit of an epigram. The duke fearing
lest the duchess should go too far, judging by what she had already said,
thus addressed him:
“You are, then, one of the adorers of the comtesse du Barry?”
“Yes, monsieur le duc; and would to God that, for your own interest, you
would be so too!”
“My brother set foot in the house of this creature!”
“Why not, madame? We see good company there; the prince de Soubise, the
ducs de la Trimouille, de la Vauguyon, Duras, Richelieu, d’Aiguillon, and
many others, not to mention the king of France. A gentleman may be seen in
such company without any disgrace.”
“Monsieur le chevalier,” replied the duke, “to speak candidly to you,
allow me to ask, if any one who would have the friendship of our house
would be seen in that of the lady in question?”
“Pardon me, duke; that is not the question. Allow me, in turn, to ask you,
why those of your house should not go there? This, I think, is the real
question.”
“You offer us a splendid alliance!” said the duchess with anger.
“I offer nothing, madame: I only inquire. For my part, I see no legitimate
motive for this proscription of madame du Barry.”
“A woman without character!”
“Character! Why, madame, who has any in these days? M. de Crebillon the
younger would be at a loss to tell us where to find it.”
This reply made the duke and his sister smile again. The chancellor went
on thus:
“It appears to me that persons were less difficult in the times of madame
de Pompadour.”
“But a creature who has been so low in society!”
“Have you seen her so, madame? And supposing it has been the case, do we
interdict all ladies of conduct not less blamable from an introduction at
court. How many can you enumerate, madame, who have led a life much more
scandalous? Let us count them on our fingers. First, the maréchale de
Luxembourg, one; then—”
“Then the comtesse de Choiseul, my sister-in-law,” added the duke; “we
know it as well as you, sir. But this is not the matter in question. You
are not ignorant that our enemies surround this madame du Barry; and it is
of your alliance with them that I complain.”
“You see everything with a jaundiced eye, monsieur le duc. But if you fear
the influence of this lady with the king, why do you not present yourself
at her apartments? She would be delighted to receive you.”
“No, no!” cried the duchess, “my brother will never present himself to
such a creature. If he would degrade himself so low, I would never forgive
him as long as I live. Since you show your gratitude for what has been
done for you by leaguing yourself with this woman, tell her from me that I
detest her, and that I will never rest until I have sent her back again to
her dunghill.”
“Madame,” replied the chancellor, “I will evince my gratitude to the duke
by not delivering such a message”; and the chancellor went out.
M. de Maupeou came to tell me the whole of this conversation, which Chon
wrote down under his dictation, that I might show it to the king. You will
see in my next letter what resulted from all this, and how the ill-timed
enmity of the Choiseuls served my interests most materially.
CHAPTER XI
I showed the king this conversation, in which I had so shamefully vilified
by the duchesse de Grammont. Louis XV was very much inclined to testify
his disapprobation to this lady, but was withheld by the consideration he
felt for the duke and (particularly) the duchesse de Choiseul. This latter
lady was not beloved by her husband, but her noble qualities, her good
heart, made her an object of adoration to the whole court. You could not
speak to any person of madame de Choiseul without hearing an eulogium in
reply. The king himself was full of respect towards her; so much so, that,
on the disgrace of the duke, he in some sort asked her pardon for the
chagrin which he had caused her. Good conduct is no claim to advancement
at court, but it procures the esteem of the courtiers. Remember, my
friend, this moral maxim: there is not one of greater truth in my whole
journal.
The king, unable to interpose his authority in a woman’s quarrel, was yet
determined on giving a striking proof of the attachment he bore to me. I
had up to this period occupied Lebel’s apartments in the château: it was
not befitting my station, and the king thought he would give me those of
madame de Pompadour, to which I had some claim. This apartment was now
occupied by the comte de Noailles, governor of the château, who, as great
fool as the rest of his family, began to exclaim most lustily when the
king’s will was communicated to him. He came to his majesty complaining
and lamenting. The king listened very quietly to his list of grievances;
and when he had moaned and groaned out his dolorous tale, his majesty said
to him,
“My dear count, who built the château of Versailles?”
“Why, sire, your illustrious grandfather.”
“Well, then, as I am at home, I mean to be master. You may establish the
seat of your government where you will; but in two hours the place must be
free. I am in earnest.”
The comte de Noailles departed much disconcerted, took away his furniture,
and the same evening I installed myself in the apartments. You must think
that this was a fresh cause of chagrin, and created me more enemies. There
are certain families who look upon the court as their hereditary domain:
the Noailles was one of them. However, there is no grounds of pretension
to such a right. Their family took its rise from a certain Adhemar de
Noailles, capitoul of Toulouse, ennobled, according to all
appearance, by the exercise of his charge in 1459. The grandfather of
these Noailles was a domestic of M. de Turenne’s, and his family was
patronized at court by madame de Maintenon. Everybody knows this. But to
return to my presentation.
M. de Maupeou, whose good services I can never sufficiently vaunt, came to
me one day, and said, “I think that I have found a lady presenteuse.
I have a dame of quality who will do what we want.”
“Who is it?” said I, with joy.
“A comtesse d’Escarbagnas, a litigious lady, with much ambition and
avarice. You must see her, talk with her, and understand each other.”
“But where can we see her?”
“That is easy enough. She claims from the house of Saluces a property of
three hundred thousand livres: she is very greedy for money. Send some one
to her, who shall whisper in her ear that I see you often, and that your
protection can serve her greatly in her lawsuit: she will come to you post
haste.”
I approved the counsel of the chancellor; and, in concert with comte Jean,
I once again made use of the ministry of the good M. Morand, whom I had
recompensed largely for his good and loyal services. This was, however,
the last he ever rendered me; for I learned some months after my
presentation that he had died of indigestion: a death worthy of such a
life and such a man.
M. Morand, after having found out the attorney of madame the comtesse de
Bearn, went to him under some pretext, and then boasted of my vast
influence with the chancellor. The lawyer, to whom madame de Bearn was to
pay a visit on that very day, did not fail to repeat what M. Morand had
told him. The next day the comtesse, like a true litigant, called upon
him: she related her affair to him, and begged him to use his interest
with me.
“I would do it with pleasure,” said the worthy, “if I did not think it
better that you should see the comtesse du Barry yourself. I can assure
you that she will be delighted to aid you.”
Madame de Bearn then came to me with M. Morand. Gracious heavens! how
simple we were to take so much pains with this lady: had we known her
better we should not have been so long in coming to the point. Scarcely
any thing was said at this first visit: I contented myself with assuring
her of my good will. On the same day the vicomte Adolphe du Barry told his
father that that the young de Bearn had asked him the evening before, if I
had found a stepmother to present me; that in case I had not, his
mother would not refuse such a service, should it be desired by the king.
Comte Jean and I perfectly understood the lady. She came again, and I
renewed the expression of my desire to be useful to her. She replied in a
hackneyed phrase, that she should be charmed to prove her gratitude to me.
I took her word.
“Madame,” said I to her, “you cannot be ignorant that I ardently desire to
be presented. My husband has sent in his proofs of nobility, which have
been received; I now only want a marraine (godmother); if you will
officiate in that capacity, I shall owe you a debt of gratitude all my
life.”
“Madame, I am at the king’s orders.”
“But, madame, the king has nothing to do with this. I wish to be
presented; will you be my introductress?”
“Madame, the first wish of my heart is to be agreeable to you; I only
desire that the king indicate in some way, no matter how trifling, his
will on this point.”
“Well, then,” I exclaimed, with impatience, “I see you will not give me a
direct reply. Why should you wish the king to interfere in what does not
concern him? Is it your intention to oblige me; yes or no?”
“Yes, madame, certainly; but you must be aware of the tremendous cabal
which is raised against you. Can I contend against it alone, and who will
sustain me thro’ it?”
“I will to the full extent of my power as long as I am here, and the king
will always do so. I can assure you, that he will be grateful for your
exertions in my behalf.”
“I should like to have half a line from his majesty as a protection and
assurance.”
“And that you will not get. The king’s signature must not be compromised
in this affair, and I do not think I ought to ask for it; let us
therefore, madame, cease this discourse, since you ask such terms for your
complaisance.”
The comtesse de Bearn rose; I did the same; and we parted mutually
dissatisfied with each other.
My friends, my brother-in-law, and his sisters, impatiently awaited the
result of my conversation with madame de Bearn. I told them all that had
passed; giving my opinion of this lady as I thought her—a malicious
provoking creature.
“How soon you torment yourself,” said the chancellor to me. “Do you not
see that this woman wants a price to be bidden for her? She is yours, body
and soul, but first of all she must be paid.”
“Let that be no obstacle,” said comte Jean, “we will give her money, but
present us she must.”
On this it was decided, that, on the following morning, my brother-in-law
should go to Paris to find M. Morand, and get him to undertake the
arrangement.
The next day my brother-in-law went to M. Morand’s, and when he had
disclosed his message concerning the comtesse, the good Morand began to
laugh. He told the count, that the previous evening this lady had sent for
him; and, on going to her house, madame de Bearn, as a set-off against the
inconveniences which might result to her from being the instrument of my
presentation, had stipulated for certain compensations; such, for
instance, as a sum of two hundred thousand livres, a written promise of a
regiment for her son, and for herself an appointment in the establishment
of the future dauphine. This was the point aimed at by all the
ambitious courtiers. Comte Jean thought these conditions preposterous. He
had a carte blanche from me, and desired M. Morand to offer the
lady one hundred thousand livres, and to add an assurance that the king
should be importuned to place young Bearn advantageously, and to station
the mother to her wishes; and thereupon my brother-in-law returned to
Versailles.
The comte Jean had scarcely returned an hour, when we received a letter
from M. Morand, stating, that he had gone, in consequence of the
instructions of comte Jean, to the comtesse de Bearn; that he had found
the lady pliant enough on the first point, and disposed to content herself
with the half of the sum originally demanded; that on point the second, I
mean the appointments of herself and son, she would come to no compromise,
and stuck hard and fast to the written promise of the king; that he,
Morand, thought this an obstacle not to be overcome unless we subscribed
to her wishes. This letter put me in an excessively ill-humor. I saw my
presentation deferred till doom’s day, or, at least, adjourned sine die.
I questioned my friends: the unanimous advice was that I ought to mention
it to the king at one of his evening visits; and I determined to do so
without loss of time.
When his majesty came I received him very graciously, and then said to
him,
“Congratulate me, sire; I have found my godmother.”
“Ah, so much the better.” (I know that, at the bottom of his heart, he
said “so much the worse.”)
“And who,” asked the king, with impatience, “may the lady be?”
“Madame de Bearn, a lady of quality in her own right, and of high nobility
on her husband’s side.”
“Yes, he was a garde du corps, and the son has just left the pages.
Ah! she will present you then. That’s well; I shall feel favored by her.”
“Would it not be best, sire, to tell her so yourself?”
“Yes, yes, certainly; but after the ceremony.”
“And why not previously?”
“Why? because I do not wish to appear to have forced your presentation.”
“Well, then,” I replied, striking the floor with my foot, “you will not do
for me what you would do for a woman who is a complete stranger to you.
Many thanks for your excessive kindness.”
“Well, well, do not scold. Anger does not become you.”
“No more than this indifference suits you; it is cruel. If you recede from
saying a word, what will you do when I tell you of the conditions of
madame de Bearn?”
“What does the good comtesse ask for?”
“Things past conception.”
“What?”
“She has stipulations unlimited.”
“But what are they then?”
“A hundred thousand livres for herself.”
“What, only that? We will grant so much.”
“Then a regiment for her son.”
“Oh, he is the wood they make colonels of, and if he behave well—”
“But then! She wishes to be annexed in some station or other to the
household of the future dauphine.”
“Oh, that is impossible: all the selections have been made: but we will
make an equivalent by placing one of her family about the person of one of
the princes, my grandson. Is this all?”
“Yes, sire, that is all, with one small formality excepted. This lady, who
is one of much punctilio, only considers written engagements as
binding. She wishes for one word in your majesty’s hand-writing—”
“A most impertinent woman!” cried the king, walking with rapid strides up
and down my room.— “She has dared not to believe me on my word!
Writing!—signature! She mistrusts me as she would the lowest
scribbler of France. A writing! My signature! My grandfather, Louis XIV,
repented having given his to Charost. I will not commit a similar error.”
“But, sire, when a prince has a real desire to keep his word, it is of
little import whether he gives it in writing.”
At these words, Louis XV frowned sternly, but as he had the best sense in
the world, he saw that he was wrong; and having no reply to make, he
determined to flee away. I ran after him, and taking him by the arm, he
said, with assumed anger, which did not deceive me:—
“Well, then, monsieur la France,” replied I, assuming also a scolding
tone, “I will give you satisfaction. Choose your time, weapons, and place;
I will meet you, and we shall see whether you have courage to kill a woman
who lives for you only, and whom you render the most miserable creature in
existence.”
Louis XV gave me a kiss, and laughingly said, “I ought to make you sleep
in the Bastille to-night.”
“I am then more merciful than you, for I think I shall make you sleep in
the couch you love best.”
This reply amused the king excessively, and he himself proposed to send
for madame de Bearn. I should speak of my presentation before him, and
then without making any positive concession, he would see what could be
done to satisfy her.
For want of any other, I accepted this mezzo termine.
CHAPTER XII
M. Morand was again put in requisition, and went from me to ask madame de
Bearn to come and sup at my apartments. We were in committee—my
sisters-in-law, myself, and comte Jean. The comtesse made some
difficulties at first, under pretence that she was afraid to refuse me a
second time. Our messenger assured her by saying, that a supper would not
bind her to any thing, and that she should still be at liberty to give any
reply she pleased. Madame de Bearn allowed herself to be persuaded, and
sent me word that she would accept my invitation. She would have reflected
twice before she so far committed herself, had she at all suspected the
turn we meant to serve her. But I saw by the wording of her note, that she
still hoped that the king would be induced to grant me the written promise
which I asked for her.
She came. I received her with all possible courtesy, and yet not with much
heartiness. I could not help remembering the vexatious terms she set upon
her complaisance. However, the supper was gay enough, comte Jean and my
sisters-in-law, who knew very well how to dissemble, did the honors in a
most agreeable way. On leaving table we went into the drawing-room, and
then began to discuss the serious question which had brought us together.
At the first words which comte Jean uttered, madame de Bearn, taking my
hands with a respectful familiarity, said to me:—“I hope, madame,
that you will not have a bad opinion of me, if I put such conditions to my
desire of obliging you. The situation of my family requires it, but it is
only a trifle for the king to grant.”
“Much more than you imagine, madame,” I replied. “The king does not care
to involve himself in such engagements. He does not like, moreover, that
his sacred word should be doubted.”
“Ah?” replied the cunning creature, “heaven forbid that I should not
blindly trust to the king’s word, but his memory may fail, or he, like
other men, may forget.”
“Madame,” replied comte Jean, with the utmost gravity, “madame is a lady
as full of prudence as of kindness, but yet a little too exacting. Madame
wishes to have a promise signed for herself and son: that is too much. Why
does she not content herself in dividing the difficulty, by satisfying
herself with a verbal promise for what concerns herself, and with a
written engagement for what relates to her son?”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur,” replied the countess, “I am anxious to
arrange all to our mutual satisfaction. But his majesty would not surely
refuse the entreaties of madame for what I ask.”
“I will speak to him of it the first time I see him.”
“Oh, you are a charming woman. You will obtain all from the king, and make
a sure friend—”
“Whose friendship is very difficult to acquire,” said I, interrupting her.
The countess would have replied to this, when my first valet-de-chambre,
opening the two folding-doors of the room, announced the king.
At this unexpected name my guest trembled, and in spite of the thick rouge
which covered her cheeks, I perceived she turned pale. She then saw the
scene we had prepared for her: she wished herself a hundred leagues off:
but she could do nothing, but remain where she was. I took her by the
hand, all trembling as she was, and presented her to the king, saying,
“Sire, I now do for this lady, in my own drawing-room, what she will have
the kindness to do for me at the state-chamber.”
“Ah,” replied the king, “is it madame de Bearn that you present to me? I
am indeed delighted. Her husband was one of my faithful servants: I was
much pleased with her son when he was one of pages, and I perceive that
she herself is desirous of testifying to me her attachment to my person. I
thank you, madame; you cannot confer a greater favor on me, and I shall
embrace every opportunity of proving to you how much satisfaction your
conduct affords me.”
Each word that the king uttered went to the heart of the countess.
However, making a virtue of necessity, she replied, that she was proud and
happy at what the king had said to her, and that it would be her constant
aim to please his majesty, flattering herself that the king would remember
the services of the Bearn family, and would think of her in the
dispensation of his bounties.
“You may rely on it, madame,” replied Louis XV, “especially if the
comtesse du Barry applies to me in your behalf.”
Then, turning towards me, “When, then, is this redoubtable presentation to
take place?”
“On the day, sire, when your majesty shall think proper,” I replied.
“Well! I will send the duc de Richelieu to you, who will arrange the
whole.”
This settled, the subject was turned, but madame de Bearn lost her tongue
entirely. In spite of all her endeavors, her forehead became contracted
every moment, and I am sure she went away vexed and disappointed.
The following morning, the comte Jean and my sister-in-law went to her
house. They testified their regret for what had occurred the previous
evening; they assured her that we would not take any advantage of the
conditionless engagement which she had made to present me, and that altho’
it was impossible to ask the required guarantees from the king, still we
should most undeviatingly adhere to the clauses of the treaty: they added,
that they came to enquire when she should choose to receive the hundred
thousand livres. The countess replied, that in spite of the real
disadvantage which she must henceforward labor under in this affair, she
felt great friendship for me, and would not refuse to oblige me, and she
flattered herself that I would espouse her cause with the king. The comte
Jean assured her of this, and settled with her the period of the payment
of the hundred thousand livres, which were to be paid at sight on her
drawing on M. de la Borde, the court-banker.
Thus then my presentation was an assured matter: nothing now could prevent
it, at least I fancied so to myself. I reckoned without my host; I did not
know yet all the malice of a courtier lady or gentleman. As it was,
however, M. de Choiseul and his vile sister had gained over one of my
servants, for they knew all that had passed. They soon learned that madame
de Bearn had come to supper with me, and that after supper a visit of the
king’s had decided this lady on my presentation: this they determined to
prevent.
For this end, they despatched as ambassador the chevalier de Coigny to the
house of madame de Bearn. He, following the instruction, sought by turns
to seduce and intimidate the countess, but all went for nothing. Madame de
Bearn told the chevalier de Coigny, that she had been with me to ask my
influence with the chancellor. The chevalier left her without being able
to obtain any other information.
This bad success did not dishearten the Choiseuls. They sent this time to
madame de Bearn, M. de Roquelaure, bishop of Senlis, and grand almoner to
the king. This prelate was much liked at court, and in high favor with
mesdames (the king’s daughters). We were good friends together at last,
but in this particular he was very near doing me great wrong. M. de
Roquelaure having called on madame de Bearn, told her that he well knew
the nature of her communications with me.
“Do not flatter yourself,” said he, “that you will obtain thro’ the
influence of the comtesse du Barry, all that has been promised you. You
will have opposed to you the most powerful adversaries and most august
personages. It cannot be concealed from you, that mesdames contemplate the
presentation of this creature with the utmost displeasure. They will not
fail to obtain great influence over the future dauphin, and will do you
mischief with him; so that, whether in the actual state of things, or in
that which the age and health of the king must lead us to anticipate, you
will be in a most unfortunate situation at court.”
The old bishop, with his mischievous frankness, catechised madame de Bearn
so closely, that at length she replied, that so much respect and deference
did she entertain towards the princesses, that she would not present me
until they should accord their permission for me to appear. M. de
Roquelaure took this reply to the Choiseuls. Madame de Grammont,
enchanted, thinking the point already gained, sent madame de Bearn an
invitation to supper the next day, but this was not the countess’s game.
She was compelled to decide promptly, and she thought to preserve a strict
neutrality until fresh orders should issue. What do you suppose she did?
She wrote to us, madame de Grammont and myself, that she had scalded her
foot, and that it was impossible for her to go from home.
On receiving her note I believed myself betrayed, forsaken. Comte Jean and
I suspected that this was a feint, and went with all speed to call on the
comtesse de Bearn. She received us with her usual courtesy, complained
that we had arrived at the very moment of the dressing of her wound, and
told us she would defer it; but I would not agree to this. My
brother-in-law went into another room, and madame de Bearn began to
unswathe her foot in my presence with the utmost caution and tenderness. I
awaited the evidence of her falsehood, when, to my astonishment, I saw a
horrible burn! I did not for a moment doubt, what was afterwards
confirmed, namely, that madame de Bearn had actually perpetrated this, and
maimed herself with her own free will. I mentally cursed her Roman
courage, and would have sent my heroic godmother to the devil with all my
heart.
Thus then was my presentation stopped by the foot of madame de Bearn. This
mischance did not dampen the zeal of my friends. On the one hand, comte
Jean, after having stirred heaven and earth, met with the comtesse
d’Aloigny. She consented to become my godmother immediately after her own
presentation, for eighty thousand livres and the expenses of the ceremony.
But mesdames received her so unsatisfactorily, that my own feelings told
me, I ought not to be presented at court under her auspices.
We thanked the comtesse d’Aloigny therefore, and sent her, as a
remuneration, twenty thousand livres from the king.
Whilst comte Jean failed on one side, the duc d’Aiguillon succeeded on
another. He was someway related to madame de Bearn. He went to visit her,
and made her understand that, as the Choiseuls neither gave nor promised
her anything, she would be wrong in declaring for them: that, on the other
hand, if she declared for me, I could procure for her the favor of the
king. Madame de Bearn yielded to his persuasions, and charged the duc
d’Aiguillon to say to me, and even herself wrote, that she put herself
entirely into my hands; and that, as soon as she was well, I might rely on
her. What, I believe, finally decided this lady was, the fear that if she
did not comply with what I required, I should content myself with the
comtesse d’Aloigny.
Now assured of my introductress, I only directed my attention to the final
obstacle of my presentation; I mean the displeasure of mesdames. I do not
speak of madame Louise, of whom I can only write in terms of commendation;
but I had opposed to me mesdames Victoire and Sophie, and especially
madame Adélaïde, who, as the eldest, gave them their plan of conduct. This
latter, who had given too much cause to be spoken of herself to have any
right to talk of others, never ceased haranguing about the scandal of my
life; and I had recently, unknown to myself, fallen into complete disgrace
with her. This is the case.
The apartment from which I had dislodged M. de Noailles had been requested
of the king by madame Adélaïde. Ignorant of this I had installed myself
there. I soon learned that I had offended the princess, and instantly
hastened to offer her the apartments she wished to have. She came into
them; but as it was necessary for me to be accommodated somewhere, the
king gave me the former apartments of his daughter. This was what madame
Adélaïde called an act of tyranny; she made the château echo with her
complaints: she said I had driven her out, that I wished to separate her
from her sisters; that I should wean her father’s affection entirely from
her. Such injustice distressed me excessively. I sent to request the king
to come to me; and when he entered I threw myself at his feet, entreating
him to appease his daughter on any terms, and to let me go away, since I
brought such trouble into his family.
The king, irritated at madame Adélaïde ‘s conduct, went to her, and told
her, in a private interview, that he would make certain matters public if
she did not hold her tongue; and she, alarmed, ceased her clamor, or
rather, contented herself in complaining in a lower key.
CHAPTER XIII
This fit of anger of madame Adélaïde had given additional courage to the
cabal. It began to exclaim and plot against me with redoubled force;
hoping thus to intimidate the king, and effectually bar my presentation;
but it only tended to hasten it. One evening, when the king and the
maréchal de Richelieu were with me, he said to me,
“A stop must be put to these clamors. I see that until you are presented,
there will be doubts perpetually arising and tormenting us on the subject;
and until it takes place I shall have no ease. Parbleu! Let us take
the best means in our power of reducing these malcontents to silence.”
“Sire,” replied the maréchal, “make your will palpable, and you will see
all the court submit.”
“Yes, but my daughters?”
“Mesdames know better than any persons the deference due to your orders.”
“I assure you,” replied the king, “that it will be an unpleasant quarter
of an hour for me to pass.”
“Well, sire, then charge one of us with the mission: the bishop of Senlis,
for instance, or M. de la Vauguyon. I feel assured that either of them
will acquit himself admirably in the business, with the previous
understanding that your majesty will support him with your authority.”
“I will do so most assuredly; but it will be best not to use it but at the
last extremity. I have no wish to be made a bugbear to my family.”
“As to the selection of an ambassador,” I interrupted, “I beg it may not
fall on M. de Roquelaure; he has been working against me for some time.”
“Why not send M. de Jarente?” inquired the king.
“Ah, sire,” replied the duke, “because we cannot trust him; he is a gay
fellow. Madame Sophie might tell him, that he only took the part of madame
du Barry, because he passes his life amongst petticoats.”
“True enough,” said the king, “I prefer the duc de la Vauguyon: he has a
good reputation—”
“And well deserved,” said the old maréchal, sneering. “Yes, sire, he is a
pious man; at least, he plays his part well.”
“Peace, viper; you spare nobody.”
“Sire, I am only taking my revenge.”
“Why do you not like the governor of my grandsons?”
“In truth, sire, I must confess to you, that except yourself and the
ladies, I have not many likings at Versailles.”
Louis XV smiled, and I pulled the bell; when a valet appeared, I said,
“Go and find M. de la Vauguyon for his majesty.”
When we were alone, “What, already?” said Louis XV.
“Madame is right,” replied the duke, “we must strike while the iron is
hot.”
The king began to pace up and down the room, which was his invariable
custom when anything disturbed him: then suddenly stopping,
“I should not be astonished at a point blank refusal from M. de la
Vauguyon.”
“Oh, sire, make yourself easy; the governor has no inclination to follow
the steps of Montausier or Beauvilliers. In truth you are very candid; and
I must tell you, that you have too good an opinion of us.”
At this moment M. de la Vauguyon entered. He saluted the king with
humility; and asked him, in a mild tone of voice, what his pleasure was
with him.
“A real mark of your zeal,” was the king’s reply.
“And of your gallantry,” added the maréchal, who saw the hesitation of the
king. Louis XV was enchanted that another should speak for him. M. de
Richelieu continued:
“His majesty, monsieur le duc, wishes that you should prepare mesdames to
receive our dear countess here, when she shall appear before them to pay
the homage of her respect and devotion.”
The king, emboldened by these words, said, “Yes, my dear duke, I can only
find you in the château who have any influence over the princesses, my
daughters. They have much respect, and no less friendship, for you. You
will easily bring them to reason.”
As M. de la Vauguyon seemed in no hurry to undertake the charge, the
maréchal added,
“Yes, sir, to manage this business properly, you and M. de Senlis are the
only men in the kingdom.”
The maréchal had his reasons for saying this, for a secret jealousy
existed between the governor and the grand almoner. M. de la Vauguyon made
haste to say, that he could not resist his majesty’s orders, and his
desire to be agreeable to me.
“Ah! you will then do something for me?” I replied. “I am delighted and
proud.”
“Madame,” replied the duke with much gravity, “friends are proved on
occasion.”
“The present one proves your attachment to me,” said I in my turn; “and
his majesty will not think it wrong of me, if, as a recompense, I embrace
you in his presence”: and, on saying this, I went up to the duc de la
Vauguyon, and gave him two kisses, which the poor man took as quietly as
possible.
“That’s well,” said the king. “You are, la Vauguyon, a man of a thousand.
Listen attentively to me. I wish much that the comtesse du Barry should be
presented; I wish it, and that, too, in defiance of all that can be said
and done. My indignation is excited beforehand against all those who shall
raise any obstacle to it. Do not fail to let my daughters know, that if
they do not comply with my wishes, I will let my anger fall heavily on all
persons by whose counsels they may be persuaded; for I only am master, and
I will prove it to the last. These are your credentials, my dear duke, add
to them what you may think fitting; I will bear you out in any thing—”
“Mercy!” said the duc de Richelieu to me in an undertone, “the king has
poured forth all his energy in words; he will have none left to act upon
if he meets with any resistance.” The maréchal knew the king well.
“I doubt not, sire,” replied the duc de la Vauguyon, “that the respectful
duty of mesdames will be ready to comply with your desires.”
“I trust and believe it will prove so,” replied the king hastily. “I am a
good father, and would not that my daughters should give me cause to be
angry with them. Let madame Adélaïde understand, that she has lately had a
mistaken opinion of me, and that she has an opportunity of repairing her
error in the present instance. The princesses are not ignorant that I have
often shut my eyes upon certain affairs—. Enough; they must now
testify their attachment for me. Why should they oppose.”
At these latter words I could not forbear laughing. La Vauguyon and de
Richelieu left us and here the conversation terminated.
The next morning they brought me a note from the duc de la Vauguyon. Thus
it ran:—
“MADAME,—Ready to serve you, I wish to have a few minutes’
conversation with you. Be persuaded that I will not tell you anything but
what will be agreeable and useful to you.”
The presentation of the comtesse? Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! they were not
so squeamish in the days of madame de Pompadour.”
I instantly answered:—
“You are too good a friend for me to refuse to see you willingly under any
circumstances, and particularly the present. Your conduct yesterday
assures you my eternal regard. Come instantly; my grateful heart expects
you with impatience.”
My sister-in-law, to whom I showed this correspondence, said to me, “This
gentleman does not come to see you for your bright eyes; and yet his visit
is not disinterested.”
“What interest can he have to serve?”
“None of his own, perhaps; but those villainous Jesuits.”
“Don’t you like them, sister of mine?”
“I hate nobody.”
M. de la Vauguyon arrived; and as soon as we were alone, he said to me,
“Well, madame, I am now on the point of going to fight your battles. I
have to deal with a redoubtable foe.”
“Do you fear?”
“Why, I am not over confident; my position is a delicate one. Mesdames
will perforce obey the orders of the king, but they will not find much
pleasure in seeing me the ambassador sent to them: all the Choiseul party
will vociferate loudly. Nevertheless, to prove my devotion to you, I brave
it all.”
“You may rely on it that I will never forget the service you are about to
render me.”
“I have only one favor to ask of you. Authorize me to say to mesdames,
that if the pleasures of life distract your attention from religious
duties, your soul is in truth fully devoted to our holy religion; and that
far from supporting the philosophers, you will aid, by your influence with
the king, every measure advantageous to the society of Jesuits.”
The hypocritical tone in which this was uttered, almost compelled me to
burst out into a fit of laughter; but the serious posture of my affairs
induced me to preserve my gravity, and I answered in a serious tone,
“Not only, monsieur le duc, do I authorize you to say so much, but I beg
you to declare to mesdames that I am already filled with love and respect
for the Jesuits, and that it will not be my fault if they do not return
amongst us.”
“Ah, you are a treasure of wisdom,” replied the duke, kissing my hand with
fervor; “and I am disgusted at the way you are calumniated.”
“I know no reason for it, for I have never done harm to any person. Assure
mesdames that I am sincerely grieved that I am not agreeable to them, and
would give half my life to obtain, not their friendship, of which I do not
feel myself worthy, but their indifference. Deign also to tell them, that
at all times I am at their disposal, and beseech them to consider me as
their humble servant.”
“It is impossible to behave more correctly than you do; and I am confident
that mesdames will soon discard their unjust prejudices. Thus, it is well
understood that our friends will be yours.”
“Yes, yes, provided they are really mine.”
“Certainly. I answer for them as I answer for you.”
And thus, my friend, did I find myself allied to the Jesuitical party.
The duke commenced the attack with madame Louise, the most reasonable of
the king’s daughters. This angelic princess, already occupied with the
pious resolution which she afterwards put into execution in the following
year, contented herself with saying some words on the commotion occasioned
by my presence at Versailles, and then, as if her delicacy had feared to
touch on such a subject, she asked the duc de la Vauguyon, if the king
ordered her to receive the comtesse du Barry.
“Yes, madame,” replied the duke; “it is the express will of his majesty.”
“I submit to his wish: the lady may come when she will.”
The duke, contented with his success so far, went next to madame Sophie.
This princess was not unkind, but subject to attacks of the nerves, which
from time to time soured her natural disposition: she had her caprices of
hatred, her fits of love. The day when the duke talked to her of my
presentation she was very much provoked against me; and after the opening
speech of the ambassador, flung in his teeth the report of the apartments,
which I have already told you. The duke explained to her, and that too
without saying anything unfavorable of madame Adélaïde, and concluded by
begging her to concede the favor I besought. Madame eluded this, by
saying, that before she gave a definite reply she wished to confer with
her sisters.
Madame Victoire was not more easily persuaded. This princess had amiable
qualities, solid virtues which made her loved and respected by the whole
court; but she had but little will of her own, and allowed herself to be
led by the Choiseuls; who, to flatter her, told her that she alone had
inherited the energy of her grandfather, Louis XIV. She was advised to
display it in this instance, and, she would willingly have done so. The
comtesse de Bercheny, one of her ladies in waiting, was the person who
urged her on to the greatest resistance. This lady did not cease to
exclaim against me, and to fan the flame of displeasure which, but for
her, would never have appeared. I was informed of the mode adopted by
madame de Bercheny to injure me. I sent for M. Bertin, who was devoted to
my service, and begged him to go and speak to the lady; he went, and made
her understand that the king, enraged against her, would expel her from
Versailles, if she were not silent. The comtesse de Bercheny was alarmed;
and under pretence of taking a tour, left the court for a month. You will
see anon the result of all these conferences.
CHAPTER XIV
The departure of the comtesse de Bercheny was announced to the princesses
in the manner least likely to provoke their regrets. Nevertheless, a rumor
never slept at Versailles, a whisper was quickly circulated thro’-out the
castle, that this sudden and unexpected journey had originated in the
king’s weariness of her continual philippics against me; and it was
clearly comprehended by all, that a similar disgrace would be the portion
of those who should offend the monarch whilst seeking to procure my
humiliation. This show of firmness was sufficient to repress the daring
flights of those self-constituted heroines, whose courage lasted only
whilst the king was silent, and who trembled like a leaf before the
slightest manifestation of his will. Still the cabal against me, tho’
weakened, was not destroyed; it was too strong for the present shock to
dissolve it; and altho’ none was sufficiently hardy to declare open war,
plots were constantly going on to ensnare me.
Meanwhile madame Victoire, left to herself, could not long support such
excessive animosity; and the duc de la Vauguyon profiting by the species
of lassitude into which she appeared to have fallen, led her without
difficulty to act in conformity to the king’s wishes.
There remained now therefore but madame Adélaïde to overcome, and the task
became more difficult in proportion to the elevated rank she occupied at
court. By priority of birth she held the first place there; and hitherto
this superiority had been ceded to her without dispute, more particularly
since the hand of death had removed both the queen her mother, and the
dauphiness her sister-in-law. She therefore could only view with
uneasiness the prospect of another appearing on the stage whose influence
would be greater than hers; and who (until the young dauphiness should
attain to years of maturity) might deprive her of all honors but those due
to her birth. Madame Adélaïde was gifted with good sense, affability of
manners, and a kind and compassionating heart towards all who needed her
aid; her disposition was good, but she loved dominion, and the least show
of resistance to her wishes was painful and offensive to her. She was
determined to uphold the duc de Choiseul; and my decided manner towards
that minister plainly evinced how little I should feel inclined to support
her view of things. There were therefore several reasons for my presence
at court being unpleasant to madame Adélaïde.
Against her therefore did the duc de la Vauguyon direct his batteries. She
received his attack with the most determined obstinacy; all was in vain,
she was unconquerable, and the most skilfully devised plans were
insufficient to surmount her resistance; it was therefore necessary to
have recourse to the clergy, who were at that time completely led by the
Jesuits; each member of the church, up to the archbishop of Paris, was
called upon to interfere, or their names were employed in default of their
presence. It was pointed out to madame Adélaïde that I possessed good
intentions with feelings of religion, which, however stifled by the
freedom of the age, only required careful management to produce a rich
development. The success of this last mode of attack astonished the duke
himself; and madam, dazzled by the hopes of my conversion, as well as
weary of hostilities, yielded her consent to my being presented. After
these private negotiations the four sisters met at the house of the elder
one; and there they decided that since the king had so expressly
manifested his pleasure relative to my presentation, they should conform
to the desire of their father, by receiving me with every possible mark of
courtesy.
The duc de la Vauguyon hastened to communicate to me this happy state of
things; and my joy was so great, that I embraced him with the sincerest
warmth, assuring him that I should always look upon him as my best friend,
and seek to testify my regard at every opportunity that fell in my way of
forwarding his interests.
Some days afterwards the king brought me a splendid ring, worth thirty-six
thousand livres.
“You must send this jewel to your good friend the duke,” said he.
“I dare not,” replied I. “I fear lest it should draw forth his
displeasure.”
“No, no,” cried the king, “‘tis not the fashion at court to construe gifts
like this into insults, but I should wish this trifle to be presented in
an indirect manner”; and, after having considered a moment, “I have it,”
exclaimed he, “I have thought of a clever expedient; let us put this ring
upon the finger of that Chinese mandarin before us, and give the figure
with the ring, considering it merely an appendage to it. Assuredly the
most disinterested man cannot refuse to accept a china figure.”
I extolled the king’s idea as being a most happy one; and he immediately
fitted the ring upon the little finger of the mandarin, which I caused to
be carried to the duc de la Vauguyon with the following billet:—
“MONSIEUR LE DUC,—You have been my best friend; ‘tis to your kind
offices that I owe the confirmation of my happiness; but I would secure
the continuance of your valuable friendship, and for that purpose I send
you a little magical figure, which, placed in your cabinet, will compel
your thoughts to occupy themselves with me in spite of yourself. I am
superstitious enough to rely greatly upon the talismanic virtue of the
charmed porcelain; and further, I must tell you, that I was not its
purchaser in the first instance, neither did I adorn it for your
acceptance. I should not have ventured to offer more than the assurance of
my everlasting esteem and regard for your acceptance. The trifle sent
comes from a higher source; and the august hand so dear to both of us,
deigned to preside over the arrangement. Should there be in it anything at
all repugnant to your feelings, I beseech you bear me no ill will for it;
for truly, I may say, I should never have summoned courage to do that
which has just been done by him whom all unite in loving and esteeming.”
* The duke replied,—“Your talisman is welcome; yet its magic power,
far from augmenting the warmth of my feelings towards you, would have
diminished it on account of a certain accessory with which my friendship
could have well dispensed: however, what you say on the subject closes my
lips. I gratefully acknowledge the daily favors bestowed upon me from the
august hand of whom you speak; and I receive with the deepest respect
(mingled with regret) the gracious present he deigns to convey to me by
you. I own that I should have preferred, to the splendid jewel which
bedecked the finger of your deity, a Chinese counterpart, which might
indeed have enabled all admiring gazers to say, ‘these two are truly a
pair.’ As for yourself, who would fain pass for nobody in the munificent
gift, I thank you at least for the flattering place you assign me in your
recollection. Be assured I feel its full value, and you may confidently
reckon upon the disposal of my poor credit as well as command the little
influence I may be said to possess in the castle. Adieu, madame, I entreat
your acceptance of the expression of my most sincere and respectful
devotion.”
The king, having read M. de la Vauguyon’s letter, sent immediately to the
china manufactory to purchase the fellow mandarin so much coveted by the
duke, and caused it to be conveyed to him with the following words:—
“MY DEAR GOVERNOR—You are a kind-hearted creature I know, and a
great promoter of domestic harmony; to fain unite the wife with the
husband. Heaven grant that such a measure may indeed bring about your
proposed felicity! However, by way of furthering your schemes, I send the
Chinese lady, whose beauty I trust will not disturb your repose, for in
spite of your sanctity, I know you can be as gallant as the rest of us,
and possibly this beautiful mandarin may prove to be more lovely in your
eyes, than in those of the husband for whom she is destined; but, in sober
earnestness, I would wish you to be convinced that my intention is not to
attempt payment for the services rendered me, but simply to evince my
sense of their value. There is one beside me at this moment who has given
me a kiss to transmit to you—You will easily guess who has had the
audacity to enlist me into her service upon such an occasion.”
This was one of the recompenses offered to the duc de la Vauguyon, as a
compensation for the public clamor and dislike which sprung up against him
in consequence of his zeal for my service. At Versailles, the general
ferment was at its height, when it became generally known that I had
triumphed over all obstacles, and that my presentation was certainly to
take place. In the midst of all this the desperate odium fell upon the duc
de la Vauguyon, and a general attack was made upon him: his virtues,
reputation, talents, qualities, were made the subject of blame and scandal—in
a word, he was run down by public opinion. But the leaders of the cabal
were not the less struck by the news of my success, which sounded in their
ears like the falling of a thunder-bolt.
The silly princess de Gueméné, who, with her husband, has since become a
bankrupt to so enormous and scandalous an amount, flew without delay to
convey the tidings of my victory to the duchesse de Grammont, to whom it
was a death-blow. All her courage forsook her; she shed bitter tears, and
displayed a weakness so much the more ridiculous, as it seemed to arise
from the utmost despair. She repaired to madame Adélaïde, before whom she
conducted herself in the most absurd and extravagant manner. The poor
princess, intimidated by the weakness she herself evinced, in drawing back
after she had in a manner espoused the opposite party, durst not irritate
her, but, on the contrary, strove to justify her own change of conduct
towards me, by urging the impossibility of refusing obedience to the
express command of the king.
The other princesses did not evince greater firmness when overwhelmed by
the complaints of the cabal, and in a manner bent their knee before the
wives of the French nobility, asking their pardon for their father’s error
in selecting a mistress from any rank but theirs. About this period a
song, which I admired greatly, was circulated abroad. My enemies
interpreted it to my disadvantage, but I was far from being of the same
opinion. It was successively attributed to the most clever men in Paris,
and I have myself met with four who each asserted himself to be the
author; in justice it should be ascribed to him who appeared the most
calculated to have written it, and who indeed claimed it for his own—the
chevalier de Boufflers. I do not know whether you recollect the lines in
question. I will transcribe them from memory, adding another couplet,
which was only known amongst our own particular circle, but which proves
most incontestably the spirit of kindness with which the stanzas were
composed.
Thy beauty, seductress, leads mortals astray, Over hearts, Lise, how vast
and resistless thy sway. Cease, duchess, to blush! cease, princess, to
rave—Venus sprang from the foam of the ocean wave. All the gods pay
their homage at her beauteous shrine, And adore her as potent, resistless,
divine! To her Paris, the shepherd, awarded the prize, Sought by Juno the
regal, and Pallas the wise.
Who rules o’er her lord in the Turkish serail, Reigns queen of his
heart, and e’er basks in his smile? ‘Tis she, who resplendent, shines
loveliest of all, And beauty holds power in her magic thrall. Then heed
not the clamors that Grammont may raise, How natural her anger! how vain
her dispraise! ‘Tis not a mere mortal our monarch can charm, Free from
pride is the beauty that bears off the palm.
This song was to be found in almost every part of France. Altho’ the last
couplet was generally suppressed, so evident was its partial tone towards
me, in the midst of it all I could not help being highly amused with the
simplicity evinced by the good people of France, who, in censuring the
king’s conduct, found nothing reprehensible but his having omitted to
select his mistress from elevated rank.
The citizens resented this falling off in royalty with as much warmth and
indignation as the grandees of the court; and I could enjoy a laugh on the
subject of their angry displeasure as soon as my presentation was decided
upon.
The intrigues carried on by those about the princesses, and the necessity
of awaiting the perfect recovery of madame de Bearn, delayed this (to me)
important day till the end of the month of April, 1770. On the evening of
the 21st the king, according to custom, announced a presentation for the
following day; but he durst not explain himself more frankly; he
hesitated, appeared embarrassed, and only pronounced my name in a low and
uncertain voice; it seemed as tho’ he feared his own authority was
insufficient to support him in such a measure. This I did not learn till
some time afterwards; and when I did hear it, I took the liberty of
speaking my opinion upon it freely to his majesty.
On the next day, the 22d, I was solely engrossed with my dress: it was the
most important era of my life, and I would not have appeared on it to any
disadvantage. A few days previously, the king had sent me, by the crown
jeweller, Boemer, a set of diamonds, valued at 150,000 livres, of which he
begged my acceptance. Delighted with so munificent a present I set about
the duties of the toilette with a zeal and desire of pleasing which the
importance of the occasion well excused. I will spare you the description
of my dress; were I writing to a woman I would go into all these details;
but as I know they would not be to your taste, I will pass all these
uninteresting particulars over in silence, and proceed to more important
matter.
Paris and Versailles were filled with various reports. Thro’out the city,
within, without the castle, all manner of questions were asked, as tho’
the monarchy itself was in danger. Couriers were dispatched every instant
with fresh tidings of the great event which was going on. A stranger who
had observed the general agitation would easily have remarked the contrast
between the rage and consternation of my enemies and the joy of my
partizans, who crowded in numbers to the different avenues of the palace,
in order to feast their eyes upon the pageantry of my triumphal visit to
court.
Nothing could surpass the impatience with which I was expected; hundreds
were counting the minutes, whilst I, under the care of my hairdresser and
robemaker, was insensible to the rapid flight of time, which had already
carried us beyond the hour appointed for my appearance. The king himself
was a prey to an unusual uneasiness; the day appeared to him interminable;
and the eagerness with which he awaited me made my delay still more
apparent. A thousand conjectures were afloat as to the cause of it. Some
asserted that my presentation had been deferred for the present, and, in
all probability, would never take place; that the princesses had opposed
it in the most decided manner, and had refused upon any pretense whatever
to admit me to their presence. All these suppositions charmed my enemies,
and filled them with hopes which their leaders, better informed, did not
partake.
Meanwhile the king’s restlessness increased; he kept continually
approaching the window to observe what was going on in the court-yard of
the castle, and seeing there no symptoms of my equipage being in
attendance, began to lose both temper and patience. It has been asserted,
that he gave orders to have the presentation put off till a future period,
and that the duc de Richelieu procured my entrée by force; this is
partly true and partly false. Whilst in ignorance of the real cause of my
being so late, the king said to the first gentleman of the chamber,
“You will see that this poor countess has met with some accident, or else
that her joy has been too much for her, and made her too ill to attend our
court to-day; if that be the case, it is my pleasure that her presentation
should not be delayed beyond to-morrow.”
“Sire,” replied the duke, “your majesty’s commands are absolute.”
These words, but half understood, were eagerly caught up, and interpreted
their own way by those who were eager to seize anything that might tell to
my prejudice.
At length I appeared; and never had I been more successful in appearance.
I was conducted by my godmother, who, decked like an altar, was all joy
and satisfaction to see herself a sharer in such pomp and splendor. The
princesses received me most courteously; the affability, either real or
feigned, which shone in their eyes as they regarded me, and the flattering
words with which they welcomed my arrival, was a mortal blow to many of
the spectators, especially to the ladies of honor. The princesses would
not suffer me to bend my knee before them, but at the first movement I
made to perform this act of homage, they hastened to raise me, speaking to
me at the same time in the most gracious manner.
But my greatest triumph was with the king. I appeared before him in all my
glory, and his eyes declared in a manner not to be misunderstood by all
around him the impetuous love which he felt for me. He had threatened the
previous evening to let me fall at his feet without the least effort on
his part to prevent it. I told him that I was sure his gallantry would not
allow him to act in this manner; and we had laid a bet on the matter. As
soon as I approached him, and he took my hand to prevent me, as I began to
stoop before him, “You have lost, sire,” said I to him.
“How is it possible to preserve my dignity in the presence of so many
graces?” was his reply.
These gracious words of his majesty were heard by all around him. My
enemies were wofully chagrined; but what perfected their annihilation was
the palpable lie which my appearance gave to their false assertions. They
had blazoned forth everywhere that my manners were those of a housemaid;
that I was absurd and unladylike in my conduct; and that it was only
requisite to have a glimpse of me to recognize both the baseness of my
extraction, and the class of society in which my life had been hitherto
spent.
But I showed manners so easy and so elegant that the people soon shook off
their preconceived prejudice against me. I heard my demeanor lauded as
greatly as my charms and the splendor of my attire. Nothing could be more
agreeable to me. In a word, I obtained complete success, and thenceforward
learnt experimentally how much the exterior and a noble carriage add to
the consideration in which a person is held. I have seen individuals of
high rank and proud behavior who carried no influence in their looks,
because their features were plain and common place; whilst persons of low
station, whose face was gifted with natural dignity, had only to show
themselves to attract the respect of the multitude.
Nothing about me bespoke that I was sprung from a vulgar stock, and thus
scandal of that kind ceased from the day of my presentation; and public
opinion having done me justice in this particular, slander was compelled
to seek for food elsewhere.
That evening I had a large circle at my house. The chancellor, the bishop
of Orleans, M. de Saint-Florentin, M. Bertin, the prince de Soubise, the
ducs de Richelieu, de la Trimouille, de Duras, d’Aiguillon, and d’Ayen.
This last did not hesitate to come to spy out all that passed in my
apartments, that he might go and spread it abroad, augmented by a thousand
malicious commentaries. I had also M. de Sartines, my brother-in-law, etc.
The duc de la Vauguyon alone was absent. I knew beforehand that he would
not come, and that it was a sacrifice which he thought himself compelled
to make to the cabal. The ladies were mesdames de Bearn and d’Aloigny,
with my sisters-in-law. Amongst the ladies presented they were the only
ones with whom I had formed any intimacy; as for the rest I was always the
“horrible creature,” of whom they would not hear on any account.
The king, on entering, embraced me before the whole party. “You are a
charming creature,” said he to me, “and the brilliancy of your beauty has
to-day reminded me of the device of my glorious ancestor.”
This was a flattering commencement; the rest of the company chimed in with
their master, and each tried to take the first part in the chorus. The duc
d’Ayen even talked of my grace of manner. “Ah, sir,” said I to him, “I
have had time to learn it from Pharamond to the reigning king.”
This allusion was bitter, and did not escape the duke, who turned pale in
spite of his presence of mind, on finding that I was aware of the
malicious repartee which he had made to the king when talking of me, and
which I have already mentioned to you. The chancellor said to me,
“You have produced a great effect, but especially have you triumphed over
the cabal by the nobility of your manners and the dignity of your mien;
and thus you have deprived it of one of its greatest engines of mischief,
that of calumniating your person.”
“They imagined then,” said I to him, “that I could neither speak nor be
silent, neither walk nor sit still.”
“As they wished to find you ignorant and awkward they have set you down as
such. This is human nature: when we hate any one, we say they are capable
of any thing; then, that they have become guilty of every thing; and, to
wind up all, they adopt for truth to-day what they invented last night.”
“Were you not fearful?” inquired the king.
“Forgive me, sire,” I answered, “when I say that I feared lest I should
not please your majesty; and I was excessively desirous of convincing
mesdames of my respectful attachment.”
This reply was pronounced to be fitting and elegant, altho’ I had not in
any way prepared it. The fact is, that I was in great apprehension lest I
should displease the king’s daughters; and I dreaded lest they should
manifest too openly the little friendship which they had towards me.
Fortunately all passed off to a miracle, and my good star did not burn
dimly in this decisive circumstance.
Amongst those who rejoiced at my triumph I cannot forget the duc
d’Aiguillon. During the whole of the day he was in the greatest agitation.
His future destiny was, in a measure, attached to my fortune; he knew that
his whole existence depended on mine; and he expected from me powerful
support to defend him against the pack of his enemies, who were yelping
open-mouthed against him. He stood in need of all his strength of mind and
equanimity to conceal the disquietude and perplexity by which he was
internally agitated.
The comte Jean also participated in this great joy. His situation at court
was not less doubtful; he had no longer reason to blush for his alliance
with me, and could now form, without excess of presumption, the most
brilliant hopes of the splendor of his house. His son, the vicomte
Adolphe, was destined to high fortune; and I assure you that I deeply
regretted when a violent and premature death took him away from his
family. My presentation permitted his father to realize the chimera which
he had pursued with so much perseverance. He flattered himself in taking
part with me. I did not forget him in the distribution of my rewards; and
the king’s purse was to him a source into which he frequently dipped with
both hands.
The next day I had a visit from the chancellor.
“Now,” said he, “you are at the height of your wishes, and we must arrange
matters, that the king shall find perpetual and varied amusements, with
you. He does not like large parties; a small circle is enough for him;
then he is at his ease, and likes to see the same faces about him. If you
follow my advice you will have but few females about you, and select that
few with discernment.”
“How can I choose them at all when I see so very few?” was my reply. “I
have no positive intimacy with any court lady; and amongst the number I
should be at a loss to select any one whom I would wish to associate with
in preference to another.”
“Oh, do not let that disturb you,” he replied: “they leave you alone now,
because each is intent on observing what others may do; but as soon as any
one shall pay you a visit, the others will run as fast after you as did
the sheep of Panurge. I am greatly deceived if they are not very desirous
that one of them shall devote herself, and make the first dash, that they
may profit by her pretended fault. I know who will not be the last to come
and station herself amongst the furniture of your apartment. The maréchale
de Mirepoix was too long the complaisant friend of madame de Pompadour not
to become, and that very soon, the friend of the comtesse du Barry.”
“Good heaven,” I exclaimed, “how delighted I should be to have the
friendship of this lady, whose wit and amiable manners are so greatly
talked of.”
“Yes,” said de Maupeou, laughing, “she is a type of court ladies, a
mixture of dignity and suppleness, majesty and condescension, which is
worth its weight in gold. She was destined from all eternity to be the
companion of the king’s female friends.”
We both laughed; and the chancellor went on to say: “There are others whom
I will point out to you by and by; as for this one, I undertake to find
out whether she will come first of the party. She has sent to ask an
audience of me concerning a suit she has in hand. I will profit by the
circumstances to come to an explanation with her, about you. She is not
over fond of the Choiseul party; and I augur this, because I see that she
puts on a more agreeable air towards them.”
CHAPTER XV
Amongst those personages who came to compliment me on the evening of my
presentation was M. the comte de la Marche, son of the prince du Conti,
and consequently prince of the blood. He had long been devoted to the will
of Louis XV. As soon as his most serene highness had wind of my favor he
hastened to add to the number of my court; and I leave you to imagine how
greatly I was flattered at seeing it augmented by so august a personage.
This conquest was most valuable in my eyes, for I thus proved to the
world, that by attracting the king to me I did not isolate him from the
whole of his family. It is very true that for some time the comte de la
Marche had been out of favor with the public, by reason of his over
complaisance towards the ministers of the king’s pleasure; but he was not
the less a prince of the blood, and at Versailles this rank compensated
for almost every fault. He was a lively man, moreover, his society was
agreeable, and the title he bore reflected his distinction amongst a crowd
of courtiers. I felt, therefore, that I ought to consider myself as very
fortunate that he deigned to visit me, and accordingly received him with
all the civility I could display; and the welcome reception which he
always experienced drew him frequently to my abode.
The friendship with which he honored me was not agreeable to my enemies;
and they tried by every possible means to seduce him from me. They got his
near relations to talk to him about it; his intimate friends to reason
with him; the females whom he most admired to dissuade him from it. There
was not one of these latter who did not essay to injure me in his
estimation, by saying that he dishonored himself by an acquaintance with
me. There was amongst others a marquise de Beauvoir, the issue of a petty
nobility, whom he paid with sums of gold, altho’ she was not his mistress
by title. Gained over by the Choiseuls, she made proposals concerning me
to the prince of so ridiculous a nature, that he said to her impatiently:
“I’ faith, my dear, as in the eyes of the world every woman who lives with
a man who is not her husband is a ———, so I think a man
is wise to choose the loveliest he can find; and in this way the king is
at this moment much better off than any of his subjects.”
Only imagine what a rage this put the marquise de Beauvoir in: she
stormed, wept, had a nervous attack. The comte de la Marche contemplated
her with a desperate tranquillity; but this scene continuing beyond the
limits of tolerable patience, he was so tired of it that he left her. This
was not what the marquise wished; and she hastened to write a submissive
letter to him, in which, to justify herself, she confessed to the prince,
that in acting against me she had only yielded to the instigations of the
cabal, and particularly alluded to mesdames de Grammont and de Guémenée.
The comte de la Marche showed me this letter, which I retained in spite of
his resistance and all the efforts he made to obtain possession of it
again. My intention was to show it to the king; and I did not fail to give
it to him at the next visit he paid me: he read it, and shrugging up his
shoulders, as was his usual custom, he said to me,
“They are devils incarnate, and the worst of the kind. They try to injure
you in every way, but they shall not succeed. I receive also anonymous
letters against you, they are tossed into the post-box in large packets
with feigned names, in the hope that they will reach me. Such slanders
ought not to annoy you: in the days of madame de Pompadour, the same thing
was done. The same schemes were tried to ruin madame de Chateauroux.
Whenever I have been suspected of any tenderness towards a particular
female, every species of intrigue has been instantly put in requisition.
Moreover,” he continued, “madame de Grammont attacks you with too much
obstinacy not to make me believe but that she would employ all possible
means to attain her end.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed, “because she has participated in your friendship you
are ready to support her.”
“Do not say so in a loud tone,” he replied laughingly; “her joy would know
no bounds if she could believe it was in her power to inspire you with
jealousy.”
“But,” I said, “that insolent Guémenée; has she also to plume herself on
your favors as an excuse for overpowering me with her hatred, and for
tearing me to pieces in the way she does?”
“No,” was the king’s answer; “she is wrong, and I will desire her
father-in-law to say so.”
“And I will come to an explanation with the prince de Soubise on this
point; and we will see whether or not I will allow myself to have my
throat cut like an unresisting sheep.”
I did not fail to keep my word. The prince de Soubise came the next
morning; chance on that day induced him to be extraordinarily gallant
towards me; never had he praised me so openly, or with so much
exaggeration. I allowed him to go on; but when at length he had finished
his panegyric, “Monsieur le maréchal,” said I to him, “you are overflowing
with kindness towards me, and I wish that all the members of your family
would treat me with the same indulgence.”
Like a real courtier he pretended not to understand me, and made no reply,
hoping, no doubt, that the warmth of conversation would lead me to some
other subject; but this one occupied me too fully to allow me to divert my
attention from it; and, seeing that he continued silent, I continued,
“madame your daughter-in-law behaves towards me like a declared enemy; she
assails me by all sorts of provocation, and at last will so act, that I
shall find myself compelled to struggle against her with open force.”
You must be a courtier, you must have been in the presence of a king who
is flattered from morning to night in all his caprices, to appreciate the
frightful state in which my direct attack placed the prince de Soubise.
Neither his political instinct, nor the tone of pleasantry which he
essayed to assume, nor the more dangerous resource of offended dignity,
could extricate him from the embarrassment in which he was thrown by my
words. He could do nothing but stammer out a few unintelligible phrases;
and his confusion was so great and so visible, that the marquis de
Chauvelin, his not over sincere friend, came to his assistance. The king,
equally surprised at what I had just said, hastily turned and spoke to
Chon, who told me afterwards, that the astonishment of Louis XV had been
equal to that of the prince de Soubise, and that he had evinced it by the
absence of mind which he had manifested in his discourse and manners.
M. de Chauvelin then turning towards me, said, “Well, madame, on what evil
herb have you walked to-day? Can it be possible that you would make the
prince, who is your friend, responsible for the hatred which ought to be
flattering rather than painful to you, since it is a homage exacted
towards your brilliant loveliness?”
“In the first place,” I replied, “I have no intention to cast on monsieur
le maréchal, whom I love with all my heart, the least responsibility
relative to the object of which I complain. I only wished to evince to him
the regret I experienced at not seeing all the members of his family like
him: this is all. I should be in despair if I thought I had said anything
that would wound him; and if I have done so, I most sincerely ask his
pardon.”
On saying these words I presented my hand to the prince, who instantly
kissed it.
“You are,” said he, “at the same time cruel and yet most amiable: but if
you have the painful advantage of growing old at court, you will learn
that my children have not all the deference and respect towards me which
they owe to their father; and I often am pained to see them act in a
manner entirely opposite to my desires, however openly manifested. If my
daughter does not love you, it is to me, most probably, that you must look
for the why and wherefore: it is because I love you so much
that she is against you. I have committed an error in praising you before
her, and her jealousy was not proof against it.”
“That is very amiable in you,” said I; “and now whatever may be my
feelings against the princesse de Guémenée, I will endeavor to dissemble
it out of regard for you; and, I assure you, that however little
consideration your daughter-in-law may testify towards me, I will show her
a fair side: endeavor to make peace between us. I only ask to be let
alone, for I do not seek to become the enemy of any person.”
Altho’ M. de Soubise said that he had no influence over the princesse de
Guémenée, I learned, subsequently, that the day after this scene he
testified to the Guémenée some fears as to his future destiny at court. He
begged her not to oppose herself to me; to be silent with respect to me,
and to keep herself somewhat in the shade if she would not make some
advances towards me. His daughter-in-law, whose arrogance equalled her
dissipation and dissolute manners, replied, that she was too much above a
woman of my sort to fear or care for me; that my reign at the château
would be but brief, whilst hers would only terminate with her life: that
she would never consent to an act of weakness that would be derogatory to
her character and rank. In vain did the prince try to soften her, and make
her consider that my influence over the king was immense: he preached to
the desert, and was compelled to abandon his purpose without getting any
thing by his endeavors.
I now return to my conversation with him. During the time it lasted the
king did not cease talking to Chon, all the time listening with attention
to what the prince and I were saying; and he did not approach us until the
intervention of M. de Chauvelin had terminated this kind of a quarrel. He
returned to his seat in front of the fire; and when we were alone, said to
me,
“You have been very spiteful to the poor maréchal, and I suffered for
him.”
“You are an excellent friend; and, no doubt, it is the affection you bear
to M. de Soubise which makes you behave so harshly to me. Can I not,
without displeasing you, defend myself when I am attacked?”
“I did not say so; but is it necessary that he must be responsible for the
follies of his relations?”
“In truth, sire, so much the worse for the father who cannot make his
children respect him. If the maréchal was respected by the public, believe
me he would be so by his family.”
This retort was perhaps too severe. I found this by the silence of the
king; but as, in fact, it imported little, and, by God’s help, I was never
under much constraint with him, I saw him blush, and then he said to me,
“Now, I undertake to bring madame de Guémenée into proper order. The favor
I ask is, that you would not meddle. I have power enough to satisfy you,
but, for heaven’s sake, do not enter into more quarrels than you have
already. It seems to me that you ought to avoid them instead of creating
such disturbances.”
He had assumed a grave tone in reading me this lecture: but as we were in
a place in which majesty could not be committed, I began to laugh
heartily, and to startle him, I said that henceforward I would pilot my
bark myself, and defend myself by openly assailing all persons who
testified an aversion to me. How laughable it was to see the comic despair
in which this determination threw the king. It seemed to him that the
whole court would be at loggerheads; and he could not restrain himself
from exclaiming, that he would a hundred times rather struggle against the
king of Prussia and the emperor of Germany united, than against three or
four females of the château. In a word, I frightened him so completely,
that he decided on the greatest act of courage he had ever essayed in my
favor: it was, to desire the intervention of the duc de Choiseul in all
these quarrels.
The credit of this minister was immense, and this credit was based on four
powerful auxiliaries; namely the parliament, the philosophers, the literati,
and the women. The high magistracy found in him a public and private
protector. The parliaments had themselves a great many clients, and their
voices, given to the duc de Choiseul, gave him great power in the
different provinces. The philosophers, ranged under the banner of
Voltaire, who was their god, and of d’Alembert, their patriarch, knew all
his inclinations for them, and knew how far they might rely on his support
in all attempts which they made to weaken the power of the clergy, and to
diminish the gigantic riches which had been amassed by prelates and
monasteries. The writers were equally devoted to him: they progressed with
the age, and as on all sides they essayed to effect important reforms, it
was natural that they should rally about him in whose hands was the power
of their operations.
The ladies admired his gallantry: in fact, the duc de Choiseul was a man
who understood marvellously well how to combine serious labors with
pleasure. I was, perhaps, the only woman of the court whom he would not
love, and yet I was not the least agreeable nor the most ugly. It was very
natural for them to exalt his merit and take him under their especial
protection. Thus was he supported in every quarter by them; they boasted
of his measures, and by dint of repeating in the ears of every body that
M. de Choiseul was a minister par excellence, and the support of
monarchy, they had contrived to persuade themselves of the truth of their
assertion. In fact, if France found herself freed from the Jesuits, it was
to the duc de Choiseul that this was owing, and this paramount benefit
assured to him universal gratitude.
The king was fully aware of this unanimity of public opinion in favor of
his minister. He was, besides, persuaded, that in arranging the pacte
de famille, and concluding the alliance with the imperial house, the
duc de Choiseul had evinced admirable diplomatic talents, and rendered
France real, and important, service. His attachment to him was incumbent,
and rested on solid foundations. If, at a subsequent period, he dismissed
him, it was because he was deceived by a shameful intrigue which it will
cost me pain to develop to you, because I took by far too much a leading
part in it, which now causes me the deepest regret.
Now, by the act of my presentation, the duc de Choiseul would be compelled
to meet me often, which would render our mutual situation very
disagreeable. On this account the king sought to reconcile us, and would
have had no difficulty in effecting his wishes had he only had the
resistance of the minister and his wife to encounter. The lady had not
much influence over her husband, and besides she had too much good sense
to struggle against the wishes of the king: but the duchesse de Grammont
was there, and this haughty and imperious dame had so great an ascendancy
with her brother, and behaved with so little caution, that the most odious
reports were in circulation about their intimacy.
It could scarcely be hoped that we could tame this towering spirit, which
saw in me an odious rival. Louis XV did not flatter himself that he could
effect this prodigy, but he hoped to have a greater ascendancy over his
minister. It was to the duc de Choiseul, therefore, that he first
addressed himself, desirous of securing the husband and wife before he
attacked the redoubtable sister. The next morning, after my warm assault
on the prince de Soubise, he profited by an audience which the duke
requested at an unusual hour to introduce this negotiation of a new kind,
and the details I give you of this scene are the more faithful, as the
king gave them to me still warm immediately after the conversation had
terminated.
The state affairs having been concluded, the king, seeking to disguise his
voluntary embarrassment, said to the duke, smiling,
“Duc de Choiseul, I have formed for my private hours a most delightful
society: the most attached of my subjects consider themselves highly
favored when I invite them to these evening parties so necessary for my
amusement. I see with pain that you have never yet asked me to admit you
there.”
“Sire,” replied the duke, “the multiplicity of the labors with which your
majesty has charged me, scarcely allows me time for my pleasures.”
“Oh, you are not so fully occupied but that you have still some time to
spend with the ladies, and I think that I used to meet you frequently at
the marquise de Pompadour’s.”
“Sire, she was my friend.”
“Well, and why, is not the comtesse du Barry? Who has put it into your
head that she was opposed to you? You do not know her: she is an excellent
woman: not only has she no dislike to you, but even desires nothing more
than to be on good terms with you.”
“I must believe so since your majesty assures me of it; but, sire, the
vast business with which I am overwhelmed—”
“Is not a sufficing plea; I do not allow that without a special motive,
you should declare yourself against a person whom I honor with my
protection. As you do not know her, and cannot have any thing to urge
against her but prejudices founded on false rumors and scandalous
fabrications, I engage you to sup with me at her apartments this evening,
and I flatter myself that when I wish it you will not coin a parcel of
reasons in opposition to my desire.”
“I know the obedience that is due to your majesty,” said de Choiseul,
bowing low.
“Well, then, do first from duty what I flatter myself you will afterwards
do from inclination. Duc de Choiseul, do not allow yourself to be
influenced by advice that will prove injurious to you. What I ask cannot
compromise you; but I should wish that with you all should be quiet, that
no one should struggle against me, and that too with the air of contending
against a person’s station. Do not reply, you know perfectly what I would
say, and I know what belongs to myself.”
Here the conversation terminated. The duc de Choiseul did not become my
friend any the more, but behaved towards me with all due consideration. He
used grace and finesse in his proceedings, without mingling with it
anything approaching to nonsense. He never allowed himself, whatever has
been said, to dart out in my face any of those epigrams which public
malignity has attributed to him. Perhaps like many other persons in the
world, he has said many pleasantries of me which have been reported as
said in my presence, but I repeat that he never uttered in my society a
single word with which I had cause to be offended.
At this juncture I received a letter of which I had the folly to be proud,
altho’ a little reflection should have made me think that my situation
alone inspired it: it was from M. de Voltaire. This great genius was born
a courtier. Whether he loved the protection of the great, or whether he
thought it necessary to him, he was constantly aiming, from his youth
upwards, at obtaining the countenance of persons belonging to a high rank,
which made him servile and adulatory whilst they were in power, and full
of grimace towards them when the wind favor ceased to swell their sails.
It was in this way that mesdames de Chateauroux and de Pompadour had had
his homage. He had sung their praises, and, of course, he could not forget
me. You will recall to mind the letter which he wrote to the duc
d’Aiguillon, on occasion of the piece of poetry entitled “La Cour du
Roi Petaud.” He had denied having composed it, but this denial had not
been addressed directly to me. Having learnt, no doubt, that my credit was
increasing, he thought himself obliged to write to me, that he might rank
me with his party. He might have availed himself of the intermediation of
the duc d’Aiguillon, but preferred putting the duc de Richelieu into his
confidence, and begged him to fulfil the delicate function of literary
Mercury. I was alone when the maréchal came to me with an assumed air of
mystery. His first care was to look around him without saying a word; and
it was not until after he had shaken the curtains, and peeped into every
corner of the apartment, that he approached me, who was somewhat surprised
at his monkey tricks.
“I am the bearer,” he said, in a low voice, “of a secret and important
communication, which I have been entreated to deliver after five or six
hundred cautions at least: it is a defection from the enemy’s camp, and
not the least in value.”
Fully occupied by my quarrel with the ladies of the court, I imagined that
he had brought me a message of peace from some great lady; and, full of
this idea, I asked him in haste the name of her whose friendship I had
acquired.
“Good,” said he, “it is about a lady, is it? It is from a personage fully
as important, a giant in power, whose words resound from one extremity of
Europe to another, and whom the Choiseuls believe their own entirely.”
“Exactly so: your perspicacity has made you guess it.”
“To be at peace with you; to range himself under your banner, secretly at
first, but afterwards openly.”
“Is he then afraid openly to evince himself my friend?” I replied, in a
tone of some pique.
“Rather so, and yet you must not feel offended at that. The situation of
this sarcastic and talented old man is very peculiar; his unquiet
petulance incessantly gives birth to fresh perils. He, of necessity, must
make friends in every quarter, left and right, in France and foreign
countries. The necessary consequence is, that he cannot follow a straight
path. The Choiseuls have served him with perfect zeal: do not be
astonished if he abandon them when they can no longer serve him. If they
fall, he will bid them good evening, and will sport your cockade openly.”
“But,” I replied, “this is a villainous character.”
“Ah, I do not pretend to introduce to you an Aristides or an Epaminondas,
or any other soul of similar stamp. He is a man of letters, full of wit, a
deep thinker, a superior genius, and our reputations are in his hands. If
he flatters us, posterity will know it; if he laugh at us, it will know it
also. I counsel you therefore to use him well, if you would have him
behave so towards you.”
“I will act conformably to your advice,” said I to the maréchal; “at the
same time I own to you that I fear him like a firebrand.”
“I, like you, think that there is in him something of the infernal stone:
he burns you on the slightest touch. But now, to this letter; you will see
what he says to you. He begs me most particularly to conceal from every
body the step he has taken with you. What he most dreads is, lest you
should proclaim from the housetops that he is in correspondence with you.
I conjure you, on his behalf, to exercise the greatest discretion, and I
think that you are interested in doing so; for, if what he has done should
be made public, he will not fail to exercise upon you the virulence of his
biting wit.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a stir which we heard in the château,
and which announced to us the king. The maréchal hastily desired me not to
show Voltaire’s letter to the king until I had read it previously to
myself. “He does not like this extraordinary man,” he added, “and accuses
him of having failed in respect, and perhaps you will find in this paper
some expression which may displease him.”
Scarcely had I put the epistle in my pocket, when the king entered.
“What are you talking about,” said he, “you seem agitated?”
“Of M. de Voltaire, sire,” I replied, with so much presence of mind as to
please the duc de Richelieu.
“What, is he at his tricks again? Have you any cause of complaint against
him?”
“Quite the reverse; he has charged M. d’Argental to say to M. de
Richelieu, that he was sorry that he could not come and prostrate himself
at my feet.”
“Ah,” said the king, remembering the letter to the duc d’Aiguillon, “he
persists in his coquetries towards you: that is better than being
lampooned by him. But do not place too much confidence in this gentleman
of the chamber: he weighs every thing in two scales; and I doubt much
whether he will spare you when he evinces but little consideration for
me.”
Certainly Richelieu had a good opportunity of undertaking the defence of
his illustrious friend. He did no such thing; and I have always thought
that Voltaire was the person whom the duke detested more heartily than any
other person in the world. He did, in fact, dread him too much to esteem
him as a real friend.
“M. d’Argental,” said the king, “unites then at my court the double
function of minister of Parma and steward of Ferney.* Are these two
offices compatible?”
“Yes, sire,” replied the duke, laughing, “since he has not presented
officially to your majesty the letters of his creation as comte de
Tournay.”
The king began to laugh. This was the name of an estate which Voltaire
had, and which he sometimes assumed.
CHAPTER XVI
By the way in which the king continued to speak to me of M. de Voltaire, I
clearly saw how right the duke was in advising me to read the letter
myself before I showed it to my august protector. I could not read it
until the next day, and found it conceived in the following terms:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE:—I feel myself urged by an extreme desire to
have an explanation with you, after the receipt of a letter which M. the
duc d’Aiguillon wrote to me last year. This nobleman, nephew of a
gentleman, as celebrated for the name he bears as by his own reputation,
and who has been my friend for more than sixty years, has communicated to
me the pain which had been caused you by a certain piece of poetry, of my
writing as was stated, and in which my style was recognised. Alas! madame,
ever since the most foolish desire in the world has excited me to commit a
great deal of idle trash to paper, not a month, a week, nay, even a day
passes in which I am not accused and convicted of some great enormity;
that is to say, the malicious author of all sorts of turpitudes and
extravagancies. Eh! mon Dieu, the entire life-time of ten men would
not be sufficient to write all with which I am charged, to my unutterable
despair in this world, and to my eternal damnation in that which is to
come.
“It is no doubt, much to die in final impenitence; altho’ hell may contain
all the honest men of antiquity and a great portion of those of our times;
and paradise would not be much to hope for if we must find ourselves face
to face with messieurs Fréron, Nonatte, Patouillet, Abraham Chauneix, and
other saints cut out of the same cloth. But how much more severe would it
be to sustain your anger! The hatred of the Graces brings down misfortune
on men of letters; and when he embroils himself with Venus and the Muses
he is a lost being; as, for instance, M. Dorat, who incessantly slanders
his mistresses, and writes nothing but puerilities.
“I have been very cautious, in my long career, how I committed such a
fault. If perchance I have lightly assailed the common cry of scribblers
or pendants who were worthless, I have never ceased to burn incense on the
altars of the ladies; them I have always sung when I—could not do
otherwise. Independently, madame, of the profound respect I bear all your
sex I profess a particular regard towards all those who approach our
sovereign, and whom he invests with his confidence: in this I prove myself
no less a faithful subject than a gallant Frenchman; and I venerate the
God I serve in his constant friendships as I would do in his caprices.
Thus I was far from outraging and insulting you still more grievously by
composing a hateful work which I detest with my whole heart, and which
makes me shed tears of blood when I think that people did not blush to
attribute it to me.
“Believe in my respectful attachment, madame, no less than in my cruel
destiny, which renders me odious to those by whom I would be loved. My
enemies, a portion of whom are amongst yours, certainly succeed each other
with frightful eagerness to try my wind. Now they have just published
under my name some attacks on the poor president Henault, whom I love with
sincere affection. What have they not attributed to me to inculpate me
with my friends, with my illustrious protectors, M. le maréchal duc de
Richelieu and their majesties the king of Prussia and the czarina of
Russia!
“I could excuse them for making war upon strangers in my name, altho’ that
would be a pirate’s method; but to attack, under my banner, my master, my
sovereign lord, this I can never pardon, and I will raise against them
even a dying voice; particularly when they strike you with the same blows;
you, who love literature; you, who do me the honor to charge your memory
with my feeble productions. It is an infamy to pretend that I fire on my
own troops.
“Under any circumstances, madame, I am before you in a very delicate
situation. There is in Versailles a family which overwhelms me with marks
of their friendship. Mine ought to appertain to it to perpetuity; yet I
learn that it is so unfortunate as to have no conception of your merit,
and that envious talebearers place themselves between you and it. I am
told that there is a kind of declared war; it is added, that I have
furnished supplies to this camp, the chiefs of which I love and esteem.
More wise, more submissive, I keep myself out of the way of blows; and my
reverence for the supreme master is such, that I turn away my very eyes
that they may not be spectators of the fight.
“Do not then, madame, think that any sentiment of affection has compelled,
or can compel me to take arms against you. I would refuse any proposition
which should rank me as hostile to you, if the natural generosity of your
enemies could so far forget it. In reality they are as incapable of
ordering a bad action as I am of listening to those who should show
themselves so devoid of sense as to propose such a thing to me.
“I am persuaded that you have understood me, and I am fully cleared in
your eyes. It would be delightful to me to ascertain this with certainty.
I charge M. le maréchal duc de Richelieu to explain to you my disquietude
on this head, and the favor I seek at your hands, from you who command
France, whilst I, I ought to die in peace, not to displease any person,
and live wisely with all. I conclude, madame la comtesse, this long and
stupid epistle, which is, in fact, less a letter than a real case for
consideration, by begging you to believe me, etc.,
“VOLTAIRE
“Ferney, April 28, 1769. Gentleman in ordinary to the king.
“P. S. My enemies say everywhere that I am not a Christian. I have just
given them the lie direct, by performing my Easter devotions (mes
paques) publicly; thus proving to all my lively desire to terminate my
long career in the religion in which I was born; and I have fulfilled this
important act after a dozen consecutive attacks of fever, which made me
fear I should die before I could assure you of my respect and my
devotion.”
This apology gave me real pleasure. I pretended to believe the sincerity
of him who addressed me, altho’ he had not convinced me of his innocence;
and I wrote the following reply to M. de Voltaire, which a silly pride
dictates to me to communicate to you, in conjunction with the letter of
the philosopher:
“MONSIEUR:—Even were you culpable from too much friendship towards
those you cherish, I would pardon you as a recompense for the letter you
address to me. This ought the more to charm me, as it gives me the
certainty that you had been unworthily calumniated. Could you have said,
under the veil of secrecy, things disagreeable to a great king, for whom,
in common with all France, you profess sincere love? It is impossible.
Could you, with gaiety of heart, wound a female who never did you harm,
and who admires your splendid genius? In fact, could those you call your
friends have stooped so low as not to have feared to compromise you, by
making you play a part unworthy of your elevated reputation? All these
suppositions were unreasonable: I could not for a moment admit them, and
your two letters have entirely justified you. I can now give myself up
without regret to my enthusiasm for you and your works. It would have been
too cruel for me to have learnt with certainty that he whom I regarded as
the first writer of the age had become my detractor without motive,
without provocation. That it is not so I give thanks to Providence.
“M. the duc d’Aiguillon did not deceive you when he told you that I fed on
your sublime poetry. I am in literature a perfect novice, and yet am
sensible of the true beauties which abound in your works. I am to be
included amongst the stones which were animated by Amphion: this is one of
your triumphs; but to this you must be accustomed.
“Believe also that all your friends are not in the enemy’s camp. There are
those about me who love you sincerely, M. de Chauvelin, for instance, MM.
de Richelieu and d’Aiguillon: this latter eulogizes you incessantly; and
if all the world thought as he does, you would be here in your place. But
there are terrible prejudices which my candor will not allow me to
dissemble, which you have to overcome. There is one who complains
of you, and this one must be won over to your interests. He wishes you to
testify more veneration for what he venerates himself; that your attacks
should not be so vehement nor so constant. Is it then impossible for you
to comply his wishes in this particular? Be sure that you only, in setting
no bounds in your attacks on religion, do yourself a vast mischief with
the person in question.
“It will appear strange that I should hold such language to you: I only do
it to serve you: do not take my statements unkindly. I have now a favor to
ask of you; which is, to include me in the list of those to whom you send
the first fruits of the brilliant productions of your pen. There is none
who is more devoted to you, and who has a more ardent desire to convince
you of this.
“I am, monsieur le gentilhomme ordinaire, with real attachment,
etc.”
I showed this letter to M. de Richelieu.
“Why,” he inquired, “have you not assured him as to your indiscretion,
which he fears?”
“Because his fear seemed to me unjust, and I leave you to represent me to
him as I am; and now,” I added, “it does not appear to me necessary for
the king to know anything of this.”
“You think wisely, madame; what most displeased him was to see madame de
Pompadour in regular correspondence with M. de Voltaire.”
I have related to you this episode of my history, that it may recompense
you for the tiresome details of my presentation. I resume my recital. I
told you that M. de Maupeou had told me that he would endeavor to bring
madame la maréchale de Mirepoix, and introduce her to me, trusting to the
friendship she had evinced for madame de Pompadour during the whole time
of the favor and life of her who preceded me in the affections of Louis
XV. I found, to my surprise, that he said nothing to me concerning it for
several days, when suddenly madame la maréchale de Mirepoix was announced.
At this name and this title I rose quite in a fluster, without clearly
knowing what could be the object of this visit, for which I was
unprepared. The maréchale, who followed closely on the valet’s heels, did
not give me time for much reflection. She took me really a l’improviste,
and I had not time to go and meet her.
“Madame la maréchale,” said I, accosting her, “what lucky chance brings
you to a place where the desire to have your society is so great?”
“It is the feeling of real sympathy,” she replied, with a gracious smile;
“for I also have longed for a considerable time to visit you, and have
yielded to my wishes as soon as I was certain that my advances would not
be repulsed.”
“Ah, madame.,” said I, “had you seriously any such fear? That tells me
much less of the mistrust you had of yourself than of the bad opinion you
had conceived of me. The honor of your visits—”
“The honor of my visits! That’s admirable! I wish to obtain a portion of
your friendship, and to testify to the king that I am sincerely attached
to him.”
“You overwhelm me, madame,” cried I, much delighted, “and I beg you to
give me your confidence.”
“Well, now, all is arranged between us: I suit you and you please me. It
is long since I was desirous of coming to you, but we are all under the
yoke of the must absurd tyranny: soon we shall have no permission to go,
to come, to speak, to hold our tongues, without first obtaining the
consent of a certain family. This yoke has wearied me; and on the first
word of the chancellor of France I hastened to you.”
“I had begged him, madame, to express to you how much I should be charmed
to have you when the king graced me with his presence. He likes you, he is
accustomed to the delights of your society; and I should have been deeply
chagrined had I come here only to deprive him of that pleasure.”
“He is a good master,” said the maréchale, “he is worthy of all our love.
I have had opportunities of knowing him thoroughly, for I was most
intimate with madame de Pompadour; and I believe that my advice will not
be useless to you.”
“I ask it of you, madame la maréchale, for it will be precious to me.”
“Since we are friends, madame,” said she, seating herself in a chair, “do
not think ill of me if I establish myself at my ease, and take my station
as in the days of yore. The king loves you: so much the better. You will
have a double empire over him. He did not love the marquise, and allowed
himself to be governed by her; for with him—I ask pardon of your
excessive beauty—custom does all. It is necessary, my dear countess,
to use the double lever you have, of your own charms and his constant
custom to do to-morrow what he does to-day because he did it yesterday,
and for this you lack neither grace nor wit.”
I had heard a great deal concerning madame de Mirepoix; but I own to you,
that before I heard her speak I had no idea what sort of a person she
would prove. She had an air of so much frankness and truth, that it was
impossible not to be charmed by it. The greater part of the time I did not
know how to defend myself from her—at once so natural and so
perfidious; and occasionally I allowed myself to love her with all my
heart, so much did she seem to cherish me with all enthusiasm. She had
depth of wit, a piquancy of expression, and knew how to disguise those
interested adulations with turns so noble and beautiful that I have never
met, neither before nor since, any woman worthy of being compared with
her. She was, in her single self, a whole society; and certainly there was
no possibility of being wearied when she was there. Her temper was most
equable, a qualification rarely obtained without a loss of warmth of
feeling. She always pleased because her business was to please and not to
love; and it always sufficed her to render others enthusiastic and ardent.
Except this tendency to egotism, she was the charm of society, the life of
the party whom she enlivened by her presence. She knew precisely when to
mourn with the afflicted, and joke with the merry-hearted. The king had
much pleasure in her company: he knew that she only thought how to amuse
him; and, moreover, as he had seen her from morning till evening with the
marquise de Pompadour, her absence from my parties was insupportable to
him, and almost contrary to the rules of etiquette at the château.
I cannot tell you how great was his satisfaction, when, at the first
supper which followed our intimacy, he saw her enter. He ran to meet her
like a child, and gave a cry of joy, which must have been very pleasing to
the maréchale.
“You are a dear woman,” he said to her, with an air which accorded with
his words, “I always find you when I want you; and you can nowhere be more
in place than here. I ask your friendship for our dear countess.”
“She has it already, sire, from the moment I saw her; and I consider my
intimacy with her as one of the happiest chances of my life.”
The king showed the utmost good humor in the world during the rest of the
evening. He scolded me, however, for the mystery I had made in concealing
from him the agreeable visit of the maréchale. I justified myself easily
by the pleasure which this surprise caused him; and, on my side, gave my
sincere thanks to the chancellor.
“You owe me none,” said he; “the good maréchale felt herself somewhat ill
at ease not to be on close terms with her who possesses the affections of
the king. It is an indispensable necessity that she should play a part in
the lesser apartments; and as the principal character no longer suits her,
she is contented to perform that of confidante, and ran here on my first
intimation.”
“Never mind the motive that brought her,” I said; “she is a companion for
me much more desirable than madame de Bearn.”
“First from her rank,” said the chancellor, smiling maliciously, “and then
by virtue of her cousinship with the Holy Virgin.”
I confess that I was ignorant of this incident in the house of Levi; and I
laughed heartily at the description of the picture, in which one of the
lords of this house is represented on his knees before the mother of God,
who says to him, “Rise, cousin”; to which he replies, “I know my
duty too well, cousin.” I took care, however, how I joked on this
point with the maréchale, who listened to nothing that touched on the
nobility of the ancestors of her husband or on those of her own family.
Great had been the outcry in the palace against the duc de la Vauguyon and
madame de Bearn, but how much louder did it become on the defection of the
marquise de Mirepoix. The cabal was destroyed; for a woman of rank and
birth like the maréchale was to me a conquest of the utmost importance.
The princesse de Guémenée and the duchesse de Grammont were wofully
enraged. This they manifested by satirical sneers, epigrams, and verses,
which were put forth in abundance. All these inflictions disturbed her but
little; the main point in her eyes was to possess the favor of the master;
and she had it, for he felt that he was bound to her by her complaisance.
He was not long in giving her an unequivocal proof of his regard. The duc
de Duras asked her, in presence of the king and myself, why she did not
wear her diamonds as usual.
“They are my representatives,” was her reply.
“What do you mean by representatives?” said I.
“Why, my dear countess, they are with a Jew instead of my sign-manual. The
rogue had no respect for the word of a relation of the Holy Virgin and the
daughter of the Beauvau. I was in want of thirty thousand francs; and to
procure it I have given up my ornaments, not wishing to send to the Jew
the old plate of my family, altho’ the hunks wanted it.”
We all laughed at her frankness, and the gaiety with which she gave this
statement, but we went no further; to her great regret, no doubt, for I
believe that the scene had been prepared between her and M. de Duras,
either to let her profit in time of need, or else that she wished to pluck
a feather from our wing. When I was alone with the king, he said,
“The poor maréchale pains me; I should like to oblige her and think I will
give her five hundred louis.”
“What will such a petty sum avail her? You know what she wants; either
send her the whole or none. A king should do nothing by halves.”
Louis XV answered me nothing; he only made a face, and began to walk up
and down the room. “Ah,” said I, “this excellent woman loves your majesty
so much, that you ought to show your gratitude to her, were it only to
recompense her for her intimacy with me.”
“Well, you shall carry her the sum yourself, which Lebel shall bring you
from me. But thirty thousand francs, that makes a large pile of
crown-pieces.”
“Then I must take it in gold.”
“No, but in good notes. We must not, even by a look, intimate that she has
sold her visits to us. There are such creatures in the world!”
The next morning Lebel brought me a very handsome rose-colored portfolio,
embroidered with silver and auburn hair: it contained the thirty thousand
francs in notes. I hastened to the maréchale. We were then at Marly.
“What good wind blows you hither?” said madame de Mirepoix.
“A royal gallantry,” I replied; “you appeared unhappy, and our excellent
prince sends you the money necessary to redeem your jewels.”
The eyes of the lady became animated, and she embraced me heartily. “It is
to you that I owe this bounty of the king.”
“Yes, partly, to make the present entire; he would only have given you
half the sum.”
“I recognize him well in that he does not like to empty his casket. He
would draw on the public treasury without hesitation for double the
revenue of France, and would not make a division of a single crown of his
own private peculium.”
I give this speech verbatim; and this was all the gratitude which
madame de Mirepoix manifested towards Louis XV. I was pained at it, but
made no remark. She took up the portfolio, examined it carefully, and,
bursting into a fit of laughter, said, while she flung herself into an
arm-chair,
“Ah! ah! ah! this is an unexpected rencontre! Look at this portfolio, my
dear friend: do you see the locks with which it is decorated? Well, they
once adorned the head of madame de Pompadour. She herself used them to
embroider this garland of silver thread; she gave it to the king on his
birthday. Louis XV swore never to separate from it, and here it is in my
hands.”
Then, opening the portfolio, and rummaging it over, she found in a secret
pocket a paper, which she opened, saying, “I knew he had left it.”
It was a letter of madame de Pompadour, which I wished to have, and the
maréchale gave me it instantly; the notes remained with her. I copy the
note, to give you an idea of the sensibility of the king.
“SIRE,—I am ill; dangerously so, perhaps. In the melancholy feeling
which preys upon me, I have formed a desire to leave you a souvenir, which
will always make me present to your memory. I have embroidered this
portfolio with my own hair; accept it; never part with it. Enclose in it
your most important papers, and let its contents prove your estimation of
it. Will you not accord my prayer? Sign it, I beseech you; it is the
caprice, the wish of a dying woman.”
Beneath it was written,
“This token of love shall never quit me. Louis.”
CHAPTER XVII
However giddy I was I did not partake in the excessive gaiety of madame de
Mirepoix. I was pained to see how little reliance could be placed on the
sensibility of the king, as well as how far I could esteem the
consideration of the maréchale for madame de Pompadour, from whom she had
experienced so many marks of friendship. This courtier baseness appeared
to me so villainous, that I could not entirely conceal how I was affected
with displeasure. Madame de Mirepoix saw it, and, looking at me
attentively, said,
“Do you feel any desire to become pathetical in the country we live in? I
warn you that it will be at your own expense. We must learn to content
ourselves here with appearances, and examine nothing thoroughly.”
“‘There is then no reality?” said I to her.
“Yes,” she answered me, “but only two things, power and money: the rest is
‘leather and prunella’ (contes bleus): no person has time to love
sincerely; it is hatred only that takes deep root and never dies. To hope
to give birth to a real passion, an Orestean and Pyladean friendship, is a
dream from which you must be awakened.”
“Then you do not love me?”
“You ask me a very awkward question, my darling, I can tell you. I do love
you, and very much, too: I have proved it by ranging myself on your side,
and by declaring, with the utmost frankness, that I would rather see you
in the situation in which you are, than any other woman of the court. But
there is a long space between this and heroical friendship: I should
deceive you if I were to affirm the contrary, and there would be no common
sense in giving faith to my words. Every one has too much business, too
much intrigue, too many quarrels on hand, to have any leisure to think of
others: every one lives for himself alone. Mesdames de Guémenée and de
Grammont appear very intimate: that is easily explained, they unite
against a common enemy. But were your station left vacant, no sooner would
the king have thrown the apple to one of them, but the other would detest
her instantly.”
Contrary to custom I made no reply: I was absorbed in painful reflections
to which this conversation had given rise. The maréchale perceived it, and
said,
“We should fall into philosophy if we probed this subject too deeply. Let
us think no more of this: besides, I have a new defection to tell you of.
Madame de Flaracourt told me yesterday that she much regretted having
misunderstood you, and that you were worth more than all those who
persecute you. She appeared to me disposed to ally herself to you for the
least encouragement which you might be induced to hold out to her.”
“You know very well,” I replied, “that I am willing to adopt your advice.
The house of Flaracourt is not to be despised, and I ask no better than to
be on amicable terms with the lady.”
“Well, then, come this morning and walk in the grove nearest the pavilion,
I shall be there with madame de Flaracourt: we will meet by chance,
compliments will follow, and the alliance will be formed.”
The maréchale and I had scarcely separated when madame de Bearn was
announced. This lady besieged me night and day. Gifted with a subtle and
penetrating spirit—that talent which procures advancement at court,
she saw, with pain, that I sought to attract other females about me: she
would fain have remained my only friend, that she might, unopposed,
influence me in all I did. She saw, therefore, the appearance of madame de
Mirepoix in my drawing-room with uneasiness: her bad humor was
sufficiently apparent to attract the notice of the maréchale, who laughed
at it: her social position as a titled woman, and the king’s friendship,
giving her confidence that her credit would always exceed that of my
godmother.
Madame de Bearn was compelled to submit to the ascendancy of the
maréchale, but yet did not the less relax in her efforts to keep from me
all other female society, she hoped that at last the king would
distinguish her, and call her into his intimacy as my friend; she was not
more fond of the comtesse d’Aloigny, altho’ the nullity of this lady need
not have alarmed her much. For me, I began to resent the irksomeness of
having incessantly at my side a person who manifested too openly her
desire to compel me to submit to her wishes, and I waited, to secure my
freedom, only until the circle of females I could admit to my society
should be extended.
Such were our reciprocal feelings during our stay at Marly. The madame de
Bearn watched me with more care than at Versailles, fearing, no doubt,
that the freedom of the country might facilitate connections prejudicial
to her interests. Little did she anticipate on this day the stroke which
was in preparation for her. I asked her spitefully to take a turn with me
into the park, and I took care not to announce the meeting which we had
arranged.
Behold us then walking this way and that, quite by chance, without however
going any distance from the pavilion. Madame de Bearn, not liking the
vicinity of the château, was desirous to go into the wood. I declined this
under vain excuses, when suddenly madame de Mirepoix and madame de
Flaracourt appeared at the end of a very short walk.
“Let us turn this way,” said the countess to me, “here comes one of our
enemies, whom it would be as well to avoid.”
“Why turn away?” I replied; “she is alone, we are two, and then the
maréchale de Mirepoix is not opposed to us.”
Saying this, I advanced towards them. Madame de Flaracourt appeared very
gracious: I replied to her advances with due politeness, and instead of
separating, we continued to walk about together. Madame de Bearn saw
clearly that chance was not the sole cause of this meeting: she dissembled
as well as she could. I afterwards learnt that she owed me a spite,
particularly for the mystery which I had made of this occurrence. The
marked silence, and the sullen air she assumed during this interview, and
which her sense and knowledge of the world should have prevented her from
manifesting, proved to me, on this occasion, as on many other others, that
temper cannot always be conquered, and that at times it will burst forth
in spite of the experience and caution of the courtier.
I did not give myself much trouble on this subject: I had well recompensed
the good offices of the countess: I had ample proof that in serving me she
had acted on the impulse of self-interest: we were quits, I thought, and I
saw no reason why I should remain isolated just to serve her pleasure.
When we returned to my apartments I saw plainly, by her mutterings, her
sighs, and the shrugging of her shoulders, that she was deeply irritated
at what had just taken place. She was desirous of provoking an
explanation, but as that could only tend to her disadvantage, she
contented herself with leaving me earlier than her usual want, without
saying anything disagreeable. Her custom was not to leave me alone, and
her abrupt departure confirmed me in the idea I had imbibed, that this
sort of comedy had much thwarted her.
In the course of the same day I received a visit from the comtesse de
Flaracourt. This lady, whose sparkling eyes shone with an air of mischief,
presented herself to me with an appearance of openness and confidence
which completely cloaked the malignity and treachery of her character. She
threw her arms round my neck with as much grace as tenderness, and taking
my hand, as if to arrest my attention, said:
“I ought, madame, to explain to you the delay that I have made before I
introduce myself to you, as well as the promptitude of this my first
visit. I was prejudiced against you, and had formed a false estimate of
you. My liaison with mesdames d’Egmont, de Brionne, and de Grammont
naturally placed me in the rank opposed to you: so much for what has
passed. But I have seen you: I have studied you at a distance, as well as
close, and I have recognised, without difficulty, the injustice of your
enemies. I have been enraged with myself for having been deceived
regarding you: I wish to repair my wrongs. Enlightened by the opinion of
the maréchale de Mirepoix, I have not hesitated to approach you under her
auspices, and our first meeting has so happily furnished me with an
opportunity of appreciating you, that I would not delay any longer the
pleasure of making you a personal avowal of my past sentiments, and of
those with which you now inspire me.”
The tone in which madame de Flaracourt uttered these words was so gracious
and so persuasive, that I could not resist the pleasure of embracing her.
She returned my kiss with the same eagerness, and would not listen to my
thanks.
“All is explained between us,” she continued, “let us forget the past, and
let us do as if meeting for the first time to-day; we henceforward date
this as the first of our acquaintance.”
“The affability with which you have presented yourself to me,” I replied,
“does not permit me to believe that I have only known you from this
morning; I am in an illusion which will only allow me to look on our
recent alliance as an ancient friendship.”
After having exchanged some conversation of the same tenor, we talked of
my situation as regarded the other females of the court.
“They hate you for two reasons,” said the countess: “in the first place,
because you have made a conquest which all the world envies you; secondly
because you are not one of us. There is not one family who can lean on you
in virtue of the rights of blood, or alliances which stand instead of it.
You have superseded a woman who more than any other could have a claim to
your good fortune: she is sister to the prime minister, who has in her
train, like Lucifer, more than a third part of heaven, for all the
courtiers hang on her brother.
“On the other hand, we are not accustomed to remain so long in opposition
to the will of the king. Such a resistance is not natural to us; it weighs
upon us, it harms us, the favor of our master being our chief good. We are
only something thro’ him, and when combatting against him we have neither
the courage nor the perseverance. Thus you may be very certain that the
majority of women who oppose you do it against the grain: and if you add
to this that they are incessantly exposed to the murmurs and complaints of
their husbands, sons, brothers, and lovers, you will easily be convinced
that they only aspire to finding a means of reconciling the regard they
owe to the Choiseuls and the terror which they inspire, with the desire
they have to seek your protection and the friendship of the king. The
cabal only flies on one wing, and I cannot divine its situation at the
commencement of the next winter. Do not disquiet yourself any more with
what it can do: keep yourself quiet; continue to please the ‘master,’ and
you will triumph over the multitude as easily as you have conquered the
resistance of mesdames.”
Such was the language of the comtesse de Flaracourt: it agreed, as you
will perceive, with that of madame de Mirepoix, and I ought the more to
believe it, as it was the fruit of their experience and profound knowledge
of court manners. Their example proved to me, as well as their words, that
all those who approached the king could not bear for a long time the
position in which he placed those whom he did not look upon with pleasure.
However, Louis XV evinced more plainly from day to day the ascendancy I
had over his mind. He assisted publicly at my toilette, he walked out with
me, left me as little as possible, and sought by every attention to
console me for the impertinences with which my enemies bespattered me. The
following anecdote will prove to you how little consideration he had for
those persons who dared to insult me openly.
One day at Marly, I entered the drawing-room; there was a vacant seat near
the princesse de Guémenée, I went to it, and scarcely was seated when my
neighbor got up, saying, “What horror!” and betook herself to the further
end of the room. I was much confused: the offence was too public for me to
restrain my resentment, and even when I wished to do so the thing was
scarcely possible. The comte Jean, who had witnessed it, and my
sisters-in-law, who learnt it from him, were enraged. I was compelled to
complain to the king, who instantly sent the princesse de Guémenée an
order to quit Marly forthwith, and betake herself to the princesse de
Marsan, gouvernante of the children of the royal family of France,
of whose post she had the reversion.
Never did a just chastisement produce a greater effect. The outcry against
me was louder than ever, it seemed as tho’ the whole nobility of France
was immolated at “one fell swoop.” To have heard the universal clamor, it
would have been thought that the princess had been sent to the most
obscure prison in the kingdom. This proof of the king’s regard for me did
much mischief, no doubt, as it furnished my enemies with a pretext to
accuse me of a vindictive spirit. Could I do otherwise? Ought I to have
allowed myself to be overwhelmed with impunity, and was it consistent with
the dignity of my august protector, that I should be insulted thus openly
by his subjects, his courtiers, his guests, even in the private apartments
of his palace?
However, this wrath of the nobility did not prevent the Choiseul family
from experiencing a feeling of fright. They had just received a signal
favor. The government of Strasbourg, considered as the key of France and
Alsace, had been given in reversion to the comte de Stainville, brother of
the duc de Choiseul. Certainly this choice was a very great proof of the
indulgence of the king, and the moment was badly chosen to pay with
ingratitude a benefit so important. This did not hinder the duchesse de
Grammont, and all the women of her house, or who were her allies, from
continuing to intrigue against me. It was natural to believe that the king
would not permit such doing for a long time, and that should he become
enraged at them, that I should attempt to soothe his anger.
Matters were in this state, when one morning, after his accustomed
routine, the duc de Choiseul requested a private audience of the king. “I
grant it this moment,” said the prince, “what have you to say to me?”
“I wish to explain to your majesty how excessively painful is the
situation in which I am placed with regard to some of the members of my
family. All the females, and my sister at their head, attack me about a
quarrel which is strange to me, and with which I have declared I would not
meddle.”
“You do well, monsieur le duc,” said the king, with cool gravity, “I am
much vexed at all that is going on, and have resolved not to suffer it any
longer.”
The decision of this discourse made a deep impression M. de Choiseul: he
sought to conceal it whilst he replied:
“It is difficult, sire, to make women listen to reason.”
“All are not unreasonable,” rejoined the king: “your wife, for instance,
is a model of reason and wisdom: she has perfect control of herself. She
is the wise woman of scripture.”
This flattery and justly merited eulogium, which the king made of the
duchess whenever he found an opportunity, was the more painful to M. de
Choiseul, as his conduct was not irreproachable towards a woman whose
virtues he alone did not justly appreciate. It was a direct satire against
his sister’s conduct, whose ascendancy over him, her brother, the king
well knew. He replied that the good behavior of his wife was the safeguard
of his family, and he greatly regretted that the duchesse de Grammont had
not a right to the same eulogium.
“I beg you,” said the prince, “to engage her to change her language, and
to conduct herself with less boldness, if she would not have me force her
to repent.”
“That, sire, is a mission painful to fulfil, and words very hard to convey
to her.”
“So much the worse for her,” replied the king, elevating his voice, “if
she bear any friendship for you, let her prove it in this particular: your
interests should keep her mouth shut.”
The duke had no difficulty to comprehend the indirect menace implied: he
instantly renewed his regrets for the disagreeable disturbances
that had occurred.
“Add insulting,” said Louis XV. “I am content with you and your
services, duke. I have just proved this to you, by giving your brother
more than he could expect from me; but have not I the right to have my
intimacies respected? It appears to me that if you spoke more decidedly in
your family you would command more attention.”
“This makes me fear, sire, that your majesty does not believe me sincere
in my expression of the regret which I just took the liberty to utter to
your majesty.”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur le duc, you certainly do not like madame du
Barry.”
“I neither like nor hate her, sire; but I see with trouble that she
receives at her house all my enemies.”
“Whose fault is that if it be so? Your own; you, who would never visit
her; she would have received you with pleasure, and I have not concealed
from you the satisfaction I should have experienced.”
These last words made the duke start, his eyes became animated. After a
moment’s reflection he said to the king,
“Sire, is it indispensably necessary for the service of the state that I
endeavor to attain the good-will of madame la comtesse du Barry?”
“No.”
“Well, then, sire, allow matters to remain as they are. It would cost me
much to quarrel with my whole family, the more so as this sacrifice is not
useful to you, and would in no wise alter my position with your majesty.”
However painful to the king such a determination might be, he did not
allow the duke to perceive it; he dissembled the resentment he felt, and
contented himself with saying,
“Duc de Choiseul, I do not pretend to impose chains on you; I have spoken
to you as a friend rather than as a sovereign. Now I return to what was
said at first, and accept with confidence the promise you make me not to
torment a lady whom I love most sincerely.”
Thus ended a conversation from which the duke, with a less haughty
disposition, might have extracted greater advantages and played a surer
game. It was the last plank of safety offered in the shipwreck which
menaced him. He disdained it: the opportunity of seizing it did not
present itself again. I doubt not but that if he would have united himself
freely and sincerely with me I should not have played him false. Louis XV,
satisfied with his condescension in my behalf, would have kept him at the
head of his ministry: but his pride ruined him, he could not throw off the
yoke which the duchesse de Grammont had imposed on him: he recoiled from
the idea of telling her that he had made a treaty of peace with me, and
that was not one of the least causes of his disgrace.
The journey to Marly gave birth to a multitude of intrigues of persons who
thought to wrap themselves up in profound mystery, and all whose actions
we knew. The police were very active about the royal abodes, especially
since the fatal deed of the regicide Damiens. To keep them perpetually on
the watch, they were ordered to watch attentively the amours of the lords
and ladies of the court.
The daughter of the duc de Richelieu, the comtesse d’Egmont, whose age was
no pretext for her follies, dearly liked low love adventures. She used to
seek them out in Paris, when she could find none at Versailles. She was
not, however, the more indulgent towards me. This lady was not always
content with noble lovers, but sought them in all classes, and more than
once, simple mortals, men of low order, obtained preference over
demi-gods. Her conduct in this respect was the result of long experience.
She used to go out alone, and traverse the streets of Paris. She entered
the shops, and when her eye rested on a good figure, having wide
shoulders, sinewy limbs, and a good looking face, she then called up all
the resources of her mind to form and carry on an intrigue, of which the
consequences, at first agreeable to him who was the object of it,
terminated most frequently fatally. The following adventure will give you
an idea of the talent of madame d’Egmont in this way, and how she got rid
of her adorers when she had exhausted with them the cup of pleasure.
CHAPTER XVIII
The comtesse d’Egmont was one day observed to quit her house attired with
the most parsimonious simplicity; her head being covered by an enormously
deep bonnet, which wholly concealed her countenance, and the rest of her
person enveloped in a pelisse, whose many rents betrayed its long service.
In this strange dress she traversed the streets of Paris in search of
adventures. She was going, she said, wittily enough, “to return to the
cits what her father and brother had so frequently robbed them of.” Chance
having led her steps to the rue St. Martin, she was stopped there by a
confusion of carriages, which compelled her first to shelter herself
against the wall, and afterwards to take refuge in an opposite shop, which
was one occupied by a linen-draper.
She looked around her with the eye of a connoisseur, and perceived beneath
the modest garb of a shopman one of those broad-shouldered youths, whose
open smiling countenance and gently tinged complexion bespoke a person
whose simplicity of character differed greatly from the vast energy of his
physical powers: he resembled the Farnese Hercules upon a reduced scale.
The princess approached him, and requested to see some muslins, from which
she selected two gowns, and after having paid for them, requested the
master of the shop to send his shopman with them, in the course of half an
hour, to an address she gave as her usual abode.
The comtesse d’Egmont had engaged an apartment on the third floor of a
house in the rue Tiquetonne, which was in the heart of Paris. The
porteress of the dwelling knew her only as madame Rossin: her household
consisted of a housekeeper and an old man, both devoted to a mistress
whose character they well understood, and to whom they had every motive to
be faithful.
Here it was, then, that the lady hastened to await the arrival of the new
object of her plebeian inclinations. Young Moireau (for such was the
shopman’s name) was not long ere he arrived with his parcel. Madame
d’Egmont was ready to receive him: she had had sufficient time to exchange
her shabby walking dress for one which bespoke both coquetry and
voluptuousness; the softness of her smile, and the turn of her features
announced one whose warmth of passions would hold out the most flattering
hopes of success to him who should seek her love.
Madame Rossin and the young shopman were soon engaged in conversation,
further animated by the bright glances sent direct from the eyes of madame
to the unguarded heart of her admiring visitor. Emboldened by the
graciousness of her manner, he presumed to touch her fair hand: the lady,
in affected anger, rose, and commanded him to quit the house. The
terrified youth fell at her feet, imploring pardon for his boldness, and
then hastily quitted the room ere the feigned madame Rossin could
pronounce the forgiveness he demanded. “The fool,” was (doubtless) the
princess’s exclamation, “had he been brought up at court he would have
conducted himself very differently.”
This silliness of proceeding was, however, far from being displeasing to
the princess: on the contrary, it seemed to increase her determination to
prosecute the adventure. Accordingly, on the following day she hastened to
resume her former walking dress, and in it to take the road which led to
the rue St. Martin, and again to present herself as a customer at the
linen-draper’s shop. This time she purchased cloth for chemises.
Indescribable and unspeakable was the joy of young Moireau, when, after
having served the mistress of his thoughts, he heard her request of his
master to allow the goods she had selected to be sent to her residence;
and equally was he surprised that she omitted to name him as the person
she wished should convey them. Nevertheless, as may be imagined, Moireau
obtained possession of the parcel, and was soon on his way to the rue
Tiquetonne, where he found the lady more languishing and attractive than
before; and soon they were deep in the most earnest and interesting
conversation. Moireau, who now saw that his boldness was not displeasing
to the lady, became more and more presuming: true, his overtures were
refused, but so gently, that it only fanned his flame; nor was it till
after reiterated prayers that he succeeded in obtaining her promise to
meet him on the following Sunday. The princess, like a skilful manoeuvrer,
reckoned upon the additional violence his ardor would receive from this
delay. The affection with which she had inspired him would only gain
strength by thus deferring the day for their next meeting, whilst he would
have time to meditate upon the virtue as well as the charms of her he had
won.
The long looked for Sunday at length arrived, and Moireau was first at the
place of rendezvous. His simple dress augmented his natural good looks,
whilst the countess had spared no pains to render her appearance
calculated to captivate and seduce. All reserve was thrown aside; and to
satisfy the eager curiosity of her lover, she stated herself to be the
widow of a country lawyer, who had come to Paris to carry on a lawsuit. It
would be useless to follow the princess during the further course of this
meeting. Suffice it to say, that Moirreau and madame d’Egmont separated
mutually happy and satisfied with each other.
The youth, who was now ages gone in love, had only reached his
twenty-second year, and madame Rossin was his first attachment. So ardent
and impetuous did his passion hourly grow, that it became a species of
insanity. On the other hand, the high-born dame, who had thus captivated
him, felt all the attractions of his simple and untutored love, further
set off by the fine manly figure of the young shopman. Indeed, so much
novelty and interest did she experience in her new amour, that, far from
finding herself, as she had expected, disposed to relinquish the affair
(as she had anticipated) at the end of two or three interviews, which she
had imagined would have satisfied her capricious fancy, she put off, to an
indefinite period, her original project of ending the affair by feigning a
return to the country.
This resolution, however, she did not feel courage to carry into effect;
and two or three months rolled rapidly away without any diminution of
their reciprocal flame, when one fine Sunday evening Moireau, whose time
hung heavily on his hands, took it into his head to visit the opera. This
species of amusement constitutes the ne plus ultra of the delights
of a French cit. Moireau seated himself in the pit, just opposite the box
of the gentlemen in waiting. The performance was “Castor and Pollux.” At
the commencement of the second act a sudden noise and bustle drew Moireau
from the contemplative admiration into which the splendor of the piece had
thrown him. The disturbance arose from a general move, which was taking
place in the box belonging to the gentlemen in waiting. Madame d’Egmont
had just arrived, attended by four or five grand lords of the court
covered with gold, and decorated with the order of the Holy Ghost, and two
ladies richly dressed, from whom she was distinguished as much by the
superior magnificence of her attire as by her striking beauty.
Moireau could not believe his eyes; he felt assured he beheld madame
Rossin, yet he fancied he must be under the influence of some fantastic
dream; but every look, every gesture of the princess, a thousand trifles,
which would have escaped the notice of a common observer, but which were
engraved in indelible characters on the heart of her admirer, all
concurred to assure him that he recognised in this lovely and dazzling
female, so splendidly attired and so regally attended, the cherished
mistress of his affections; she whom that very morning he had held in his
embrace. He addressed a thousand questions to those about him, from whom
he learnt his own good fortune and the exalted rank of her he had won.
Scarcely could he restrain the burst of joy, when informed that the fair
object, glittering with jewels and radiant in beauty, was the daughter of
Richelieu, and the wife of one of the princes of the noble houses of
Egmont.
A thousand tumultuous and flattering ideas rushed in crowds to the brain
of young Moireau, and he saw in anticipation a long and brilliant vista
opening before him. Poor inexperienced youth! He mistook the wisest and
safest path, which would have been to have appeared ignorant of the high
rank of his mistress, and to have induced her, from motives of affection,
to preside over his fortunes, and to rise by her means without allowing
her to suspect he guessed her ability to bestow riches and preferment. He,
on the contrary, hastened to her with the account of his having discovered
her real rank and station. Madame d’Egmont, whose self-possession enabled
her to conceal the terror and uneasiness his recital inspired her with,
listened calmly and silently till he had ceased speaking, and then asked
him, with a playful smile, if he was quite sure of being in his right
senses? “For how otherwise could you,” said she, “confuse a poor obscure
widow like myself with the rich and powerful princess you speak of? My
friend, you are under the influence of a dream; believe me, I am neither
more nor less than poor widow Rossin, and can boast of no claim to the
illustrious name of Egmont or Richelieu.”
But the more she spoke the less she persuaded, and young Moireau was not
to be reasoned out of his conviction of her identity with the high-born
princess of Egmont, and he alternately employed threats and promises to
induce her to confess the fact; but the lady was firm and immovable.
Resolved at all risk to preserve her incognito, she found herself
compelled to bring the affair to a conclusion, by feigning extreme anger
at the pertinacity with which Moireau importuned her upon a subject which
she protested she knew nothing: her lover retaliated, and a desperate
quarrel ensued. Moireau rushed angrily from her presence, vowing that he
would publish his adventure thro’out Paris; an empty threat, which his
devotion to the princess would never have permitted him to carry into
execution.
Madame d’Egmont, however, was not so sure that her secret was safe, and
she lost not an instant in repairing to the house of M. de Sartines, to
obtain from him a lettre de cachet against the aspiring shopman,
who, seized in the street, was conveyed away, and confined as a maniac in
a madhouse, where, but for a circumstance you shall hear, he would
doubtless be still.
I happened to be with the king when the lieutenant of police arrived upon
matters connected with his employment. According to custom, Louis inquired
whether he had anything very amusing to communicate to him? “Many things,
sire,” replied he, “and amongst others an anecdote of madame d’Egmont”;
and he began to relate to us, word for word, what I have written you. The
king laughed till he cried; as for me, altho’ I could not help finding the
tale sufficiently comic to induce risibility, I listened with more
coolness; and when it was completed, I exclaimed,
“Can it be, sire, that you will permit this unfortunate young man to be
the eternal victim of so unprincipled a woman?”
“What would you have me do?” said Louis; “how can I interfere without
compromising the reputation of madame d’Egmont?”
“Allow me to say,” replied I, “that this fear ought not to prevent your
majesty’s interference. You are father of your subjects; and the respect
you entertain for madame d’Egmont should not outweigh your duty, which
imperatively calls upon you to command the release of this wretched young
man.”
“But,” argued the king, “by such a step I shall for ever disoblige the duc
de Richelieu and his family.”
“Fear it not,” cried I, “if your majesty will trust to me, I will
undertake to bring the maréchal and his nephew to approve of your
proceedings; and as for the rest of his family, let them go where they
will; for the empire of the world I should be sorry to bear them company.”
This manner of speaking pleased the king; and, turning to M. de Sartines,
“Lieutenant of police,” said he, “you have heard my fair chancellor; you
will act in strict conformity with the orders she will transmit you from
me.”
“Then take these orders now, sir,” said I: “in the first place, this
ill-treated young Moireau must immediately be set at liberty, and my own
police (for I must tell you I had them) will give me the faithful account
of all your proceedings in this affair.”
The king comprehended my meaning. “You will keep a careful watch,” added
he to M. de Sartines, “that no harm befalls this unfortunate youth, whom,
I beg, you will discreetly recommend to quit France ere the malice of
those who have reason to fear his reappearance works him some evil.”
“And who, sire,” asked I, “shall dare injure one whom your majesty deigns
to honor with your protection?”
“Madame,” replied M. de Sartines, “even his majesty’s high patronage
cannot prevent a secret blow from some daring hand; a quarrel purposely
got up; a beverage previously drugged; a fall from any of the bridges into
the river; or, even the supposition of one found dead, having destroyed
himself.”
“You make me shudder,” said I, “in thus unveiling the extent of human
depravity. So, then, this young man, whose only fault appears to have been
that captivating the eyes of a noble lady, should perish in a dungeon, or
save his life at the sacrifice of country, friends, connections; and all
this for having listened to the passion of a woman, as licentious in
manners as illustrious by birth: this frightful injustice rouses all my
indignation. Well, then, since the power of the monarch of France is
insufficient to protect his oppressed subject in his own realms, let him
shield him from want in a foreign land, by allowing him a pension of one
hundred louis. I will take upon myself to defray the expenses of his
journey.”
Thus saying, I was hastening to the adjoining room, where stood my secretaire,
to take from it a thousand crowns I wished to give for the purpose. The
king held me back by my arm, saying to me,
“You are the most excellent creature I know of, but you see I am always
master. I will undertake to provide for this young man. M. de Sartines,”
pursued he, “I wish to secure to him a thousand crowns yearly; and,
further, you will supply him with six thousand francs ready money, which
M. de la Borde will repay to your order. Now are you satisfied, Couci?”
said the king, turning to me.
My only reply was to throw my arms around his neck without ceremony, spite
of the presence of a witness, who might blush at my familiarity. “You are
indeed,” said I, “a really good prince; it is only a pity you will not
assert your right to rule alone.”
“You are a little rebel,” cried he, “to doubt my absolute power.” This
tone of playful gaiety was kept up some time after the departure of the
lieutenant of police.
M. de Sartines returned next day to tell me that everything had been
accomplished to my desire. “M. Moireau,” said he, “has left prison, and
departs for Spain to-morrow morning: his intention is to join some friends
of his at Madrid. He is informed of all he owes you, and entreats your
acceptance of his most grateful and respectful acknowledgments. Will you
see him?”
“That would be useless,” answered I; “say to him only, that I request he
will write to me upon his arrival at Madrid, and give me the history of
his late adventure in its fullest details.”
Moireau did not disappoint me; and so soon as his letter reached me I
hastened to copy it, merely suppressing the date of the place from which
it was written, and forwarded it immediately to the comtesse d’Egmont,
with the following note:—
“The many proofs of tender attachment with which the widow Rossin honored
young Moireau make me believe that she will learn with pleasure of my
having the good fortune to rescue the ill-fated youth from the cruelty of
the comtesse d’Egmont. This interesting young man no longer groans a
wretched prisoner in the gloomy abode that haughty lady had selected for
him, but is at this minute safe in a neighboring kingdom, under the
powerful patronage of king of France, who is in possession of every
circumstance relative to the affair. I likewise know the whole of the
matter, and have in my keeping the most irrefragable proofs of all that
took place and should I henceforward have any reason to complain of the
comtesse d’Egmont, I shall publish these documents with permission of
those concerned.
“The public will then be enabled to judge of the virtue and humanity of
one who affects to treat me with a ridiculous disdain. There exists no law
against a fair lady having lovers and admirers, but a stern one forbids
her to command or procure their destruction. I KNOW ALL; and madame
d’Egmont’s future conduct will decide my silence and discretion. The
affair with Moireau is not the only one, others of even a graver sin
preceded it. I can publish the whole together; and, I repeat, my
determination on this head depends wholly and entirely upon the manner in
which madame d’Egmont shall henceforward conduct herself towards me. I beg
madame de Rossin will allow me to subscribe myself, with every feeling she
so well, merits,
“Her very humble and most obedient servant,
“THE COMTESSE DU BARRY”
I had communicated to no one the secret of this vengeance; I wished to
keep the delight of thus exciting the rage of the princesse d’Egmont all
to myself. I was certain, that whatever might henceforward be her line of
conduct towards me, that whenever she found herself in my presence, she
would bitterly feel the stings of an accusing conscience, and the gnawings
of that worm which dieth not in the heart of hypocritical and wicked
persons, more especially when compelled to meet the eye of those who could
unmask them in a minute.
On the following day I received a visit from the duc de Richelieu. Spite
of the many endeavors he made to appear smiling and good humored, a deep
rage kept its station round his mouth, and contracted his lips even in the
midst of the artificial smile with which he sought to dissimulate his
wrath.
“Madame, good morning,” said he to me, “I come to offer my
congratulations, you really are become quite one of us; upon my word, the
most experienced courtier has nothing more to teach you.”
“I am as yet in ignorance of the cause to which I may ascribe these
compliments, M. le maréchal, which I greatly fear surpass my poor merits;
and which even you will be compelled to retract them when I am better
known to you.”
“Fear it not, madame,” said he, “your commencement is a master-stroke; and
the letter you yesterday addressed to the comtesse d’Egmont—”
“Ah, sir,” exclaimed I, with unfeigned astonishment, “in her place I
certainly should not have selected you as my confidant in the affair.”
“And who could she better have selected than her father? But that is not
the matter in hand. My daughter is filled with anger against you; and if I
must speak the truth, I do not think your behavior towards her quite what
it should have been.”
“Really, monsieur, I was not prepared for a reproach of this kind; and
what can madame d’Egmont allege against me? ‘Tis she who has pursued me
with the most bitter sarcasms, the most determined malice; and, I may add,
the most impertinent behavior. I entreat your pardon for using such strong
expressions, but her behavior allows of none milder. And what have I done
in my turn? snatched from a lingering death an unfortunate young man,
whose only crime consisted in having pleased this unreasonable madame
d’Egmont. I procured the king’s protection for the miserable object of the
princess’s affection; I obtained his safe removal to another country; and,
having done all this, I communicated my knowledge of the transaction to
the comtesse d’Egmont. Does this bear any comparison with her line of
conduct towards me?”
“But your letter, madame; your letter—”
“Would bear alterations and amendments, sir, I am aware: I admit I did not
sufficiently insist upon the atrocity of such an abuse of power.”
“You are then resolved, madame, to make us your enemies.”
“I should be very sorry, monsieur le duc, to be compelled to such
extremities; but if your friendship can only be purchased at the price of
my submitting to continually receive the insults of your family, I should
be the first to cease to aspire to it. If Madame d’Egmont holds herself
aggrieved by me, let her carry her complaint before the parliament; we
shall then see what redress she will get. She has compromised the king’s
name by an arbitrary act; and since you thus attack me, you must not take
it amiss if I make the king acquainted with the whole business.”
The maréchal, surprised at so severe a reply, could no longer restrain the
rage which filled him. “I should have thought, madame,” said he, “that my
daughter, in whose veins flows royal blood, might have merited some little
consideration from the comtesse du Barry.”
“It is well, then, monsieur le duc,” replied I, “to point out to you your
error. I see in my enemies their works and actions alone, without any
reference to their birth, be it high or low; and the conduct of madame
d’Egmont has been so violent and unceasing towards me, that it leaves me
without the smallest regret for that I have pursued towards her.”
I had imagined that this reply would still further irritate the angry
feelings of the duc de Richelieu, but it did not: he easily guessed that
nothing but the king’s support could have inspired me to express myself
with so much energy; and, if paternal vanity strove in his heart, personal
interests spoke there with even a louder voice. He therefore sought to lay
aside his anger, and, like a skilful courtier, changing his angry look and
tone for one of cheerfulness:
“Madame,” said he, “I yield; I see it will not do to enter the lists
against you. I confess I came this morning but to sound your courage, and
already you have driven me off the field vanquished. There is one favor I
would implore of your generosity, and that is, to be silent as to all that
has transpired.”
“I shall not speak of it, monsieur le duc,” replied I, much moved, “unless
you or madame d’Egmont set me the example.”
“In that case the affair will for ever remain buried in oblivion; but,
madame, I will not conceal from you, that my daughter has become your most
bitter and irreconcilable enemy.”
“The motives which have actuated me, monsieur le maréchal, are such as to
leave me very little concern upon that subject. I flatter myself this
affair will not keep you away from me, who would fain reckon as firmly on
your friendship as you may do on mine.”
The maréchal kissed my hand in token of amity, and from that moment the
matter was never mentioned.
A similar scene had already occurred with the prince de Soubise, relative
to the exile of his daughter. Was it not somewhat strange, as well as
unjust, that all the noblemen of the day wished to preserve to their
relations the right of offending me with impunity, without permitting me
even the right of defending myself.
CHAPTER XIX
There was no accusation too infamous to be laid to my charge; amongst
other enormities they scrupled not to allege that I had been the murderess
of Lebel, the king’s valet-de-chambre, who died by poison! Was it
likely, was it probable that I should seek the destruction of him to whom
I owed my elevation, the most devoted of friends, and for whom my heart
cherished the most lively sense of gratitude? What interest could I
possibly derive from the perpetration of such a crime? The imputation was
too absurd for belief, but slander cares little for the seeming
improbability of such an event. The simple fact remained that Lebel was
dead, of course the cruel and unjust consequence became in the hands of my
enemies, that I had been the principal accessory to it.
My most trifling actions were misrepresented with the same black
malignity. They even made it a crime in me to have written to madame de
Bearn, thanking her for her past kindnesses, and thus setting her at
liberty to retire from the mercenary services she pretended to have
afforded me. And who could blame me for seeking to render myself
independent of her control, or for becoming weary of the tyrannical
guidance of one who had taken it into her head that I had become her sole
property, and who, in pursuance of this idea, bored and tormented me to
death with her follies and exactions, and even took upon herself to be out
of humor at the least indication of my attaching myself to any other lady
of the court. According to her view of things, gratitude imposed on me the
rigorous law of forming an intimacy with her alone; in a word, she
exercised over me the most galling dominion, which my family had long
counselled me to shake off; in truth, I was perfectly tired of bearing the
yoke her capricious and overbearing temper imposed upon me, but I
determined, if possible, to do nothing hastily, and to endure it with
patience as long as I could. But now that the number of my female friends
was augmented by the addition of the marquise de Montmorency and the
comtesse de l’Hôpital I determined no longer to bear the constant display
of madame de Bearn’s despotic sway, and finding no chance of accommodating
our tastes and humors, I resolved to free myself from her thraldom.
Another powerful reason for this measure was the dislike with which the
king regarded her; not that she was deficient in birth or good breeding,
but amidst the polish of high life she occasionally introduced the most
vulgar and provincial manners, a fault of all others most offensive to the
king, whose disgust was further excited by the undisguised avidity with
which, at every opportunity, she sought to turn her admission to the
king’s private society to account, by preferring some request or
soliciting some particular favor. Instead of giving herself up to the joy
and hilarity that reigned around, she seemed always on the watch to seize
every possible advantage to herself. Immediately that the king was
apprized of my intention of dismissing her from any further cares for me,
“You are quite right,” said he, “to get rid of this troublesome woman, who
never visits us without calculating the degree of interest she can derive
from it, and seems to me, whenever she approaches me, as tho’ she were
devising some fresh petition to obtain from me. And now, too, that the
first ladies of the court fill your drawing-rooms, why should you endure
her importunate presence?”
Strengthened by these sentiments on the king’s part, I lost no time in
writing to madame de Bearn a letter, of which many false copies were
circulated; however, I subjoin the following as the veritable epistle
addressed by me to the countess:—
“MADAME,—It would be the height of selfishness on my part to tax
further the kindness and attention you have been pleased to show me. I am
well aware how many public and private duties claim your care, and I
therefore (with much regret) beg to restore to you that liberty you have
so generously sacrificed to my interests. Conscious of the ennui which
oppresses you in this part of the country, I write to entreat that you
will allow no consideration connected with me to detain you longer in a
place so irksome, but, since our visit to Marly is concluded, fly upon the
wings of impatience to the gay scenes of Paris and Luxembourg. Be assured
that it will at all times afford me much pleasure to evince the gratitude
with which I shall ever remain,
“Madame, yours sincerely,
“THE COMTESSE Du Barry.”
“P. S. I am commissioned to entreat your acceptance of the accompanying
casket; it is the gift of one whose favors are never refused; you will
easily guess, to whom I allude, and I doubt not bring yourself to conform
to the usual custom.”
The jewels sent were a pair of ear-rings and an agrafe of emeralds
encircled with diamonds. The king was desirous of bestowing upon madame de
Bearn this particular mark of his recollection of her services towards me,
but it did not allay the indignation with which she expressed her sense of
my bitter ingratitude, as she termed it, as tho’ her interested
cooperation had not been sufficiently repaid. Nevertheless, she forbore to
come to a decided quarrel with me, but satisfied herself with loading me
with every reproach in private, whilst she wrote to thank me for all the
favors I had bestowed upon her, and entreated I would keep her remembrance
alive in the mind of my royal protector. As there was nothing offensive in
the style of the letter I showed it to the king; when he came to the part
where madame de Bearn recommended herself to his kind recollection, and
expressed her desire to be permitted to throw herself once more at his
feet, “Heaven preserve me,” cried he, “from receiving this mark of the
lady’s respect. No, no, she is bad enough at a distance; I should be bored
to death were she so near to me as she prays for. Thank God we have got
rid of her, and now trust to your own guidance; try the powers of your own
wings to bear you in safety, I feel persuaded you will never be at a
loss.”
About this time the prince de Soubise, anxious to evince that he no longer
retained any feelings of coolness towards me, requested his mistress,
madame de l’Hôpital, to call upon me. This lady, without being a regular
beauty, was yet very attractive. She was past the meridian of her charms,
but what she wanted in youth she amply compensated for by the vivacity and
brilliancy of her conversation, as well as the freedom of her ideas, which
made her the idol of all the old libertines of the court. The prince de
Soubise was greatly attached to her, and preferred her in reality, to
mademoiselle Guimard, whom he only retained for form’s sake, and because
he thought it suitable to his dignity to have an opera dancer in his pay;
this nobleman (as you will find) had rather singular ideas of the duties
attached to his station.
Madame de l’Hôpital had had a vast number of gallant adventures, which she
was very fond of relating. I shall mention two of the most amusing, which
will serve to convey an idea of the skilfulness and ready wit with which
she extricated herself from the most embarrassing circumstances.
A young man, whose love she permitted, whose name was the chevalier de
Cressy, was obliged, in order to visit her, to scale a terrace upon which
a window opened, which conducted to the sleeping-room of his mistress. He
was generally accompanied by his valet, a good-looking youth, who,
disliking a state of idleness, had contrived to insinuate himself into the
good graces of the lady’s maid. The valet, during his master’s stay with
madame, had likewise ascended the terrace, and penetrated, by the aid of
another window, into the chamber where reposed the object of his tender
love. All this was accomplished with as little noise as possible, in order
to prevent the mischance of awakening the marquis de l’Hôpital, who was
quietly asleep in an adjoining room.
One clear moonlight night, at the very instant when M. de Cressy was about
to step out of the window, in order to return to his own apartment, a
terrible crash of broken glass was heard. The terrified chevalier sought
the aid of his ladder, but it had disappeared. Not knowing what to do, the
chevalier returned to madame de l’Hôpital, who, seized with terror, had
only just time to conceal him in her chamber, when the marquis opened his
window to ascertain the cause of all this confusion. In an instant the
alarm spread, and heads were popped out of the different windows of the
castle, each vieing with the other in vociferating “Thieves! thieves!
murder! fire!”
The unfortunate author of all this disturbance was the unlucky valet; who,
in his overeagerness to reach his Dulcinea, had attempted to climb his
ladder so nimbly, that it fell down, and, striking against the windows of
a room near which he had fixed it, had broken several panes of glass. The
poor valet never stopped to replace the ladder; but, terrified as well as
hurt by his rapid descent, scrambled off as well as he could, abandoning
his master in his present critical situation.
The ladder thrown down in the courtyard was abundant proof that some
audacious attempt had been made upon the lives and safety of the
inhabitants of the castle; and the general determination was to catch the
thieves: for, it was presumed, as no outlet for their escape was
discernible, that they must be concealed within its walls. The servants,
with their master at their head, were speedily assembled for the purpose,
when the absence of the chevalier de Cressy was observed. Where could he
be? was the general wonder. Was it possible that, amidst the universal
uproar with which the castle had resounded, he had slept so soundly as to
be yet unconscious of all this bustle? An over-officious friend was upon
the point of going to his chamber, to ascertain the cause of his absenting
himself at such a moment, when madame de l’Hôpital sent to request her
husband would come to her immediately. “Sir,” said she, when they were
alone, “the disturbance which has thus broken our rest is not the work of
thieves, but originates in the shameless licentiousness of a man unworthy
of his name and the rank he occupies. The chevalier de Cressy, forgetful
of his being your guest, and of respecting the honor of all beneath your
roof, has dared to carry on a base intrigue with my woman, in whose
apartment you will find him at this very minute. A conduct so profligate
and insulting fills me with an indignation which I think that you, sir,
after what you have heard, cannot but partake.”
The marquis de l’Hôpital, who did not see the thing in the same serious
light, sought to appease the virtuous indignation of his lady, and went
himself to release the chevalier from his place of concealment; leading
him thro’ his own apartment to join the crowd of armed servants, who, as
may be supposed, were unable to detect the supposed invaders of their
repose.
On the following morning the chevalier as agreed upon, wrote a penitential
letter to madame, entreating her pardon for his improper attentions to her
servant, whom she affected to dismiss with every mark of gravest
displeasure. The weeping Abigail threw herself at the feet of her
mistress: and the compassionate marquis (before whom the scene was
enacted), touched with pity, implored his lady to receive the afflicted
and penitent Javotte once more into her service. This was at length
granted to his solicitations; and Javotte received a hundred louis as the
price of her silence, and found it sufficient compensation for the bad
opinion the marquis entertained of her virtue.
The second trick the marchioness played her husband was not less amusing.
The chevalier de Cressy and herself could not meet so frequently as both
desired; and whilst suffering under the void occasioned by his absence,
chance threw in her way a young relative of her husband’s, a youth of
about eighteen, as beautiful as Love, and as daring as that god. They were
then in the country during the fine days of summer, and both time and
place were favorable to the prosecution of their growing passion. One day
madame de l’Hôpital and her cousin were sauntering about the park heedless
of the approaching dinner-hour, and equally deaf to the sound of the
dinner-bell, which rung its accustomed peal in vain for them whose ears
were occupied in listening to sweeter sounds. At length the master of the
house, alarmed at the protracted absence of his wife and friend, went
himself, attended by many guests assembled at his house, in search of the
stray ones; the servants likewise received orders to disperse themselves
over the grounds in different directions; and madame de l’Hôpital and her
companion were only aroused to a recollection of the flight of time by
hearing their names loudly shouted by a dozen different voices.
Fortunately they were just in time to separate in opposite paths, and thus
to enter the castle without any suspicion being excited of their having
been so recently in each other’s company. The marquis angrily remonstrated
with his lady for having obliged him to send in search of her, and she
excused herself by protesting that she had not heard the dinner-bell. The
marquis replied, that the thing was impossible; and after some angry
discussion the matter rested there.
A few days after this the marchioness, with her husband and cousin, were
rambling over the grounds, when they found themselves at the entrance of a
hermitage, where madame de l’Hôpital had told the marquis she had sat down
to rest herself on the day of her failing to attend the dinner-hour. M. de
l’Hôpital resumed the dispute, by protesting that from this situation the
dinner-bell might easily be heard: the lady continued firm in protesting
it could not, till, at last, feigning extreme anger, she exclaimed. “Well
then, sir, since you refuse to believe my assertion, go yourself
and ring the bell as loudly as you please, your cousin will remain here
with me, and determine if it be possible to distinguish the sound from
here.”
The fool of a marquis set off in the height of his zeal to convince his
wife, and, arriving at the turret where the bell was placed, began ringing
it with all his might and main, leaving the lovers the undisturbed
opportunity they were not slow in taking advantage of. When the marquis
had ceased his chimes, the loving pair went to meet him.
“Well, my good cousin,” inquired he, as they approached, “which of us was
right? Could you hear it or not?”
“Yourself, most assuredly,” replied the young man, not without a slight
blush. “I can assure you that both madame and myself heard the bell the
whole time you were ringing it.”
“There, I told you so; I told you so”; cried the delighted husband,
triumphantly rubbing his hands.
I thought when this lively and piquant adventure was related to me, that
it was well worthy of being immortalized by the pen of a La Fontaine. The
marchioness gave these anecdotes with a grace and talent peculiarly her
own; and I sometimes imagined that some of the many she favored us with
had perhaps taken place in a more recent period than that she assigned to
them; and that, in order to divert our suspicions as to who were the real
actors, she frequently substituted the past for what should have
been with more correctness the present time. With manners so
calculated to win, she could not fail being a delightful companion, altho’
in my heart I could not help giving the preference to the society of the
maréchale de Mirepoix.
Besides, the preference evinced by this lady in so generously separating
herself from all her family, in order to attach herself to me, was not
without its full value in my eyes. I knew myself to be generally disliked
by her brother and sister-in-law, the prince and princesse de Beauvau, the
latter of whom was secretly the mistress of the duc de Choiseul, over whom
she exercised an equal empire with the duchesse de Grammont, and I was
every day the object of some fresh attack on their part. I used sometimes
to complain of this to the maréchale. “My dear friend,” she would reply,
“I am sorry, but cannot help it; in the midst of times such as we live in,
and in such a court too, the prince de Beauvau aspires to be a noble
Roman, and would fain be the Cato of his country at least. When I
recommend to him a greater degree of prudence, he talks to me of virtue,
as tho’ at Versailles duty did not consist in implicit obedience to the
wishes of our royal master; either obedience or absence from court is the
golden rule laid down, from which none dare deviate. As to my
sister-in-law she aims at the heroic likewise, altho her models are formed
from another school; in fact, she has pored over the romances of Cyrus.
Cassander, and Clelia, till she is half bewildered, and holds forth upon
the virtues of these famous heroines, till I am frequently upon the point
of exclaiming, ‘Ah, my dear, it is all very fine; but Clelia and Mandane
would not have shared their bed with the duc de Choiseul.’”
By these lively sallies the maréchale succeeded in diverting my anger from
her relations, and I generally forgot my resentment in a hearty fit of
laughter, brought on by her sprightly conversation. I found myself
becoming daily more attached to her, and her presence helped to console me
for the many vexations I continually encountered.
The greatest disagreeableness I encountered was occasioned by the
capricious behavior of the princesses, who sometimes received me with
pleasure and at others evinced a disposition to annoy me in every possible
way, according as it suited the whims and wishes of those about them. The
following may serve as an instance of their versatility.
The prince de Condé having announced his intention of giving a grand Fête
at Chantilly, the princesses declared they would not be present if I were
there. The prince de Condé, spite of his claims to the character of a
great man, was nevertheless one of the most subtle courtiers; and as soon
as he was informed of the princesses’ intention, he came, without
ceremony, to explain the matter to me. This was the first visit he had
honored me with. “Madame,” said he, “I had flattered myself you would have
embellished Chantilly with your presence; but the beauties of the court,
too justly alarmed at the idea of being eclipsed by your dazzling charms,
have so successfully manoeuvred, that they have wrought upon the royal
daughters of our august monarch to declare, that the beauty of their
attending nymphs shall not be effaced by yours. You have too much good
sense to see the affair in any but its true light; and the disappointment
your absence will inflict on me would be too cruelly felt for endurance,
did I not seek to pacify my anxious wishes on the subject, by obtaining
your promise to pay me a visit when the king next honors Chantilly with
his presence.”
I felt deeply flattered by the invitation. The prince continued to pay me
several elegant and gallant compliments; and I was, upon the whole,
charmed with our interview. However, the king was highly displeased with
his daughters’ proceedings. “I have a great inclination,” said he, “to
forbid their going to Chantilly at all. Upon my word, if I were to listen
to them, they would fain make of me the same puppet they allow themselves
to become in the hands of the greatest simpleton who will take the trouble
of leading them.”
I endeavored to appease his anger, by reminding him, that he could not
expect perfection from his daughters; and that, forced as they were to
hear me continually spoken ill of by my enemies, it was next to impossible
they should be able to prevent themselves from adopting the opinion of
those around them. “And that,” said he, “is what I principally find fault
with. What have they to do with aping the tone of those about them; and
what point of their duty teaches them to detest those whom I love? I will
take care to let them know my displeasure.”
All my endeavors were in vain; I could obtain no change of his purpose;
and, summoning the archbishop de Senlis, he spoke to him in a manner that
plainly evinced his intention of making him responsible for the actions of
the princesses. Poor M. de Roquelaure called all the saints in paradise to
witness his innocence.
“Silence, sir,” exclaimed the king, “I am perfectly certain this affair
has not gone on without your knowledge and probable participation. I know
you well for a person devoted to the ladies, as a gay, gallant gentleman
need be: I know likewise that you expend the revenues of your bishopric
and livings upon the prettiest girls of Paris; thus I can hardly suppose
you would have counselled my daughters’ conduct. No, I blame those wicked
and vindictive scandal-mongers, whose age is their only protection, and
those intriguing men who beset my daughters’ ears.”
“Sire,” protested the trembling bishop, “I entreat you to believe I am
innocent of the whole affair.”
“Sir,” interrupted the king, “I know well that you are as good a courtier
as a prelate, but still I believe you merely ape your betters; and far
from entertaining any personal dislike to the comtesse du Barry, you would
not object to receive either the archbishopric of d’Albi or Sens from her
hands, were they in her power to bestow.”
The conversation went on in this style for more than half an hour. The
king, who had amused himself highly at the terror of the bishop, left off
in excellent humor.
This interview had not been productive of equal amusement to M. de
Roquelaure, whose self-love had been deeply humbled by the way in which
the king had spoken. No sooner did he feel himself at liberty, than he
hastened to communicate to the princesses the violent displeasure they had
excited; and these ladies, so brave and daring whilst their father
appeared to offer no show of authority or anger, durst proceed no further
when they heard of his seriously disapproving of it; and they felt the
full inconsistency of their conduct, in first admitting me into their
presence, and then refusing to meet me at any other place. The consequence
of their deliberation upon the subject was to depute the bishop de Senlis
to call upon me. This accommodating prelate discharged his mission with
the utmost amenity, presenting me with the united compliments of the royal
sisters, who all joined in requesting the pleasure of meeting me at
Chantilly. Had not the prince de Condé held out the flattering prospect of
giving me a Fête wholly to myself, in all probability I should have
profited by their invitation; but knowing of the secret intention of the
prince, I returned for answer, “that it was sufficiently flattering and
gratifying to me, to find that I still preserved any portion of the
princesses’ kind favor, but that I was abundantly honored by the
intimation of my presence being agreeable. Nevertheless, as I had good
authority for conjecturing that it might not be equally so to many of the
ladies of their court, I should abstain from giving offence to any one by
my presence.”
“Ah, madame,” cried M. de Roquelaure, “I entreat of you not to insist upon
my carrying the latter part of this message to the princesses, they would
be so much grieved.”
“Well, then, sir,” said I, “tell them that I am indisposed, and that the
state of my health will detain me at Versailles.”
“That indeed,” said he, “is a more respectful message; and further I would
venture to ask of your goodness, that since it is not your pleasure to
honor Chantilly with your presence, that you will have the kindness to
mention in the proper quarter, that far from my royal ladies opposing any
obstacle to your going, they would have been much delighted with your
presence there.”
“Be assured, sir,” answered I, “that I shall ever feel proud and honored
by the princesses’ notice; and I will take care that the faithful account
of all their gracious condescension shall be faithfully and loudly
reported.”
The bishop departed much pleased with the success of his negotiation; and,
above all, with the agreeable turn the affair had taken.
When I next saw the king, I said to him, “Your daughters, sire, are as
amiable as you would have them; they have been informed that some evil
disposed persons have asserted, that they had prohibited my being of the
party to Chantilly; and in order to testify how differently they were
disposed towards me, they despatched the bishop de Senlis.”
“A most fit person to be intrusted with such a commission,” replied the
king; “for I have, in every instance, endeavored to justify the wishes of
this holy pillar of the church, this worthy prelate with his double-faced
politeness, towards those whom he openly compliments, and reviles in
private, just as his interest may require it. Well! and what did you say
to him?”
“That I most humbly thanked the princesses, but that the state of my
health did not permit of my visiting Chantilly for the present.”
“That is all very well,” answered Louis XV; “you have framed your excuse
with much generosity, which I greatly fear will meet with a very different
turn; for if you do not accompany me to Chantilly, the report circulated
will be, that the princesses have forbidden you their presence; which my
dearly beloved daughters, whose characters I fully understand, will
neither affirm nor deny before the public, whilst in private they will vow
that they prohibited you from following them. Always excepting madame
Louise, who is an angel upon earth, as she will most assuredly be one day
in heaven, where I trust her prayers for me and mine will be heard.”
I did not at the time pay any particular attention to the latter part of
the king’s discourse, for, indeed, the beginning was far more interesting
to me; but when I afterwards learnt that madame Louise had quitted the
grandeurs of Versailles for the gloom and austerity of a convent I
recollected it, and easily comprehended that it was spoken in allusion to
an event which took place some time afterwards, and of which I shall speak
in its proper place. However, the king’s prediction was exactly verified;
and the report in general circulation was, that the princesses had
declared their intention of not going to Chantilly; it was further
rumored, that I was there, but in a private and concealed manner. This is
wholly untrue; the king would never have permitted such a humiliation; nor
do I believe I should have submitted to it had he even desired it. However
all this may be, he sought to recompense me for his absence by writing a
most delightful letter, which I will subjoin for your gratification. To me
it was of so much the greater value, that having its royal writer’s
permission to show it, it became the first death-blow I aimed at the cabal
against me. The king possessed a much greater portion of wit and talent
than the weakness and timidity of his character permitted to appear.
CHAPTER XX
“How does my sweet friend contrive to bear our tedious separation? is she
happy and amused? In that case I can say, she has greatly the advantage
over him who now addresses her. No, my lovely countess, I am dragging on a
tedious and uninteresting existence, spite of the great and earnest
endeavors of my good cousin and host to provide for my enjoying the gaiety
by which I am surrounded; but, alas! amidst the many faces with which his
mansion is thronged, that one which is dearest to me is wanting, and all
becomes a blank in my eyes; and I yawn with irrepressible weariness in the
midst of the glittering pageants given to honor my arrival; and you may
rest assured that I shall hail with delight the termination of a visit,
which seems already to have swelled the period of our separation into
ages. I will not attempt to conceal from you, that those who have good
cause to envy your supreme dominion over my heart, have set every scheme
in action to lead me even into a temporary oblivion of you, but their
attempts are as vain as their impotent rivalry, and need cause no
uneasiness to you, my beloved friend. I frequently smile at the vast pains
and precautions of which my ‘sacred person’ is the object; and I am
continually encountering ‘by chance’ some of those fair
ladies who would fain usurp your place, sometimes bedecked with jewels
rare, and sometimes, as Racine says,
“——— dans le simple appareil D’une beaute, qu’on
vient d’arracher au sommeil.’
“Madame de Grammont, for instance, takes an infinity of trouble respecting
my choice of your successor, which she is resolved shall be either herself
or one of her choosing. I protest to you that I find all these plots and
counterplots very amusing; and can only say, that my daughters, who are
completely duped by those practising them, must be more completely
deceived than I had imagined possible. Nor can I quite deny that I feel a
half mischievous delight in reducing to despair,
“‘———- ce peuple de rivales Qui toutes, disputant,
d’un si grand interet, Des yeux d’Assuérus attendent leur arret.’
“Assuérus (which, of course, means me) keeps one perpetual reply to
all their high-sounding praises and eulogiums of such or such a lady. ‘She
is well enough, certainly; but the comtesse du Barry excels her a
hundredfold’: then follow such shrugs, such contortions of countenance,
and such vain efforts to repress the rage of disappointed vanity and
ambition, that I am nearly ready to die with laughter.
“Apropos of dying; I inquired the number of deaths which took place at
Chantilly last week; only four, they say! Now I think that number quite
sufficient for the size of the place. I walked as far as the village
cemetery, which is large and judiciously placed. I must tell you, that one
of my footmen has gone to that last journey from which none return: he was
a tall, presuming sort of fellow, remarkable for nothing but his
impertinence, and the continual scrapes he was forever getting into
amongst the soubrettes. However, he met with his death in some sudden
brawl. My people sought to conceal this piece of intelligence from me; but
having once heard of it, I despatched Flamarens to ascertain in what
corner of the cemetery he has been interred.
“The duc de Tresmes talks much of you, and boasts greatly to the honor of
your friendship; he has dubbed himself your ‘sapajou’; this is not
amiss for a peer of France, and what is still more gratifying, he has
assumed a title which, I believe, no one in the kingdom will attempt to
dispute his incontestable claim to call his own. Villeroi is all
impatience to return to Versailles. The dukes of Richelieu and
d’Aiguillon, both uncle and nephew, recommend themselves to your kind
recollection. Thus you see you may reckon upon a few devoted and attached
friends, even without him, whose hand is busily tracing these lines, and
he, I can promise you, is inferior to none in the truest love and
affection for you.
“The ladies of whom I would have you be most on your guard are mesdames de
C., de B., de P., de G. They really throw themselves in my way till I can
call them nothing but fools for their pains; but I must do them the
justice to say that they are less ambitious than you, and so that they
could rob you of your place would care very little whether I could offer
them my heart with the other honors to which they aspire; in fact, ‘tis
time we were together again, for the people here seem determined to profit
by my stay amongst them. My cousin entertains us magnificently, and
pleasure succeeds pleasure in a continual round of enchantment: he tells
me he has others still more charming in store against the time when you
will honor him with your presence. Am I right in promising this will be
ere very long? Adieu, what a long letter have I written you. I will now
conclude by bestowing an imaginary kiss on that lovely face, which must
satisfy me till I have the felicity of seeing you again.
“And now, my dear friend and fairest countess, I will end my lengthened
epistle by praying God to have you ever in His holy care and keeping.”
The receipt of this letter afforded me the liveliest pleasure, and I wrote
to the king regularly every night and morning. I might here introduce a
specimen of my own epistolary style, but I will not; for altho’ the
whimsical and extravagant things my pen gave utterance to were exactly to
the king’s taste, they might surprise you; but my royal correspondent
loved the wild and bizarre turn of my expressions, and I fulfilled his
wishes; perhaps it was not the only instance in which I gratified his
inclination.
My cousin, the chancellor of France, had remained to keep me
company instead of joining the party at Chantilly. My cousin, say
you, and by what right or title could M. de Maupeou become such? I will
tell you. First of all he only aspired to the honor of relationship, but
afterwards, turning over the archives of his family, he found the most
incontestable proofs of his belonging to the ancient families of the du
Barry; and full of joy, he hurried to me, unrolling at my feet his
genealogical tree, to the great amusement of comte Jean and my
sisters-in-law, who, after a long examination, declared that he was justly
entitled to the appellation of first cousin; from that period he always
addressed me cousin, which I flattered him by returning whenever I
was in the humor.
About this period I was the happy instrument in saving from death a young
girl whose judges (as will be seen) were about to sentence her to be
hanged without fully understanding whether she were innocent or guilty.
This unfortunate creature was a young and pretty country girl, whose
worthy pastor, the curé de Liancourt, had availed himself of the influence
he possessed, and of the advantages of his authority over the poor
creature’s mind, to seduce her from the paths of virtue. Unfortunately,
just at the time when she expected to produce a living witness of their
amour, and when she trusted to the cares of the curé to procure for her
those comforts her unfortunate situation required, the author of her shame
was suddenly carried off by a violent death, and the wretched girl, either
thro’ ignorance or the shame of having listened to the illicit passion of
a priest, neglected to make any of those formal declarations required by
the law, and gave birth to a dead infant. The justice of the village,
informed of her fault, caused her to be arrested, and recorded against her
sentence of death, a decision which was afterwards approved by parliament.
The poor girl was in this extremity when, happily for her, M. de
Mandeville, a worthy man from either Normandy or Picardy, who had served
in the black musketeers, resolved upon attempting the revocation of the
severe sentence which had been passed upon her, by addressing the king
thro’ my mediation; he accordingly followed me to Marly, where I then was,
and lost no time in forwarding to me the following billet:—
“MADAME,—Beauty has ever been found the inseparable companion of
goodness; to yours I would appeal to obtain the favor of an immediate
audience. My reasons for requesting it are not to solicit either place or
pension, but to save the life of an erring creature whose crime has been
that of ignorance. I await your reply with the most lively impatience, and
have the honor to remain, etc., etc.”
This note puzzled me excessively, however I gave orders for the immediate
introduction of M. de Mandeville, whose appearance was even more
prepossessing than his note; he looked and spoke like an honorable man
endowed with that sensibility so precious and so rare; he put into my
hands the petition, whilst he explained to me the particulars relative to
it, and I instantly wrote to the chancellor the following note, of which a
thousand copies were taken in the course of the day. Altho’ it has been
many times in print, I shall offer no apologies for again submitting it to
your perusal.
“MONSIEUR LE CHANCELLOR,—I do not profess to understand your laws,
but they seem to me as unjust as barbarous. They are contrary to both
reason and humanity, if they put to death an unfortunate female for giving
birth to a still-born child without having previously disclosed her
situation to any one; and yet, according to the memorial annexed to this,
the petitioner is so circumstanced. Here is an unhappy girl about to pay
with the forfeit of her life for her ignorance of such a law, or because
the modesty and even shame attendant upon her disgraced condition
prevented her conforming to it. I appeal to your sense of justice; the
wretched girl, concerning whom I write, is a fit object for the exercise
of your lenity, and I venture to assure myself that you will at least
effect the commutation of her punishment. Your own kind feelings will
dictate all I would ask further for her.
“I am, etc., etc.”
I felt very certain that, from the manner in which I had expressed myself,
the consent of M. de Maupeou was quite certain; I therefore said to my
visitor, the handsome musketeer,
“And now, sir, the noble work of charity, in which you have associated me
must be completed: go yourself and see the chancellor, tell him you come
from me, and do not quit him till you obtain the reply I have solicited.”
M. de Mandeville loaded me with thanks and praises which I did not really
merit, because in the present instance I acted as much from the wish to
gratify my own feelings as his. My name and my letter were talismans
before which all doors flew open, and he reached, without difficulty, the
presence of the chief administrator of justice, who, having read the
memorial and the note I had affixed to it, said, “That is sufficient, sir;
have the goodness to assure madame la comtesse du Barry, my cousin, that
the reprieve she desires is already granted; and as my fair relation
appears to fear trusting implicitly to my personal friendship and
humanity, I will set her mind at rest by putting you in possession of the
legal forms requisite for the prisoner.”
He immediately issued the necessary orders for suspending the execution of
the sentence, which M. de Mandeville lost no time in communicating to the
poor girl, who, a very few days afterwards, received a full pardon, and
was thus, in a manner, snatched from an unmerited and ignominious death.
The musketeer requested permission to present my protegee to my
notice. She really was a very pretty girl, her feelings overpowered her,
and she fainted in her attempt to throw herself at my feet; I soon revived
her by the aid of those restoratives which my staring people stupidly did
not try to offer, and then to send her away perfectly happy and cheerful,
I slipped into the pocket of her apron a rouleau of fifty louis
which the king had given me for her use. And here I must remark, that this
prince, avaricious as he naturally was, was yet always ready to perform a
good action, and, indeed, in this respect, he possessed many excellent
qualities to which no one has ever yet done justice. When I next saw the
chancellor—“Do you know, my fair cousin,” said he, “that if I wished
to set you and the parliament quarreling together I need only just whisper
in what manner you treat our laws?”
“Your laws,” exclaimed I, “are barbarous edicts, made rather for tigers
than for men. Your punishments are atrocious, nor do I see their
application to correct a single malefactor; particularly in the case of
this young girl it is abominable, and if the king would listen to me such
savage edicts should not long remain unrepealed.”
“That may do very well,” replied M. de Maupeou, “some time hence, but not
just now; ere our penal code can be revised we must have magistrates more
supple than those who now dispute our slightest innovation; and if, by the
grace of God, we can manage to make a clear house of them, why we may
confidently anticipate the noblest results.”
By these and similar insinuations the chancellor bespoke that aid and
assistance which I afterwards so largely rendered him when he commenced
the ruin of parliaments.
Upon another occasion my credit and influence were employed with equal
success. The objects of my present exertions were the comte and comtesse
de Louerne. Both husband and wife were deeply loaded with debts, a thing
common enough with the nobility of the time; these debts they never paid,
another thing by no means unusual; their creditors, whose flinty hearts
were but little moved by the considerations of their rank and high blood,
sent officers to enforce payment, when the Louernes opposed them with
positive force and violence, and the laws, thus outraged, condemned them
to suffer death. In vain did persons of the highest rank in the kingdom
intercede in their behalf, imploring of the chancellor to interpose with
the king; altho’ deaf to every other entreaty he instantly granted a
reprieve at my solicitation, declaring I was the only person who could
have effected so much in behalf of the distressed culprits, as well as
being the only source thro’ which the king’s mercy could be obtained.
Immediately upon this notification, I was waited upon by the comtesse de
Moyau, their daughter, and the baronne d’Heldorf, their daughter-in-law;
both these ladies came to me in the deepest sorrow, and I mingled my sighs
and tears with those they so plentifully shed; but this was rendering poor
service, and if I desired to aid their cause it was requisite I should
speak to the king, who was little disposed to show any indulgence in such
cases, and was never known to pass over any attempts on the part of the
nobility to resist the laws; he looked with horror on every prospect of
the return of those times which he hoped and believed were passed and gone
never to return. I well knew his sentiments on the subject, and yet,
trusting to my great influence over his mind, I did not despair of
success; besides Chon, my sister-in-law, was constantly reminding me that
people of a certain rank should support one another, and that now was the
time or never. I therefore resolved upon befriending the daughters of
comte de Louerne to the utmost of my power, and for that purpose I placed
them both in a corner of the drawing-room so as to catch the king’s eye as
he entered; he observed them, and inquired who those two ladies were.
“Sire,” replied I, “they are the heart-broken daughters of the comte and
comtesse de Louerne, who implore clemency of your majesty to save the
lives of the authors of their being.”
“Ah!” returned he, “madame, you know I can do nothing against the law
which they have offended.”
At these cruel words the two young ladies threw themselves at his feet,
exclaiming, “Pardon, pardon, sire; in the name of heaven and your
illustrious ancestors.”
“Rise, ladies,” said the king; “I would willingly serve you, but I have
not the power.”
“No, sire,” cried I, “you must not, you cannot refuse our united prayers;
and I here vow to remain kneeling at your feet till your lips shall
pronounce the word which shall restore life and happiness to so many
afflicted hearts.”
“Madame,” said the king, altho’ in a tone less firm, “you force me to do
what my principles condemn; but since it must be so, I yield; and only
rejoice that the first personal favor you request of me is to perform an
act of beneficence. Ladies,” added he, turning towards the comtesse de
Moyau and her sister-in-law, “you owe the lives of your parents to the
generous mediation of the comtesse du Barry.”
The joy of the Louernes was only equalled by the base calumny of my
enemies, who accused me of having prepared this scene, which was got up by
the king and myself to produce effect and excite popularity. Could such
disgusting falsehoods have entered the minds of any but the most depraved?
Yet those who continually watched and misrepresented my least action
appeared anxious to deprive me of even the taste for, as well as the power
of, doing good. This took place at Choisy, which we very shortly after
quitted for Compiègne, where I passed my time very agreeably. The king
would not suffer either the duchesse de Grammont or the comtesses d’Egmont
and de Brienne to accompany us upon this excursion. It has likewise been
asserted, that neither the duchesse de Grammont nor the princesse de
Beauvau was present during the king’s first visit to Chantilly: that is
not correct; it was at the second that they were forbidden by Louis to
join the party. Those who fabricated such accounts, in all probability
derived their information from either the stable or the kitchen, which was
all they knew of the court of Louis XV.
During my abode at Compiègne I dined several times at the house of my
brother-in-law, Cleon du Barry, then a captain in the regiment de Beauce,
who was, with a detachment, quartered in the neighborhood of the castle;
and he, with the rest of his brother officers, vied in endeavors to please
and amuse me. They gave fêtes in my honor, were perpetually devising fresh
schemes to render the place agreeable to me; and in that they perfectly
succeeded, for I quitted Compiègne with no other regret than that my stay
there was at an end.
The king appeared each day more and more solicitous to render me happy,
and even anticipated any wishes I might form. Amongst other marks of his
favor, he bestowed upon me the splendid pavilion de Lucienne, sold by the
duc de Penthièvre after the death of his son, the prince de Lamballe. You
know this charming spot, which both nature and art have so liberally
contributed to adorn: I have converted it into the most perfect and
delightful habitation in which a mortal could desire to end her days.
Nevertheless, this hope of passing my life tranquilly and happily within
its sheltering bosom will prove but fallacious, if I may credit a
prediction which has been verified already in part. You doubtlessly
remember the young man who so obstinately pursued me to announce the high
destiny to which I should attain, ere I had for one moment contemplated
such an elevation. Well! You will scarcely credit me when I declare, that
all recollection of him had entirely escaped me; but, in truth, the
constant vortex of a court life leaves no time for the recollection of the
past, and fills our minds with no other ideas but to provide for the
present, and occasionally to glance at the future.
However, I thought no more of my young prophet, when one Sunday, after my
return to Versailles from Compiègne, I attended mass at the castle; all at
once I caught a glimpse of my mysterious acquaintance, leaning his back
against the wall behind the altar. He was examining my countenance with a
deep and fixed attention. You may picture to yourself my astonishment and
surprise at recognising in this place the person who had so long ago
foretold my brilliant destiny. The color rushed to my cheeks, and he could
distinctly observe how much I was agitated by his presence, and his
beautiful countenance was lit up with a pleasant smile; after which he
gracefully waved his hand round his head as tho’ he would say, “Are you
not queen of France?” This gesture excited my astonishment still further;
however, I returned his mute inquiry by a slight inclination of the head,
intended to say, “You are right.” In a moment a sort of cloud seemed to
cover my eyes. So soon as I could recover from the sudden dimness which
obscured my vision, I endeavored to bend my looks in an opposite
direction; for so greatly was I the point of general observation, that I
feared to awaken suspicion by an indiscreet attention to one particular
person or place: and when after some little time had elapsed, and I
ventured to turn my eyes again to the spot where the young man had been
standing, he had disappeared.
I was unable to recover my astonishment at the whole affair, and the
suddenness of his departure inspired me with a lively desire to know more
of him, whether he were man or demon. I mentioned it to Chon the same day,
who, having listened to me with extreme attention, “Upon my word,” said
she, “this is a most marvellous event in your history. Why do you not
mention the fact to M. de Sartines?”
“Because it appears to me folly to disturb or annoy a person who has given
me no offence; and were I to put him into the hands of the police, I might
possibly find reason to repent having acted so. On the other hand, I would
give any sum of money for one more interview with this wonderful person.”
There the conversation ended; but my sister-in-law, by an unpardonable
curiosity she ought not to have indulged in, wrote, unknown to me, to the
lieutenant of the police, entreating of him to use the most active
measures to trace out the object of my curiosity. M. de Sartines delighted
at having an opportunity of proving to me and mine his skill and zeal,
turned all his bloodhounds loose upon the track of this unfortunate being.
During these proceedings I received a letter, sealed with five black
seals, bearing the impress of a death’s head. I thought at first that it
was to notify the decease of some friend, and I looked upon the style as
gloomy as it was strange; but, upon opening it, I found it to contain the
following words:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE,—I am perfectly aware that the strict pursuit
made after me in your name is without your knowledge or sanction: those
sent in search of me have spared no pains nor trouble to ascertain my name
and abode. My abode! Let all as they value themselves avoid meeting me
there; for, when they enter it, it will be never to quit it more. Who am
I? That can only be known when this life has been exchanged for another. I
charge you, madame, to command the lieutenant, M. de Sartines., to cease
his researches after me; they would be fruitless, and might only
compromise your safety. Remember, I predicted your good fortune; was I not
correct in it? I have also foretold reverses: I am equally correct in them
also. You will see me twice more; and should I unfortunately cross your
path a third time, prepare to bid adieu to the light of heaven and the
pleasures of this world.”
It is impossible to convey an idea of the excessive terror with which I
was filled upon the perusal of this billet. I summoned my sister-in-law,
and complained of the harshness of conduct thus adopted against my
pleasure. Chon was equally alarmed, and confessed to me what she had done
in asking the aid of M. de Sartines; at the same time that she was the
first to declare that it was requisite to put an end to all further
search, which, in one shape or other, might bring on the most fatal
consequences. I therefore wrote myself to M. de Sartines, thanking him for
his exertions; but saying, that my sister-in-law and myself had learned
from the lips of the mysterious stranger all we were desirous of knowing,
and that any future researches being unpleasant to him would be equally
disagreeable to me. M. de Sartines obeyed my request; and from that period
till the death of the king I heard no more of this singular personage.
CHAPTER XXI
My acquaintance with the singular being I was speaking of in the last
chapter did not end here, as you will find in the sequel. I will now give
you an account of an equally strange affair, in nearly the same words as
Louis XV himself related it to me. Altho’ strongly recommended by my
sister-in-law and M. de Sartines to conceal the whole story of my
mysterious friend from the king, yet, unaccustomed to the prudential
observation of court reserve, I, one fine evening, in order to fill up a
long blank in the conversation, related the story from beginning to end.
His majesty listened with attention until I had concluded.
“This is indeed,” said he, “a most singular history; and I think you have
acted very wisely in putting an end to all such interference on the part
of the police; for in such cases you frequently run great risks to procure
a trifling gratification. We have seen something of the same sort in our
family.”
This discourse excited my curiosity; and I entreated of him to explain
himself more fully. “I ought not to do so,” replied he; “such transactions
should be kept for ever concealed; but as more than half a century has
elapsed since the event I allude to took place, I think I may venture to
break the silence I have religiously observed until now. You are the only
person I have ever mentioned it to, and I must bind you to the strictest
secrecy.”
This I faithfully promised; and so long as Louis XV lived I kept my word.
“At the conclusion of the last century, during the month of September,”
resumed the king, “it happened that Louis XIV, and madame de Maintenon
formed the wish of consulting together some learned astrologer, in order
to ascertain whether the coming age would be productive of good or ill to
them. As neither of them knew to whom to apply, in order to attain their
object, madame de Maintenon was compelled to confide her wishes to her
friend, madame de Montchevreuil, who readily engaged to find for her the
person she required; for, spite of the severity with which the law visited
such practices, there was no scarcity of dealers in augury, who promised
good or bad fortune accordingly as they were paid for it.
“Whilst this lady was making diligent search after one perfectly competent
to satisfy madame de Maintenon, this latter, in conjunction with the king,
despite the superiority of their minds, was greatly disturbed at the
probable consequences of the step they meditated. Their desire to
penetrate into futurity appeared to them as ridiculous as it was criminal,
but their weaker feelings triumphed; and the result of their deliberations
was that far from relinquishing their intention of searching the book of
fate, they should lose neither pains nor trouble to attain their object;
and to encourage each other, they reckoned upon their fingers the names of
every person of their acquaintance, or even belonging to the court, who
had derived profit and advantage from the predictions of fortune-tellers.
“The minds of all at this period were still imbued with those
superstitious feelings, of which many of the most illustrious persons had
given ample proof even in the preceding reign. We have become either more
wicked or more sceptical, whichever you please to term it; but this is
certain, that many of the things predicted were accomplished with an exact
punctuality, which might serve to overthrow the finest arguments of the
greatest philosophers, and which has indeed destroyed many ingenious
theories. Doubtless the hidden laws of nature have reference to other
beings than ourselves; and, beyond dispute, may be said to govern the
creatures of an unknown world as well as exercising control over poor
mortals like us.” After this short digression, of which I give you the
precise wording, the king continued as follows:
“On the following day madame de Montchevreuil paid a visit to madame de
Maintenon, in which she declared, that upon mature reflection, she could
not proceed with the commission she had undertaken: that it was tempting
Providence, and had better be abandoned. This remonstrance had no effect
upon madame de Maintenon, who shielded herself from any necessity of
retracting, by repeating to herself, that she had pledged herself to join
Louis XIV in the undertaking, and it would never do for her to forfeit her
character for firmness and good sense by now appearing trifling and
capricious. However, she feigned a seeming compliance with the advice of
madame de Montchevreuil, whilst, in reality, her mind was resolved upon
executing her project.
“There was in her household a female who was not immediately one of her
establishment, altho’ generally ranking as such; one of those active,
stirring persons, who thrust themselves into a noble family under the
equivocal title of half servant, half lady. This one had charge of all the
necessary purchases of linen, Engaged the servants, kept watch over their
conduct, procured for the marchioness whatever particulars she might
require upon any subject; and took upon herself, in a word, any piece of
service by which she could more firmly plant herself in the family of her
employers. She received no fixed wages, but their absence was abundantly
compensated in the numerous rich presents that were continually made her.
Her sleeping apartment was always immediately adjoining that of madame de
Maintenon in the castle. A person of this description (as may be readily
supposed) knew the world too well to find any difficulty in procuring a
mere fortune-teller; and as her discretion might be confidently relied on,
it was resolved by her mistress to intrust her with the design.
“Two days after, she had removed all difficulties by discovering an
Italian priest, famed as the most skilful necromancer of his day, one who
undertook to reveal the decrees of fate to all those who should consult
him, as clearly and readily as tho’ its leaves lay open, as a book before
his eyes. But this gifted person lived in the utmost dread of attracting
the notice of parliament, and exercised his art only under the strictest
assurances of secrecy, in the most retired and secluded manner, with every
precaution to prevent the possibility of a surprise.
“These conditions were too gratifying to madame de Maintenon to cause much
delay in subscribing to them; and it was finally arranged, that the
prophet and his new applicants should meet at a house in Sévres belonging
to the royal family, then in the occupation of madame Cerfol (the lady of
whom mention has been already made). The marchioness was to repair thither
at one o’clock in the morning with a single friend. To have taken such a
measure in open daylight would have been to proclaim their secret to all
Paris. One person besides madame de Cerfol was necessarily admitted into
their confidence, and that was the duc de Noailles, who was charged, by
the king’s express orders, to take every possible precaution to ensure
their safety, as far as it could be done without attracting public
attention to so extraordinary an affair.
“At the hour appointed madame de Maintenon and the duc de Noailles
ascended a carriage which awaited them at one of the park gates, and soon
conveyed them to Sévres, whither the Italian priest had gone the preceding
night. This wretched man had celebrated alone the sacrifice of the mass,
and had consecrated several wafers.
“Everything confirmed the opinion, that the conjuror, up to the present
moment, merely supposed himself sent for to satisfy the curiosity of some
country nobleman and his lady, who were both anxious and eager to read
their future fortune thro’ his assistance. I can only suppose, if he had
been in ignorance of the real rank of those who addressed him, the sight
of the king must have quickly undeceived him, as the conclusion of the
story proves he well knew to whom he spoke when he delivered his
prediction. However this may have been, he was no sooner alone with the
marchioness, than he commenced the necessary preparations for the
performance of his sorceries and enchantments; he burned perfumes, offered
prayers, and with loud invocations adjured the powers of hell to answer
him; and in the midst of a wild and agitating sound which pervaded the
whole building, during the heavy swell of noises too dreadful to have
arisen from mortal sources, and whilst a thousand visions were flitting to
and fro, he drew the horoscope of the king and madame de Maintenon. He
promised Louis XIV that he should succeed in all his undertakings; and
that, on the very day on which he spoke the words (the 2nd of October) one
of his children had been called to the inheritance of an immense fortune.
Then giving him a small packet, wrapped in new parchment, ‘The day in
which you form the fatal resolution of acquainting yourself with the
contents of this packet,’ said he, ‘will be the last of your prosperity;
but if you desire to carry your good fortune to the highest pitch, be
careful upon every great festival, that is to say, Easter, Whit-Sunday,
the Assumption, and Christmas, to plunge a pin in this talisman, so that
the point shall pass directly thro’ it; observe to do this, and you will
live perfectly happy.’
“The king accepted this fatal present, and swore upon the Gospel never to
open the packet; he richly rewarded the priest, who from that period lived
in a retreat so well concealed as to evade the most diligent researches of
those who sought to discover it.
“Some time after news was received, that on the very 2nd of October, 1700,
named by the priest, Charles II, king of Spain, had appointed in his will
Philip of France, son of the dauphin, his successor and heir, an
inheritance truly immense, as the astrologer had foretold. You may well
think how highly this realization of the prediction inspired the king with
confidence as to the fulfilment of the remainder: and, on his part, he
never failed upon any saint’s day or other solemn festival to stick the
mysterious pin in the talisman upon which so much depended.
“Nevertheless, spite of all these observances, his undertakings d id not
invariably succeed, which astonished him greatly; when one day the great
Bossuet, happening to be at madame de Maintenon’s, the conversation turned
upon magic and sorcery, necromancy and their horrible profanations; and he
expressed himself with so much force and energy, that the king and madame
de Maintenon looked at each other without knowing what to say, and began,
for the first time, to feel compunction for what they had done, and to
regret their imprudence. They talked of it much together, and at length
resolved to reveal their crime to their confessors. The punishment imposed
on the king by his spiritual adviser was, that he should evince his
contempt for the talismanic properties of the parchment packet, by
immediately opening it.
“Louis XIV did not by any means admire this method of expiating his fault;
and a sort of involuntary dread took possession of him, as, in obedience
to the command of his confessor, he went to procure the magic parcel,
which he tore open in the presence of madame de Maintenon and father la
Chaise. The packet contained nothing but a consecrated wafer, pierced
thro’ with as many pins as there had been saints’ days since the king had
received it. At the sight of this horrible sacrilege my grandfather was
filled with deep remorse and consternation, from which it was a long time
ere he recovered; and it was not until he had undergone many severe
penances, fastings, and caused numberless masses to be said, that he felt
himself at all relieved from the weight of his crime.
“But all this was only the commencement of the divine vengeance: and those
in the secret of this unfortunate affair remarked, that this great monarch
lost from that time as many male descendants in a direct line as he had
stuck pins into the holy wafer.”
Louis XV here terminated his singular history, which struck my mind with a
sort of religious terror. I strove by every possible effort to
dissimulate, concealing from the king the emotions to which his narration
had given rise. I contented myself with observing, “that after hearing his
marvelous recital, I should only be more confirmed in my determination to
leave my young prophet to the tranquillity he desired.”
“It will be far best so,” added Louis; “I know so many fatal results which
have followed any indiscreet curiosity, that I am persuaded you had much
better leave such mysterious affairs to work their own solution.”
I promised to follow his advice, and we then conversed upon other
subjects. Since then this anecdote has recurred to my memory; and without
wishing to impeach the sincerity of Louis XV, I have asked myself,
whether, by the opportune relation of this adventure, probably invented by
himself, he did not seek to destroy the confidence I appeared to entertain
in the predictions of my prophet. I say invented, because the king had a
peculiar readiness and facility in composing these sort of wonderful
tales, carefully noting down every circumstance which fell under his
knowledge deviating from the ordinary course of things. He had a large
collection of these legends, which he delighted in narrating; and this he
did with an ease and grace of manner I have never seen equalled.
About this period the prince de Condé, whose gallantry never failed,
entreated the king to pay a second visit to Chantilly: and it was upon
this occasion that Louis erased from the list of court ladies all those
whose presence would be disagreeable to me during our stay at Chantilly.
One scene of pleasure followed another, and one fête succeeded another. I
accompanied his majesty without ever quitting him; and if hitherto there
had existed any doubts as to the sincerity of the king’s attachment, the
most sceptical person would now have been convinced of the fact. Louis XV
was never from my side, and appeared solely occupied in gratifying my
slightest wish; the princes of the court carefully followed his example;
and such a life as I then led was abundant compensation for all the pains
and anxieties I had endured from the malice and jealousy of certain
females, as well as the sarcastic bitterness of men, who feared lest my
influence should destroy theirs.
I may, with truth, affirm that I received the honors and attention of a
queen; verses, plays, all written to convey some praise or compliment to
me; and the king testified the lively gratification it afforded him to see
me thus an object of general solicitude, as well as of the most flattering
distinction. His conduct towards the prince de Condé became more gracious
than it had ever been observed to be to the princes of the blood; for
there existed a singular coolness in the royal family towards all the
princes of this branch. The king looked upon it as vastly inferior to his
own, because it had been separated from the throne before the accession of
Henry IV to the crown; he even asserted, that there was much to be said
upon this subject, and prudence compels me to pass over the many histories
and circumstances related by him to me of this brilliant portion of his
noble race.
Neither the prince de Condé, whom I knew well, nor the prince de la
Marche, entertained much regard for their relations; and they had always
some spiteful story in store respecting the posterity of Louis XIII. There
is one historical fact which has never been cleared up.
One day I was conversing with the comte de la Marche upon the disputes
concerning the parliaments, and expressing my fear, that, if driven to
desperate measures, the people would rise in open rebellion in favor of
the magistracy. “They would be still more clamourous,” replied he, “if
they knew all I could tell them.”
“And what do you know more than myself?’” asked I; “your highness alarms
me by speaking thus.”
“Amongst events now passed and gone is one that would materially affect
the public peace, if known.”
“You must explain yourself, my lord,” said I. He refused; but I persisted
in pressing the matter with so much earnestness, that at last he said, in
a low voice,
“Did you ever hear of the man who wore the iron mask?”
“Yes, certainly,” replied I, “who was he?”
“A great prince, and a most unfortunate man.”
“But who was he really?”
“In the eyes of the law the crown of France should have been his; but in
the conscientious view of things he certainly had no claim.”
The comte de la Marche stopped here; and, as I was not very deeply read in
history, I did not exactly comprehend the distinction he had just made. I
had frequently heard talk of the “Iron Mask,” whom people reported to be
either allied to, or sprung from, the royal family; but all these
particulars were confused in my memory. However, I was much struck with
the conversation I had had with the comte de la Marche; and when next the
conversation fell on this mysterious personage, I asked the duc de
Richelieu what he thought of him.
“Upon my honor,” replied he, “I never could find out who he really was;
not that I did not try,” added he, assuming an air of modest vanity, which
well became his green old age. “I had a mistress of tolerably high birth,
mademoiselle d’Orleans, as indeed I had the honor of having the
princesses, her august sisters. However, the former, known under the name
of mademoiselle de Charollais, was dying to do some act of kindness that
should be agreeable to me. Well, I requested she would obtain from the
regent, her father, the solution of the secret relative to the ‘Iron
Mask.’ She used every possible device, but nothing could she obtain from
her father, who protested that the mystery should never escape his lips;
and he kept his word, he never did divulge it. I even imagine that the
king himself is ignorant of it, unless indeed the cardinal de Fleury
informed him of it.” The maréchal told me afterwards that he thought the
opinion adopted by Voltaire the most probable, viz: that this unknown
person was the son of the queen Anne of Austria, mother of Louis XIV.
These last words helped, in a measure, to resolve the enigma which comte
de la Marche had left me to unravel; and, with a view to satisfy myself
more positively on the subject, I availed myself of the first time I was
alone with the king, to lead the conversation to this story.
At the mention of the “Iron Mask,” Louis XV started. “And do you really
credit such a fable?” asked he.
“Is it then entirely untrue?” inquired I.
“Certainly not,” he replied; “all that has been said on the matter is
destitute of even common sense.”
“Well,” cried I, “what your majesty says only confirms what I heard from
the maréchal de Richelieu.”
“And what has he been telling you?”
“Very little, sire; he told me only, that the secret of who the ‘Iron
Mask’ really was had not been communicated to you.”
“The maréchal is a simpleton if he tells you so. I know the whole affair,
and was well acquainted with the unhappy business.”
“Ah!” exclaimed I, clapping my hands in triumph, “just now you affected
perfect ignorance; you knew nothing at all about it, and now—”
“You are a very dangerous woman,” cried the king, interrupting me by loud
fits of laughter, “and you are cunning enough even to surprise the secrets
of the state.”
“‘Tis you, rather, who could not resist the inclination to let me see that
you knew what the maréchal had declared you ignorant of. Which of us two
is the more to blame, I wonder?”
“Myself, I think,” answered the king; “for after all, you did but act with
the candor and curiosity of your sex: it was for me to have employed more
of the prudence of a king in my replies to your interrogatories.”
“Well, but,” said I, “since you really do know all about this man with the
iron mask, you will tell it to me, will you not?”
“I should be very careful how I gratified your curiosity,” said he; “this
is a point of history which must never be cleared up; state reasons
require that it should for ever remain a matter of doubt.”
“And I must have you tell me,” returned I; “do pray tell, and I
will love you with all my heart.”
“It cannot be.”
“And why not? This unfortunate person has been long dead without leaving
any posterity.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” inquired the king, in a serious tone.
“But what signifies,” said I, “whether he be dead or alive? I entreat of
you to bestow upon me this proof of your confidence. Who of all those who
have spoken of him have told the truth?”
“Nobody; but Voltaire has approached it more nearly than any one else.”
After this partial confession the king implored of me to change the
conversation, which I could easily perceive was extremely disagreeable to
him. Nevertheless, it seemed to me quite clear, that this celebrated
person belonged to the royal family, but by what title I could not devise.
It was in vain that I afterwards revived the subject; not even during the
most tender confidences could I obtain the information I desired. Possibly
had I lived with him some years more I might have succeeded in drawing
from him all he knew respecting the object of my curiosity. Old men, like
children, can conceal nothing from those they love, and who have obtained
over them an influence they willingly submit to.
Before I proceed to more important events, I would fain speak of persons
with whom I lived before my elevation. My godfather, M. Billard du
Monceau, was still living, as well as madame Lagarde, with whom I had
resided as companion. My interview with the former is well known; and the
authors of “Anecdotes of My Life,” published thirteen years since, have
strictly adhered to the truth, with the exception of some vulgarisms they
have put into the mouth of that excellent man which he never uttered.
As to madame Lagarde, she was strangely surprised to see me arrive at her
house; and the evident embarrassment my presence occasioned her was a
sufficient revenge on my part for the many unkind things she had said and
done respecting me. I would not prolong her uncomfortable situation, but
studied to conduct myself with the same unaffected simplicity of former
days. I talked over the past, inquired after her family, and offered my
best services and protection without malice for what was gone by, and with
perfect sincerity for the future. But spite of all my endeavors to spare
her feelings, it was evident that rage and humiliation at the advantage my
altered fortunes gave me over her, struggled within her, and the conflict
of her mind was but too plainly depicted in her countenance. However, that
was the least of my troubles; I soon restored her to comparative calmness;
and before I quitted her, made her promise she would come and see me.
She would gladly have evaded this request; but her son, the master of
requests, who sufficiently misjudged me to fear my resentment, and who
possessed great influence over her, induced her to present herself at my
house. She accordingly came to call upon me, with a mind bursting with
spite and jealousy; yet she choked down her angry passions, and so far
humbled herself, as to entreat my pardon for her own sake and that of her
family, for all her unkindness towards me. I would not allow her to
finish; “Madame,” said I, “I only allow agreeable recollections to find a
place in my memory; had I entertained the slightest resentment against
either you or yours, you may be quite certain I should not have again
entered your dwelling; and I again repeat the offer I made the other day,
of gladly seizing the first opportunity of being useful to you.”
Each of these words expressive of the kindest feelings towards her was
like the stab of a poniard. She, however, extolled them with the most
exaggerated praise, imploring me to believe how deeply she regretted her
behavior, and talked so long and so much about it, that when she quitted
me, it was with the most certain impression on my mind, that in her I
possessed a most violent and implacable enemy, and in this conclusion I
was quite correct. M. Dudelay, her son, had the effrontery to request to
be presented to me, and charged the excellent M. de Laborde to make known
his wishes to me. I begged he would inform M. Dudelay, that I admitted
into the circle of my acquaintance only such as were known to the king;
and that if he thought proper to apply to his majesty, I should obey his
royal will on the subject, whatever it might be. He justly considered this
repulse as a biting raillery, for which he never forgave me. I entertained
no ill will against him for his past perfidy, but I considered it strange
that he should presume to approach me with familiarity. I should not have
adopted the same line of conduct towards the farmer-general, his brother,
who, less assuming, contented himself with assuring me of his devotion,
and the sincere regret with which he contemplated the past, without ever
seeking to introduce himself into my presence.
CHAPTER XXII
About this period I received a piece of attention, any thing but
gratifying if considered in a strictly honourable sense. The contemptible
chevalier de la Morlière, who detested me, and subsequently pursued me
with rage, presumed to dedicate to me some wretched collection of his
compositions, and I had the weakness to accept the dedication; I had even
the still greater folly to receive its author at my house; this piece of
condescension injured me greatly. Until that period I had not, like madame
de Pompadour, shown myself the protectress and patroness of men of
letters; and even my warmest friends could not deny, that in stepping
forwards as the encourager of literature, I had made a very unfortunate
choice in selecting the chevalier de la Morlière as the first object of my
patronage. But how could I have done otherwise? The prince de Soubise, who
found this man serviceable upon many occasions, would have sacrificed any
thing to promote his advancement; and I have been assured, that had the
maréchal taken half the pains on the day previous to the battle of
Rasbach, we should not have left it so disgracefully.
The king well knew the unfortunate chevalier for a man as destitute of
modesty as merit; when therefore he saw his book upon the mantel-piece of
my drawing-room, he said,
“So! you are the inspiring muse of the chevalier de la Morlière; I only
warn you, when the day comes for him to be hanged, not to ask me to pardon
him.”
“Be assured,” replied I, “that I will never deprive the Place de Grêve of
one so formed to do honour to it.”
In fact, the chevalier was within an ace of reaching it before his friends
anticipated; for, very shortly after this conversation, he was guilty of
the most detestable piece of knavery I ever heard of. He learned that an
unfortunate young man from the country, into whose confidence he had
wormed himself, was to receive 15,000 livres on his father’s account; he
invited him to supper, and, by the aid of two villains like himself,
stripped him of his last sous. Not satisfied with this, he wrote the
father such an exaggerated account of his son’s loss and general bad
habits, that the enraged and irritated parent procured an order to confine
his son at Saint Lazare! Did you ever hear of a more infamous and
accomplished rogue than my honourable protégé? However, I shall
give him up to his fate, be it good or bad, and proceed with the relation
of my affair with duc de Choiseul.
I had named to madame de l’Hôpital the hour at which I could receive the
duke. She had requested, in pursuance of her directions, no doubt, that
the conversation between us should take place either amidst the groves of
Versailles or in the labyrinth of Marly;—the self-love of M. de
Choiseul inducing him to desire that this interview should be so
contrived, as to wear the air of a mere chance rencontre. To this I would
not consent; saying, that it did not suit my pleasure to quit the house;
and that when a gentleman solicited the favour of speaking to a lady, it
became his business to wait upon her, without expecting she should come in
search of him; and, spite of all the arguments of madame de l’Hôpital, I
persisted in my determination: she had no alternative but to submit, and I
awaited the coming of M. de Choiseul on the following day.
The duc de Choiseul possessed a greater reputation than his talents were
entitled to; and his advancement was more attributable to his good fort
powerful assistants in both philosophers and women; he was a confirmed
egotist, yet passed for a man who cared little for self. He was quick at
matters of business, and he obtained the character of a deep and profound
politician. It must, however, be admitted, that he was witty, gallant, and
gifted with manners so elegant and fascinating, that they never failed to
remove the first unfavourable impression caused by his excessive
plainness. The tide of public favour was with him; and, in order to
contest it, it required all the influence of a woman, and that woman to be
no less than the beloved mistress of the king of France.
He presented himself before me tastefully and magnificently dressed, both
look and voice wearing the stamp of high-born pride and haughtiness.
Nevertheless, amidst all this pomp, it was evident that he did not
entirely feel the ease he assumed, and that a species of remorse rankled
at his heart, spite of the courtier-like gallantry with which he had
invested himself.
“Madam,” said he, bowing twice most profoundly, “the moment has arrived
which I have long most ardently desired.”
“The fault has not been mine, my lord,” said I, “that it has been delayed
until now. My door has never been shut against any visit you might have
honoured me with.”
“Ah, madam! why have I not known this sooner? Some evil planet ruled my
thoughts when it occurred to me that I might not be so happy as to meet
with a favourable reception.”
“There, my lord, you were indeed in error; for though I might not feel a
very tender friendship towards you whilst supposing I had many causes for
complaint, I could not refuse you those marks of respect your rank and
station entitle you to receive.”
“Then, madam, I may flatter myself that I should have been kindly
received?”
“Yes, sir, you would ever have been welcome, but not those belonging to
you, for I will be perfectly candid; always excepting the duchesse de
Choiseul, for whom I entertain the greatest veneration and respect.”
“She is indeed well worthy the exalted opinion you express of her; and had
I followed her advice, I should not have been found amongst the ranks of
your enemies.”
“You confess the fact then, monsieur le duc?” said I.
“I trust, madam, you will not take advantage of an inadvertent expression
to turn it against myself. What I fear is, that without ever having been
your enemy, I may have passed for such in your estimation; and such indeed
is the cruel position in which I am placed.”
“Stay, my lord duke,” cried I; “be candid, and acknowledge that you are my
enemy as you have ever been; and that it is only because there has been
war between us that you are now come to conclude a treaty of peace—”
“Peace or war, madam,” replied he, “as you please to will it; all I will
admit is, that things have turned out most unfavourably for my wishes.
Your arrival at Versailles, your grace, beauty, and wit, excited universal
jealousy; and, amidst the general panic caused by your all-excelling
merit, was it not necessary I too should keep myself on my guard? For the
first time in my life a beautiful woman became an object of alarm to me;
you may further believe me, when I protest that, at the outset, I warmly
defended you; but how could I wage war against so many—how oppose
the general torrent? It bore me down.”
“And you fear lest it should carry you beyond your depth, and would fain
return to terra firma; is it not so, my lord duke?”
At this ironical speech an expression of heavy displeasure rose to the
countenance of M. de Choiseul, and he remained for several minutes like a
man who fears to trust himself to reply. Then he added,
“Madam, when I solicited the favour of this conversation, it was with the
sincerest desire of adjusting all differences between us, and it would but
ill advance that purpose were I now to reply to you with warmth and
petulance; condescend, on your part, to lay aside sarcasm and raillery.
You have already too many advantages over me, and it would ill accord with
your wonted generosity to insult a half-conquered foe.”
“You are right, my lord,” answered I; “jests and recrimination will effect
nothing; let us rather proceed at once to consider what is best for the
interest of both.”
“Willingly,” replied he. “Now you speak to the purpose; and as I was
prepared to hear you—are you inclined for a serious discussion of
our business?”
“Pray begin, my lord, I am all attention.”
“Well, madam, I deeply regret all that has passed, and deplore that my
friends and part of my family should be disagreeable to you; I take upon
myself to engage that their hostility shall end, and am willing to afford
you the most perfect satisfaction upon this point. Impressed with highest
respect for his majesty, and the most lively desire to serve him, I ask
for nothing more than to be on good terms with those he loves; and as for
the future, my unshrinking loyalty may be relied on.”
“I am well assured of it, my lord duke; and likewise you have never taken
any part in the calumnies which have been aimed at me. Let us then forgive
the and since we are agreed as to the future, let us speak but of the
present. I have friends fitted to serve the king, whose ambition leads
them to aspire to that honour. What will you do to assist them?”
“Ere I promise that, madam, it is necessary I should be acquainted with
them.”
“What would it avail to name them to you? You perfectly well comprehend to
whom I allude. I am resolutely decided to support them, and to employ for
this purpose the friendship with which his majesty deigns to honour me.”
The duke coloured deeply at these words.
“Then, madam,” said he, “you would fain strip me to enrich others?”
“No, my lord, I ask but a division of your possessions. You cannot have
every thing; and it would not be fair that our reconciliation should be
profitable to you only.” “I did not anticipate, madam, in coming hither,
that you would command me to offer up myself as a sacrifice upon an altar
raised by you to the interests of your friends.”
“Meaning to say, my lord duke, that you will keep every thing to yourself.
I cannot compliment you upon your liberality, however I may for your
candour.”
“Madam, I have never since my entry into the ministry sought to live at
the expense of my country, and let me resign office when I may, I shall
retire loaded only with debts, whilst you and your friends draw large
revenues from the nation.”
The conversation became warm and angry, the duke and myself, with crimson
cheeks and inflamed countenances, surveyed each other with haughty
defiance. At length he added,
“I had hoped that I should have quitted you more kindly disposed towards
me.”
“And I, my lord, fancied that you were coming with an ardent desire for
peace; but no, the spirit of your sister leads you astray, and you would
fain punish me for her absence from court.”
“Madam, I beseech you to leave my sister in peace; she has gone, that
ought to satisfy you. We will not, if you please, speak of her.”
“I only wish that she would likewise do me the honour to be silent
respecting me. I am not ignorant that she continues to aim her slanders at
me from afar as she did when near me. One might suppose that the sole
object of her journeyings was but to excite all France against me.”
“Madam, you are mistaken. My sister—”
“Continues to play the same part in the country she did in Paris. She
detests me because I happen to have youth and beauty on my side. May her
hatred last forever.”
“Ah, madam, say not so; for with your charms you are indeed too formidable
an antagonist; and the more so, as I clearly perceive you are not inclined
for peace.”
“At least,” said I, “the war on my side shall be fair and open, and those
belonging to you have not always waged it with me upon those terms.”
The duke merely warded off this last assertion by some unmeaning
compliment, and we separated greater enemies than ever.
The first person to whom I could communicate what had passed was the duc
d’Aiguillon. He listened to my recital without any decided expression of
his opinion; but no sooner had I concluded, than he took me by the hand,
and pressing it with a friendly grasp,
“How I congratulate you,” said he, “upon the good fortune which has
extricated you from this affair. Do you know that a reconciliation with
the duc de Choiseul would have involved your inevitable disgrace? What
evil genius counselled you to act in such a manner?”
“I fancied I was doing right,” said I, “in thus proving to the king that I
was not an unreasonable woman.”
“The Choiseuls,” replied he, “would have entangled you in their nets, and,
separated from your real friends, would have made you the innocent author
of your own destruction. Tell the king just so much, that the duc de
Choiseul has been to see you, that you conversed together some time, and
that he has offended you more than ever.”
“I promise you, my kind friend,” said I, “to follow your advice.”
When I next saw the king, I apprized him of the visit.
“That does not astonish me,” said Louis XV, “the duke is anxious to be on
friendly terms with you.”
“He has then taken a very contrary road to arrive at my friendship,” said
I; “if he really desires that we should be on good terms, he must conduct
himself very differently”; and there the conversation ended. But several
days afterwards, having sent away my mâitre d’hôtel, with whom I
had reason to be dissatisfied, and the king appearing surprised at seeing
a fresh countenance amongst my household, I said to him, “Sir, I have got
rid of my Choiseul, when will it please you to get rid of yours?”
The king, without replying to me, began to laugh; in which, for want of a
better termination to my remark, I was constrained to join.
CHAPTER XXIII
Among the number which composed my household were three beings who played
conspicuous parts in my family, and who received the kindest caresses in
honour of their mistress. These three favoured objects were Dorine, Zamor,
and Henriette. Following the order or disorder in which I have written
thus far, I will first introduce my dear Dorine to your notice.
Sweet, beautiful Dorine! how amiably affectionate and attached to thy
mistress wert thou! The poor animal still exists; for I would have you
know that I am speaking of a most faithful little dog; now indeed grown
old, asthmatic and snappish; but fifteen years since, distinguished for
her lightness, swiftness, and grace, for her pretty little countenance,
white teeth, large sparkling eyes, long tufted tail, and above all, for
her snow-white coat, spotted here and there with the most beautiful brown.
Dorine was just three months old when madame de Montmorency brought her to
me in her muff; her throat was adorned with a rich gold collar, bearing
the arms of the du Barrys, and clasped with a large sapphire surrounded
with diamonds. The moment she saw me Dorine leaped upon my lap with the
most endearing familiarity, and from that period has never quitted me. My
train of courtiers hastened to become those of the new favourite likewise;
and pastrycooks and confectioners racked their brains to procure tempting
morsels for the gentle Dorine. She sipped her coffee daily from a golden
saucer, and Zamor (between whom and Dorine a mutual dislike existed) was
appointed her cupbearer. The wonderful instinct of the highly gifted
animal soon taught her, that although she had free permission to bark at
all the rest of the world, there was one person in it to whom it behoved
her to show herself in her most gracious and smiling moods; who this
person was I leave it to your sagacity to divine. She, however,
indemnified herself for this extra complaisance by barking and biting at
all who approached; and the handsomest, best turned leg in the court was
not secure from the sharp teeth of mademoiselle Dorine. Nevertheless, all
vied in praising and fondling her, and I was enchanted with the general
admiration she excited, as well as the attention she received. One day
that I was exultingly relating to the duc d’Aguillon the cares and praises
lavished on my dog, he replied, “The grand dauphin, son of Louis XIV,
after the death of his wife, Marie Christine of Bavaria, secretly espoused
mademoiselle Choin. The maréchal d’Uxelles, who was not ignorant of this
marriage, professed himself the most devoted friend of the lady; he
visited her regularly morning and evening, and even carried his desire to
please her so far, as to send a servant with a dish of grilled hare for
the house dog, who had a particular fancy for game dressed in that manner!
These attentions and assiduities were faithfully continued for several
years, till the grand dauphin died, and then no more morning and evening
visits, no more presents to either mistress or dog. Apply the story well,”
added the duke, as he terminated his recital. Unfortunately the
application of the tale presented itself but too soon, and I have
experienced the sad truth of the history of mademoiselle Choin. At the
death of the king so, did my visitors disappear; and poor Dorine has
partaken of the disgrace of the comtesse du Barry.
The second object of my regard was Zamor, a young African boy, full of
intelligence and mischief; simple and independent in his nature, yet wild
as his country. Zamor fancied himself the equal of all he met, scarcely
deigning to acknowledge the king himself as his superior. This son of
Africa was presented to me by the duc de Richelieu, clad in the
picturesque costume of his native land; his head ornamented with feathers
of every colour, a short petticoat of plaited grass around his waist,
while the richest bracelets adorned his wrists, and chains of gold,
pearls, and rubies, glittered over his neck and hung from his ears. Never
would any one have suspected the old maréchal, whose parsimony was almost
proverbial, of making such a magnificent present.
In honour of the tragedy of Alzire, I christened my little negro Zamor, to
whom by degrees I became attached with all the tenderness of a mother. You
ask me why? Indeed that is more than I can tell; perhaps at first I looked
upon him as a sort of puppet or plaything, but, imperceptibly to myself, I
became passionately fond of my little page, nor was the young urchin slow
in perceiving the ascendancy he had gained over me, and, in the end, to
abuse his influence, and attained, as I have before said, an almost
incredible degree of insolence and effrontery. Still I pardoned all his
folly, and amused myself from morning to night with watching his nimble
fingers perform a thousand tricks of jugglery. Even now that I have lost
the gaiety of my happy days, when I recall his irresistibly comic ways, I
catch myself laughing, like an old simpleton, at the bare recollection of
his monkey feats. I could relate twenty of his mischievous pranks, each
more amusing than the other. I will, however, excuse you from hearing
nineteen of them, upon condition that you shall listen to the twentieth,
which I select as being the shortest.
One day, upon which I had invited some select friends to dinner, a superb
pie was brought to table as a present which the ungallant M. de Maupeou
had had the politeness to send me in the morning. One of the company
proceeded to cut it, when scarcely had he pierced the crust, than its
perfidious contents proved to be an immense swarm of cockchafers, which
spread humming and buzzing all over the chamber. Zamor, who had never
before seen these insects, began to pursue them all over the room, buzzing
and humming as loudly as they did. The chase lasted a long time; but at
last the poor cockchafers weary of carrying on the war, and mistaking the
peruke of M. de Maupeou for an impregnable fortress, flew to take refuge
there. What did Zamor do, but run to the chancellor, snatch off his wig,
and carry it in triumph to a corner of the room with its colony of
cockchafers, leaving us all to admire the bald head of the chief
magistrate. I could willingly have enjoyed a hearty laugh at this scene,
but, out of respect for M. de Maupeou, I feigned to be much displeased
with Zamor, whom I desired one of the attendants to flog for his rudeness.
However, the guests and the chancellor uniting in entreaties that I would
pardon him, I was obliged to allow my assumed anger to give way to their
request, and the culprit received a pardon.
There was but one person in the world whom Zamor really feared; he was
however on good terms with all my friends, and did not disdain the society
of the king. You have heard that the latter, by way of amusement, bestowed
on my little negro the title of governor of the Pavillon de Lucienne, with
a revenue arising therefrom of a thousand crowns, and that the chancellor
caused the necessary papers to be prepared and delivered to him sealed
with the state seal.
But of all the persons who visited me, the one most beloved by Zamor was
madame de Mirepoix, who never came without bringing him amusing presents
or some sweetmeats. The sight of her threw him into ecstasies of delight;
and the moment he caught sight of her, he would clap his hands, leap with
joy, dance around her, and kiss her hand, exclaiming, “Ah! mame la
chale!” (“Ah! Madame la maréchale “). The poor maréchale always
dreaded meeting the king when she came to visit me and Zamor; for the
great delight of his majesty was to make my little negro repeat a name of
Israelitish origin, which he did in so ridiculous a manner, that the
modesty of my fair friend was most shockingly put to the blush.
One person alone never vouchsafed to bestow the slightest glance of
encouragement upon my little imp of Africa, and this was comte Jean, who
even went so far as to awe him into silence either by a frown or a gesture
of impatience; his most lively tricks could not win a smile from the
count, who was either thoughtful or preoccupied with some ambitious scheme
of fortune. Zamor soon felt a species of instinctive dread of this
overpowering and awe-inspiring genius, whose sudden appearance would chill
him in his wildest fits of mirthful mischief, and send him cowering to a
corner of the room; where he would remain huddled together, and apparently
stupefied and motionless, till the count quitted the apartment.
At the moment of my writing this, Zamor still resides under my roof.
During the years he has passed with me he has gained in height, but in
none of the intellectual qualities does he seem to have made any progress;
age has only stripped him of the charms of infancy without supplying
others in their place; nor can I venture to affirm, that his gratitude and
devotion to me are such as I have reason to expect they should be;* for I
can with truth affirm, that I have never ceased to lavish kindness on him,
and to be, in every sense of the word, a good mistress to him.
There was one member of my establishment, however, whom I preferred to
either Dorine or Zamor and this was Henriette, who was sincerely attached
to me, and who, for that very reason, was generally disliked throughout
the castle. I bad procured a good husband for her, on whom I bestowed a
post which, by keeping both himself and his wife in the close vicinity of
the castle, prevented my kind friend from quitting me. However, my poor
Henriette was not fated to enjoy a long connubial felicity, for her
husband, being seized with a violent fever, in a fit of delirium threw
himself from a window into the court below, and was taken up dead. Slander
availed herself even of this fatal catastrophe to whisper abroad, that the
death of the unhappy man arose from his deep sense of his wife’s
misconduct and infidelity. This I can positively assert was not the case,
for Henriette was warmly and truly attached to him, and conducted herself
as a wife with the most undeviating propriety. The fact was, that
Henriette had drawn upon herself a general hatred and ill will, because
she steadily refused all gossiping invitations, where my character would
have been pulled to pieces, and the affairs of my household discussed and
commented upon: there, indeed, she had sinned beyond all hope of pardon.
She it was who pointed out to me the perfidious conduct of the duc de
Villeroi. This gentleman, from the very beginning of my rise in the royal
favour, had demonstrated the most lively friendship for me, of which he
sought to persuade me by the strongest protestations, which, weak and
credulous as I was, I implicitly believed, until one day that Henriette,
availing herself of my being quite alone, let me into the secrets of my
establishment and furnished me with a key to the assiduities of M. de
Villeroi.
Amongst the females in my service was one named Sophie, young, beautiful
both in face and form, of a sweet disposition, and every way calculated to
inspire the tender passion. M. de Villeroi felt the full force of her
charms, and became the whining, sighing lover—her very shadow. Up to
this period I had had no cause of complaint against M. de Villeroi; and
certainly I should not have interfered with his plebeian flame had he not
thought proper, when questioned by my enemies as to his continual presence
at the castle, and great assiduities there, to protest that his visits
thither were not in honour of my charms, but for those of my waiting-maid.
However, my vanity had rendered me his constant dupe. I felt perfectly
astonished as I listened to Henriette’s recital; and when she had ceased,
I conjured her to tell me candidly, whether she had not invented the whole
tale either out of spite to Sophie or with a design to make me break off
further friendship with the duke. This she most solemnly denied, and
recommended me to make inquiries amongst my friends, who would be
compelled to bear testimony to the truth of all she had asserted. I
determined to do so; and the first person whom I was enabled to
interrogate respecting the affair was the bishop de Senlis. This prelate
came frequently to see me, and I found his society each day more pleasing.
He served me as a kind of gazette of all that passed with the princesses,
in whose opinion I had still the misfortune not to be in the very highest
estimation. When occasion required it, M. de Roquelaure would venture to
take my part, and that without making a single enemy; for who could be
offended with one so affable, so good, so full of kindness towards all? In
fact, the worthy bishop was so fortunate as to obtain the love of every
person who knew him; and, in the most select society of opposing parties,
each would reserve a place for good M. de Roquelaure.
When I questioned him as to his knowledge of the affair, his embarrassment
was evident.
“What a world is this!” cried he. “Why, let me ask, do you listen to those
who repeat such mortifying tales to you?”
“Because, my lord, my friends will not see me made the sport of a
heartless and perfidious friend; and, if you entertain the slightest
regard for me, I conjure you to tell me all you know upon the subject.”
“And do you, my good madam, conceive that it would become my sacred
calling to speak ill of my neighbour? besides, surely you would not attach
any belief to the idle reports spread about the castle by ill-disposed
persons?”
“All this has nothing to do with my question, my lord,” resumed I. “I ask
you once again, whether you ever heard the duc de Villeroi assign his
passion for one of my women as the reason for his visits to me? Have you,
my lord bishop? I entreat you to answer.”
“Madam, I have not,” said the good prelate, colouring deeply.
“Ah, monsieur de Roquelaure,” cried I, “you must not say mass to-morrow,
for I greatly fear you have just committed a certain fault which is styled
fibbing.”
The bishop made no reply, and his silence spoke volumes of confirmation.
Scarcely had he quitted me than the duc d’Aiguillon entered, to whom I put
the same question; and he frankly confessed, that the excuse alleged to
have been used by the duc de Villeroi was strictly the expression of that
gentleman.
“I was wrong,” said the duke, “not to have mentioned it to you, but I was
silent from a desire to preserve peace between you. Now that the affair
has been revealed to you, I will not sully my lips with a falsehood for
the pleasure of upholding an unprincipled man.”
“I will not ask you to tell me more,” replied I. “I know enough to make me
despise the cowardly spirit of him whom I reject as unworthy of my
friendship.” So saying, I ran to my writing-table, and wrote to the duc de
Villeroi the following note:—
“MONSIEUR LE DUC,—I love my friends with all their faults, but I
cannot pardon their perfidy; and, since from what I have heard I am left
to conclude, that but for the charms of my attendant Sophie, I should not
have been favoured with so many of your visits, I now write to warn you,
that I this day dismiss the unfortunate object of your admiration from my
service, and therefore recommend you to cease all further communication.
Your presence in my house would be any thing but agreeable to me; and
since the fair object which has hitherto attracted you will no longer
dwell under my roof, I presume your presenting yourself before me would
only be more painful than you have hitherto found it. The frankness of my
conduct may offend you, but it cannot surprise or grieve you more than
your duplicity has me.
“I remain with befitting sentiments, monsieur le duc,
“Your most humble and obedient servant.”
When I had completed my letter, I rang, and a footman attended. “Go,” said
I to him, “carry this note immediately to the duc de Villeroi, and wait,
if it be necessary, the whole day, until you can return with the assurance
that you have delivered it into his own hand.”
Whilst I was thus speaking to the man, who had been engaged by my steward,
and very recently entered into my service, I chanced to look at him
inadvertently, when my attention was arrested by seeing him rapidly change
colour. I could not at the moment conceive what could thus agitate him,
and making a sign for him to depart immediately upon his commission, he
slowly left the room, regarding me as he went in such a manner, that I
could not fail recognising him: and here, my friend, I must lay aside
every particle of self-love and vanity ere I can make you a complete
confession; the retrospect of my life brings many events, of which the
remembrance is indeed painful to me, and only the solemn promise I am
under to conceal nothing restrains me from consigning many particulars to
oblivion. I am once more about to incur the chance of drawing down your
contempt by my candour, but before I enter upon the subject, permit me to
conclude my affair with the duc de Villeroi.
My letter was a thunderbolt to the duke. He better than any one knew the
extent of my credit, which he dreaded, lest I might employ it to his
injury; he therefore hastened to reply to me in the following words:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE,—I am a most unhappy, or rather a vilely
calumniated man; and my enemies have employed the most odious means of
making me appear despicable in your eyes. I confess, that not daring to
aspire to you, I stopped at the footstool of your throne, but I wholly
deny the words which have been laid to my charge. I venture to expect from
your justice that you will grant me the favour of an opportunity of
exculpating myself from so black a charge. It would be cruel indeed to
condemn a man without hearing him.
“I am with the most profound respect, &c.”
To this hypocritical epistle I replied by another note as follows:—
“Every bad and unfavourable case may be denied, monsieur le duc, therefore
I am not astonished at your seeking to repel the charge of having uttered
the disrespectful words laid to your charge. As for the explanations you
offer me they would be fruitless; I will have none with those who have
either been my friends or appeared to be such. I must therefore beg you
will cease all attempts at a correspondence which can lead to no good
results.
“I have the honour to remain, &c., &c.”
After this business was despatched, I caused Sophie to be sent for to
attend me.
“Well, Sophie,” said I, “you perceive the confusion you have occasioned
through your folly. Is it then true that the duc de Villeroi has spoken of
love to you?”
“Yes, indeed, madam,” replied the poor girl, weeping bitterly.
“And you return his passion.”
“I believe so, madam.”
This naïf confession made me smile. I continued—
“Then you are not quite sure of the fact?”
“No, madam; for when I do not see him I forget all about it; but when he
is before me, so handsome and so generous, so full of love, I try to make
myself equally fond of him; but somehow I cannot help preferring his
courier, M. l’Eclair.”
These last words completely destroyed all attempts at preserving my
gravity, and I burst into the most uncontrollable laughter, which,
however, soon gave place to a painful recollection of how soon this young
and artless creature, as simple as she was beautiful, was likely to lose
this open-heartedness in the hands of her seducer.
“Sophie,” said I to her at last, “this unfortunate affair forbids my
retaining you any longer in my service; I am compelled to send you from
me. I trust this noble lover of yours will never forsake you; have a care
only to conceal from him, should you persist in encouraging his addresses,
that he has a rival in the person of his courier, l’Eclair.”
Sophie threw herself weeping at my feet. I raised and encouraged her by
the kindest words to pursue the right path, but I remained steady in my
determination of sending her from me.
I was not mistaken. The duc de Villeroi became the possessor of poor
Sophie, and publicly boasted of having her under his protection. He did
not, however, proceed to these extreme measures until he had essayed every
possible means of effecting a reconciliation with me, and he employed more
than a hundred persons in the vain attempt of inducing me to pardon him.
With this view the maréchale de Mirepoix, whose succour he had implored,
observed to me that it was sometimes necessary to feign to overlook an
insult; I replied, that dissimulation was an art I knew nothing of, nor
did I wish ever to acquire it.
“Really, my dear countess,” cried she, “you should not live at court, you
are absolutely unfit for it.”
“It may be so,” replied I; “but I would rather quit Versailles altogether
than be surrounded by false and perfidious friends.”
All the remonstrances of the good-natured maréchale were fruitless, I
could not bring myself to pardon a man who had so openly outraged my
friendship.
Directly I saw the king, I related the whole affair to him.
“It must be confessed,” said he, “that the duke has behaved very ill
towards you, but he has certainly shown his taste as far as regards
Sophie. She is a sweet creature.”
“Ah! you are all alike,” cried I. “You gentlemen think a pretty face an
excuse for every fault; and he only deserves blame who can attach himself
where beauty is wanting.”
“Because he is a simpleton for so doing,” said Louis XV with the utmost
gravity, giving me at the same time an affectionate embrace.
CHAPTER XXIV
All my friends were not treacherous as the duc de Villeroi; and I may
gratefully assert I have possessed many true and sincere ones who have
ever faithfully adhered to my fortunes. One in particular I shall mention
here, that I may recommend him to your warmest esteem; for, although of
high and distinguished rank, he did not despise the good opinion of the
meanest citizen. I speak of the prince de Deux Ponts, Charles Auguste
Christian. This prince, who chanced to visit France during the zenith of
my court favour, was very desirous of seeing me, and both he and his
brother were presented to me by the comte de la Marche, their friend, and
they quickly requested the honor of my friendship. Auguste Christian
pleased me most by his gentle and amiable manners, although most persons
gave the preference to his brother, Maximilian Joseph, better known by the
name of prince Max. Auguste Christian, in the fervour of his attachment,
speaking openly to me of the delicacy of the situation, proposed to me, in
case of any reverse, that I should seek an asylum in his dominions; and I
must do him the justice to say, that at the death of the king, far from
forgetting his proffer, he lost no time in reminding me of it. Fidelity
and attachment such as his, is sufficiently rare to merit a place in my
journal. The prince des Deux Pouts was presumptive heir to an immense
inheritance, that of the electorate of Bavaria, and the electorate
Palatine, to the latter of which he was direct heir after the decease of
his cousin, the present elector. I could almost wish that he had already
succeeded to these possessions: he can never reign too soon for the
happiness of his subjects.
Prince Max had served in France; he was extremely well looked upon at
court both by the king and the princesses. As for the dauphiness,
prejudiced against him as she was by her mother, she naturally regarded
him with an eye of cool mistrust, and manifested her open dislike by never
inviting him to any of her parties. Prince Max spoke of this pointed
neglect to the king, who immediately summoned the dauphin. “My son,” said
he to him, “I see with regret that prince Max is never an invited guest at
any of your balls and fêtes. Remember, he belongs to a family which has
been our most ancient ally, and do not take up the quarrels of a house
which, until your marriage, has ever been disposed in deadly hatred to
us.”
If the dauphin was not gifted with a very extensive capacity, he was
possessed of sufficient plain sense to comprehend, and to enter into the
views of his grandfather, to whom he pledged his word, that henceforward
prince Max should be treated with more respect; and he kept his word, for
the instant he returned to his apartments, he commanded the duc de la
Vauguyon to add the name of prince Max to the list of invited persons.
When the paper was drawn out it was carried to the dauphiness, who was
with her husband. She read on till she came to the name of prince Max,
which she desired might be erased; but the dauphin interfered. “Oblige
me,” cried he, “by suffering this name to remain; his ancestors have for
ages been the friends of our family, and his alliance may one day be
useful to us in Germany.”
The dauphiness comprehended the signification of these words, and her fine
eyes were filled with tears. However, she no longer insisted upon the
erasure, when her husband, who most tenderly loved her, further declared
it to be the king’s desire that nothing should be done which could in any
way displease the prince des Deux Ponts. He was, therefore, from that
period invited to the house of Marie Antoinette, who indemnified herself
for this compulsory civility, by refusing to bestow upon him one single
smile or gracious word. It must indeed be agreed that the dauphiness had
brought with her into France too many Austrian notions, which she was long
in losing for those of a wife and mother; but now at the moment of my
writing this, she is much changed, and is as true a French woman as though
she had been born and bred in Paris. Unfortunately, the people appear slow
in giving her credit for her altered opinions, and to this mistake will
she owe the loss of that general love and popularity to which she has such
just claims.
Prince Auguste Christian entertained for me a sincere regard, which I
returned with the truest friendship. My feelings were as pure and simple
as his own, spite of the odious calumnies with which my enemies have
attacked this harmless acquaintance; but their slander in this matter was
no worse than the manner in which they spoke of every person who visited
me. According to their report, I was the mistress of all who presented
themselves. ‘Tis well for you, ye courtly dames, that you may convert
friends into lovers with impunity; be the number ever so large none dares
arraign your conduct; but for those of more humble pretensions it is
indeed considered atrocious to number more than two admirers; should we
ask to swell the list to a third—what comments, what scandal, what
vilifying reports are in circulation! In this letter, my friend, I shall
speak to you exclusively of myself. You will find little in my conduct to
praise, and I fear, much to blame. You will easily perceive my heart was
better than my head; and dear as your opinion is to me, I write on in the
hope, that should my candid avowal lose me any portion of your esteem, it
will yet obtain me a larger share of your friendship. The dismissal of
Sophie from my service occasioned a vacancy in my household. Immediately
her departure was known, I received numberless solicitations from all who
heard of it. Three days afterwards, Henriette came to inform me that the
wife of an attorney of Chatelet solicited the task of serving me in
Sophie’s stead; that she was a well-looking and respectable person, and
might very probably suit me.
“Will you see her, madam?” continued Henriette. “She is recommended by the
marchioness de Montmorency.”
“Willingly,” answered I; “desire her to come in.” Henriette left me and
quickly returned, introducing the new candidate.
At the first glimpse I recognised Brigitta Rupert, that haughty girl, who
had been my early friend and companion at Saint Aure, but who found it
impossible to continue her friendship and favour to a humble milliner’s
girl. The sight of her occasioned me a surprise by no means of a pleasing
nature; and the involuntary start I gave, evidently recalled me to her
recollection. In a moment her cheeks assumed the paleness of death, and
her self-love seemed to suffer the most horrible torments at the light in
which our rencontre mutually placed us. As soon as she could command
herself sufficiently to speak, she cried,
“Ah! madam, do I then appear in your presence?”
“Yes,” replied I, “before the poor and humble milliner to whom you so
harshly refused your friendship.”
“Fortune has well avenged you, madam,” said Brigitta, in a melancholy
tone; “and as I can easily imagine how unpleasant the sight of me must be,
I will hasten to relieve you from it.”
These last words touched me, and restored me in a degree to my natural
good temper.
“Brigitta,” said I to her, “after the little affection you have ever
manifested for me, it would be impossible as well as unwise to take you
into my service; but let me know in what way I can best promote the
interest of yourself and husband, and I pledge myself to accomplish it for
you.”
“I thank you, madam,” answered she, resuming her accustomed haughtiness,
“I came to solicit a situation near the person of the comtesse du Barry.
Since that is refused me, I have nothing more to request.”
“Be it as you please,” replied I. Brigitta made a low courtesy, and
quitted the room.
Henriette, who had been the witness of this scene, expressed her
apprehensions that I should be displeased with her for introducing an
unwelcome visitor to me. “No,” cried I, “‘tis not with you I am vexed.,
but myself.”
“And why so, dear madam?”
“Because I reproach myself with having in my own prosperity forgotten one
of my earliest and dearest friends, who loved me with the tenderest
affection. Possibly she may now be in trouble or difficulties, from which
I might have a thousand ways of relieving her; but it is never too late to
do good. To-morrow, early, you shall set out for Paris; when there, go to
the rue Saint Martin, inquire for the sign of la Bonne Foi; it is kept by
a pastrycook, named M. Mathon, of whom I wish you to learn every
particular relative to his daughter Geneviève.”
My wishes were laws to Henriette, who instantly retired to prepare for her
journey. I had not ventured to desire her to glean any information
concerning the brother of Geneviève, and yet at the recollection of the
handsome Nicolas my heart beat impetuously. With what impatience did I
await the return of Henriette! at length she came.
“Well!” said I.
“I have found out M. Mathon,” answered Henriette.
“Which, the father?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And what is his present occupation?”
“As usual, madam, superintending his kitchen and shop.”
“Is he alone in his business?”
“Oh, no! madam; he is assisted by his son, a fine dark handsome young
man.”
“His son then lives with him?”
“Yes, madam, and he is married.”
“Married!—but it is not of this young man I wish to speak, but of
his sister, of Geneviève; tell me of her.”
“I only learned, madam, that she had married a tailor, named Guérard—who,
after having been very unsuccessful in business, died suddenly, leaving
her wholly destitute with two young children.”
I immediately wrote the following note to my early friend:—
“The comtesse du Barry having heard of the misfortunes of madame Guérard,
and knowing how much she is deserving of a better fate, is desirous of
being useful to her. She therefore requests madame Guérard will call next
Monday, at two o’clock, on her at her hotel, rue de la Pussienne.”
Poor Geneviève nearly fainted when she received this note, which was
conveyed to her by a footman wearing my livery. She could not imagine to
whom she was indebted for procuring her such exalted patronage, and she
and her family spent the intervening hours before her appointed interview
in a thousand conjectures on the subject. On Monday, punctually at two
o’clock, she was at the hotel dressed in her best, her lovely countenance
setting off the humble style of even her holiday garb. She knew me the
instant she saw me; and, in the frank simplicity of her own heart
imagining she could judge of mine, she ran to me, and threw herself into
my arms, exclaiming,
“Oh, my dear Jeannette, what pleasure does it afford me to meet you again.
Oh! I see how it is; you are the friend of the comtesse du Barry, and it
is to you I shall owe my future good fortune, as I do this present mark of
her favor.”
“No, my good Geneviève,” cried I, weeping for joy, “she who now embraces
you is the comtesse du Barry.”
After we had a little recovered ourselves, I took my friend by the hand,
and led her to a sofa, where we seated ourselves side by side. Returning
to the scenes of our early youth, I related to Geneviève all that had
occurred since—my adventures, faults, and favour. When I had
concluded my recital, Geneviève commenced hers, but it was soon told.
There is little to relate in the life of a woman who has passed her days
in the virtuous discharge of her duties.
Our mutual confidences being over, and having again exchanged a most
affectionate embrace, I put into the hands of my companion a portfolio,
containing 30,000 livres in bank bills. I promised her likewise to obtain
for her some lucrative situation. “Do more than this for me!” cried
Geneviève. “Since you will still grant me your friendship, secure for me
the happiness of occasionally meeting you. I can with truth declare, that
of all your proofs of kindness and regard, that which I prefer is the
pleasure of seeing you.”
This ingenuous request touched my heart, and I replied to it by fondly
caressing the warm-hearted Geneviève, and assuring her that my purse and
my house should be ever open to her. We then resumed our interesting
reminiscences, and Geneviève was the first to speak of her brother. At the
name of Nicolas I felt the blood mount to my very forehead, and an
indefinable sensation passed over me at the mention of him who had
possessed my virgin love. I strove, however, to conceal from my friend the
powerful emotion which agitated me, and I replied, with apparent
tranquillity, that I should be happy to assist her brother with the best
of my credit and influence; and I kept my word by obtaining for him, at
the solicitation, of his sister, some lucrative situation, the exact
nature of which I do not now recollect, where they resided together in
ease and comfort. I had only to recommend them to the notice of M. de
Boulogne, who felt himself much flattered at being selected by me to make
the fortunes of my two friends.
From this time Geneviève visited me as frequently as she could, and her
society delighted me; whilst, in her conversation I found a frankness and
sincerity which I had vainly sought for at court. She had loved me when a
simple milliner, and she cherished the same fond regard for me in my
improved situation. Her friendship has not forsaken me in my reverses; and
I feel quite assured that death only will dissolve the tender friendship
which still subsists between us. As for her brother, he spared me much
shame and confusion by never seeking my presence; a meeting with him would
indeed have overwhelmed me with painful recollections.
And now, my friend, I am about to relate to you an adventure, the bare
mention of which covers my cheek with guilty blushes; fain would I conceal
it from you, but my promise is given to lay my whole heart before you, and
it shall be done, cost what it may.
I know not why it should ever have been permitted you gentlemen to frame
laws, which, while they permit you, in the gratification of your passions,
to descend ever so low in the scale of society without any disgrace
attaching itself to you from the obscure condition of the object of your
search, to us females it is prohibited, under penalty of incurring the
utmost degradation, to gratify the inclination of our hearts when awakened
by one of more humble rank than our own. A great lord may love a kitchen
maid, a noble duke, like M. de Villeroi, may indulge his fancy for a
waiting-woman, and yet lose no portion of his dignity, or of the esteem in
which the world holds him; but, on the other hand, woe to the high-born
dame who should receive the homage of an obscure citizen, or the noble
countess who should lend a favourable ear to the sighs of her valet de
chambre; the public voice would loud and angrily inveigh against so
flagrant a breach of decorum. And why should this be? But, my friend, do
you not see in my seeking to defend so weak a cause sufficient intimation
that such a justification involves a consciousness of requiring it? Alas!
I plead guilty, and will no longer delay the painful confession I have to
make.
Do you remember a singularly handsome young man, who, during my abode with
madame Lagarde, fascinated me till my very senses seemed bewildered by my
passion. You know how he betrayed me, and how, through him, I was expelled
the house, as well as the termination of this foolish adventure. You are
now to pass over seven or eight years, and take your place with me in the
drawing-room, in which I stood when I rang to summon a servant to convey a
letter to the duc de Villeroi. You may remember what I told you in the
last chapter of the person who entered, of his agitation and his blushes,
and of his fixing his eyes with deep meaning upon me till he quitted the
room-this servant was Noël!
Had I listened to the dictates of prudence, I should, without loss of
time, have obtained against him a lettre de cachet, which would
have freed me from all chance of discovery through his means; but I could
not listen to such cool-blooded, though cautious, suggestions. One idea
only took possession of my mind—the absurd desire to know what had
become of Noël since we separated, and by what accident I now found him
wearing my livery in the castle. With this intent I availed myself of the
first moment I was secure from interruption, to summon him to my presence.
He threw himself at my feet, imploring of me to pardon his audacity.
“Alas, madam!” said he, “I am more unfortunate than guilty. I saw you
walking some time since, and I could obtain no rest or peace till I was
fortunate enough to obtain admission to your establishment. Punish me for
my temerity if you will; expel me from the castle, have me confined in a
prison, I deserve it all; but, voluntarily, I cannot leave this house; and
if you will only permit my stay, I solemnly vow you shall see nothing in
my conduct but the zeal of an attached and respectful servant.”
I was weak enough to pardon Noël and shortly after to raise him to the
rank of valet de chambre, which brought him infinitely too much
about me.
Yes, my friend, the woman is, after all attempts to excuse it, blamable
for bestowing her affection on one below herself in the scale of society.
Nature herself appears to have planted in our bosoms a kind of instinct,
which warns us from it, and a prejudice against all those who so degrade
themselves. It is different with men; they can confer rank and elevation
on the beloved object. A woman should always have reason to look up to and
feel proud of the man to whom she consigns her heart; this species of
vanity is mixed with the noblest love, and the woman who can overlook it,
acts from passion of the lowest, basest kind. How easy is it to reason!
Alas! Why have I not always acted as well as I speak.
I was thus again a second time enthralled by Noël, and much more so, too,
than I will now tell you. My faithful Henriette, whose devoted attachment
for me kept her ever watchful of my safety and reputation, was
thunderstruck at perceiving what I vainly strove to conceal from her; and,
as she has since told me, was long in deciding whether to speak to me of
the affair, when an unexpected incident arose, which determined her, at
every risk of my displeasure, to use her endeavors to put an end to so
disgraceful a connexion, which must infallibly have ended in my disgrace.
One night, or rather midnight, all was at rest in the castle, and I was
sleeping peacefully in the arms of Noël, when all at once I was awakened
by the sudden opening of an outer door, which announced to me the approach
of the king, who had merely one more door to open ere he would be in my
apartment. Noël, terrified, leaped quickly out of bed, and ran to seek
refuge in a small chamber adjoining where Henriette slept. Happily she was
yet awake; and, by the light of a night-lamp or veilleuse
recognized Noël, who, with clasped hands, conjured her to take pity upon
him. Henriette saw the danger, and putting out her hand, seized him, and
drawing him rapidly towards her, made him lie down beside her. Noël,
struck with her goodness, was preparing to offer her the same marks of his
gratitude he had shown me of his respect; but repulsing him, she said in a
low voice, “Wretch, think not it is on your account I thus expose my
reputation; ‘tis to save that of my beloved mistress; either conduct
yourself with silent respect or you are lost.” At this threat Noël ‘s
courage melted away and he lay still as a frightened child. “Listen,” said
Henriette, “if you do not quit this place to-morrow at break of day,
without seeking to see madame again, I will denounce you to the king, who
will inflict upon you the most dreadful punishment.”
Whilst these things were passing in the chamber of Henriette, I did not
feel perfectly at ease on my side, and many were the wise reflections I
made upon my folly, as well as the promises I gave never again to expose
myself to such imminent danger. Nor did my terrors abate till after the
king had quitted me. At the sound of my bell Henriette hastened to my
bed-side.
“My good Henriette,” said I to her, trembling from head to foot, “what a
night of anxiety have I passed, I must indeed confess—”
“Fear not, my beloved mistress,” replied she; “I will watch over your
safety, and trust to be enabled fully to provide for it.”
I durst not then ask for any further explanation of her words, for such
was the ascendancy her good and steady conduct had given her over me, that
she would certainly have blamed me for my glaring imprudence. I pressed
her hand in mute thankfulness; she comprehended my silence and left me to
myself.
At the end of some days, seeing nothing of Noël, I ventured to question
her as to his fate: she then related to me all you have been told, and
added, that the day following this shameful and unfortunate night she had
lost no time in apprizing the comte Jean of all that had occurred, who had
quickly despatched Noël out of the kingdom, furnishing him with a purse of
ten thousand livres to defray his travelling expenses. Such was the
fortunate termination of this disgraceful affair; and now, having
completed my painful confession, I will change the subject to others
doubtless more calculated to interest you than the recital of such lapses.
CHAPTER XXV
Matters now assumed an air of importance. My struggle with the des
Choiseuls had become a deadly war, which could only be terminated either
by his downfall or my dismissal from court; this latter measure was not
very probable; an old man is not easily detached from a woman whom he
loves, and each day only added to my ascendancy over the mind of the king.
It is true, that the same force of habit which enchained Louis XV to me
bound him likewise to M. de Choiseul. The idea of change terrified him;
and so great was his dread of fresh faces, that he would have preferred
dying with his old minister, to creating a younger one who might witness
his end. Happily the duke himself brought on the crisis of his fate; his
power was cramped on all sides, yet, resolved not to lay it down till the
last extremity, he sought to stay his failing credit with the rising
influence of the dauphiness. His enemies were not slow in pointing out to
the king his minister’s frequent visits and great assiduities to a foreign
princess, and enlarged upon the fatal effects this new alliance might
produce to the monarchy.
Meanwhile the chancellor, threatened by the parliaments, saw only one way
of averting the storm which was about to burst on his head. This was to
introduce into the cabinet persons entirely devoted to himself; but to
accomplish his purpose, it was necessary to exclude the duc de Choiseul
and his party. M. de Maupeou came to me in December, and after having
gently scolded me for what he termed my carelessness, he showed me a
letter from the duchesse de Grammont, which, he said, would wonderfully
aid our plans. This letter was written to one of the presidents of the
parliament of Toulous, M. de ——. I cannot give you his name;
for, although I have preserved the original of the letter, I have mislaid
the envelope on which the address was written. I here give you a copy of
this curious and important production:—
“MONSIEUR LE PRESIDENT,—I promised to give you the exact details of
all that passed in this gay metropolis, and ‘tis with much pleasure I sit
down to fulfill my engagement. Things go on much as usual, or, perhaps, I
should be speaking more correctly, were I to say they are rapidly
progressing from bad to worse. We have no longer a king in France; all
power is lodged in the hands of one sprung from the most infamous origin;
who, in conjunction with others as intriguing as herself, seeks only to
ruin the kingdom, and to degrade it in the eyes of other nations.
“The noble firmness of sovereign courts is odious to people of this class;
thus you may imagine the detestation in which they regard the candid and
loyal conduct of the duke. I n the hopes of procuring the dismissal of my
brother, they have chosen for his successor wretch loaded with crimes, a
coward, an extortioner, a murderer—the duc d’Aiguillon. As for you
gentlemen, who now constitute our parliament, your places will soon be
filled by a magistracy drawn from the dregs of society; a troop of slaves,
deaf and blind, except as he who pays them best will have them exercise
those powers.
“This is no time for indolent repose; we must at once courageously and
unanimously defeat the guilty schemes of our enemies. So long as my
brother retains his present post he will support you with his best
interest; but, should he be dismissed, your business will soon be
finished.
“I beg my best remembrances, first, to your excellent lady, and after her,
to madame B. and madame L., not forgetting the marquise de Chalret, whose
wit is truly Attic; nor the marquise de P—s, who conceals beneath
the graceful exterior of a Languedocian the soul of one of Corneille’s
Roman matrons. For yourself rely upon my warmest friendship and endeavours
to serve you. My brother is most anxious to know you, after the flattering
manner in which I have mentioned you to him. When will you gratify us both
by visiting Paris?
“Ever yours,”
Nothing could have arrived more à propos for our purpose than this
letter. I was still engaged in its perusal when the king was announced; I
wished to hurry it back into the hands of M. de Maupeou; but he, more
crafty than I, requested I would keep it.
“It is fitting,” said he, “that it should be seen by the right person.”
Louis XV, astonished at the strange scene, inquired what it meant.
“A most shameful piece of scandal, sire,” replied I.
“An infamous epistle,” added the chancellor, “which one of my friends
managed to abstract from the post-office, and forwarded to me: I brought
it to madame la comtesse, that she might admire the determined malice of
our enemies.”
“You excite my curiosity,” cried Louis XV. “Madame, have the kindness to
allow me to see this paper.”
“Indeed, sire,” exclaimed I, “I know not whether I ought to obey your
majesty, so entirely has the writer of the letter forgotten the respect
duc to your sacred person.”
“Oh,” said the king, “I do not fear that; I am but too well used to the
offence to feel astonishment at its occurrence.”
I placed the paper in the hand of Louis XV, whose eye easily recognised
the handwriting of madame de Grammont. “Ah, ah!” cried he, “is it so? let
us see what this restless lady has to say of us all.” I watched the
countenance of the king as he read, and saw the frown that covered it grow
darker and darker; nevertheless he continued to read on without comment
till he had reached the end; then sitting down and looking full at the
chancellor, he exclaimed,
“Well, M. de Maupeou, and what do you think of this business?”
“I am overwhelmed with consternation, sire,” replied he, “when I think
that one of your majesty’s ministers should be able to conspire thus
openly against you.”
“Stay,” cried Louis hastily, “that fact is by no means proved. The
duchesse de Grammont is a mad woman, who involves the safety of her
brother; if I only believed him capable of such treachery, he should sleep
this night in the Bastille, and to-morrow the necessary proceedings should
be commenced against him: as for his sister, I will take care of her
within four good walls, and avenge myself for her past misconduct, by
putting it out of her power to injure me further.”
“Sire,” said I, in my turn, “remember she is a woman; I beseech you to
pardon her, and let the weight of your just indignation fall upon her
brother.”
“Chancellor,” cried the king, “this business must not be lightly passed
over.”
“Nor without due consideration,” replied M. de Maupeou, “your majesty may
look upon this letter as the basis of a secret plot: as for the duchess, I
am of my cousin’s opinion; despise her audacious attempts, but spare not
her brother; he alone is the guilty as well as dangerous person.”
The king made no answer, but rose, and crushing the letter in his hand,
threw it from him.
“Would,” exclaimed he at last, “that the fiends had those who take such
delight in disgusting me with my very existence. Heavens! how justly may I
say I despise all men; nor have I a much better opinion of your sex,
madame la comtesse, I must warn you.”
“Much obliged, sire,” cried I; “really I was not prepared for such
gallantry. It is rather hard that you should quarrel with me because this
disagreeable duchess behaves ill! Upon my word it is very unpleasant!”
“Come, come,” said Louis XV, kissing my cheek, “don’t you be a naughty
child; if I had not you, where should I turn for consolation amidst the
torments by which I am surrounded? Shall I tell you? In the midst of all
these perplexing affairs, there are moments in which I fear I may not be
promoting the happiness of my people.”
“Your majesty is greatly mistaken,” replied the chancellor; “the nation in
general must esteem themselves most happy under your reign; but it will
always happen that ill-disposed persons seek to pervert the public
opinion, and to lead men’s minds astray. The duchess, when travelling, was
the faithful and active agent of her brother. The duke, to secure his stay
in the ministry, will eagerly avail himself of every adventitious aid;
within your kingdom he seeks the support of the parliaments and
philosophers; without, he claims the succour of Germany and Spain. Your
majesty is certainly master of your own will, and it would ill become me
to point out the path you should tread; but my duty compels me to say,
that the duc de Choiseul is the greatest enemy of the royal house: of this
he gave me a convincing proof in the case of your august son; and now, if
he fancied he should find it more advantageous to have the dauphin for his
master—”
“Chancellor of France,” cried Louis, much agitated, “do you know what you
are asserting?”
“The truth, sire,” I exclaimed. “The public voice accuses the duc de
Choiseul of the death of your son; they declare—”
“How! you, too, madam!” exclaimed the king looking at me fixedly.
“And why not, sire? I am merely repeating what is in every one’s mouth.”
“I have heard this horrible charge before,” added the king; “the Jesuits
informed me of it, but I could not give credit to such a monstrosity.”
“So much the worse,” replied I; “in the world in which we live we should
always be on our guard.”
“Sire,” added the chancellor, with the most diabolical address, “I am
persuaded that M. de Choiseul is the most honourable man in the world, and
that he would shudder at the bare idea of any attempt upon the life of
your majesty; but his relations, friends, and creatures believe, that,
supported by the dauphiness, he would continue in office under your
successor. Who can answer for their honour? Who can assure you, that some
one among them may not do that for the duke which he would never venture
to attempt himself?
“This is the personal danger your majesty runs so long as M. de Choiseul
continues in office; were he dismissed, the world would soon abandon the
disgraced minister, and the dauphiness be amongst the first to forget
him.”
The king was pale with agitation, and for some minutes continued
traversing the apartment with hasty strides; then he suddenly stopped.
“You are then convinced, M. de Maupeou,” cried he, “that the duke is
leagued with the parliaments to weaken my authority?”
“There are palpable proofs to that effect,” replied the chancellor; “your
majesty may recollect the skilful manner in which, on the 3d of last
September, he avoided attending you to parliament; most assuredly, had he
not been the friend of rebels, he would not have shrunk from evincing by
his presence how fully he shared your just indignation.”
“That is but too true,” cried Louis XV; “and I felt much annoyed at the
time, that he preferred going to amuse himself at the house of M. de
Laborde, when his duty summoned him to my side.”
“Your majesty cannot fail to perceive how everything condemns him; his
personal conduct, equally with that of his sister, proves how little he
regards his royal master’s interest; and should your clemency resolve upon
sparing him now, you may find your mercy produce fatal effects to
yourself.”
“His dismissal,” resumed the king, “would disorganize all my political
measures. Who could I put in his place? I know no one capable of filling
it.”
“Your majesty’s wisdom must decide the point,” replied the chancellor. “My
duty is to lay before you the true state of things; this I have done, and
I know myself well enough not to intrude my counsel further. Nevertheless,
I cannot help remarking, that in your majesty’s court there are many as
capable as M. de Choiseul of directing affairs—M. d’Aiguillon, for
example.”
“Ah!” answered Louis XV; “this is not the moment, when M. d’Aiguillon is
smarting from his severe contest with the long robes, to elevate him over
the head of my hitherto-esteemed minister.”
M. de Maupeou and myself perceived that we should best serve my friend’s
cause by refraining from pressing the matter further, and we therefore
changed the conversation. Nevertheless, as what had already passed had
taken its full effect upon the king’s mind, he suggested an idea which I
should never have dreamed of recommending; and that was to consult the
abbé de la Ville on the subject.
The abbé de la Ville, head clerk of foreign affairs, was a man who, at the
advanced period of fourscore, preserved all the fire and vivacity of
youth; he was acquainted with ministerial affairs even better than M. de
Choiseul himself. Having formerly belonged to the Jesuits, to whom he was
entirely devoted, he had appeared to accelerate the period of their
destruction; never had he been able to pardon his patron the frightful
part he had compelled him to enact in the business. Years had not weakened
his ancient rancour, and it might be said, that he had clung to life with
more than natural pertinacity, as unwilling to lay it down till he had
avenged himself on de Choiseul. Louis XV wrote to him, desiring he would
avail himself of the first pretext that occurred to request an audience.
This note was forwarded by a footman, the good abbé easily divined that
this mystery concealed some great design; he therefore hastened to solicit
an audience as desired. When introduced into the cabinet of the king, his
majesty inquired at once,
“Monsieur l’ abbé, can I depend upon your discretion?”
“Sire,” replied the abbé, with a blunt frankness, “I am sorry your majesty
can doubt it.”
“Be satisfied, sir,” replied the king, “I had no intention to offend you;
but I wish to consult you upon a point, the importance of which you will
fully appreciate; answer me without disguise. Do you believe that the
services of the duc de Choiseul are useful to my kingdom, and that my
interests would suffer were I to dismiss him?”
“Sire,” replied M. de la Ville, without hesitation, “I protest to you, as
a man of honour, that the presence of the duc de Choiseul is by no means
essential to the ministry, and that your majesty’s interests would sustain
not the slightest injury by his absence.”
After this the abbé de la Ville entered into particulars unnecessary to
repeat here; it is sufficient to say, that all he advanced materially
aided our wishes. He afterwards reaped the reward of his friendly
services, for when the duc d’Aiguillon had displaced the duc de Choiseul,
he bestowed on M. de la Ville the title of director of foreign affairs,
an office created for him, and the bishopric in partibus of
Tricomie. The good abbé did not, however, long enjoy his honours, but
ended his career in 1774.
This conversation had been repeated to me; and, on my side, I left no
means untried of preventing Louis XV from placing further confidence in
his minister; but, feeble and timid, he knew not on what to determine,
contenting himself with treating the duke coolly; he sought, by continual
rebuffs and denials to his slightest request, to compel him to demand that
dismissal he had not the courage to give.
Whilst these things were in agitation, madame de Mirepoix, who had been
for some days absent from Versailles, came to call upon me. This lady
possessed a considerable share of wit; and, although on the most intimate
terms with me, had not altogether broken off with the des Choiseuls, to
whom she was further bound on account of the prince de Beauvau, her
brother. It therefore excited in me no surprise, when I heard that the des
Choiseuls had called on her to ascertain, whether it would not be
possible, through her mediation, to come to some terms with me.
“And you must not be angry with me,” continued she, “for undertaking the
negotiation; I well foresaw all the difficulties, and entertained
no hopes of its success, but upon second thoughts, I considered it better
I should accept the mission; for, in case of a negative being returned, it
will be safe in my keeping, and I will not add to the chagrin of a failure
the shame of a defeat.”
“It is my opinion,” replied I, “that all propositions coming from these
people should be rejected; they have compelled me to raise between them
and myself an immense wall of hatred, not less difficult to surmount than
the grand wall of China.”
“Yet,” replied the maréchale, smiling, “they are disposed to pay any price
for so doing.”
“I have friends,” said I, “from whom I can never separate myself.”
“They are willing that your friends shall be theirs likewise,” cried she,
“for they see that M. de Maupeou, the duc de la Vrillière, and the abbé
Terray, are provided for, and that the duc d’Aiguillon alone remains to be
suitably established; M. de Choiseul would be happy to aid him in
obtaining the post of minister of naval affairs.”
“Well, and the duchesse de Grammont,” inquired I, “would she visit me?”
“Oh, as to that, I know nothing about it, and can venture no opinion; my
commission does not extend so far.”
“I understand you,” said I; “she seeks for peace only as it would enable
her the better to carry on her hostilities against me. I am sorry, madame
la maréchale, that I cannot accept your terms for a reconciliation.”
“Remember, I pray of you, that I have been an ambassadress, and nothing
more,” said madame de Mirepoix; “recollect I have spoken to you in the
words of others, not my own. I must beg of you to be secret; if you
divulge the particulars of this morning’s conversation, it is I who will
suffer by it: your friends will be displeased with me for my interference;
and I have no inclination to provoke the anger of a party so powerful as
yours.”
I promised the maréchale to observe an inviolable secrecy; and, so well
have I kept my promise, that you are the first person to whom I ever
breathed one syllable of the affair. I must own, that it struck me as
strange, that the duc de Choiseul should abandon his cousin, and consent
to take his seat beside the duc d’Aiguillon, whom he detested: perhaps he
only sought to deceive us all by gaining time, till the death of the king.
But what avails speculation upon the words and actions of a courtier,
whose heart is an abyss too deep for gleam of light to penetrate?
CHAPTER XXVI
The interference of madame de Mirepoix, originating, as it did, in the duc
de Choiseul, let me at once into the secret of his fears and the extent of
my own power. The knowledge of the weakness of my adversary redoubled my
energy; and from this moment, I allowed no day to pass without forwarding
the great work, till I succeeded in effecting the duke’s ruin and securing
my own triumph. The pamphleteers in the pay of my enemies, and those who
merely copied these hirelings, assert that one evening after supper, when
Louis was intoxicated with wine and my seductions, I prevailed upon him to
sign a lettre de cachet against his minister, which he immediately
revoked when the break of day had restored to him his senses. This was a
malicious falsehood. You shall hear the exact manner in which the lettres
de cachet were signed.
On the evening of the 23d of December, his majesty having engaged to sup
with me, I had invited M. de Maupeou, the duc de la Vrillière, and the
prince de Soubise. It appears, that the king, previously to coming, had
gone to visit the dauphiness; he had not mentioned whither he was going,
so that his attendants believed him to be in my apartments, and directed
M. d’Oigny, post-master general, to seek him there. The baron brought with
him a packet of opened letters; when he saw me alone he wished to retire,
for the servants, believing him to be one of the expected guests, had
ushered him in. However, I would not permit him to go until the king’s
arrival; and, half sportively, half seriously, I took from him his
letters, protesting I would detain them as hostages for his obedience to
my desires. At this moment Louis XV entered the room; and M. d’Oigny,
having briefly stated his business, bowed and departed. The baron was a
very excellent man, possessing an extensive and intelligent mind; he wrote
very pleasing poetry, and had not his attention been occupied by the post
he filled, he might have made a conspicuous figure in literature.
When we were left to ourselves, I said to the king,
“Now, then, for this interesting and amusing budget; for such, I doubt
not, it will prove.”
“Not so fast, madam, if you please,” replied Louis XV; “perhaps these
papers may contain state secrets unfit for your eye.”
“Great secrets they must be,” said I, laughing, “confided thus to the
carelessness of the post.” So saying, I broke the seal of the envelope so
hastily, that the greater part of the letters and notes were scattered
over the carpet.
“I entreat your majesty’s pardon,” said I, “but I will repair the mischief
as far as I can.”
I stooped to collect the fallen papers, and the king had the gallantry to
assist me: we soon piled the various letters upon a tray, and began
eagerly to glance over their contents. My good fortune made me select from
the mass those epistles addressed to the members of the country
parliaments; they were filled with invectives against me, insulting
mention of the king, and praises of the duc de Choiseul. I took especial
care to read them in a loud and distinct voice.
“This really is not to be endured,” cried Louis XV; “that the mistaken
zeal of these long-robed gentlemen should make them thus compliment my
minister at my expense.”
“So much the worse for you, sire,” replied I, “considering that you
continue to prefer your minister to every other consideration.”
As I continued searching through the letters, I found and read the
following phrase:—“Spite of the reports in circulation, I do not
believe it possible that M. de Choiseul will be dismissed; he is too
necessary to the king, who, without him would be as incapable as a child
of managing his affairs: his majesty must preserve our friend in office in
spite of himself.”
When I had finished, the king exclaimed, in an angry tone, “We shall see
how far the prophecy of these sapient gentlemen is correct, and whether
their ‘friend’ is so important to me that I dare not dismiss him. Upon my
word, my minister has placed himself so advantageously before his master,
as to exclude him entirely from the eyes of his subjects.”
Whilst these words were speaking, M. de Maupeou and M. de la Vrillière
were announced; the king, still warm, let fall some words expressive of
his displeasure at what had happened. The gauntlet was thrown; and so well
did we work upon the irritated mind of Louis XV, that it was determined M.
de Choiseul should be dismissed the following day, December 24, 1770.
Chanteloup was chosen for the place of his retreat, and M. de la
Vrillière, by the dictation of the king, wrote the following letter to the
duke:—
“Cousin,-, The dissatisfaction caused me by your conduct compels me to
request you will confine yourself to your estate at Chanteloup, whither
you will remove in four and twenty hours from the date hereof. I should
have chosen a more remote spot for your place of exile, were it not for
the great esteem I entertain for the duchesse de Choiseul, in whose
delicate health I feel much interest. Have a care that you do not, by your
own conduct, oblige me to adopt harsher measures; and hereupon I pray God
to have you in his keeping.”
(Signed) “Louis,”
(and lower down) “PHILIPPEAUX”
When this letter was completed, I said to the king,
“Surely, sire, you do not mean to forget the duke’s faithful ally, M. de
Praslin? It would ill become us to detain him when the head of the family
has taken leave of us.”
“You are right,” replied the king, smiling; “besides, an old broom taken
from a masthead would be as useful to us as he would.”
Then, turning to M. de la Vrillière, the king dictated the following
laconic notice:—
“COUSIN,—I have no further occasion for your services; I exile you
to Praslin, and expect you will repair thither within four and twenty
hours after the receipt of this.”
“Short and sweet,” cried I.
“Now let us drop the subject,” said Louis; “let madame de Choiseul repose
in peace to-night, and to-morrow morning, at eleven o’clock, go yourself,
M. de la Vrillière, and carry my orders to the duke, and bring back his
staff of office.”
“To whom will you give it, sire?” inquired the chancellor.
“I have not yet considered the subject,” replied the king.
At this instant M. de Soubise was announced. “Motus!” exclaimed the
king, as M. de Soubise, little suspecting the nature of our conversation,
entered the room. I profited by his coming to slip out of the room into my
boudoir, from which I despatched the following note to M. d’Aiguillon:
“MY DEAR DUKE,—Victoria! We are conquerors; master and man quit
Paris to-morrow. We shall replace them by our friends; and you best know
whether you are amongst the number of them.”
When I returned to the drawing-room, the king exclaimed,
“Come, madam., you are waited for; the prince de Soubise has a very
curious anecdote to relate, which befell a lady of his acquaintance; I
begged of him to defer telling it till you rejoined us.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” inquired the maréchal of me.
“Not this evening,” replied I; “to-morrow, perhaps, or the next day, I may
be.”
This jest amused the king and the duc de la Vrillière, whilst M. de
Maupeou, who seemed to fear lest I should by any indiscretion, reveal our
secret, made a signal of impatience; to which I replied, by shrugging up
my shoulders. Poor M. de Soubise, although he did not comprehend my joke,
laughed at it as heartily as heartily as the rest who saw its application.
“Oh! you courtier,” thought I We then entreated of him to commence the
recital of his tale, which he did in the following words—
“There is in Lower Brittany a family gifted with a most singular
endowment: each member of the family, male or female, is warned exactly
one month previous to his or her decease of the precise hour and day in
which it will take place. A lady belonging to this peculiar race was
visiting me rather more than a month since; we were conversing quietly
together, when, all at once, she uttered a loud cry, arose from her seat,
endeavored to walk across the room, but fell senseless upon the floor.
Much grieved and surprised at this scene, I hastily summoned my servants,
who bestowed upon the unfortunate lady the utmost attention, but it was
long ere she revived. I then wished to persuade her to take some rest.
‘No,’ cried she, rising and giving me orders for her immediate departure,
‘I have not sufficient time for rest; scarcely will the short period
between me and eternity allow me to set my affairs in order.’ Surprised at
this language, I begged of her to explain herself. ‘You are aware,’ said
she, ‘of the fatal power possessed by my family; well, at the moment in
which I was sitting beside you on this sofa, happening to cast my eyes on
the mirror opposite, I saw myself as a corpse wrapped in the habiliments
of death, and partly covered with a black and white drapery; beside me was
an open coffin. This is sufficient; I have no time to lose: farewell, my
friend, we shall meet no more’ Thunderstruck at these words, I suffered
the lady to depart without attempting to combat her opinion. This morning
I received intelligence from her son that the prophecy had been fulfilled—she
was no more.”
When the maréchal had finished, I exclaimed,
“You have told us a sad dismal tale; I really fear I shall not be able to
close my eyes at all to-night for thinking of it.”
“We must think of some means of keeping up your spirits,” answered Louis
XV. “As for your story, maréchal, it does not surprise me; things equally
inexplicable are continually taking place. I read in a letter addressed by
Philip V, of Spain, to Louis XIV, ‘that the spirit of Philip II, founder
of the Escurial, wanders at certain intervals around that building.’
Philip V affirms that he himself witnessed the apparition of the spectre
of the king.”
At this moment supper was announced. “Come, gentlemen,” said I, “let us
seek to banish these gloomy ideas around our festive board.” Upon which
the king conducted me to the supper-room, the rest of the company
following us. Spite of all my efforts to be gay, and induce others to be
so likewise, the conversation still lingered upon this dismal subject.
“Heaven grant,” exclaimed the chancellor, “that I may not soon have to
dread a visit from the ghost of the deceased parliament; however, if such
were the case, it would not prevent my sleeping.”
“Oh!” cried the king, “these long-robed gentlemen have often more
effectually robbed me of sleep than all the spectres in the world could
do; yet one night—”
“Well, sire,” said I, seeing that Louis was silent, “and what happened to
you that night?”
“Nothing that I can repeat,” answered Louis XV, glancing around with a
mournful look.
A dead silence followed, which lasted several minutes; and this evening,
which was to usher my day of triumph, passed away in the most
inconceivable dullness. What most contributed to render me uneasy was the
reflection, that, at the very moment when we had freed ourselves of our
enemies, we were ignorant who would fill their vacant places. This was an
error, and a great one. My friends would not listen to the nomination of
the Comte de Broglie, the Comte de Maillebois, the duc de la Vauguyon, any
more than either M. de Soubise or M. de Castries. The abbé Terray, having
upon one occasion proposed the maréchal duc de Richelieu, he very narrowly
escaped having his face scratched by M. d’Aiguillon, who cared very little
for his dear uncle; but I have unintentionally wandered from the thread of
my narrative; I will therefore resume it at once.
I had hoped that the king would this night have retired to his own
apartment, and that I should have been enabled to hold a secret council
with M. de Maupeou, and the ducs de la Vrillière and d’Aiguillon; but no
such thing. Imagining, no doubt, that I should be kept awake by my fear of
ghosts, his majesty insisted upon remaining with me, and I was compelled
to acquiesce. He passed a very agitated night, much more occupied with the
des Choiseuls than me; he could think of nothing, speak of nothing, but
the sensation which their disgrace would produce; he seemed to dread his
family, the nobility, the nation, Europe, and the whole world. I strove to
re-assure him, and to inspire him with fresh courage; and, when he quitted
me in the morning, I felt convinced that he would not again alter his
determination.
As soon as Louis XV had left me, Comte Jean entered. Although concealed
behind the curtain, and apparently not on the best terms with me, my
brother-in-law nevertheless directed my actions, and gave me most
excellent advice. It was not long ere the duc d’Aiguillon arrived; he had
seen M. de Maupeou during the night, and learned from him the exile of the
late minister, but beyond that fact he knew nothing. He inquired of me,
with much uneasiness, whether anything had been decided in his behalf. I
replied, that the king was as yet undecided in his choice of ministers,
but that, if the duc d’Aiguillon came into office, he would, in all
probability, be nominated to the administration of foreign affairs: the
direction of the war-office had been my noble friend’s ardent desire.
Whilst we were thus conversing together on the 24th of December, 1770,
eleven o’clock struck; and we could, from the windows, perceive M. de la
Vrillière taking his way towards that part of the building occupied by M.
de Choiseul when at the castle. This latter was in conversation with M.
Conzié, bishop of Arras, when the arrival of the duc de la Vrillière,
bearing the king’s commands, was signified to him. The prelate, not
doubting but the mission related to affairs of importance, took his leave;
de la Vrillière then presented the lettre de cachet, accompanying
it with some remarks of his own upon the talents of the minister, and his
regret at being selected for so unpleasant an office. “A truce to your
feigned regrets, my lord duke,” replied the disgraced minister,
sarcastically, “I am well assured my dismissal could not have been brought
me by hands more ready to discharge the trust than yours.” Saying this, M.
de Choiseul placed his credentials in the hands of the duke, and slightly
bowing, turned his back upon him, as though he had forgotten his presence.
M. de Choiseul then retired to summon his sister, to communicate to her
and his wife the misfortune which had befallen him: he then set out for
Paris, to make the necessary preparations for removing to Chanteloup.
There an officer from the king, charged to accompany him to his place of
exile, gave him his majesty’s orders that he should see no person, and
receive no visits.
This order did not proceed from me, but was the work of the duc de la
Vrillière, who sought, by this paltry action, to avenge himself upon M. de
Choiseul for the reception he had given him. It was wholly useless,
however, for in the exile of the duke was seen a thing unheard of,
perhaps, before, and, in all probability, unlikely ever to occur again—the
sight of a whole court espousing the part of an exiled minister, and
openly censuring the monarch who could thus reward his services. You, no
doubt, remember equally well as myself the long file of carriages that for
two days blocked up the road to Chanteloup. In vain did Louis XV express
his dissatisfaction; his court flocked in crowds to visit M. de Choiseul.
On the other hand, the castle was not in a more tranquil state. At the
news of the dismissal and banishment of M. de Choiseul, a general hue and
cry was raised against me and my friends: one might have supposed, by the
clamours it occasioned, that the ex-minister had been the atlas of the
monarchy; and that, deprived of his succour, the state must fall into
ruins. The princesses were loud in their anger, and accused me publicly of
having conspired against virtue itself! The virtue of such a sister and
brother! I ask you, my friend, is not the idea truly ludicrous?
The dauphiness bewailed his fall with many tears; at least, so I was
informed by a lady of her suite, madame de Campan. This lady was a most
loquacious person; she frequently visited my sister-in-law; and, thanks to
her love of talking, we were always well-informed of all that was passing
in the household of Marie Antoinette. However, the dauphin was far from
sharing the grief Of his illustrious spouse. When informed of the
dismissal of the duke, he cried out, “Well, madame du Barry has saved me
an infinity of trouble—that of getting rid of so dangerous a man, in
the event of my ever ascending the throne.” The prince did not usually
speak of me in the most flattering terms, but I forgave him on the present
occasion, so much was I charmed with his expression relative to the late
minister; it afforded me the certainty that I should not have to dread the
possibility of his recalling de Choiseul.
Whilst many were bewailing the downfall of the des Choiseuls, others, who
had an eye more to self-interest, presented themselves to share in the
spoils of his fortune. There were the princes de Soubise and de Condé, the
duc de la Vauguyon, the comtes de Broglie, de Maillebois, and de Castries,
the marquis de Monteynard and many others, equally anxious for a tempting
slice of the ministry, and who would have made but one mouthful of the
finest and best.
The marquise de 1’ Hôpital came to solicit my interest for the prince de
Soubise, her lover. I replied, that his majesty would rather have the
maréchal for his friend than his minister; that, in fact, the different
appointments had taken place; and that, if the names of the parties were
not immediately divulged, it was to spare the feelings of certain
aspirants to the ministry: madame de 1’ Hôpital withdrew, evidently much
disconcerted at my reply. Certainly M. de Soubise must have lost his
reason, when he supposed that the successor of M. de Choiseul would be
himself, the most insignificant prince of France; he only could suppose
that he was equal to such an elevation. However this may be, he took upon
himself to behave very much like an offended person for some days; but,
finding such a line of conduct produced no good, he came round again, and
presented himself as usual at my parties, whilst I received him as though
nothing had occurred.
I had more difficulty in freeing myself from the importunities of
Messieurs de Broglie and de Maillebois. I had given to each of them a sort
of promise; I had allowed them to hope, and yet, when the time came to
realize these hopes, I told them, that I possessed much less influence
than was generally imagined; to which they replied, that they knew my
power to serve them was much greater than I appeared to believe. After a
while, I succeeded in deadening the expectations of M. de Broglie, but M.
de Maillebois was long ere he would abandon his pursuit. When every chance
of success had left him, he gave way to so much violence and bitterness
against M. d’Aiguillon, that the duke was compelled to punish him for his
impudent rage. I will mention the other candidates for the ministry at
another opportunity.
CHAPTER XXVII
The comte de la Marche had always evinced the warmest regard for me, and
he sought, on the present occasion, to be repaid for his attachment. Both
he and the prince de Condé had their ambitious speculations in the present
change of ministers; and both fancied, that because their relation, the
duke, had governed during the king’s minority, the right to the several
appointments now vacant, belonged as a matter of course to their family.
The count had already sent to solicit my interest, through the mediation
of madame de Monaco, mistress to the prince de Condé; and, as I shrewdly
suspect, the occasional chère amie of himself. Finding this measure
did not produce all the good he expected, he came, without further
preface, to speak to me himself about it. Unwilling to come to an open
rupture with him, I endeavoured to make him comprehend, that the policy of
the sovereign would never permit his placing any of the administrative
power in the hands of the princes of his family; that he had consented,
most reluctantly, to investing them with military command, and that it
would be fruitless to urge more.
The comte de la Marche appeared struck by the justness of my arguments; he
replied,
“Well, madam, since I cannot be a minister, I must e’en give up my wishes;
but, for the love of heaven intreat of the king to bestow his favours in
the shape of a little pecuniary aid. Things look ill at present; they may
take a worse turn, but he may confidently rely on my loyalty and devotion:
the supreme courts, driven to the last extremity, will make a stand, and
princes and peers will range themselves under the banners. We well know
how much this resistance will displease his majesty; I pledge myself never
to forsake your cause, but to defend it with my life; that is, if my
present pressing necessity for money be satisfied. How say you, madam; can
you procure it for me?”
“Very probably I may be enabled to assist you,” replied I; “but you must
first inform me how much will satisfy you.”
“Oh,” answered he, carelessly, “something less than the mines of Peru will
suffice; I am not extravagant, and merely ask for so much as is absolutely
necessary. In the first place 60,000 livres paid down, and secondly, a
yearly payment of 200,000 more.”
This demand did not appear to me unreasonable, and I undertook to arrange
the matter to the prince’s satisfaction, well pleased on my own side to
secure so illustrious an ally at so cheap a rate, I procured the assent of
the king and the comptroller-general; the 60,000 livres were bestowed on
the comte de la Marche in two separate payments, the pension settled on
him, and, still further, an annuity of 30,000 livres was secured to madame
de Monaco; and I must do the count the justice to say, that he remained
faithful to our cause amidst every danger and difficulty; braving alike
insults, opprobrium, and the torrent of pamphlets and epigrams of which he
was the object; in fact, we had good reason for congratulating ourselves
upon securing such devotion and zeal at so poor a price.
The prince de Condé, surrounded by a greater degree of worldly state and
consideration, was equally important to us, although in another way. He
had in some degree compromised popularity by attaching himself to me from
the commencement of my court favour, and the reception he bestowed on me
at Chantilly had completed his disgrace in the eyes of nobility. He
visited at my house upon the most friendly footing; and whenever he found
me, he would turn the conversation upon politics, the state of affairs,
and the great desire he felt to undertake the direction of them in concert
with me; he would add, “You might play the part of madame de Pompadour,
and yet you content yourself with merely attempting to do so; you are
satisfied with possessing influence when you might exercise power and
command. Your alliance with a prince of the blood would render you sole
mistress in this kingdom; and should I ever arrive, through your means, to
the rank of prime minister, it would be my pleasure and pride to submit
all things to you, and from this accord would spring an authority which
nothing could weaken.”
I listened in silence, and, for once, my natural frankness received a
check; for I durst not tell him all I knew of the king’s sentiments
towards him. The fact was, Louis XV was far from feeling any regard for
the prince de Condé; and, not to mince the matter, had unequivocally
expressed his contempt for him. He often said to me, when speaking of him,
“He is a conceited fellow, who would fain induce persons to believe him
somebody of vast importance.” Louis XV had prejudices, from which no power
on earth could have weaned him; and the princes of the house of Condé were
amongst his strongest antipathies: he knew a score of scandalous anecdotes
relating to them, which he took no small pleasure in repeating.
However, all the arguments of the prince de Condé were useless, and
produced him nothing, or, at least, nothing for himself, although he
procured the nomination of another to the ministry, as you will hear in
its proper place; but this was not sufficient to allay the cravings of his
ambition; and, in his rage and disappointment, when open war was
proclaimed between the king and his parliament, he ranged himself on the
side of the latter. He soon, however, became weary of his new allies; and,
once more abandoning himself to the guidance of interest, he rejoined our
party. Well did M. de Maupeou know men, when he said they all had their
price; and great as may be the rank and title of princes, with plenty of
money, they too may be had.
But amongst all the candidates for the ministry, the one who occasioned me
the greatest trouble was the duc de la Vauguyon, who insisted upon it that
he had done much for me, and complained bitterly of his unrequited
services, and of my having bestowed my confidence on others. Up to the
moment of the disgrace of the des Choiseuls, he had been amongst the most
bitter of the malcontents; but no sooner were they banished from court
than M. de la Vauguyon forgot every thing, and hastened to me with every
mark of the warmest friendship.
“Ah!” exclaimed he, “I have much to scold you for, but I will forgive you
all your past misdeeds, if you will perform your promise to me.”
“My dear father,” cried I (for I used jestingly to style him so, in the
same manner as I designated the bishop of Orleans gros père), “are
you, indeed displeased with me? That is very naughty: for you know I love
you with all my heart.”
“If it be true that you entertain any regard for me, why have you evinced
so little towards me? Am I not of the right materials for making
ministers? Why, then, have you never procured my appointment to any of the
vacant situations?”
“Stay, stay, my dear father,” cried I, “how you run on! To hear you talk,
any person would suppose that places and appointments rained down upon me,
and that I had only to say to you, my dear duke, choose which you please;
then, indeed, you might complain with justice; but you know very well,
that all these delightful things are in the hands of the king, who alone
has a right to bestow them as he judges best, whilst I am wholly powerless
in the business.”
“Say, rather,” replied the duke, quickly, “that you find it suits your
present purpose to put on this want of power. We all know, that your veto
is absolute with his majesty, and it requires nothing more to obtain
whatsoever you desire.”
The duc de la Vauguyon was powerful, and represented the whole of a party—that
of the religionists, which was still further supported by the princesses;
but for this very reason the triumvirate, consisting of messieurs d’
Aiguillon, de Maupeou, and the abbé Terre, would not have accepted his
services at any price.
The good duke returned several times to the charge; sometimes endeavouring
to move me by gentle intreaties and, at others, holding out threats and
menaces; good and bad words flowed from his lips like a mixture of honey
and gall, but when he found that both were equally thrown away upon me, he
retired offended; and by the expression of his rage and disappointment,
succeeded in incensing both the dauphin and dauphiness against me. May
heaven preserve you, my friend, from the anger of a bigot!
I think I have detained you long enough with the relation of the intrigues
by which I was surrounded upon the dismissal of the des Choiseuls, and I
will now return to the morning of the 24th of December. When the exiles
were fairly out of Paris, the king found himself not a little embarrassed
in the choice of a prime minister. Those who would have suited our
purposes did not meet with the king’s approbation, and he had not yet
sufficient courage to venture upon electing one who should be disagreeable
to us; he therefore hit upon a curious provisional election; the abbé
Terray, for instance, was placed at the head of the war department. This
measure was excused by the assertion, that it would require the head of a
financier to look into and settle the accounts, which the late minister
had, no doubt, left in a very confused state. Upon the same principle, M.
Bertin was appointed to the direction of foreign affairs, and M. de Boynes
was invested solely with the management of naval affairs. This man, who
was counsellor of state, and first president of the parliament of
Besancon, knew not a letter of the office thus bestowed upon him, but then
he was bound body and soul to the chancellor; and it was worth something
to have a person who, it might be relied on, would offer no opposition to
the important reforms which were to be set on foot immediately. We
required merely automata, and M. de Boynes answered our purpose perfectly
well; for a provisional minister nothing could have been better.
The king had at length (in his own opinion), hit upon a very excellent
minister of war; and the person selected was the chevalier, afterwards
comte de Muy, formerly usher to the late dauphin: he was a man of the old
school, possessing many sterling virtues and qualities. We were in the
utmost terror when his majesty communicated to us his election of a
minister of war, and declared his intention of immediately signifying his
pleasure to M. de Muy. Such a blow would have overthrown all our projects.
Happily chance befriended us; the modern Cato declared that he should
esteem himself most honored to serve his sovereign by every possible
endeavour, but that he could never be induced to enter my service upon any
pretext whatever. The strangeness of this refusal puzzled Louis XV not a
little. He said to me. “Can you make out the real motive of this silly
conduct? I had a better opinion of the man; I thought him possessed of
sense, but I see now that he is only fit for the cowl of a monk; he will
never be a minister.” The king was mistaken; M. de Muy became one under
the auspices of his successor.
Immediately that the prince de Condé was informed of what had passed, he
recommenced his attack; and finding he could not be minister himself, he
determined, at least, to be principally concerned in the appointment of
one; he therefore proposed the marquis de Monteynard, a man of such
negative qualities, that the best that could be said of him was, that he
was as incapable of a bad as of a good action; and, for want of a better,
he was elected. Such were the colleagues given to M. de Maupeou to conduct
the war which was about to be declared against the parliaments. I should
tell you, en passant, that the discontent of the magistracy had
only increased, and that the parliament of Paris had even finished by
refusing to decide the suits which were referred to them; thus punishing
the poor litigants for their quarrel with the minister.
Meanwhile, the general interest expressed for the duc de Choiseul greatly
irritated the king.
“Who would have thought,” said he to me, “that a disgraced minister could
have been so idolized by a whole court? Would you believe that I receive a
hundred petitions a day for leave to visit at Chanteloup? This is
something new indeed! I cannot understand it.”
“Sire,” replied I, “that only proves how much danger you incurred by
keeping such a man in your employment.”
“Why, yes,” answered Louis XV; “it really seem as though, had he chosen
some fine morning to propose my abdicating the throne in favour of the
dauphin, he would only have needed to utter the suggestion to have it
carried into execution. Fortunately for me, my grandson is by no means
partial to him, and will most certainly never recall him after my death.
The dauphin possesses all the obstinacy of persons of confined
understanding: he has but slender judgment, and will see with no eye but
his own.”
Louis XV augured ill of his successor’s reign, and imagined that the
cabinet of Vienna would direct that of Versailles at pleasure. His late
majesty was mistaken; Louis XVI is endowed with many rare virtues, but
they are unfortunately clouded over by his timidity and want of
self-confidence.
The open and undisguised censure passed by the whole court upon the
conduct of Louis XV was not the only thing which annoyed his majesty, who
perpetually tormented himself with conjectures of what the rest of Europe
would say and think of his late determinations.
“I will engage,” said he, “that I am finely pulled to pieces at Potsdam.
My dear brother Frederick is about as sweet-tempered as a bear, and I must
not dismiss a minister who is displeasing to me without his passing a
hundred comments and sarcastic remarks. Still, as he is absolute as the
Medes and Persians, surely he can Have no objection to us poor monarchs
imitating him; and allow me the same privilege in mine. After all, why
should I need his or any other person’s opinion; let the whole world
applaud or condemn, I shall still act according to my own best judgment.”
On my side I was far from feeling quite satisfied with the accounts I
continued to receive from Chanteloup; above all I felt irritated at the
parade of attachment made by the prince de Beauvau for the exiles, and I
complained bitterly of it to the maréchale de Mirepoix.
“What can I do to help it,” said she; “my sister-in-law is a simpleton;
who, after having ruined her brother, will certainly cause the downfall of
her husband. I beseech you, my dear, out of regard for me, to put up with
the unthinking conduct of the prince de Beauvau for a little while; he
will soon see his error and amend it.” He did indeed return to our party,
but his obedience was purchased at a heavy price.
Some days after the disgrace of the duc de Choiseul, I received a letter
from M. de Voltaire. This writer, who carped at and attacked all subjects,
whether sacred or profane, and from whose satires neither great nor small
were exempt, had continual need of some powerful friend at court. When his
protector, M. de Choiseul, was dismissed, he saw clearly enough that the
only person on whom he could henceforward depend to aid and support him,
was she who had been chiefly instrumental in removing his first patron.
With these ideas he addressed to me the following letter of condolence or,
to speak more correctly, of congratulation. It was as follows:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE,—Fame, with her hundred tongues, has announced
to, me in my retreat the fall of M. de Choiseul and your triumph. This
piece of news has not occasioned me much surprise, I always believed in
the potency of beauty to carry all before it; but, shall I confess it? I
scarcely know whether I ought to congratulate myself on the success you
have obtained over your enemies. M, de Choiseul was one of my kindest
friends, and his all-powerful protection sufficed to sustain me against
the malice of my numerous enemies. May a humble creature like me flatter
himself with the hope of finding in you the same generous support? for
when the god Mars is no longer to be found, what can be more natural than
to seek the aid of Pallas, the goddess of the line arts? Will she refuse
to protect with her aegis the most humble of her adorers?
“Permit me, madam, to avail myself of this opportunity to lay at your feet
the assurance of my most respectful devotion. I dare not give utterance to
all my prayers in your behalf, because I am open to a charge of infidelity
from some, yet none shall ever detect me unfaithful in my present
professions; at my age, ‘tis time our choice was made, and our affections
fixed. Be assured, lovely countess, that I shall ever remain your attached
friend; and that no day will pass without my teaching the echoes of the
Alps to repeat your much-esteemed name.
“I have the honour to remain, malady, yours, etc., etc.”
You may be quite sure, my friend, that I did not allow so singular an
epistle to remain long unanswered. I replied to it in the following words:—
“SIR,—The perusal of your agreeable letter made me almost grieve for
the disgrace of the duc de Choiseul. Be assured, that to his own conduct,
and that of his family, may be alone attributed the misfortune you
deplore.
“The regrets you so feelingly express for the calamity which has befallen
your late protector do honour to your generous heart; but recollect that
your old friends were not the only persons who could appreciate and value
your fine talents; to be esteemed worthy the honourable appellation of
your patron is a glory which the proudest might envy; and, although I
cannot boast of being a Minerva, who, after all, was possibly no wiser
than the rest of us, I shall always feel proud and happy to serve you with
my utmost credit and influence.
“I return you my best thanks for the wishes you express, and the
attachment you so kindly profess. You honour me too much by repeating my
name amidst the bosom of the Alps! be assured, that I shall not be
behindhand in making the saloons of Paris and Versailles resound with
yours. Had I leisure for the undertaking, I would go and teach it to the
only mountain worthy of re-echoing it—at the foot of Parnassus.
“I am, sir, yours, etc., etc.”
You perceive, my friend, that I intended this reply should be couched in
the wittiest style imaginable, yet, upon reading it over at this lapse of
time, it appears to me the silliest thing ever penned; nevertheless, I
flattered myself I had caught the tone and manner in which M. de Voltaire
had addressed me: he perceived my intention, and was delighted with the
flattering deference it expressed. You know the vanity of men of letters;
and M. de Voltaire, as the first writer of the age, possessed, in
proportion, the largest portion of conceit.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Spite of the little estimation in which I held men of letters, generally
speaking, you must not take it for granted that I entertained an equal
indifference for all these gentlemen. I have already, I fear, tired your
patience when dwelling upon my ardent admiration of M. de Voltaire; I have
now to speak to you of that with which his illustrious rival, Jean Jacques
Rousseau, inspired me—the man who, after a life so filled with
constant trouble and misfortunes, died a few years since in so deplorable
a manner. At the period of which I am now speaking this man, who had
filled Europe with his fame, was living at Paris, in a state bordering
upon indigence. I must here mention, that it was owing to my solicitation
that he had been permitted to return from his exile, I having successfully
interceded for him with the chancellor and the attorney-general. M.
Seguier made no difficulty to my request, because he looked upon Jean
Jacques Rousseau as the greatest enemy to a set of men whom he mortally
hated—the philosophers. Neither did M. de Maupeou, from the moment
he effected the overthrow of the parliament, see any objection to
bestowing his protection upon a man whom the parliaments had exiled. In
this manner, therefore, without his being aware of it, Rousseau owed to me
the permission to re-enter Paris. Spite of the mortifying terms in which
this celebrated writer had spoken of the king’s mistresses, I had a lively
curiosity to know him; all that his enemies repeated of his uncouthness,
and even of his malicious nature, far from weakening the powerful interest
with which he inspired me, rather augmented it, by strengthening the idea
I had previously formed of his having been greatly calumniated. The
generous vengeance which he had recently taken for the injuries he had
received from Voltaire particularly charmed me.* I thought only how I
could effect my design of seeing him by one means or another, and in this
resolution I was confirmed by an accident which befell me one day.
It was the commencement of April, 1771, I was reading for the fourth time,
the “Nouvelle Heloise,” and for the tenth, or, probably, twelfth,
the account of the party on the lake, when the maréchale de Mirepoix
entered the room. I laid my open volume on the mantel-piece, and the
maréchale, glancing her eye upon the book I had just put down, smilingly
begged my pardon for disturbing my grave studies, and taking it in her
hand, exclaimed,
“Ah! I see you have been perusing ‘La Nouvelle Heloise’; I have
just been having more than an hour’s conversation respecting its author.”
“What were you saying of him?” asked I.
“Why, my dear, I happened to be at the house of madame de Luxembourg,
where I met with the comtesse de Boufflers.”
“Yes, I remember,” said I, “the former of these ladies was the particular
friend of Jean Jacques Rousseau.”
“And the second also,” answered she; “and I can promise you, that neither
the one or the other spoke too well of him.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed I, with a warmth I could not repress.
“The duchess,” resumed madame de Mirepoix, “says he is an ill-bred and
ungrateful man, and the countess insists upon it he is a downright
pedant.”
“Shameful, indeed,” cried I; “but can you, my dear friend, account for the
ill-nature with which these ladies speak of poor Rousseau?”
“Oh! Yes,” replied the maréchale, “their motives are easily explained, and
I will tell you a little secret, for the truth of which I can vouch.
Madame de Luxembourg had at one time conceived the most lively passion for
Jean Jacques.”
“Indeed!” cried I; “and he—”
“Did not return it. As for madame de Bouffiers, the case was exactly
reversed; and Rousseau has excited her resentment by daring long to nurse
a hopeless flame, of which she was the object: this presumption on the
part of the poet our dignified countess could never pardon. However, I
entreat of you not to repeat this; remember, I tell you in strictest
secrecy.”
“Oh, be assured of my discretion,” said I; “I promise you not to publish
your secret” (which, by the way, I was very certain was not communicated
for the first time when told to me).
This confidence on the part of the maréchale had, in some unaccountable
manner, only increased the ardent desire I felt to see the author of the “Nouvelle
Heloise”; and I observed to madame de Mirepoix, that I had a great
curiosity to be introduced to Rousseau.
“I fear,” said she, “you will never be able to persuade him to visit at
the château.”
“How then can I accomplish my desire of seeing this celebrated man?”
“By one simple method; if he will not come to you, you must go to him. I
would willingly accompany you, but he knows me, and my presence would
spoil all. The best thing you can do is to dress yourself quite plainly,
as a lady from the country, taking with you one of your female attendants.
You may take as a pretext for your visit some music you would wish to have
copied. Be sure to treat M. de Rousseau as a mere copyist, and appear
never to have heard of his superior merit: do this, and you will receive
the best possible reception.”
I greatly approved of the maréchale ‘s advice, which I assured her I would
delay no longer than till the following day to put into practice; and,
after some further conversation upon J. J. Rousseau, we parted.
Early the next day I set out for Paris accompanied by Henriette; there, in
pursuance of the suggestion of madame de Mirepoix, I dressed myself as a
person recently arrived from the country, and Henriette, who was to
accompany me, disguised herself as a villager. I assure you, our personal
attractions lost nothing by the change of our attire. From the rue de la
Jussienne to the rue Platriere is only a few steps; nevertheless, in the
fear of being recognised, I took a hired carriage. Having reached our
place of destination, we entered, by a shabby door, the habitation of Jean
Jacques Rousseau: his apartments were on the fifth floor. I can scarcely
describe to you, my friend, the emotions I experienced as I drew nearer
and nearer to the author of “Heloise.” At each flight of stairs I was
compelled to pause to collect my ideas, and my poor heart beat as though I
had been keeping an assignation. At length, however, we reached the fifth
story; thereafter having rested a few minutes to recover myself, I was
about to knock at a door which was opposite to me, when, as I approached,
I heard a sweet but tremulous voice singing a melancholy air, which I have
never since heard anywhere; the same voice repeated the romance to which I
was listening several times. When it had entirely ceased I profited by the
silence to tap with my knuckles against the door, but so feeble was the
signal, that even Henriette, who was close behind me, could not hear it.
She begged I would permit her to ring a bell which hung near us; and,
having done so, a step was heard approaching the door, and, in a minute or
two, it was opened by a man of about sixty years of age, who, seeing two
females, took off his cap with a sort of clumsy gallantry, at which I
affected to be much flattered.
“Pray, sir,” said I, endeavouring to repress my emotion, “does a person
named Rousseau, a copier of music, live here?”
“Yes, madam; I am he. What is your pleasure?”
“I have been told, sir, that you are particularly skilful in copying music
cheaply; I should be glad if you would undertake to copy these airs I have
brought with me.”
“Have the goodness to walk in, madam.”
We crossed a small obscure closet, which served as a species of
antechamber, and entered the sitting-room of M. de Rousseau, who seated me
in an arm-chair, and motioning to Henriette to sit down, once more
inquired my wishes respecting the music.
“Sir,” said I, “as I live in the country, and but very rarely visit Paris,
I should be obliged to you to get it done as early as possible.”
“Willingly, madam; I have not much upon my hands just now.”
I then gave to Jean Jacques Rousseau the roll of music I had brought. He
begged I would continue seated, requested permission to keep on his cap,
and went to a little table to examine the music I had brought.
Upon my first entrance I had perceived a close and confined smell in these
miserable apartments, but, by degrees, I became accustomed to it, and
began to examine the chamber in which I sat with as strict a scrutiny as
though I had intended making an inventory of its contents. Three old
elbow-chairs, some rickety stools, a writing-table, on which were two or
three volumes of music, some dried plants laid on white-brown paper;
beside the table stood an old spinet, and, close to the latter article of
furniture, sat a fat and well-looking cat. Over the chimney hung an old
silver watch; the walls of the room were adorned with about half a dozen
views of Switzerland and some inferior engravings, two only, which
occupied the most honourable situations, struck me; one represented
Frederick II, and under the picture were written some lines (which I
cannot now recollect) by Rousseau himself; the other engraving, which hung
opposite, was the likeness of a very tall, thin, old man, whose dress was
nearly concealed by the dirt which had been allowed to accumulate upon it;
I could only distinguish that it was ornamented with a broad riband. When
I had sufficiently surveyed this chamber, the simplicity of which, so
closely bordering on want and misery, pained me to the heart, I directed
my attention to the extraordinary man who was the occasion of my visit. He
was of middle height, slightly bent by age, with a large and expansive
chest; his features were common in their cast, but possessed of the most
perfect regularity. His eyes, which he from time to time raised from the
music he was considering, were round and sparkling but small, and the
heavy brows which hung over them, conveyed an idea of gloom and severity;
but his mouth, which was certainly the most beautiful and fascinating in
its expression I ever saw, soon removed this unfavourable impression.
Altogether there belonged to his countenance a smile of mixed sweetness
and sadness, which bestowed on it an indescribable charm.
To complete my description, I must not forget to add his dress, which
consisted of a dirty cotton cap, to which were fixed strings of a riband
that had once been scarlet; a pelisse with arm-holes, a flannel waistcoat,
snuff-coloured breeches, gray stockings, and shoes slipped down at the
heel, after the fashion of slippers. Such was the portrait, and such the
abode of the man who believed himself to be one of the potentates of the
earth and who, in fact, had once owned his little court and train of
courtiers; for, in the century in which he lived, talent had become as
arbitrary as sovereign power—thanks to the stupidity of some of our
grandees and the caprice of Frederick of Prussia.
Meanwhile my host, undisturbed by my reflections, had quietly gone over
his packet of music. He found amongst it an air from “Le Devin du
Village,” which I had purposely placed there; he half turned towards
me and looking steadfastly at me, as if he would force the truth from my
lips.
“Madam,” said he, “do you know the author of this little composition?”
“Yes,” replied I, with an air of as great simplicity as I could assume,
“it is written by a person of the same name as yourself, who writes books
and composes operas. Is he any relation to you?”
My answer and question disarmed the suspicions of Jean Jacques, who was
about to reply, but stopped himself, as if afraid of uttering a falsehood,
and contented himself with smiling and casting down his eyes. Taking
courage from his silence, I ventured to add,—“The M. de Rousseau who
composed this pretty air has written much beautiful music and many very
clever works. Should I ever know the happiness of becoming a mother I
shall owe to him the proper care and education of my child.” Rousseau made
no reply, but he turned his eyes towards me, and at this moment the
expression of his countenance was perfectly celestial, and I could readily
imagine how easily he might have inspired a warmer sentiment than that of
admiration.
Whilst we were conversing in this manner, a female, between the age of
forty and fifty, entered the room. She saluted me with great affectation
of politeness, and then, without speaking to Rousseau, went and seated
herself familiarly upon a chair on the other side of the table: this was
Thérèse, a sort of factotum, who served the master of these apartments
both as servant and mistress. I could not help regarding this woman with a
feeling of disgust; she had a horrible cough, which she told us was more
than usually troublesome on that day. I had heard of her avarice;
therefore to prevent the appearance of having called upon an unprofitable
errand, I inquired of Jean Jacques Rousseau how much the music would cost.
“Six sous a page, madam,” replied he, “is the usual price.”
“Shall I, sir,” asked I, “leave you any cash in hand for the purchase of
what paper you will require?”
“No, I thank you, madam,” replied Rousseau, smiling; “thank God! I am not
yet so far reduced that I cannot purchase it for you. I have a trifling
annuity—”
“And you would be a much richer man,” screamed Thérèse, “if you would
insist upon those people at the opera paying you what they owe you.” These
words were accompanied with a shrug of the shoulders, intended to convey a
vast idea of her own opinion.
Rousseau made no reply; indeed he appeared to me like a frightened child
in the presence of its nurse; and I could quickly see, that from the
moment of her entering the room he had become restless and dejected, he
fidgeted on his seat, and seemed like a person in excessive pain. At
length he rose, and requesting my pardon for absenting himself, he added,
“My wife will have the honour to entertain you whilst I am away.” With
these words he opened a small glass-door, and disappeared in the
neighbouring room.
When we were alone with Thérèse, she lost no time in opening the
conversation.
“Madam,” cried she, “I trust you will have the goodness to excuse M.
Rousseau; he is very unwell; it is really extremely vexatious.”
I replied that M. Rousseau had made his own excuses. Just then Thérèse,
wishing to give herself the appearance of great utility, cried out,
“Am I wanted there, M. Rousseau?”
“No, no, no,” replied Jean Jacques, in a faint voice, which died away as
if at a distance.
He soon after re-entered the room.
“Madam,” said he, “have the kindness to place your music in other hands to
copy; I am truly concerned that I cannot execute your wishes, but I feel
too ill to set about it directly.”
I replied, that I was in no hurry; that I should be in Paris some time
yet, and that he might copy it at his leisure. It was then settled that it
should be ready within a week from that time; upon which I rose, and
ceremoniously saluting Thérèse, was conducted to the door by M. Rousseau,
whose politeness led him to escort me thither, holding his cap in his
hand. I retired, filled with admiration, respect, and pity.
When next I saw the duc d’Aiguillon, I could not refrain from relating to
him all that had happened. My recital inspired him with the most lively
curiosity to see Rousseau, whom he had never met in society. It was then
agreed, that when I went to fetch my music he should accompany me,
disguised in a similar manner to myself, and that I should pass him off as
my uncle. At the end of the eight days I repaired early as before to
Paris; the duke was not long in joining me there. He was so inimitably
well disguised, that no person would ever have detected the most elegant
nobleman of the court of France beneath the garb of a plain country
squire. We set out laughing like simpletons at the easy air with which he
wore his new costume; nevertheless our gaiety disappeared as we reached
the habitation of J. J. Rousseau. Spite of ourselves we were compelled to
honour and respect the man of talent and genius, who preferred
independence of ideas to riches, and before whom rank and power were
compelled to lay aside their unmeaning trappings ere they could reach his
presence. When we reached the fifth landing-place I rang, and this time
the door was opened by Thérèse, who told us M Rousseau was out.
“But, madam,” answered I, “I am here by the direction of your husband to
fetch away the music he has been engaged in copying for me.”
“Ah, madam,” exclaimed she, “is it you? I did not recollect you again;
pray walk in. M. Rousseau will be sure to be at home for you.”
“So, then,” thought I, “even genius has its visiting lists.” We entered;
Jean Jacques formally saluted us, and invited us to be seated. He then
gave me my music; I inquired what it came to; he consulted a little
memorandum which lay upon the table, and replied, “So many pages, so much
paper, eighteen livres twelve sous;” which, of course, I instantly paid.
The duc d’Aiguillon, whom I styled my uncle, was endeavoring to lead
Rousseau into conversation, when the outer bell rang. Thérèse went to open
the door, and a gentleman entered, of mature age, although still
preserving his good looks. The duke regarded him in silence and
immediately made signs for me to hasten our departure; I obeyed, and took
leave of Rousseau, with many thanks his punctuality. He accompanied us as
before to door, and there I quitted him never to see him more. As we were
descending the staircase, M. d’Aiguillon told me that the person who had
so hastened our departure was Duclas, and that his hurry to quit Rousseau
arose from his dread of being recognised by him. Although M. Duclas was a
very excellent man, I must own that I owed no small grudge for a visit
which had thus abridged ours.
In the evening the duc d’Aiguillon and myself related to the king our
morning’s pilgrimage. I likewise recounted my former visit, which I had
concealed until now. Louis XV seemed greatly interested with the recital
of it; he asked me a thousand questions, and would fain hear the most
trifling particulars.
“I shall never forget,” said Louis XV, “the amazing success obtained by
his ‘Devin du Village.’ There certainly were some beautiful airs”,
and the king began to hum over the song of
“Yes, madam,” continued his majesty, “I promise you, that had Rousseau
after his success chosen to step forward as a candidate for public favour,
he would soon have overthrown Voltaire.”
“Pardon me,” replied I; “but I cannot believe that would have been
possible under any circumstances.”
“And why not?” asked the king; “he was a man of great talent.”
“Doubtless, sire, but not of the kind to compete with Voltaire.”
The king then changed the conversation to Thérèse, inquiring whether she
possessed any attractions?
“None whatever, sire,” replied the duke; “at least none that we could
perceive.”
“In that case,” rejoined his majesty, “she must have charmed her master by
some of those unseen perfections which take the deepest hold of the heart;
besides I know not why we should think it strange that others see with
different eyes to ourselves.”
I made no secret with the comte Jean of my visit, and he likewise
expressed his desire to know a man so justly celebrated, and, in its
proper place, you, may hear how he managed to effect this, and what befell
him in consequence—but, to finish for the present with Rousseau, for
I will not promise that I shall not again indulge in speaking of him. I
will just say, that after the lapse of two or three days from the time of
my last visit, the idea occurred to me of sending him a thousand crowns in
an Indian casket. This I sent by a servant out of livery, whom I strictly
enjoined not to name me but to say simply that he came from a lady. He
brought back the casket to me unopened, and the following billet from
Rousseau:—
“MADAM,—I send back the present you would force upon my acceptance
in so concealed a manner; if it be offered as a testimony of your esteem I
may possibly accept it, when you permit me to know the hand from which it
comes. Be assured, madam, that there is much truth in the assertion of its
being more easy to give than to receive.
“I have the honour to remain, madam, yours, etc., etc.,
“J. J. ROUSSEAU.”
This was rather an uncouth manner of refusing; nevertheless, when at this
distance of time I review the transaction, I cannot help admitting that I
well deserved it. Perhaps when it first occurred I might have felt piqued,
but since I have quitted the court I have again read over the works of J.
J. Rousseau, and I now speak of him, as you see, without one particle of
resentment.
I must now speak to you of a new acquaintance I made about this Period—that
of the two duchesses d’Aiguillon. From my first entrance into the château
until the close of 1770, madame d’Aiguillon, the daughter-in-law, observed
a sort of armed neutrality towards me; true, she never visited me, but she
always met me with apparent satisfaction at the houses of others; thus she
managed to steer clear of one dangerous extreme or the other till the
downfall of the des Choiseuls; when the duc d’Aiguillon having been
nominated to the ministry, she perceived that she could not, without great
ingratitude, omit calling to offer me her acknowledgments, and accordingly
she came. On my side, I left no means untried of rendering myself
agreeable to her; and so well did I succeed, that from that moment her
valuable friendship was bestowed on me with a sincerity which even my
unfortunate reverses have been unable to shake; and we are to this day the
same firm and true friends we were in the zenith of my power. Not that I
would seek to justify the injury she sought to do our queen, but I may and
do congratulate myself, that the same warmth which pervades her hatreds
likewise influences her friendships.
I cannot equally boast of the treatment I received from the duchess
dowager d’Aiguillon, who, as well as her daughter-in-law, came to see me
upon the promotion of her son. She overloaded me with caresses, and even
exceeded her daughter-in-law in protestations of devotion and gratitude.
You should have heard her extol my beauty, wit, and sweetness of
disposition; she, in fact, so overwhelmed me with her surfeiting praises,
that at last I became convinced that, of the thousand flattering things
she continually addressed to me, not one was her candid opinion; and I was
right, for I soon learned, that in her circle of intimates at the houses
of the Beauffremons, the Brionnes, and above all, the marquise du Deffant,
she justified her acquaintance with me, by saying it was a sacrifice made
to the interests of her son, and amused these ladies by censuring my every
word and look. The dowager’s double-dealing greatly annoyed me;
nevertheless, not wishing to vex her son, or her daughter-in-law, I
affected to be ignorant of her dishonourable conduct. However, I could not
long repress my indignation, and one day that she was praising me most
extravagantly, I exclaimed, “Ah, madam, how kind it would be of you to
reserve one of these pretty speeches to repeat at madame du Deffant’s.”
This blow, so strong yet just, rather surprised her; but, quickly rallying
her courage, she endeavoured to persuade me that she always spoke of me in
the same terms. “It may be so,” replied I; “but I fear that you say so
many flattering things to me, that you have not one left when out of my
sight.”
The maréchale de Mirepoix used to say, that a caress from madame
d’Aiguillon was not less to be dreaded than the bite of M. d’Ayen. Yet the
duchess dowager has obtained a first-rate reputation for goodness; every
one styled her the good duchesse d’Aiguillon. And why, do you
suppose? Because she was one of those fat, fresh, portly-looking dames of
whom you would have said, her very face and figure bespoke the contented
goodness of her disposition; for who would ever suspect malice could lurk
in so much embonpoint? I think I have already told you that this
lady expired whilst bathing, of an attack of apoplexy, in the month of
June, 1772. Her son shed many tears at her loss, whilst I experienced but
a very moderate share of grief.
Adieu, my friend; if you are not already terrified at the multiplicity of
the letters which compose my journal, I have yet much to say; and I
flatter myself the continuance of my adventures will be found no less
interesting than those you have perused.
CHAPTER XXIX
I was now firmly fixed at court, the king, more than ever devoted to me,
seemed unable to dispense with my constant presence. I had so successfully
studied his habits and peculiarities, that my empire over him was
established on a basis too firm to be shaken, whilst my power and
unbounded influence convinced my enemies, that, so long as the present
monarch sat upon the throne of France, their attempts at diminishing my
credit and influence would only recoil upon themselves. Louis XV generally
supped in my apartments every evening, unless indeed, by way of change, I
went to sup with him. Our guests were of course of the first order, but
yet not of the most exemplary morals. These persons had tact, and saw
that, to please the king, they must not surpass him; so that, if by chance
he should reflect on himself, he would appear to advantage amongst them.
Poor courtiers! It was labour in vain. The king was in too much fear of
knowing himself to understand that study: he knew the penetration and
severity of his own judgment, and on no account would he exercise it at
his own expense.
The duc de Duras, although a man of little wit, was yet gay and always
lively. He amused me; I liked his buoyant disposition, and forgave him
although he had ranged himself with the protesting peers. In fact, I could
not be angry with him. The folly of opposition had only seized on him
because it was epidemic. The dear duke had found himself with wolves, and
had begun to howl with them. I am sure that he was astonished at himself
when he remembered the signature which he had given, and the love he had
testified for the old parliament, for which, in fact, he cared no more
than Jean de Vert. God knows how he compensated for this little folly at
the château. It was by redoubling his assiduities to the king, and by
incessant attentions to me. In general, those who wished to thrive at
court only sought how to make their courage remembered; M. de Duras was
only employed in making his forgotten.
The prince de Terigny, the comte d’Escars, the duc de Fleury, were not the
least amusing. They kept up a lively strain of conversation, and the king
laughed outrageously. But the vilest of the party was the duc de Fronsac.
Ye gods! what a wretch! To speak ill of him is no sin. A mangled likeness
of his father, he had all his faults with not one of his merits. He was
perpetually changing his mistresses, but it cannot be said whether it was
inconstancy on his part, or disgust on theirs, but the latter appears to
me most probable. Though young, he was devoured by gout or some other
infirmity, but it was called gout out of deference to the house of
Richelieu. They talked of the duchess de ———, whose
husband was said to have poisoned her.
The saints of Versailles—the duc de la Vauguyon, the duc d’Estissac,
and M. de Durfort—did like others. These persons practised religion
in the face of the world, and abstained from loose conversation in
presence of their own families; but with the king they laid aside their
religion and reserve, so that these hypocrites had in the city all the
honours of devotion, and in the royal apartments all the advantages of
loose conduct. As for me, I was at Versailles the same as everywhere else.
To please the king I had only to be myself. I relied, for the future, on
my uniformity of conduct. What charmed him in the evening, would delight
again the next day. He had an equilibrium of pleasure, a balance of
amusement which can hardly be described; it was every day the same
variety; the same journeys, the same fêtes, the balls, the theatres, all
came round at fixed periods with the most monotonous regularity. In fact,
the people knew exactly when to laugh and when to look grave.
There was in the château a most singular character, the grand master of
the ceremonies of France. His great-grandfather, his grandfather, his
father, who had fulfilled these functions for a century, had transmitted
to him their understanding and their duties. All he thought of was how to
regulate the motions and steps of every person at court. He adored the
dauphin and dauphiness, because they both diverted and fatigued themselves
according to the rules in such cases made and provided. He was always
preaching to me and quoted against me the precedents of Diane de Poitiers,
or Gabrielle d’Estreés. One day he told me that all the misfortunes of
Mademoiselle de la Vallière occurred in consequence of her neglect of
etiquette. He would have had all matters pass at court during the old age
of Louis XV as at the period of the childhood of Louis XIV, and would fain
have had the administration of the Parc-aux-Cerfs, that he might
have arranged all with due ceremonies.
Since this word Parc-aux-Cerfs has escaped my pen, I will tell you
something of it. Do you know, my friend, that but little is known of this
place, of which so much has been said. I can tell you, better than any
other person, what it really was, for I, like the marquise de Pompadour,
took upon myself the superintendence of it, and busied myself with what
they did there. It was, entre nous, the black spot in the reign of
Louis XV, and will cost me much pain to describe.
The vices of Louis XV were the result of bad education. When an infant,
they gave him for governor the vainest, most coxcombical, stupidest of men—the
duc de Villeroi, who had so well served the king (si bien servi le roi),*
Never had courtier so much courtiership as he. He saw the young prince
from morning till night, and from morning till night he was incessantly
repeating in his ears that his future subjects were born for him, and that
they were all dependent on his good and gracious pleasure. Such lessons
daily repeated, necessarily destroyed the wise instructions of Massillon.
When grown up, Louis XV saw the libertinism of cardinal Dubois and the
orgies of the regency: madame de Maillis’ shameless conduct was before his
eyes and Richelieu’s also. Louis XV could not conduct himself differently
from his ministers and his family. His timid character was formed upon the
example of others. At first he selected his own mistresses, but afterwards
he chose some one who took that trouble off his hands. Lebel became
purveyor in chief to his pleasures; and controlled in Versailles the house
known as the Parc-aux-Cerfs.
As soon as the courtiers knew of the existence and purposes of this house,
they intrigued for the control of it. The king laughed at all their
efforts, and left the whole management to Lebel, under the superintendence
of the comte de Saint-Florentin, minister of the royal household. They
installed there, however, a sort of military chief, formerly a major of
infantry, who was called, jestingly, M. de Cervieres; his functions
consisted in an active surveillance, and in preventing young men from
penetrating the seraglio. The soldiers at the nearest station had orders
to obey his first summons. His pay was twelve thousand livres a year.
A female styled the surintendante had the management of the
domestic affairs; she ruled with despotic sway; controlled the expenses;
preserved good order; and regulated the amusement of her charges, taking
care that they did not mix one with the other. She was an elderly canoness
of a noble order, belonging to one of the best families in Burgundy. She
was only known at the Parc as Madame, and no one ventured to
give her any other title. Shortly after the decease of Mme. De Pompadour,
she had succeeded in this employ a woman of low rank, who had a most
astonishing mind. Louis XV thought very highly of her, and said that if
she were a man he would have made her his minister. She put the harem on
an admirable system, and instructed the odalisques in all the
necessary etiquette.
The Madame of my time was a woman of noble appearance, tall, ascetic, with
a keen eye and imperious manner. She expressed a sovereign contempt for
all the low-born beauties confided to her trust. However, she did not
treat her wards ill, for some one of them might produce a passion in the
heart of the king, and she was determined to be prepared for whatever
might fall out. As to the noble ladies, they were her favourites. Madame
did not divide her flock into fair and dark, which would have been
natural, but into noble and ignoble. Besides Madame, there were two
under-mistresses, whose duties consisted in keeping company with the young
ladies who were placed there. They sometimes dined with new comers,
instructed them in polite behaviour, and aided them in their musical
lessons or in dancing, history, and literature in which these éléves
were instructed. Then followed a dozen women of lower station, creatures
for any service, half waiting women, half companions, who kept watch over
the young ladies, and neglected nothing that could injure each other at
every opportunity. The work of the house was performed by proper servants
and male domestics, chosen expressly for their age and ugliness. They were
paid high, but in return for the least indiscretion on their part, they
were sent to linger out their existence in a state prison. A severe watch
was kept over every person of either sex in this mysterious establishment.
It was requisite, in fact, that an impenetrable veil should be cast over
the frailties of the king; and that the public should know nothing of what
occurred at the Parc-aux-Cerfs.
The general term élèves was applied to the young persons who were
kept there. They were of all ages from nine to eighteen years. Until
fifteen they were kept in total ignorance of the city which they
inhabited. When they attained that age, no more mystery was made of it;
they only endeavoured to prevent them from believing that they were
destined for the king’s service. Sometimes they were told that they were
imprisoned as well as their family; sometimes, a lover rich and powerful
kept them concealed to satisfy his love. One thought she belonged to a
German prince, another to an English lord. There were some, however, who,
better informed, either by their predecessors, or by chance, knew
precisely what was in store for them, and accordingly built some
exceedingly fine castles in the air. But when they were suspected to be so
knowing, they were sent away, and either married (if pregnant), or
compelled to enter a cloister or chapter.
The noble damsels were served with peculiar etiquette, their servants wore
a green livery. Those who belonged to the ignobles, had their valets
clothed only in gray. The king had arranged this, and applauded it as one
of the most admirable decisions of his life, and contended with me that
the families who paid this impost for his pleasures, were greatly indebted
to him for it. I assure you, my friend, that there are often very peculiar
ideas in the head of a king.
After madame, the sous-madames, the young ladies, came a
lady, who had no title in the house, because she “carried on the war” out
of doors, but still was a most useful personage. In very truth la Mère
Bompart was a wonderful animal. Paint to yourself a woman rather small
than large, rather fat than lean, rather old than young, with a good foot,
a good eye, as robust as a trooper, with a decided “call” for intrigue,
drinking nothing but wine, telling nothing but lies, swearing by, or
denying God, as suited her purpose. Fancy such an one, and you will have
before you la Mère Bompart, Pourvoyeuse en chef des celludes du
Parc-aux-Cerfs.
She was in correspondence with all sorts of persons, with the most
celebrated appareilleuses, and of course with the most noted pimps.
She treated Lebel as her equal, went familiarly to M. de Sartines and
occasionally condescended to visit M. de Saint-Florentin. Everybody at
court received her graciously; everybody but the king and myself, who held
her in equal horror.
The Parc-aux-Cerfs cost enormous sums. The lowest expense was
calculated at 150,000 livres, to pay only the functionaries and the
domestics, the education and the board of the élèves, etc. This
does not include the cost of the recruiting service, the
indemnities paid to families, the dowry given with them in marriage, the
presents made to them, and the expenses of the illegitimate children: this
was enormous in cost, at least 2,000,000 livres a year, and yet I make the
lowest estimation. The Parc-aux-Cerfs was kept up for thirty-four
years: it cost annually 4 or 5,000,000 livres, and that will amount to
nearly 150,000,000 (£ 6,250,000). If you think I mistake, go through the
calculation.
A short time after my sojourn at Versailles, when I was the acknowledged
mistress of the king, the duc de Richelieu asked me if I had heard of the
Parc-aux-Cerfs? I asked him, in my turn, what he meant, and if I
could procure any account of the place. He then told me of the care which
madame de Pompadour bestowed On the place, the advantage she drew from it,
and assured me of the necessity for following her example. I spoke of this
to comte Jean, and begged his advice. My brother-in-law replied:—
“You must do as the marquise de Pompadour did, and as the duc de Richelieu
has advised. They spend a vast deal of money in this house, and I
undertake to look over their accounts. Nominate me your prime minister,
and I shall be the happiest of men. It is impossible but there must be
something to be gleaned from his majesty.”
“In truth, my dear brother-in-law, you would be in your element; money to
handle and young girls to manage. What more could you covet? You will
establish a gaming table at the Parc-aux-Cerfs, and never quit it
again.”
Comte Jean began to laugh, and then seriously advised me to follow the
plain counsel of the duc de Richelieu.
I decided on doing so. I sent for Madame. She came with all the dignity of
an abbess of a regally founded convent. But in spite of her pretensions, I
only saw in her the rival of Gourdan and Paris, and treated her as such;
that is, with some contempt, for with that feeling her office inspired me.
She told me all I have described to you, and many other things which have
since escaped me. At that time there were only four élèves in the
house. When she had given me all the details I wished, I sent her away,
desiring to be informed of all that passed in her establishment.
CHAPTER XXX
My present situation was not a little embarrassing; known and recognised
as the mistress of the king, it but ill accorded with my feelings to be
compelled to add to that title the superintendent of his pleasures; and I
had not yet been sufficiently initiated into the intrigues of a court life
to accept this strange charge without manifest dislike and hesitation.
Nevertheless, whilst so many were contending for the honour of that which
I condemned, I was compelled to stifle my feelings and resign myself to
the bad as well as the good afforded by my present situation; at a future
period I shall have occasion again to revert to the Parc-aux-Cerfs
during the period of my reign, but for the present I wish to change the
subject by relating to you what befell me at a fête given me by madame de
Valentinois, while she feigned to give it in the honour of madame de
Provence.
The comtesse de Valentinois, flattered by the kindness of the dauphiness’s
manner towards her, and wishing still further to insinuate herself into
her favour, imagined she should promote her object by requesting that
princess would do her the honour to pass an evening at her house; her
request was granted, and that too before the duchesse de la Vauguyon could
interfere to prevent it. Furious at not having been apprized of the
invitation till too late to cause its rejection, she vowed to make the
triumphant countess pay dearly for her triumph; for my own part I troubled
myself very little with the success of madame de Valentinois, which, in
fact, I perceived would rather assist than interfere with my projects.
Hitherto I had not made my appearance at any of the houses of the nobility
when the princesses were invited thither; this clearly proved to the
public, in general, how great was the opposition I experienced from the
court party. I was now delighted to prove to the Parisians that I was not
always to lead the life of a recluse, but that I could freely present
myself at those parties to which other ladies were invited. However, as my
friends apprehended that the comtesse de Provence might prevail upon her
lady of honour not to invite me, by the advice of the chancellor and the
minister for foreign affairs, it was arranged that I should for a week
previous to the fête feign a severe indisposition. It would be impossible
to describe the joy with which these false tidings were received by my
enemies. We are all apt to picture things as we would have them, and
already the eager imaginations of the opposing party had converted the
account of my illness into an incurable and mortal disease.
Every hour my friends brought me in fresh anecdotes of the avidity with
which the rumour of my dangerous state had been received, whilst I lay
upon what the credulous hopes of my enemies had determined to be my
death-bed, laughing heartily at their folly, and preparing fresh schemes
to confound and disappoint their anticipated triumph.
One very important object of consideration was my dress for the coming
occasion. The king presented me with a new set of jewels, and himself
selected the materials for my robe and train, which were to be composed of
a rich green satin embroidered with gold, trimmed with wreaths of roses,
and looped up with pearls; the lower part of this magnificent dress was
trimmed with a profusion of the finest Flemish lace. I wore on my head a
garland of full blown roses, composed of the finest green and gold work;
round my forehead was a string of beautiful pearls, from the centre of
which depended a diamond star; add to this a pair of splendid ear-rings,
valued at 100,000 crowns, with a variety of jewels equally costly, and you
may form some idea of my appearance on that eventful evening. The king,
who presided at my toilette, could not repress his admiration; he even
insisted upon clasping my necklace, in order that he might, as he said,
flatter himself with having completed such a triumph of nature and art.
At the hour fixed upon I set out, conducted by the ducs d’Aiguillon and de
Cossé, and now I remember I have introduced this latter to you for the
first time, however I will promise that it will not be for the last; he
possessed, and still possesses all the virtues of his noble house, he was
impetuous from a deeply feeling heart, and proud from a consciousness of
being properly appreciated. Young, handsome, and daring, he was
pre-eminently calculated both to inspire love, and to feel it; it was
quite impossible for him to fail in winning the affections of any female
he exerted himself to please, and even at the present time that he has
lost some of his earlier graces, he is still irresistible as ever; his
naturally gay disposition was but ill suited to nourishing grave or
philosophic reasoning, but then he was the soul of company, and possessed
a fine and delicate wit which ever vented itself in the most brilliant
sallies. M. de Cossé, like the knights of old, was wholly devoted to his
king and his mistress, and would, I am sure, had the occasion required it,
have nobly died in defence of either; I only pray he may never be put to
the proof. I saw much of him at the beginning of our acquaintance, but as
his many amiable qualitie became better known, I found myself almost
continually in his society, indeed as I have something to confess in the
business, I could hardly choose a better opportunity than the present, did
I not recollect that the good duc d’Aiguillon is waiting all this while
for me to announce the entrée of our party into the ante-room of
Madame de Valentinois.
My entrance was a complete coupe-de-théâtre. I had been imagined
languishing on the bed of sickness, yet there I stood in all the fulness
of health and freshness of beauty. I could very easily read upon each
countenance the vexation and rage my appearance of entire freedom from all
ailment excited; however, I proceeded without any delay to the mistress of
the house, whom I found busily engaged in seating her visitors, and
playing the amiable to the dauphiness. This princess seemed equally
astonished at my unexpected apparition; nevertheless, taken off her guard,
she could not prevent herself from courteously returning the profound
salutation I made her. As for the duchesse de la Vauguyon, when she saw
me, she turned alternately from red to white, and was even weak enough to
give public vent to her fury. The comte de Provence, who had been told
that I was not expected, began to laugh when he perceived me, and taking
the first opportunity of approaching me, he said, “Ah, madame! so you too
can mystify your friends, I see! Have a care; the sight of charms like
yours is sufficient to strike terror into any adversaries, without having
recourse to any expedient to heighten their effect.” Saying this he passed
on without giving me the opportunity of replying, as I could have wished
to have done.
The maréchale de Mirepoix, to whom I had confided my secret, and of whose
fidelity I was assured, was present at the fête. I availed myself of the
offer of a seat near her and directly we were seated, “You are a clever
creature,” said she, “for you have completely bewildered all the female
part of this evening’s society, and by way of a finishing stroke will run
away with the hearts of all the flutterers here, before the fair ladies
they were previously hovering around, have recovered their first
astonishment.”
“Upon my word,” said I, smiling, “I do not wonder at the kind looks with
which the ladies favour me, if my presence is capable of producing so much
mischief.”
“Pray, my dear,” answered the maréchale, “be under no mistake: you might
be as much beloved as others are, if you did not monopolize the king’s
affections; the consequence is, that every woman with even a passable face
looks upon you as the usurper of her right, and as the fickle gentlemen
who woo these gentle ladies are all ready to transfer their homage to you
directly you appear, you must admit that your presence is calculated to
produce no inconsiderable degree of confusion.”
The commencement of a play which formed part of the evening’s
entertainment obliged us to cease further conversation. The first piece
represented was “Rose et Colas,” a charming pastoral, to which the
music of Monsigny gave a fresh charm; the actors were selected from among
the best of the Comedie Italienne—the divine Clairval, and the
fascinating mademoiselle Caroline. I was completely enchanted whilst the
play lasted; I forgot both my cabals and recent triumph, and for a while
believed myself actually transported to the rural scenes it represented,
surrounded by the honest villagers so well depicted; but this delightful
vision soon passed away, and soon, too soon I awoke from it to find myself
surrounded by my excellent friends at court.
“Rose et Colas” was followed by a species of comedy mixed with
songs. This piece was wholly in honour of the dauphiness, with the
exception of some flattering and gallant allusions to myself and some
gross compliments to my cousin the chancellor, who, in new silk robe and a
fine powdered wig, was also present at this fête.
The performers in this little piece, who were Favart, the actor, and
Voisenon, the priest, must have been fully satisfied with the reception
they obtained, for the comedy was applauded as though it had been one of
the chefs d’oeuvre of Voltaire. In general a private audience is
very indulgent so long as the representation lasts, but no sooner has the
curtain fallen than they indulge in a greater severity of criticism than a
public audience would do. And so it happened on the evening in question;
one couplet had particularly excited the discontent of the spectators,
male and female; I know not what prophetic spirit inspired the lines.
The unfortunate couplet was productive of much offence against the husband
and lover of madame Favart, for the greater part of the persons present
perfectly detested my poor cousin, who was “to clip the wings of
chicanery.” Favart managed to escape just in time, and the abbé de
Voisenon, who was already not in very high favour with his judges, was
compelled to endure the full weight of their complaints and reproaches;
every voice was against him, and even his brethren of the French academy,
departing from their accustomed indulgence upon such matters, openly
reprimanded him for the grossness of his flattery; the poor abbé attempted
to justify himself by protesting that he knew nothing of the hateful
couplet, and that Favart alone was the guilty person upon whom they should
expend their anger.
“I am always,” cried he, “doomed to suffer for the offences of others;
every kind of folly is made a present to me.”
“Have a care, monsieur l’ abbé,” exclaimed d’Alembert, who was among the
guests, “have a care! men seldom lavish their gifts but upon those who are
rich enough to return the original present in a tenfold degree.” This
somewhat sarcastic remark was most favourably received by all who heard
it, it quickly circulated through the room, while the poor, oppressed abbé
protested, with vehement action.
The fête itself was most splendidly and tastefully conducted, and might
have sent the different visitors home pleased and gratified in an eminent
degree, had not spite and ill-nature suggested to madame de la Vauguyon,
that as the chancellor and myself were present, it must necessarily have
been given with a view of complimenting us rather than madame de Provence.
She even sought to irritate the dauphiness by insinuating the same mean
and contemptible observations, and so far did she succeed, that when
madame de Valentinois approached to express her hopes that the
entertainment which she had honoured with her presence had been to her
royal highness’s satisfaction, the dauphiness coolly replied, “Do not,
madame, affect to style this evening’s fête one bestowed in honour of
myself, or any part of my family; ‘tis true we have been the ostensible
causes, and have, by our presence, given it all the effect you desired,
but you will pardon our omitting to thank you for an attention, which was
in reality, directed to the comtesse du Barry and M. de Maupeou.”
FACSIMILE OF LETTER FROM MME. DU BARRY TO THE DUC DE BRISSAC.
(photograph of original handwritten note omitted) TRANSLATION
Heavens! my dear friend, how sad are the days when I am deprived of the
happiness of passing the time with you, and with what joy do I watch for
the moment which will bring you to me. I shall not go to Paris to-day,
because the person I was going to see is coming Thursday. As you will be
going away, I shall visit the barracks instead, for I believe you approve
of the object. Adieu. I await you with impatience, with a heart wholly
yours, which, in spite of your injustice, could never belong to any other,
even if I had the wish. I think of you and that word of yours which you
will surely regret; and still another regret is that I am deprived of you.
That is the watchword of each instant.
THE COUNTESS Du Barry
At Louvecienne, Noon.
Madame de Valentinois came to me with tears in her eyes to repeat the
cruel remark of the princess; the maréchale de Mirepoix, who heard her,
sought to console her by assurances, that it would in no degree affect her
interest at court. “Never mind, my good friend,” said she; “the pretty
bird merely warbles the notes it learns from its keeper la Vauguyon, and
will as quickly forget as learn them. Nevertheless, the king owes you
recompense for the vexation it has occasioned you.”
Immediately that I found myself alone with the maréchale, I inquired of
her what was the nature of the reparation she considered madame de
Valentinois entitled to expect from the hands of his majesty. She replied,
“‘Tis on your account alone that the poor countess has received her late
mortification; the king is therefore bound to atone for it in the form of
a pension. Money, my dear, money is a sovereign cure at court; calms every
grief and heals every wound.”
I fully agreed with the good-natured maréchale; and, when I bade the
sorrowful madame de Valentinois good night, I assured her I would implore
his majesty to repair the mischief my presence had caused. Accordingly on
the following day, when the king questioned me as to how far I had been
amused with the fête given by madame de Valentinois, I availed myself of
the opening to state my entire satisfaction, as well as to relate the
disgrace into which she had fallen, and to pray his majesty to bestow upon
her a pension of 15,000 livres.
“Upon my word,” exclaimed Louis XV, hastily traversing the chamber, “this
fête seems likely to prove a costly one to me.”
“Nay, sire,” said I, “it was a most delightful evening; and you will not,
I hope, refuse me such a trifle for those who lavished so much for my
amusement.”
“Well,” cried he, “be it so; the countess shall have the sum she requires,
but upon condition that she does not apply to me again.”
“Really your majesty talks,” replied I, “as though this trifling pension
were to be drawn from your own purse.”
The king began to smile at my remark, like a man who knows himself found
out. I knew him well enough to be certain that, had he intended the
pension awarded madame de Valentinois to come from his own privy purse, he
would scarcely have consented to bestowing on her more than a shabby
pittance of a thousand livres per annum. It is scarcely possible to
conceive an idea of the excessive economy of this prince. I remember, that
upon some great occasion, when it was requisite to support the public
treasury, which was failing, by a timely contribution, the duc de Choiseul
offered the loan of 250,000 livres, whilst the king, to the astonishment
of all who heard him, confined his aid to 2,000 louis! The maréchale de
Mirepoix used to assert that Louis XV was the only prince of his line who
ever knew the value of a crown. She had, nevertheless, managed to receive
plenty from him, although, I must own, that she had had no small
difficulty in obtaining them; nor did the king part with his beloved gold
without many a sigh of regret.
At the house of madame de Valentinois I met the maréchale de Luxembourg,
who had recently returned from Chanteloup. There really was something of
infatuation in the general mania which seemed to prevail of treating the
king’s sentiments with indifference, and considering his displeasure as an
affair of no consequence. Before the disgrace of the Choiseuls they were
equally the objects of madame de Luxembourg’s most bitter hatred, nor was
madame de Grammont backward in returning her animosity; yet, strange as it
may seem, no sooner was the Choiseul party exiled, than the maréchale
never rested till she saw her name engraved on the famous pillar erected
to perpetuate the remembrance of all those who had visited the exiles. She
employed their mutual friends to effect a reconciliation, which was at
length effected by letter, and a friendly embrace exchanged by proxy.
These preliminaries over, the maréchale came to the king to make the
request to which he had now become accustomed, but which did not the less
amuse him. Of course Louis XV made no hesitation in granting her the
request she solicited. Speaking to me of the subject, he said, “The tender
meeting of madame de Grammont and the maréchal de Luxembourg must indeed
be an overpowering sight; I only trust these two ladies may not drop the
mask too soon, and bite each other’s ear while they are embracing.”
Madame de Luxembourg, daughter of the duc de Villeroi, had been first
married to the duc de Boufflers, whose brows she helped to adorn with
other ornaments than the ducal coronet; nor whilst her youth and beauty
lasted was she less generous to her second husband: she was generally
considered a most fascinating woman, from the loveliness of her person and
the vivacity of her manners; but behind an ever ready wit, lurked the most
implacable malice and hatred against all who crossed her path or purpose.
As she advanced in life she became more guarded and circumspect, until at
last she set herself up as the arbitress of high life, and the youthful
part of the nobility crowded around her, to hear the lessons of her past
experience. By the number and by the power of her pupils, she could
command both the court and city; her censures were dreaded, because
pronounced in language so strong and severe, as to fill those who incurred
them with no hope of ever shining in public opinion whilst so formidable a
veto was uttered against them; and her decrees, from which there
was no appeal, either stamped a man with dishonour, or introduced him as a
first-rate candidate for universal admiration and esteem, and her hatred
was as much dreaded as ever her smiles had been courted: for my own part,
I always felt afraid of her, and never willingly found myself in her
presence.
After I had obtained for madame de Valentinois the boon I solicited, I was
conversing with the king respecting madame de Luxembourg, when the
chancellor entered the room; he came to relate to his majesty an affair
which had occasioned various reports, and much scandal. The viscount de
Bombelles, an officer in an hussar regiment, had married a mademoiselle
Camp, Reasons, unnecessary for me to seek to discover, induced him, all at
once, to annul his marriage, and profiting by a regulation which forbade
all good Catholics from intermarrying with those of the reformed religion,
He demanded the dissolution of his union with mademoiselle Camp. This
attempt on his part to violate, upon such grounds, the sanctity of the
nuptial vow, whilst it was calculated to rekindle the spirit of religious
persecution, was productive of very unfavourable consequences to the
character of M. de Bombelles; the great cry was against him, he stood
alone and unsupported in the contest, for even the greatest bigots
themselves would not intermeddle or appear to applaud a matter which
attacked both honour and good feeling: the comrades of M. de Bombelles
refused to associate with him; but the finishing stroke came from his old
companions at the military school, where he had been brought up. On the
27th of November, 1771, the council of this establishment wrote him the
following letter:—
“The military school have perused with equal indignation and grief the
memorials which have appeared respecting you in the public prints. Had you
not been educated in this establishment, we should merely have looked upon
your affair with mademoiselle Camp as a scene too distressing for humanity
and it would have been buried in our peaceful walls beneath the veil of
modesty and silence; but we owe it to the youth sent to us by his majesty,
for the inculcation of those principles which become the soldier as the
man, not to pass over the present opportunity of inspiring them with a
just horror of your misguided conduct, as well as feeling it an imperative
duty to ourselves not to appear indifferent to the scandal and disgraceful
confusion your proceedings have occasioned in the capital. We leave to the
ministers of our religion, and the magistrates who are appointed to guard
our laws, to decide upon the legality of the bonds between yourself and
mademoiselle Camp, but by one tribunal you are distinctly pronounced
guilty towards her, and that is the tribunal of honour, before that
tribunal which exists in the heart of every good man. You have been
universally cited and condemned. There are some errors which all the
impetuosity of youth is unable to excuse, and yours are unhappily of that
sort. The different persons composing this establishment, therefore,
concur not only in praying of us to signify their sentiments, but likewise
to apprize you, that you are unanimously forbidden to appear within these
walls again.”
The chancellor brought to the king a copy of this severe letter, to which
I listened with much emotion, nor did the king seem more calm than myself.
“This is, indeed,” said he at length, “a very sad affair; we shall have
all the quarrels of Protestantism renewed, as if I had not had already
enough of those of the Jansenists and Jesuits. As far as I can judge, M.
de Bombelles is entitled to the relief he seeks, and every marriage
contracted with a Protestant is null and void by the laws of France.”
“Oh, sire,” cried I, “would I had married a Protestant.”
The king smiled for a moment at my jest, then resumed:
“I blame the military school.”
“Is it your majesty’s pleasure,” inquired the chancellor, “that I should
signify your displeasure to them?”
“No, sir,” replied Louis, “it does not come within your line of duty, and
devolves rather upon the minister of war; and very possibly he would
object to executing such a commission; for how could I step forward as the
protector of one who would shake off the moral obligation of an oath
directly it suits his inclinations to doubt its legality? This affair
gives me great uneasiness, and involves the most serious consequences. You
will see that I shall be overwhelmed with petitions and pamphlets,
demanding of me the revocation of the edict of Nantes.”
“And what, sire,” asked the chancellor gravely, “could you do, that would
better consolidate the glory of your reign?”
“Chancellor,” exclaimed Louis XV, stepping back with unfeigned
astonishment, “have you lost your senses? What would the clergy say or do?
The very thought makes me shudder. Do you then believe, M. de Maupeou,
that the race of the Clements, the Ravaillacs, the Damiens, are extinct in
France?”
“Ah, sire, what needless fears.”
“Not so needless as you may deem them,” answered the king. “I have been
caught once, I am not going to expose myself to danger a second time. You
know the proverb,—no, no, let us leave things as my predecessors
left them; besides, I shall not be sorry to leave a little employment for
my successor; he may get through it how he can, and spite of all the
clamouring of the philosophers, the Protestants shall hold their present
privileges so long as I live. I will have neither civil nor religious war,
but live in peace and eat my supper with a good appetite with you, my fair
comtesse, for my constant guest, and you, M. de Maupeou, for t his
evening’s visitor.”
The conversation here terminated.
CHAPTER XXXI
This Marin, a provençal by birth, in his childhood one of the choristers,
and afterwards organist of the village church, was, at the period of which
I am speaking, one of the most useful men possible. Nominated by M. de St.
Florentin to the post of censor royal, this friend to the philosophers was
remarkable for the peculiar talent, with which he would alternately
applaud and condemn the writings of these gentlemen. Affixing his sanction
to two lines in a tragedy by Dorat had cost him twenty-four hours’
meditation within the walls of the Bastille; and for permitting the
representation of some opera (the name of which I forget) he had been
deprived of a pension of 2,000 francs; but, wedded to the delights of his
snug post, Marin always contrived, after every storm, to find his way back
to its safe harbor. He had registered a vow never to resign the office of
censor, but to keep it in despite of danger and difficulty. I soon
discovered that he passed from the patronage of Lebel to that of Chamilly,
and I was not slow in conjecturing that he joined to his avocations of
censor and gazetteer that of purveyor to his majesty’s petits amours.
Spite of my indefatigable endeavors to render Louis XV happy and satisfied
with the pleasures of his own home, he would take occasional wandering
fits, and go upon the ramble, sometimes in pursuit of a high-born dame, at
others eager to obtain a poor and simple grisette; and so long that
the object of his fancy were but new to him, it mattered little what were
her claims to youth, beauty, or rank in life. The maréchale de Mirepoix
frequently said to me, “Do you know, my dear creature, that your royal
admirer is but a very fickle swain, who is playing the gay gallant when he
ought to be quietly seated at his own fireside. Have a care, he is growing
old, and his intellect becomes more feeble each day; and what he would
never have granted some few years back, may be easily wrung from him now.
Chamilly aspires at governing his master, and Marin seconds him in his
project.”
At length, roused to a sense of impending evil, by the constant reminding
of the maréchale, I summoned Marin to my presence. “Now, sir,” said I, as
he approached, “I would have you to know that I am apprised of all your
tricks: you and your friend Chamilly are engaged in a very clever scheme
to improve your own fortunes at the expense of the king your master.”
Marin burst into loud protestations of his innocence, declaring that he
was as innocent as the lamb just born. I refused to believe this, and
desired he would explain to me why he went so frequently to the apartments
of M. Chamilly.
“Alas, madam!” replied Marin, “I go thither but to solicit his aid in
craving the bounty of his majesty.”
“You are for ever pleading poverty, miserly being,” cried I; “you are far
richer than I am; but since you want money I will supply you with it, and
in return you shall be my secret newsman, and royal censor in my service.
Now understand me clearly; every month that you faithfully bring me an
account of certain goings on, I will count into your hand five and twenty
louis d’or.”
I must confess that Marin only accepted my proposition with much
reluctance, but still he did accept it, and withdrew, meditating, no
doubt, how he should be enabled to satisfy both Chamilly and myself.
A long time elapsed before Marin brought me any news of importance, and I
began to feel considerable doubts of his fidelity, when he came to
communicate a very important piece of intelligence. He had just learned
that Chamilly frequently went to Paris, the bearer of letters from the
‘king to a young and pretty female, named madame de Rumas, who resided in
the old rue du Temple.
Here was a pretty discovery; the king actually engaged in a love affair,
letters passing between him and his mistress, whilst the head valet de
chambre was acting the part of Mercury to the lovers. This indeed
required some speedy remedy, and I lost no time in summoning my privy
counsellor, Comte Jean, whom I acquainted with what had occurred, and
begged his advice as to the best measures to be pursued. “Indeed,” replied
my brother-in-law, “what others would do in our place would be to throw M.
Chamilly from one of the windows of the château, and treat this his friend
Marin with a lodging in the Bastille; but, as we are persons of temper and
moderation, we will go more gently to work. I will, in the first place,
gain every information relative to the affair, that I may satisfy myself
Marin is not seeking to show his honest claims to your gold, by imposing a
forged tale upon your credulity; when that is ascertained we will decide
upon our next best step.”
Comte Jean departed to seek the assistance of M. de Sartines, who was at
that time entirely devoted to my interests; and, after having diligently
searched the whole rue du Temple, he succeeded in discovering madame de
Rumas. He learnt that this lady had recently married a person of her own
rank, to whom she professed to be violently attached; that they lived
together with great tranquillity, and had the reputation of conducting
themselves as persons of extreme propriety and regularity; paid their
debts, and avoided, by their air of neatness, order, and modest reserve,
the scandal of even their most ill-natured neighbors. The husband was said
to be a great religionist, which increased the suspicions of Comte Jean.
With regard to the epistolary correspondence carried on by the lady, no
information could be gleaned in in that quarter.
Marin was again sent for by my brother-in-law, who questioned and
cross-questioned with so much address, that Marin found it impossible to
conceal any longer the remaining part of the affair, of which he had
before communicated but so much as his policy deemed advisable. He
confessed that he had originally mentioned madame de Rumas (whom he
himself had long known) to Chamilly, had shown him several of her letters;
and, as he expected, the style of these epistles so pleased the head
valet, that he expressed a wish to see the fair writer. Marin accordingly
introduced him to the rue du Temple, where he was most graciously
received, and returned home enchanted with the lady: he spoke of her to
the king, strongly recommending his majesty to judge for himself.
Accordingly his majesty wrote to madame de Rumas, who received the letter
from the hands of her friend Chamilly with all pomp and state, talked
first of her own virtue and honor, and afterwards of her dutiful respect
for his majesty. She replied to the royal note in so prudent yet obliging
a manner, that the king was enchanted. This effective billet was answered
by a second letter from the king, which obtained a reply even more
tenderly charming than the one which preceded it. An interview was next
solicited and granted; for a visit was such a trifle to refuse. The royal
guest became pressing and the lady more reserved, till the time was lost
in attempts at convincing each other. At the next interview madame de
Rumas freely confessed her sincere attachment for his majesty, but added,
that such was her desire to possess his whole and undivided regard, that
she could never give herself up to the hope of keeping him exclusively
hers whilst I interposed between her and the king’s heart—in a few
words then she demanded my dismissal. This was going too far; and Louis
XV, who thought it no scandal to have a hundred mistresses, was alarmed at
the thoughts of occasioning the bustle and confusion attendant upon
disgracing his acknowledged favorite and recognised mistress; he therefore
assured her, her request was beyond his power to grant.
Madame de Rumas now sought to compromise the affair, by talking of a share
in his favor. She asked, she said, but the heart of her beloved monarch,
and would freely leave me in possession of all power and influence. The
king whose heart was regularly promised once a day, did not hesitate to
assure her of his fidelity, and his wily enslaver flattered herself, that
with time and clever management, she should succeed in inducing him to
break off those ties which he now refused to break.
Things were in this state when Marin divulged to us the intrigue conducted
by Chamilly, and directed, though in a covert manner, by the maréchal duc
de Richelieu. This spiteful old man possessed no share of the talent of
his family; and, not contented with the favor bestowed on his nephew,
thought only of his personal credit and influence, which he fancied he
should best secure by introducing a new mistress to the king. This
well-concocted scheme threw both Comte Jean and myself into a perfect
fury. We dismissed Marin with a present of fifty louis, and my
brother-in-law besought of me to grant him four and twenty hours
undisturbed reflection, whilst, on my side, I assured him I should not
rest until we had completely discomfited our enemies.
On the following day Comte Jean laid before me several projects, which
were far from pleasing in my eyes; too much time was required in their
execution. I knew the king too well to be blind to the danger of allowing
this mere whim of the moment to take root in his mind. One idea caught my
fancy, and without mentioning it to Comte Jean, I determined upon carrying
it into execution.
The maréchale de Mirepoix happened at this moment not to be at Paris at
her hotel in the rue Bergere, but at her country house, situated au Port à
l’Anglaise. I signified to the king my intention of passing a couple of
days with the maréchale, and accordingly set out for that purpose. Upon my
arrival at Paris I merely changed horses, and proceeded onwards with all
possible despatch to rejoin the maréchale, who was quite taken by surprise
at my unexpected arrival. After many mutual embraces and exchange of
civilities, I explained to her the whole affair which had brought me from
Versailles. The good-natured maréchale could not believe her ears. She
soon, however, comprehended the nature of my alarms; and so far from
seeking to dissipate them, urged me to lose no time in crushing an affair,
which grew more threatening from each day’s delay. I was fully of her
opinion, and only asked her assistance and co-operation in my plan of
writing to M. de Rumas, and inviting him to come on the following day to
the house of madame de Mirepoix.
That lady would doubtless have preferred my asking her to assist me in any
other way, but still she could not refuse to serve me in the manner
described: for I either bestowed on her all she desired, or caused others
to gratify her slightest request; and how could she be sure, that were my
reign to end, she might derive the same advantages from any new favorite?
Self-interest therefore bound her to my service, and accordingly she wrote
to M. de Rumas a very pressing letter, requesting to see him on the
following day upon matters of the highest importance. This letter sent
off, I dined with the maréchale, and then returned to sleep at Paris.
On the following day, at an early hour, I repaired to the Port à
l’Anglaise; M. de Rumas arrived there a few minutes after myself. He had
the air and look of an honest man, but perhaps no species of deceit is
more easily detected than that quiet, subdued manner, compressed lips, and
uplifted eye. Now-a-days such a mode of dissembling would be too flimsy to
impose even on children; and hypocrites are ever greater proficients in
their art than was even M. de Rumas.
Madame de Mirepoix left us alone together, in order that I might converse
more freely with him. I knew not how to begin, but made many attempts to
convey, in an indirect manner, the reasons for his being summoned to that
day’s conference. However, hints and insinuations were alike thrown away
upon one who had determined neither to use eye’s nor ears but as interest
pointed out the reasonableness of so doing; and accordingly, unable longer
to repress my impatience, I exclaimed abruptly,
“Pray, sir, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, madam,” replied he, with a profound bow, and look of the deepest
humility, “you are the comtesse du Barry.”
“Well, sir,” added I, “and you are equally well aware, no doubt, of the
relation in which I stand to the king?”
“But, madam—”
“Nay, sir, answer without hesitation; I wish you to be candid, otherwise
my exceeding frankness may displease you.”
“I know, madam,” replied the hypocrite, “that his majesty finds great
pleasure in your charming society.”
“And yet, sir,” answered I, “his majesty experiences equal delight in the
company of your wife. How answer you that, M. de Rumas?”
“My wife, madam!”
“Yes, sir, in the company of madame de Rumas; he pays her many private
visits, secretly corresponds with her—”
“The confidence of his majesty must ever honor his subjects.”
“But,” replied I, quickly, “may dishonor a husband.”
“How, madam! What is it you would insinuate?”
“That your wife would fain supplant me, and that she is now the mistress
of the king, although compelled to be such in secret.”
“Impossible,” exclaimed M. de Rumas, “and some enemy to my wife has thus
aspersed her to you.”
“And do you treat it as a mere calumny?” said I. “No, sir, nothing can be
more true; and if you would wish further confirmation, behold the letter
which madame de Rumas wrote to the king only the day before yesterday;
take it and read it.”
“Heaven preserve me, madam,” exclaimed the time-serving wretch, “from.
presuming to cast my eyes over what is meant only for his majesty’s
gracious perusal; it would be an act of treason I am not capable of
committing.”
“Then, sir,” returned I, “I may reasonably conclude that it is with your
sanction and concurrence your wife intrigues with the king?”
“Ah, madam,” answered the wily de Rumas, in a soft and expostulating tone,
“trouble not, I pray you, the repose of my family. I know too well the
virtue of madame de Rumas, her delicacy, and the severity of her
principles; I know too well likewise the sentiments in which her excellent
parents educated her, and I defy the blackest malice to injure her in my
estimation.”
“Wonderfully, sir!” cried I; “so you determine to believe your wife’s
virtue incorruptible, all the while you are profiting by her intrigues.
However, I am too certain of what I assert to look on with the culpable
indifference you are pleased to assume, whilst your virtuous wife
is seeking to supplant me at the château; you shall hear of me before long.
Adieu, sir.”
So saying, I quitted the room in search of the maréchale, to whom I
related what had passed.
“And now, what think you of so base a hypocrite?” asked I, when I had
finished my account.
“He well deserves having the mask torn from his face,” replied she; “but
give yourself no further concern; return home, and depend upon it, that,
one way or other, I will force him into the path of honor.”
I accordingly ordered my carriage and returned to Versailles, where, on
the same evening, I received the following letter from the maréchale:—
“MY DEAR COUNTESS,—My efforts have been attended with no better
success than yours. Well may the proverb say, ‘There is none so deaf as he
who will not hear,’ and M. de Rumas perseveres in treating all I advanced
respecting his wife as calumnious falsehoods. According to his version of
the tale, madame de Rumas has no other motive in seeing Louis XV so
frequently, but to implore his aid in favor of the poor in her
neighborhood. I really lost all patience when I heard him attempting to
veil his infamous conduct under the mask of charity; I therefore proceeded
at once to menaces, telling him that you had so many advantages over his
wife, that you scorned to consider her your rival: but that, nevertheless,
you did not choose that any upstart pretender should dare ask to share his
majesty’s heart. To all this he made no reply; and as the sight of him
only increased my indignation, I at length desired him to quit me. I trust
you will pardon me for having spoken in as queenlike a manner as you could
have done yourself.
“Adieu, my sweet friend.”
This letter was far from satisfying me, and I determined upon striking a
decisive blow. I sent for Chamilly, and treating him with all the contempt
he deserved, I told him, that if the king did not immediately give up this
woman he might prepare for his own immediate dismissal. At first Chamilly
sought to appease my anger by eager protestations of innocence, but when
he found I already knew the whole affair, and was firmly fixed in my
determination, he became alarmed, threw himself at my knees, and promised
to do all I would have him. We then agreed to tell Louis XV some tale of
madame de Rumas that should effectually deter him from thinking further of
her.
In pursuance with this resolution, Chamilly informed the king, that he had
just been informed that madame de Rumas had a lover, who boasted of being
able to turn his majesty which way he pleased, through the intervention of
his mistress. Louis XV wrote off instantly to M. de Sartines, to have a
watchful eye over the proceedings of the Rumas family. The lieutenant of
police, who had some regard for me, and a still greater portion of fear,
was faithful to my interests, and rendered to Louis XV the most horrible
particulars of the profligate mode of life pursued by madame de Rumas;
assuring him, that from every consideration of personal safety, his
majesty should shun the acquaintance. The king, incensed at the trick put
upon him by these seemingly virtuous people, was at first for confining
both husband and wife in prison, but this measure I opposed with all my
power; for, satisfied with the victory I had gained, I cared for no
further hurt to my adversaries. I contrived, to insinuate to the worthy
pair the propriety of their avoiding the impending storm by a timely
retreat into the country, a hint they were wise enough to follow up, so
that I was entirely freed from all further dread of their machinations.
All those who had served me in this affair I liberally rewarded; Marin
received for his share 500 louis. It is true he lost the confidence of
Chamilly, but he gained mine instead, so that it will easily be believed
he was no sufferer by the exchange. I caused the maréchale to receive from
the king a superb Turkey carpet, to which I added a complete service of
Sèvres porcelain, with a beautiful breakfast set, on which were landscapes
most delicately and skilfully drawn in blue and gold: I gave her also two
large blue porcelain cots, as finely executed as those you have so
frequently admired in my small saloon. These trifles cost me no less a sum
than 2800 livres. I did not forget my good friend M. de Sartines, who
received a cane, headed with gold, around which was a small band of
diamonds. As for Chamilly, I granted him his pardon; and I think you will
admit that was being sufficiently generous.
After having thus recompensed the zeal of my friends, I had leisure to
think of taking vengeance upon the duc de Richelieu for the part he had
acted. He came of his own accord to throw himself into the very heat of my
anger. He had been calling on the maréchale de Mirepoix, where he had seen
with envious eyes the magnificent carpet I had presented her with; the
cupidity of the duke induced him, after continually recurring to the
subject, to say, that where my friends were concerned, no one could accuse
me of want of liberality. “No, sir,” answered I, “I consider that no price
can sufficiently repay the kind and faithful services of a true friend,
nor can baseness and treachery be too generally exposed and punished.”
From the tone in which I spoke the old maréchal easily perceived to what I
was alluding. He was wise enough to be silent, whilst I followed up this
first burst of my indignation, by adding,
“For instance, monsieur le duc, how can I sufficiently repay your friendly
zeal to supply the king with a new mistress?”
“I, madam?”
“Yes, sir, you; I am aware of all your kind offices, and only lament my
inability to reward them in a suitable manner.”
“In that case I shall not attempt to deny my share in the business.”
“You have then sufficient honor to avow your enmity towards me?”
“By no means enmity, madam. I merely admit my desire to contribute to the
amusement of the king, and surely, when I see all around anxious to
promote the gratification of their sovereign, I need not be withheld from
following so loyal an example. The duc de Duras was willing to present his
own relation for his majesty’s acceptance, the abbé Terray offers his own
daughter, Comte Jean his sister-in-law, whilst I simply threw a humble and
modest female in his majesty’s path. I cannot see in what my fault exceeds
that of the gentlemen I have just mentioned.”
“You really are the most audacious of men,” replied I, laughing; “I shall
be obliged to solicit a lettre de cachet to hold you a prisoner in
Guienne. Upon my word, your nephew and myself have a valuable and
trustworthy friend in you.”
“Hark ye, madam,” rejoined the maréchal. “I know not, in the first place,
whether his majesty would very easily grant you this lettre de cachet,
which most certainly I do not deserve. You have served my nephew and
neglected me; I wished to try the strength of my poor wings, and I find,
like many others, that I must not hope to soar to any height.”
While we were thus talking the maréchale de Mirepoix was announced. I was
still much agitated, and she immediately turned towards the duke, as if to
inquire of him the cause of my distress: upon which, M. de Richelieu
related all that had passed with a cool exactitude that enraged me still
further. When he had finished, I said,
“Well, madame la maréchale, and what is your opinion of all this?”
“Upon my word, my dear countess,” answered madame de Mirepoix, “you have
ample cause for complaint, but still this poor duke is not so culpable as
you imagine him to be. He has large expenses to provide for: and to obtain
the money requisite for them he is compelled to look to his majesty, whose
favor he desires to win by administering to his pleasures.”
“Alas!” replied the duke, “can you believe that but for the pressure of
unavoidable circumstances I would have separated myself from my nephew and
my fair friend there?”
“Come, come,” cried the maréchale, “I must restore peace and harmony
between you. As for you, my lord duke, be a true and loyal subject; and
you, my sweet countess, use your best endeavors to prevail on the king to
befriend and assist his faithful servant.”
I allowed myself to be managed like a child; and instead of scratching the
face of M. de Richelieu, I obtained for him a grant of 100,000 livres,
which the court banker duly counted out to him.
CHAPTER XXXII
When I related to comte Jean my reconciliation with the duc de Richelieu,
and the sum which this treaty had cost me, my brother-in-law flew into the
most violent fury; he styled the maréchal a plunderer of the public
treasury. Well may the scripture tell us we see the mote in our neighbor’s
eye, but regard not the beam which is in our own eye. I was compelled to
impose silence on comte Jean, or in the height of his rage he would have
offered some insult to the old maréchal, who already most heartily
disliked him for the familiarity of his tone and manner towards him. I did
all in my power to keep these two enemies from coming in each other’s way,
counselled to that by the maréchale de Mirepoix, whose line of politics
was of the most pacific nature; besides I had no inclination for a war
carried on in my immediate vicinity, and, for my own part, so far from
wishing to harm any one, I quickly forgave every affront offered to
myself.
But hold! I perceive I am running on quite smoothly in my own praise.
Indeed, my friend, it is well I have taken that office upon myself, for I
fear no one else would undertake it. The most atrocious calumnies have
been invented against me; I have been vilified both in prose and verse;
number of persons on whom I have conferred the greatest obligations, none
has been found with sufficient courage or gratitude to stand forward and
undertake my defence. I do not even except madame de Mirepoix, whose
conduct towards me in former days was marked by the most studied
attention. She came to me one evening, with a face of grief.
“Mercy upon me,” cried I, “what ails you?”
“Alas!” replied she, in a piteous tone, “I have just quitted a most
afflicted family; their loss is heavy and irreparable. The maréchale de
Luxembourg is well nigh distracted with grief.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed I, “can the duchesse de Lauzun be dead?”
“Alas! no.”
“Perhaps poor madame de Boufflers?”
“No, my friend.”
“Who then is the object of so much regret? Speak; tell me.”
“Madame Brillant.”
“A friend of the old maréchale ‘s?”
“More than a friend,” replied madame de Mirepoix; “her faithful companion;
her only companion; her only beloved object, since her lovers and admirers
ceased to offer their homage—in a word, her cat.”
“Bless me!” cried I, “how you frightened me! But what sort of a cat could
this have been to cause so many tears?”
“Is it possible that you do not know madame Brillant, at least by name?”
“I assure you,” said I, “this is the very first time I ever heard her
name.”
“Well, if it be so, I will be careful not to repeat such a thing to madame
de Luxembourg; she would never pardon you for it. Listen, my dear
countess,” continued madame de Mirepoix; “under the present circumstances
it will be sufficient for you to write your name in her visiting-book.”
I burst into a fit of laughter.
“It is no joke, I promise you,” exclaimed the maréchale; “the death of
madame Brillant is a positive calamity to madame de Luxembourg. Letters of
condolence will arrive from Chanteloup; madame du Deffant will be in deep
affliction, and the virtues and amiable qualities of the deceased cat will
long furnish subjects of conversation.”
“It was then a singularly engaging animal, I presume?”
“On the contrary, one of the most stupid, disagreeable, and dirty
creatures of its kind; but still it was the cat of madame de Luxembourg.”
And after this funeral oration the maréchale and myself burst into a
violent fit of laughter.
When the king joined us, I acquainted him with this death, and my
conversation with the maréchale. Louis XV listened to my recital with an
air of gravity; when I had finished, he said, “The present opportunity is
admirably adopted for satisfying the request of one of my retinue, one of
the best-hearted creatures, and at the same time one of the silliest men
in the kingdom.”
“I beg your pardon, sire,” cried I, “but what is his name? For the
description is so general, that I fear lest I should be at a loss to
recollect of whom you are speaking.”
“You are very ill-natured,” cried Louis XV, “and I hardly know whether you
deserve to be gratified by hearing the name of the poor gentleman:
however, I will tell it to you; he is called Corbin de la Chevrollerie. A
few days since this simple young man, having solicited an audience,
informed me, that he was desirous of marrying a rich heiress, but that the
young lady’s family were resolved she should marry no one who was not
previously employed as an ambassador. I expressed my surprise at so
strange a caprice, but the poor fellow endeavored to vindicate his bride’s
relations, by stating that that they were willing to consider him as my
ambassador if I would only commission him to carry some message of
compliment or condolence. Accordingly I promised to employ him upon the
occasion of the first death or marriage which should take place in a ducal
family. Now, I think I cannot do better than make him the bearer of my
inquiries after the maréchale de Luxembourg.”
This idea struck me as highly amusing, and I immediately dispatched a
servant to summon M. de la Chevrollerie to the presence of the king. This
being done, that gentleman presented himself with all the dignity and
importance of one who felt that a mission of high moment was about to be
entrusted to him.
His majesty charged him to depart immediately to the house of madame de
Luxembourg, and to convey his royal master’s sincere condolences for the
heavy loss she had sustained in madame Brillant.
M. Corbin de la Chevrollerie departed with much pride and self-complacency
upon his embassy: he returned in about half an hour.
“Sire,” cried he, “I have fulfilled your royal pleasure to madame de
Luxembourg. She desires me to thank you most humbly for your gracious
condescension: she is in violent distress for the severe loss she has
experienced, and begged my excuse for quitting me suddenly, as she had to
superintend the stuffing of the deceased.”
“The stuffing!” exclaimed the king; “surely you mean the embalming?”
“No, sire,” replied the ambassador, gravely, “the stuffing.”
“Monsieur de la Chevrollerie,” cried I, bursting into a violent fit of
laughter, “do you know in what degree of relationship the deceased madame
Brillant stood to madame de Luxembourg?”
“No, madam,” replied the ambassador, gravely, “but I believe she was her
aunt, for I heard one of the females in waiting say, that this poor madame
Brillant was very old, and that she had lived with her mistress during the
last fourteen years.”
Thus finished this little jest. However, Louis XV, who was extremely kind
to all about him, especially those in his service, shortly after
recompensed his simple-minded ambassador, by intrusting him with a
commission at once profitable and honorable.
Another event which took place at this period, caused no less noise than
the death of madame Brillant. At this time, mademoiselle Mesnard was, for
her many charms of mind and person, the general rage throughout Paris.
Courtiers, lawyers, bankers, and citizens crowded alike to offer their
homage. Frail as fair, mademoiselle Mesnard received all kindly, and took
with gracious smiles the rich gifts showered upon her by her various
adorers. The first noblemen of the court, knights of the different orders,
farmers-general, all aspired to the honor of ruining themselves for her.
She had already satisfied the ruinous propensities of at least a dozen of
lovers, when the duc de Chaulnes entered the lists, and was fortunate
enough to eclipse all his rivals. He might long have enjoyed the
preference thus obtained, but for an act of the greatest imprudence of
which a lover could be guilty. He was so indiscreet as to invite several
of his most intimate friends to sup with himself and Mademoiselle Mesnard.
Amongst the number was Caron de Beaumarchais, a man possessed of the grace
of a prince and the generous profusion of a highwayman. Caron de
Beaumarchais attracted the fancy of the fickle mademoiselle Mesnard, a
mutual understanding was soon established between them, and in a snug
little cottage surrounded by beautiful grounds in the environs of Pere la
Chaise, the enamored lovers frequently met to exchange their soft vows.
Happily the deity who presided over the honor of the duke was carefully
watching their proceedings. This guardian angel was no other than madame
Duverger, his former mistress, who, unable to bear the desertion of her
noble admirer, had vowed, in the first burst of rage and disappointment,
to have revenge sooner or later upon her triumphant rival. With this view
she spied out all the proceedings of mademoiselle Mesnard, whose stolen
interviews and infidelity she was not long in detecting; she even
contrived to win over a femme de chambre, by whose connivance she
was enabled to obtain possession of several letters containing
irrefragable proofs of guilt, and these she immediately forwarded to the
duc de Chaulnes.
This proud and haughty nobleman might have pardoned his mistress had she
quitted him for a peer of the realm and his equal, but to be supplanted by
a mere man of business, an author, too!—the disgrace was too
horrible for endurance. The enraged lover flew to Beaumarchais, and
reproached him bitterly with his treachery; the latter sought to deny the
charge, but the duke, losing all self-possession, threw the letters in his
face, calling him a base liar. At this insult, Beaumarchais, who, whatever
his enemies may say of him, was certainly not deficient in courage,
demanded instant satisfaction. The duke, by way of answer, seized the man
of letters by the collar, Beaumarchais called his servants, who, in their
turn, summoned the guard, which speedily arrived accompanied by the
commissary, and with much difficulty they succeeded in removing M. de
Chaulnes (who appeared to have entirely lost his reason) from the room.
The conduct of the duke appeared to us completely out of place, and he
would certainly have answered for it within the walls of the Bastille, had
not his family made great intercession for him. On the other hand,
Beaumarchais, who eagerly availed himself of every opportunity of writing
memorials, composed one on the subject of his quarrel with M. de Chaulnes,
complaining that a great nobleman had dared to force himself into his
house, and lay forcible hands on him, as though he were a thief or a
felon. The whole of the pamphlet which related to this affair was
admirably written, and, like the “Barber of Seville,” marked by a strongly
sarcastic vein. However, the thing failed, and the duc de la Vrillière,
the sworn enemy of men of wit and talent, caused Beaumarchais to be
immediately confined within Fort l’Eveque. So that the offended party was
made to suffer the penalty of the offence.
In the same year the comte de Fuentes, ambassador from Spain to the court
of Louis XV, took leave of us. He was replaced by the comte d’Aranda, who
was in a manner in disgrace with his royal master: this nobleman arrived
preceded by a highly flattering reputation. In the first place, he had
just completed the destruction of the Jesuits, and this was entitling him
to no small thanks and praises from encyclopedists. Every one knows those
two lines of Voltaire’s—
The simplicity of comte d’Aranda indemnified us in some degree for the
haughty superciliousness of his predecessor. Although no longer young, he
still preserved all the tone and vigor of his mind, and only the habit
which appeared to have been born with him of reflecting, gave him a slow
and measured tone in speaking. His reserved and embarrassed manners were
but ill-calculated to show the man as he really was, and it required all
the advantages of intimacy to see him in his true value. You may attach so
much more credit to what I say of this individual, as I can only add, that
he was by no means one of my best friends.
When Louis XV heard of the nomination of the comte d’Aranda to the embassy
from Spain to France, he observed to me,
“The king of Spain gets rid of his Choiseul by sending him to me.”
“Then why not follow so excellent an example, sire?” replied I; “and since
your Choiseul is weary of Chanteloup, why not command him upon some
political errand to the court of Madrid.”
“Heaven preserve me from such a thing,” exclaimed Louis XV. “Such a man as
he is ought never to quit the kingdom, and I have been guilty of
considerable oversight to leave him the liberty of so doing. But to return
to comte d’Aranda; he has some merit I understand; still I like not that
class of persons around me; they are inexorable censors, who condemn alike
every action of my life.”
However, not the king’s greatest enemy could have found fault with his
manner of passing his leisure hours. A great part of each day was occupied
in a mysterious manufacture of cases for relics, and one of his valets
de chambre, named Turpigny, was intrusted with the commission of
purchasing old shrines and reliquaries; he caused the sacred bones, or
whatever else they contain, to be taken out by Grandelatz, one of his
almoners, re-adjusted, and then returned to new cases. These reliquaries
were distributed by him to his daughters, or any ladies of the court of
great acknowledged piety. When I heard of this I mentioned it to the king,
who wished at first to conceal the fact; but, as he was no adept at
falsehood or disguise, he was compelled to admit the fact.
“I trust, sire,” said I, “that you will bestow one of your prettiest and
best-arranged reliquaries on me.”
“Because,” answered he, “it would be sinful of me. Ask anything else in my
power to bestow, and it shall be yours.”
This was no hypocrisy on the part of Louis XV, who, spite of his somewhat
irregular mode of life, professed to hold religion in the highest honor
and esteem; to all that it proscribed he paid the submission of a child.
We had ample proofs of this in the sermons preached at Versailles by the
abbé de Beauvais, afterwards bishop of Senetz.
This ecclesiastic, filled with an inconsiderate zeal, feared not openly to
attack the king in his public discourses; he even went so far as to
interfere with many things of which he was not a competent judge, and
which by no means belonged to his jurisdiction: in fact, there were ample
grounds for sending the abbé to the Bastille. The court openly expressed
its dissatisfaction at this audacity, and for my own part I could not
avoid evincing the lively chagrin it caused me. Yet, would you believe it,
Louis XV declared, in a tone from which there was no appeal abbé had
merely done his duty, and that those who had been less scrupulous in the
performance of theirs, would do well to be silent on the subject. This was
not all; the cardinal de la Roche Aymon, his grand almoner, refused to
sanction the nomination of M. de Beauvais to the bishopric, under the
pretext of his not being nobly descended.
M. de Beyons, bishop of Carcassone, a prelate of irreproachable character,
was deeply distressed to find that the want of birth would exclude M. de
Beauvais from the dignities of his holy profession. He went to discuss the
matter with the grand almoner, who again advanced his favorite plea for
excluding M. de Beauvais. “My lord,” replied M. de Beyons, “if I believed
that nobility of descent were the chief requisite for our advancement in
our blessed calling, I would trample my crosier under foot, and renounce
for ever all church dignities.”
M. de Beyons sought the king, and loudly complained to him of the
infatuation and obstinacy of M. de la Roche Aymon. Louis XV however
commanded that M. de Beauvais should be appointed to the first vacant see,
and when the grand almoner repeated his objections to the preferment, the
king answered, “Monsieur le cardinal, in the days of our blessed Saviour
the apostles had no need to present their genealogical tree, duly
witnessed and attested. It is my pleasure to make M. de Beauvais a bishop;
let that end the discussion of the matter.”
The command was too peremptory to admit of any course but instant and
entire submission.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Amongst the pages of the chapel was one whom the king distinguished so
greatly, that he raised him to the rank of a gentleman of the bedchamber,
and confided to his charge the cabinet of medals, for which he had imbibed
a taste since his liaison with madame de Pompadour. This esteemed page was
named M. D——-n, who united to the most amiable wit a varied
and deep knowledge of men and things. He had had adventures at an age when
they are usually just understood, and talked of them with the utmost
indiscretion. But this so far from doing him any injury in the eyes of the
world only served to make him the more admired; for women in general have
an inclination for those who do not respect their reputation.
At the period I allude to a madame de Blessac, a very well-looking woman,
took upon herself to be very kindly disposed towards the
gentleman-in-waiting. She told him so, and thereupon M. de D———n
ranged himself under her banner, and swore eternal constancy. However, the
lady, by some accident, became greatly smitten with the prince de la
Trimouille, and without quitting the little keeper of medals, gave him a
lord for a substitute. M. D———n soon learnt this fact,
that he was not the sole possessor of a heart which formed all his joy and
glory. He found he was deceived, and he swore to be revenged.
Now the prince de la Trimouille had for his mistress mademoiselle Lubert,
an opera-dancer, very pretty and extraordinarily silly. M. D———n
went to her; “Mademoiselle,” said he, “I come to offer my services to you
in the same way that M. de la Trimouille has offered his to madame de
Blessac, with whom I was on exceedingly intimate terms.”
The services of young D———n were accepted, and he was
happy. He then wrote to his former mistress, saying, that anxious to give
her a proof of his sincere attachment he had visited mademoiselle Lubert,
that he might leave her at leisure to receive the visits of the prince de
la Trimouille.
Madame de Blessac, stung to the quick, quarrelled with the prince, who was
excessively enraged with his rival; and there certainly would have been an
affair between these two gentlemen, had not the king preserved the peace
by sending his gentleman to St. Petersburg as attaché to the
embassy. M. D———n went to Russia, therefore, and on his
return came to see me, and is now one of the most welcome and agreeable of
the men of my private circle.
As to madame de Blessac, she continued to carry on the war in grand style.
Her husband dying she married again a foolish count, three parts ruined,
and who speedily dissipated the other quarter of his own fortune and the
whole of his wife’s. Madame Ramosky then attacked the rich men of the day
one after another. One alone stood out against her; it was M. de la Garde,
who had been one of my admirers. Madame Ramoski wrote to him; he did not
answer. At length she determined on visiting him, and wrote him a note, to
say that she should call upon him about six o’clock in the evening. What
did M. de la Garde? Why he gave a ball on that very evening; and, when
madame Ramoski reached his hotel, she found it illuminated. As she had
come quite unprepared she was compelled to return as she came, very
discontentedly.
But to leave madame de Blessac and M. D———n, and to talk
of my own matters. We had at this period a very great alarm at the
château, caused by the crime of a man, who preferred rather to assassinate
his wife than to allow her to dishonor him. It is worthy of narration.
A pretty shopkeeper of Paris, named Gaubert, who lived in the rue de la
Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, had recently married a woman much younger than
himself. From the Petit Pont to the rue Mouffetard, madame Gaubert was
talked of for her lovely face and beautiful figure; she was the Venus of
the quarter. Everybody paid court to her, but she listened to none of her
own rank, for her vanity suggested that she deserved suitors of a loftier
rank.
Her husband was very jealous. Unfortunately M. Gaubert had for cousin one
of the valets of the king: this man, who knew the taste of his master,
thought how he could best turn his pretty cousin to account. He spoke to
her of the generosity of Louis XV, of the grandeur of Versailles, and of
the part which her beauty entitled her to play there. In fact, he so
managed to turn the head of this young woman, that she begged him to
obtain for her a place in the king’s favor. Consequently Girard (that was
his name) went to madame de Laugeac, and told her the affair as it was.
She pleased with an opportunity of injuring me, went to Paris, and betook
herself incog. to the shop of madame Gaubert. She found her
charming, and spoke of her to the duc de la Vrillière, and both agreed to
show her portrait to his majesty. But how to procure this portrait? Her
husband was her very shadow, and never left her. Le petit saint,
who was never at a loss, issued a lettre de cachet against him, and
the unfortunate man was shut up in Fort l’Evéque. It was not until the
portrait was finished that he was set at liberty.
He returned to his home without guessing at the motives of his detention,
but he learned that his wife had had her portrait painted during his
absence, and his jealousy was set to work. Soon a letter from Girard, a
fatal letter, which fell into his hands, convinced him of the injury done
him. He took his wife apart, and, feigning a resignation which he did not
feel, “My love,” he said, “I loved thee, I love thee still: I thought,
too, that thou wert content with our competence, and wouldst not have
quitted thine husband for any other in the world: I have been convinced
otherwise. A letter from Girard informs me, that with thine own consent
the king, whom thy portrait has pleased, desires to see thee this very
day. It is a misfortune, but we must submit. Only before thou art
established at Versailles, I should wish thee to dine with me once more.
You can invite cousin Girard, too, for I owe him something for what he has
done for thee.”
The young wife promised to return and see her husband. That evening at the
performance at the court she was seated in the same box with the marquise
de Laugeac; the king’s glass was directed towards her the whole time, and
at the termination of the spectacle it was announced to her, that she was
to sleep at the château the next evening. The project was never realized.
The next day, according to promise, the young wife went to Paris with the
valet. She informed her husband of the success which had befallen her, and
he appeared delighted. Dinner being ready, they seated themselves at
table, ate and drank. Girard began to laugh at his cousin for his
complaisance, when suddenly all desire to jest left him. He experienced
most horrible pains, and his cousin suffered as well as himself.
“Wretches!” said Gaubert to them, “did you think I would brook dishonor?
No, no! I have deceived you both the better to wreak my vengeance. I am
now happy. Neither king nor valet shall ever possess my wife. I have
poisoned you, and you must die.” The two victims implored his pity. “Yes,”
said he to his wife, “thy sufferings pain me, and I will free you from
them.” e then plunged a knife to her heart; and, turning to Girard, said,
“As for thee, I hate thee too much to kill thee; die.” And he left him.
The next day M. de Sartines came and told me the whole story. He had
learnt them from the valet, who had survived his poisoning for some hours.
Gaubert could not be found, and it was feared that he would attempt some
desperate deed. No one dared mention it to the king, but the captain of
the guards and the first gentleman in waiting took every possible
precaution; and when Louis XV asked for the young female who was to be
brought to him, they told him that she had died of a violent distemper. It
was not until some days afterwards that the terror which pervaded the
château ceased. They had found the body of the unfortunate Gaubert on the
banks of the Seine.
In spite of what had passed, the duc de la Vrillière had the impudence to
present himself to me. I treated him with disdain, reproaching him and
Laugeac for their conduct. He left me in despair, and wrote me the
following letter:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE,-Your anger kills me. I am guilty, but not so much so
as you may imagine. The duty of my office compels me to do many things
which are disagreeable to me. In the affair for which you have so
slightingly treated me there was no intent to injure you, but only to
procure for the king an amusement which should make him the more estimate
your charms and your society. Forgive a fault in which my heart bore no
share; I am sufficiently miserable, and shall not know repose until I be
reinstated in your good graces.
“As for the poor marchioness she is no more to blame than myself. She
feels for you as much esteem as attachment, and is anxious to prove it at
any opportunity. I beseech you not to treat her rigorously. Think that we
only work together for the good of the king, and that it would be unjust
of you to hate us because we have endeavored to please this excellent
prince. I hope that, contented with this justification, you will not
refuse to grant me the double amnesty which I ask of your goodness.”
I replied thus:—
“Your letter, monsieur le duc, seduces me no more than your words. I know
you well, and appreciate you fully. I was ignorant up to this time, that
amongst the duties of your office, certain such functions were imposed
upon you. It appears that you attend to them as well as to others, and I
sincerely compliment you thereupon; I beg of you to announce it in the
‘Court Kalendar.’ It will add, I am convinced, to the universal esteem in
which you are held.
“As to madame de Laugeac, she is even more insignificant than you, and
that is not saying much. I thank her for her esteem and attachment, but
can dispense with any marks of them; no good can come from such an one as
she. Thus, M. le duc, keep quiet both of you, and do not again attempt
measures which may compromise me. Do your business and leave me to mine.
“I am, with all due consideration,
“Your servant,
“COMTESSE DU BARRY”
I mentioned this to the king, who insisted on reconciling me with le
petit saint, who came and knelt to me. I granted the pardon sought,
out of regard for Louis XV; but from that moment the contempt I felt for
the duke increased an hundredfold.
CHAPTER XXXIV
The king was much annoyed at the indifference I evinced for all state
secrets, and frequently observed to me, “You are not at all like madame de
Pompadour: she was never satisfied unless she knew all that was going on,
and was permitted to take an active part in every transaction; she would
frequently scold me for not telling her things of which I was myself
ignorant. She was at the bottom of the most secret intrigues, and watched
every turn of my countenance, as though she sought to read in my eyes the
inmost thoughts of my mind. Never,” continued the king, “did woman more
earnestly desire supreme command; and so completely had she learned to
play my part, that I have frequently surprised her giving private
instructions to my ambassadors, differing altogether from what I myself
had dictated to them. Upon the same principle she maintained at various
courts envoys and ministers, who acted by her orders, and in her name; she
even succeeded in obtaining the friendship of the grave and austere Marie
Thérèse, who ultimately carried her condescension so far, as only to
address the marchioness by the title of ‘cousin’ and ‘dear friend.’ I must
confess, however, that these proceedings on the part of madame de
Pompadour were by no means agreeable to me, and I even prefer your
ignorance of politics to her incessant interference with them.”
This was said by Louis XV upon the occasion of the approaching marriage of
the comte d’Artois, the object of universal cabal and court intrigue to
all but myself, who preserved perfect tranquillity amidst the general
excitement that prevailed.
Various reasons made the marriage of this prince a matter of imperative
necessity. In the first place, the open gallantry of the young count had
attracted a crowd of disreputable personages of both sexes to Versailles,
and many scandalous adventures occurred within the château itself;
secondly, a motive still more important in the eyes of Louis XV,
originated in the circumstance of neither the marriage of the dauphin nor
that of the comte de Provence having been blest with any offspring. The
king began to despair of seeing any descendants in a direct line, unless
indeed heaven should smile upon the wedded life of the comte d’Artois.
Louis XV disliked the princes of the blood, and the bare idea that the duc
d’Orleans might one day wield his sceptre would have been worse than
death.
Many alliances were proposed for the prince. Marie Josèphe, infanta of
Spain, was then in her twentieth year, and consequently too old. The
princess Marie-Françoise-Bénédictine-Anne-Elizabeth-Josèphe-Antonine
Laurence-Ignace-Thérèse-Gertrude-Marguerite-Rose, etc., etc., of Portugal,
although younger than the first-mentioned lady, was yet considered as past
the age that would have rendered her a suitable match for so young a
bridegroom. The daughter of any of the electoral houses of Germany was not
considered an eligible match, and the pride of the house of Bourbon could
not stoop to so ignoble an alliance. There was no alternative left
therefore, but to return to the house of Savoy, and take a sister of the
comtesse de Provence. This proposal was well received by the royal family,
with the exception of the dauphiness, who dreaded the united power and
influence of the two sisters, if circumstances should ever direct it
against herself or her wishes; and I heard from good authority, that both
the imperial Marie Thérèse and her daughter made many remonstrances to the
king upon the subject. “The empress,” said Louis XV, one day, “believes
that things are still managed here as in the days of the marquise de
Pompadour and the duc de Choiseul. Thank heaven, I am no longer under the
dominion of my friend and her pensionaries. I shall follow my own
inclinations, and consult, in the marriage of my grandson, the interests
of France rather than those of Austria.”
The little attention paid by Louis XV to the representations of Marie
Thérèse furnished my enemies with a fresh pretext for venting their
spleen. They accused me of having been bribed by the court of Turin, which
ardently desired a second alliance with France. I was most unjustly
accused, for I can with truth affirm, that the comte de la Marmora,
ambassador from Piedmont to Paris, neither by word nor deed made any
attempt to interest me in his success. The king was the first person who
informed me of the contemplated marriage, and my only fault (if it could
be called one) was having approved of the match.
More than one intrigue was set on foot within the château to separate the
princes. Many were the attempts to sow the seeds of dissension between the
dauphin and the comte d’Artois, as well as to embroil the dauphin with monsieur.
The first attempt proved abortive, but the faction against monsieur
succeeded so far as to excite a lasting jealousy and mistrust in the mind
of Marie Antoinette. This princess was far from contemplating the marriage
of the comte d’Artois with any feelings of pleasure, and when her new
sister-in-law became a mother, she bewailed her own misfortune in being
without children with all the feelings of a young and affectionate heart.
Heaven did not, however, always deny her the boon she so ardently desired.
You will, readily believe that the same anxiety prevailed upon the
occasion of this approaching marriage as had existed at the unions of the
dauphin and the comte de Provence, to obtain the various posts and places
the ambition of different persons led them to desire in the establishment
of the newly married pair. Wishing on my own part to offer the maréchale
de Mirepoix a proof of my high estimation of her friendship towards me, I
inquired of her whether a superior employment about the person of the
comtesse d’Artois would be agreeable to her?
“Alas! my dear creature,” replied the good-natured maréchale, “I am too
old now to bear the toil and confinement of any service. The post of lady
of honor would suit me excellently well as far as regards the income
attached to it, but by no means agree with my inclinations as far as
discharging its functions goes. You see I am perfectly candid with you.
Listen to me; if you really wish to oblige me, you can do this—give
the title to another, and bestow the pecuniary part of the engagement on
me. In that manner you will be able to gratify two persons at the same
time.”
“I will endeavor,” said I, “to meet your wishes as far as I possibly can,
and you may be assured that you shall derive some advantage from this
marriage.”
And I kept my word by shortly after obtaining for the maréchale a sum of
50,000 livres; a most needful supply, for the poor maréchale had to
re-furnish her house, her present fittings-up being no longer endurable by
the eye of modish taste: she likewise received an augmentation of 20,000
livres to her pension. This proceeding was highly acceptable to her, and
the king afforded his assistance with the best possible grace. He could be
generous, and do things with a good grace when he pleased.
The refusal of the maréchale, which it was agreed we should keep secret,
obliged me to cast my eyes upon a worthy substitute, and I at length
decided upon selecting the comtesse de Forcalquier, a lady who possessed
every charm which can charm and attract, joined to a faultless reputation;
and, setting aside her strict intimacy with myself, the court (envious as
it is) could find no fault with her. I was convinced she would not be long
in acquiring an ascendency over the mind of the princess and I was equally
well assured she would never turn this influence against myself; this was
a point of no small importance to me.
Madame de Forcalquier most ardently desired the place of lady of honor,
without flattering herself with any hopes of obtaining it; and, not liking
to ask me openly for it, she applied to the duc de Cossé. I felt some
regret that she had gone to work in so circuitous a manner, and in
consequence wrote her the following note:—
“MADAM,—I am aware that you are desirous of obtaining the post of
lady of honor. You should not have forgotten that I am sufficiently your
friend to have forwarded your wishes by every possible exertion. Why did
you apply to a third person in preference to seeking my aid? I really am
more than half angry with you for so doing. Believe me, my friends need
not the intervention of any mediator to secure my best services. You, too,
will regret not having made your first application to me, when I tell you
that I was reserving for you the very place you were seeking by so
circuitous a route. Yes, before you had asked it, the post of lady of
honor was yours. I might have sought in vain for a person more eminently
qualified for the office than yourself, or one in whom I could place more
unlimited confidence. Come, my friend, I pray of you, not to thank me, who
have found sufficient reward in the pleasure of obliging you, but to
acknowledge the extreme kindness and alacrity with which his majesty has
forwarded your wishes.
“Believe me, dear madam,
“Yours, very sincerely,
“THE COMTESSE Du Barry.”
Madame de Forcalquier was not long in obeying the summons contained in my
note; she embraced me with the warmest gratitude and friendship, delighted
at finding herself so eligibly established at court, for at that period
every person regarded the comte d’Artois as the only hope of the monarchy;
and blinded by the universal preference bestowed on him, the young prince
flattered himself that the crown would infallibly ornament his brows. I
have been told, that when first the queen’s pregnancy was perceived, a
general lamentation was heard throughout the castle, and all ranks united
in deploring an event which removed the comte d’Artois from the immediate
succession to the throne.
Up to the present moment I knew Madame de Forcalquier only as one whose
many charms, both of mind and person, joined to great conversational
powers and the liveliest wit, had rendered her the idol of society, and
obtained for her the appellation of Bellissima. I knew not that
this woman, so light and trifling in appearance, was capable of one of
those lively and sincere attachments, which neither time nor change of
fortune could destroy or diminish. She had a particular friend, a madame
Boncault, the widow of a stockbroker, and she was anxious to contribute to
her well-doing. With this view she solicited of me the place of lady in
waiting for this much-esteemed individual. Astonished at the request I put
a hasty negative on it.
“If you refuse me this fresh favor,” said madame de Forcalquier, “you will
prevent me from profiting by your kindness to myself.”
“And why so?” inquired I.
“I owe to madame Boncault,” answered she, “more than my life; I am
indebted to her for tranquillity, honor, and the high estimation in which
the world has been pleased to hold me. I have now an opportunity of
proving my gratitude, and I beseech of you to assist my endeavors.”
“But tell me, first,” cried I, “what is the nature of this very important
service you say madame de Boncault has rendered you; is it a secret, or
may I hear it?”
“Certainly,” replied the countess, “although the recital is calculated to
bring the blush of shame into my cheek. Are we alone, and secure from
interruption?”
I rang and gave orders that no person should be suffered to disturb us;
after which madame de Forcalquier proceeded as follows:—
“I was scarcely seventeen years old, when my parents informed me that they
had disposed of my hand, and that I must prepare myself to receive a
husband immediately. My sentiments were not inquired into, nor, to confess
the truth, was such an investigation usual, or deemed a matter of any
import. A young female of any rank has no voice in any transaction till
the day which follows her marriage; until then her wishes are those of her
family, and her desires bounded by the rules of worldly etiquette. I had
scarcely conversed twice or thrice with my future lord, and then only for
a few minutes at a time, before he conducted me to the foot of the altar,
there to pronounce the solemn vow which bound me his for life. I had
scarcely seen him, and barely knew whether he was agreeable or
disagreeable. He was neither young nor old, handsome nor ugly, pleasing
nor displeasing; just one of those persons of whom the world is
principally composed; one of those men who enter or leave a saloon without
the slightest curiosity being excited respecting him. I had been told that
I ought to love my husband, and accordingly I taught myself to do so; but
scarcely had the honeymoon waned, than my fickle partner transferred his
affections from me to one of my attendants; and to such a height did his
guilty passion carry him, that he quitted his home for Italy, carrying
with him the unfortunate victim of his seductive arts. It was during his
absence that I first became acquainted with madame Boncault; she was my
own age, and equally unfortunate in her domestic life; the same tests,
griefs, and a great similarity of temper and disposition soon united us in
the bonds of the firmest friendship; but as she possessed a stronger and
more reasonable mind than I did, she forgot her own sorrows to administer
to mine. However, if the whole truth must be owned, I ought to confess
that my chief consolation was derived from a young cousin of my own, who
freely lavished upon me that unbounded affection I would fain have sought
from my husband.
“Meanwhile, wearied of his folly, this latter returned; and, after having
transferred his capricious fancies to at least half a dozen mistresses, he
finished where he should have begun by attaching himself to her, who, as
his wife, had every claim to his homage. Men are unaccountable creatures,
but unfortunately for my husband his senses returned too late; my heart
was too entirely occupied to restore him to that place he had so hastily
vacated. My affections were no longer mine to bestow, but equally shared
by my estimable friend madame Boncault and my young and captivating
cousin. I was a bad hand at dissimulating, and M. de Forcalquier perceived
enough of my sentiments to excite his jealous suspicions, and immediately
removed with me to one of his estates.
“However, my cousin (whom my husband was far from suspecting) and madame
Boncault accompanied me in my retreat; there myself and my admirer, more
thrown together than we had been at Paris, began insensibly to lay aside
the restraint we had hitherto imposed on our inclinations, and commenced a
train of imprudences which would quickly have betrayed us had not
friendship watched over us. The excellent madame Boncault, in order to
save my reputation, took so little care to preserve her own, that M. de
Forcalquier was completely caught by her manoeuvre. One morning, finding
me alone, he said,
“’ Madam, I am by no means satisfied with what is going on here. Your
friend is wholly devoid of shame and modesty; she has been with us but one
short fortnight, and is now the open and confessed mistress of your
cousin.’
“‘Sir,’ exclaimed I, trembling for what was to follow, ‘you are, you must
be mistaken: the thing is impossible. Madame Boncault is incapable—’
“‘Nonsense, madam,’ replied M. de Forcalquier; ‘I know what I am saying.
Several things have induced me to suspect for a long while what I now
assert with perfect confidence of its truth; but if you are still
incredulous, behold this proof of guilt which I found just now in your
cousin’s chamber.’
“So saying, my husband put into my hands a letter written by my cousin
evidently to some female in the château, whom he solicited to admit him
that evening to the usual place of rendezvous, where he flattered himself
their late misunderstanding would be cleared up.
“After having read, or, to speak more correctly, guessed at the contents
of this fatal letter, I conjured my husband to replace it where he had
found it, lest his guests should suspect him of having dishonorably
obtained possession of their secret. He quitted me, and I hastened in
search of my friend: I threw myself on my knees before her, and related
all that had passed, accusing myself of the basest selfishness in having
consented to save my honor at the expense of hers; then rising with
renewed courage I declared my intention of confessing my imprudence to my
husband. Madame Boncault withheld me. ‘Do you doubt my regard for you?’
asked she; ‘if indeed you do justice to my sincere attachment to you,
permit me to make this one sacrifice for your safety. Leave your husband
at liberty to entertain his present suspicions respecting me, but grant me
one favor in your turn. Speak to your cousin; request him to quit the
château, for should he remain the truth will be discovered, and then, my
friend, you are lost past my endeavors to save you.’
“Less generous than madame Boncault, I consented to follow her advice.
However, I have never forgotten her generous devotion; and now that the
opportunity has presented itself of proving my gratitude, I beseech of
you, my dear countess, to aid me in the discharge of my debt of
gratitude.”
As madame de Forcalquier finished speaking, I threw myself into her arms.
“From this moment,” cried I, “madame Boncault is my dear and esteemed protégée;
and if I have any influence over the mind of the king, she shall be
appointed lady in waiting to our young princess. Such a woman is a
treasure, and I heartily thank you for having mentioned her to me.”
CHAPTER XXXV
Spite of the merit of madame Boncault, and the many eulogiums I bestowed
on her whilst relating her history to the king, I could not immediately
obtain the post madame de Forcalquier had requested for this paragon of
friends. His majesty replied to me by saying, that no doubt so many
virtues merited a high reward, but that ere madame Boncault could be
appointed lady in waiting to his granddaughter, she must be presented at
court under some other name than the one she now bore.
“Oh, if that be all, sire,” replied I, “it will soon be effected. Ladies
who have the good fortune to possess a rich dowry and powerful friends
need never look far for a choice of husbands. Only let madame Boncault
have reason to reckon upon your patronage, and she will have no lack of
admirers.”
The king, always ready to oblige me, caused it to be understood throughout
the château that he was desirous of seeing madame Boncault well
established, as he had it in contemplation to confide to her a place of
great trust. Immediately a score of suitors presented themselves; the
preference was given to the comte de Bourbon Busset as the person most
calculated in every respect to answer our purpose; he possessed elegant
manners, an unblemished reputation, and a descent so illustrious as to be
traced even to the reigning family. No sooner were the celebrations of
this marriage over, than I procured the formal appointment of madame de
Bourbon Busset to the post of lady in waiting to the new princess. This
nomination tended greatly to increase the high opinion entertained of the
judgment and discrimination of the comtesse de Forcalquier, and you may
easily believe, from the friendship I bore this lady, that I fully entered
into her triumph on the occasion.
When the comtesse de Bourbon Busset came to return me her acknowledgments
for what I had done, she accompanied it with a request for a fresh
interference on my part: this was to obtain for her husband the title of
duke and peer. Accordingly I mentioned her wishes to the king, observing
at the same time how very surprising it was that one so nearly related to
the house of Bourbon should not have reached the honors of the ducal
peerage: to which Louis XV replied, that he had no desire to increase the
number of princes of the blood, of whom there were quite sufficient of
legitimate birth without placing the illegitimate upon the same footing;
that Louis XIV had been a sufficient warning of the folly of acting too
indulgently towards these latter, who were only so many additional enemies
to the royal authority. To all this I answered, that it was not fitting to
treat the family of Bourbon Busset, however illegitimate might be its
origin, as though it merely belonged to the petite noblesse, etc.;
but my arguments were in vain, and, as the proverb says, “I talked to the
wind.” My friends recommended me not to press the subject, and the matter
ended there. However, in order to smooth the refusal as much as possible,
I procured M. de Bourbon Busset the appointment of first gentleman usher
to the young prince.
The establishment of the comtesse d’Artois was now formed. M. de Chéglus,
bishop of Cahors, had the post of first almoner; and strange to say,
although a prelate, was a man of irreproachable virtue; he had little wit
but strong sense, and was better known by his many charitable deeds than
by the brilliancy of his sayings. He was eminently suited for the office
now conferred on him; and those who knew him best were the least surprised
to find the nomination had fallen on him.
I also procured a post in the establishment of the young couple for my
sister-in-law, the comtesse d’Hargicourt. Her maiden name was Fumel, an
ancient family in Guienne, and M. de Fumel, her father, was governor of
the château Trompette at Bordeaux. This marriage had at first encountered
many difficulties from the deadly hatred which existed in the château
against us. Comte Jean, perceiving that things were going against us,
applied to the king himself for assistance in the affair. Louis XV could
not endure him, but his dislike was manifested only by an uneasy timidity
in his presence, and he freely granted any request that would the soonest
free him from his presence. The king acted upon the same principle in the
present conjuncture; he bestowed a million of livres upon the comte
d’Hargicourt, that is to say, 500,000 livres to be employed in paying the
debts of the comte de Fumel, and in freeing his estates from a dowry of
60,000 livres to be paid to his daughter on her marriage, with various
other clearances and payments; besides this my brother-in-law, comte
d’Hargicourt, was appointed captain in the prince’s Swiss guards, one of
the most honorable commissions that could have been conferred on him.
The comte de Crussel and the prince d’Henin were named captains of the
guard to M. d’Artois. This prince d’Henin was of such diminutive stature
that he was sometimes styled, by way of jest, the “prince of dwarfs,” “the
dwarf of princes.” He was the beloved nephew of the maréchale de Mirepoix,
whose fondness could not supply him with the sense he so greatly needed;
he was besides very profligate, and continually running into some
difficulty or other by his eager pursuit after pleasure. It is related of
him, that the duc de Lauragnais, wearied with seeing the prince d’Henin
for ever fluttering about his mistress, mademoiselle Arnoult, drew up a
consultation, to inquire whether it were possible to die of ennui: this he
submitted to several physicians and celebrated lawyers, who having united
in replying affirmatively, he caused the consultation with its answer to
be forwarded to the prince d’Henin, warning him henceforward to cease his
visits to mademoiselle Arnoult; or, in the event of her death, he would
certainly be taken up as a party concerned in effecting it.
The opposite party was now more irritated than ever by the many places and
employments I caused to be given either to my own friends, or to those for
whom they solicited my interest. The duchesse de Grammont, flattering
herself that she might now take the field against me with advantage,
arrived in Paris one fine morning from Chanteloup. Those about me were
full of wrath, I know not for why, at her arrival, but I explained to
them, that they were mistaken in supposing madame de Grammont an exile;
she had voluntarily accompanied her brother into his retreat, and when
that was no longer agreeable to her she returned to Paris. However, her
journey did neither good nor harm; she had many invitations to fêtes given
in honor of herself, was frequently asked to dinners, balls, etc., but
that was all; no person set their wits to work to reinstate her in the
good graces of the king. I soon comprehended the forlorn hopes of my poor
enemy, and my former animosity soon gave way to the play with which she
inspired me.
About the period of the marriage of the comtesse d’Artois, an individual
of some eminence fell into disgrace; this was the comte de Broglie. This
gentleman, as you know, was private minister to Louis XV, intrusted for
some time past with his correspondence, and affected the airs of a
favorite. He solicited upon the present occasion the honor of going to
meet the princess at the bridge of Beauvoisin, a request which was
granted. This was not sufficient for him; he begged for a month’s leave of
absence, with permission to proceed to Turin: this depended on the duc
d’Aiguillon, who was by no means partial to the comte de Broglie. He said
to me when speaking of him,
“I feel no inclination to oblige this minister; on the contrary, he may
wait long enough for what he desires as far as I am concerned.
“I fear he will be greatly offended with you,” answered I.
“Oh, never mind that,” replied the duke; “if he grows sullen about it, why
well; if he is loud and vehement, better still; and should his anger lead
him to the commission of any act of folly, depend upon it we will take
advantage of it.”
As I foresaw, the comte de Broglie was deeply offended, and wrote to the
duc d’Aiguillon a letter full of imprudent expressions. This was exactly
what this latter desired, who eagerly carried and read the paper to the
different members of the council, who heard it with every expression of
surprise and displeasure; the king viewed it as a piece of open rebellion,
and resolved to punish the writer with his heaviest displeasure; the duc
d’Aiguillon asked nothing better, and ere an hour had elapsed, the duc de
la Vrillière received orders to draw up a lettre de cachet in which
the king expressed his discontent of the comte de Broglie, deprived him of
the commission he had given him to go and receive the princess of Savoy,
and exiled him to Buffée, one of his estates near Angoulême.
This was a matter of great talk at the château; no one could imagine what
had made the comte de Broglie conduct himself so foolishly. It was at this
period that M. d Marchault said of him, when he saw him pass his house on
his way to Buffée, “He has the ministry by the tail.”
M. de Broglie having gone, his majesty was compelled to look out for
another confidant, and raised to that eminence M. Lemoine, clerk of his
closet. M. Lemoine, in an inferior station had shown himself competent to
fill the highest offices in the state. Such abilities are rare. He was an
excellent lawyer, admirable chancellor of exchequer, and had the king said
to him, “I make thee a general,” he would, the next day, have commanded
armies and gained victories. Despite his merit he lived long unknown: the
reason was obvious—he knew nothing of intrigue; and his wife, though
pretty, was discreet; and these are not the means to advance a man at
court.
Louis XV, who knew something of men when he chose to study them., was not
slow in detecting the talent of Lemoine, and in consequence gave him that
station in which de Broglie had been installed. No sooner had Lemoine
glanced over the affairs submitted to his control, than he became master
of them, as much as though they had occupied the whole of his life, and in
a short time he gave to his situation an importance which it had never
before reached. Unwilling, however, to incur hatred, he enveloped himself
in profound mystery, so much so that nobody, with the exception of Messrs.
d’Aiguillon and de Sartines, knew anything of his labors. This pleased the
king, who was averse to publicity.
The duc d’Aiguillon could not conceal his joy at being freed from de
Broglie, his most troublesome colleague. It was a grand point gained for
him, as he could now make sure of the post of secretary-at-war, the main
object of his ambition. He wished to be placed in the duc de Choiseul’s
position, and to effect this he redoubled his attentions towards the king,
who, though not really regarding him, at length treated him as the dearest
of his subjects. There are inexplicable mysteries in weak characters;
obstinacy alarms them, and they yield because they hate resistance.
The king was ennuied to death, and became daily more dull and
heavy. I saw his gloom without knowing how to disperse it, but it did not
make me particularly uncomfortable. Occupied with my dear duc de Brissac I
almost forgot his majesty for him: the maréchale de Mirepoix, who had more
experience than I had in the affairs at Versailles, and who knew the king
well, was alarmed at my negligence, and spoke to me of it.
“Do you not see,” she said, one day, “what a crisis is at hand?”
“What crisis?” I asked.
“The king is dying of ennui.”
“True.”
“Does it not alarm you?” said the maréchale.
“Why should it?”
“What makes him so? Think well when I tell you that your mortal enemy has
seized Louis XV; your most redoubtable enemy, ennui!”
“Very well; but what would you have me do?”
“You must amuse him.”
“That is easier said than done.”
“You are right, but it is compulsory. Believe me, kings are not moulded
like other men: early disgusted with all things, they only exist in a
variety of pleasures; what pleases them this evening will displease them
tomorrow; they wish to be happy in a different way. Louis XV is more
kingly in this respect than any other. You must devise amusements for
him.”
“Alas,” I replied, “how? Shall I give him a new tragedy of la Harpe’s,—he
will yawn; an opera of Marmontel,—he will go to sleep. Heavens! how
unfortunate I am!”
“Really, my dear,” replied the maréchale, “I cannot advise you; but I can
quote a powerful example. In such a case madame de Pompadour would have
admitted a rival near the throne.”
“Madame de Pompadour was very amiable, my dear,” I replied, “and I would
have done so once or twice, but the part of Mother Gourdan does not suit
me; I prefer that of her young ladies.”
At these words the maréchale laughed, whilst I made a long grave face. At
this instant comte Jean entered, and exclaimed,
“Really, ladies, you present a singular contrast. May I ask you, sister,
what causes this sorrow? What ails you?”
“Oh, brother!” was my response, “the king is dying of ennui.”
“That is no marvel,” said my brother-in-law.
“And to rouse him,” I added, “it is necessary, the maréchale says, that I
must take a pretty girl by the hand, and present her to the king with
these words: ‘Sire, having found that you grow tired of me, I present this
lady to you, that you may amuse yourself with her.”
“That would be very fine,” replied comte Jean; “it would show him that you
had profited by my advice.” Then, whispering in my ear, “You know, sister,
I am capable of the greatest sacrifices for the king.”
“What are you saying, Comte Jean?” asked the maréchale, who had heard some
words.
“I said to my sister,” answered he, coolly, “that she ought to be executed
to please the king.”
“And you, too, brother,” I cried.
“Yes, sister,” said he, with a theatrical tone, “I see the dire necessity,
and submit to it unrepiningly. Let us yield to fate, or rather, let us so
act as to make it favorable to us. The king requires some amusement, and
let us find him a little wench. We must take heed not to present any fine
lady: no, no; by all the devils—! Excuse me, maréchale, ‘tis a habit
I have.”
“It is nature, you mean,” replied the maréchale: “the nightingale is born
to sing, and you, comte Jean, were born to swear; is it not true?”
After this conversation the maréchale went out, and Comte Jean departed to
arrange his plans for the king’s amusement.
However, the ennui of Louis XV was somewhat dissipated by the tidings of
the various incidents which occurred at the grand entry of the dauphin and
dauphiness into Paris. We learnt that the duc de Brissac, as governor of
Paris, on receiving the dauphiness, said,
“Madam, you see about you two hundred thousand lovers.” He was right; the
princess looked like an angel. I had taken a mortal aversion to her. Alas!
circumstances have too fully avenged me: this unfortunate queen loses
popularity daily; her perfidious friends have sacrificed her to their
interests. I pity her.
CHAPTER XXXVI
One day, at an hour at which I was not accustomed to see any person, a
lady called and requested to see me; she was informed that I was visible
to no person. No matter, she persisted in her request, saying that she had
to speak to me upon matters of the first importance, and declared, that I
should be delighted with her visit. However, my servants, accustomed to
the artifices practised by persons wishing to see me for interested
purposes, heeded very little the continued protestations of my strange
applicant, and peremptorily refused to admit her; upon which the unknown
retired with the indication of extreme anger.
Two hours afterwards a note, bearing no signature, was brought me, in
which the late scene was described to me, and I was further informed, that
the lady, so abruptly repulsed by my servants, had presented herself to
communicate things which concerned not only my own personal safety but the
welfare of all France; a frightful catastrophe was impending, which there
was still time to prevent; the means of so doing were offered me, and I
was conjured not to reject them. The affair, if treated with indifference,
would bring on incalculable misfortunes and horrors, to which I should be
the first victim. All this apparent mystery would be cleared up, and, the
whole affair explained, if I would repair on the following day, at one
o’clock, to the Baths of Apollo. A grove of trees there was pointed out as
a safe place of rendezvous, and being so very near my residence,
calculated to remove any fears I might entertain of meeting a stranger,
who, as the note informed me, possessed the means of entering this
secluded spot. I was again conjured to be punctual to the appointed hour
as I valued my life.
The mysterious and solemn tone of this singular epistle struck me with
terror. Madame de Mirepoix was with me at the moment I received it. This
lady had a peculiar skill in physiognomy, and the close attention she
always paid to mine was frequently extremely embarrassing and disagreeable
She seemed (as usual) on the present occasion to read all that was passing
in my mind; however, less penetrating eyes than hers might easily have
perceived, by my sudden agitation, that the paper I held in my hand
contained something more than usual.
“What ails you?” asked she, with the familiarity our close intimacy
warranted; “does that note bring you any bad news?”
“No,” said I; “it tells me nothing; but it leaves me ample room for much
uneasiness and alarm: but, after all, it may be merely some hoax, some
foolish jest played off at my expense; but judge for yourself.” So saying,
I handed her the letter: when she had perused it, she said,
“Upon my word, if I were in your place, I would clear up this mystery;
good advice is not so easily met with as to make it a matter of difficulty
to go as far as the Baths of Apollo to seek it. It is by no means
impossible but that, as this paper tells you, some great peril is hanging
over you. The marquise de Pompadour,” continued madame de Mirepoix,
“received more than once invitations similar to this, which she never
failed to attend; and I recollect one circumstance, in which she had no
cause to regret having done so: without the kind offices of one of these
anonymous writers it is very possible that she might have expired heart
broken, and perhaps forsaken in some state prison, instead of ending her
days in the château of Versailles, honored even to the tomb by the
friendship and regard of the king of France.”
I asked my friend to explain her last observation, and she replied as
follows:—
“One day an anonymous billet, similar to this, was left for madame de
Pompadour: it requested her to repair, at a specified hour, to the church
of the Jacobins, rue Saint Honoré, in Paris, where she was promised some
highly important communications. The marchioness was punctual to the
rendezvous; and, as she entered the church, a Jacobite, so entirely
wrapped in his capuchin as to conceal his features, approached her, took
her by the hand, and conducted her to an obscure chapel; where, requesting
her to sit down, he took a seat himself, and began as follows:—
“‘Madam, you are about to lose the favor of the king; a party is at work
to give a new mistress to the king; the lady is young, beautiful, witty,
and possessed of an insatiable ambition; for the last six months she has
been in the daily habit of seeing the king, unknown to you and all the
court, and this has been accomplished in the following manner: her father
is valet de chambre to his majesty, and she has an only brother,
two years younger than herself, whose astonishing resemblance to her has
created continual mistakes; this brother is promised the inheritance of
his father’s office; and, under pretext of acquiring the due initiation
for future post, has been permitted every morning to attend the king’s
rising.
“‘However, this embryo page is the sister, who comes each morning
disguised in her brother’s clothes. The king has had many private
conversations with the designing beauty; and, seduced by her many charms
of mind and person, as well as dazzled by the hidden and concealed nature
of their intrigue, finds his passion for her increases from day to day.
Many are the designing persons ready to profit by the transfer of the
king’s affections from you to this fresh favorite; and they flatter
themselves the desired event is close at hand. You are to be confined by a
lettre de cachet to the isle of St. Margaret, for the place of your
exile is already chosen. The principal conspirators are two powerful
noblemen, one of whom is reputed your most intimate friend. I learned all
these particulars,’ continued the Jacobite, ‘from a young penitent, but
not under the seal of confession. This penitent is the particular friend
of the female in question, who confided the secret to her, from whom I
received it, accompanied by the most flattering promises of future
protection and advancement. These splendid prospects excited her jealous
envy, and she came here to confess the whole to me, requesting I would
seek you out and inform you of the whole affair. Here is a letter she
obtained unknown to her aspiring friend, which she wishes you to see, as a
pledge of the veracity of her statement.’ The marchioness cast her eyes
over the paper held out to her by the Jacobite. It was a letter addressed
by the king to his new mistress.
“You may imagine the terror of madame de Pompadour, her anxiety and
impatience to return to Versailles. However, ere she quitted the friendly
monk she assured him of her lasting gratitude, and begged of him to point
out how she could best prove it. ‘For myself,’ replied he, ‘I ask nothing;
but if you would render me your debtor, confer the first vacant bishopric
on a man whom I greatly esteem, the abbé de Barral.’ You will easily
suppose that the abbé de Barral had not long to wait for his preferment:
as for the Jacobite the marchioness never again saw or heard anything of
him. She mentioned him to the newly appointed bishop, who could not even
understand to what she alluded. She related the affair, when he called
heaven to witness that he knew nothing of any Jacobite either directly or
indirectly.”
“And how did the marchioness get rid of her rival?” inquired I of madame
de Mirepoix.
“By a very simple and effective expedient. She sent for the duc de Saint
Florentin, whom she requested immediately to expedite two lettres de
cachet; one for the valet de chambre, who was shut up in the
château de Lectoure, and the other for the daughter, whom the marchioness
sent to the isle of St. Marguerite, to occupy the place she had so
obligingly destined for herself.”
“And now,” asked I, “did these unfortunate people ever get out of prison?”
“That I know not,” answered the maréchale; “and, God forgive me, for aught
I ever inquired they may be there now.”
“If so,” cried I, “the conduct of both the king and the duc de la
Vrillière is abominable and unpardonable.”
“Why, bless your heart, my dear,” exclaimed the maréchale, “do you expect
that his majesty should recollect all the pretty women he has intrigued
with, any more than the poor duke can be expected to keep a list in his
memory of the different persons he has sent to a prison? He would require
a prodigious recollection for such a purpose.” This unfeeling reply filled
me with indignation, and redoubled the pity I already felt for the poor
prisoners. I immediately despatched a note to the duc de Saint Florentin,
requesting he would come to me without delay: he hastened to obey my
summons. When he had heard my recital he remained silent some minutes, as
though collecting his recollections upon the subject, and then replied,
“I do indeed remember that some obscure female was confined in the château
of the isle Sainte Marguerite at the request of madame de Pompadour, but I
cannot now say, whether at the death of the marchioness any person thought
of interceding for her release.”
“That is precisely what I wish to ascertain,” cried I; “return to your
offices, monsieur le duc, and use your best endeavors to discover whether
this unfortunate girl and her parent are still in confinement; nor venture
again in my presence until you have despatched the order for their
deliverance: you will procure a conveyance for them from their prison to
Paris at the expense of government. You understand, my lord?”
The following morning the duke brought me the desired information. He told
me, that the father had been dead seven years, but the daughter still
remained a prisoner: the order for restoring her to liberty had been
forwarded the night preceding. I will now briefly relate the end of this
mournful story.
Three weeks after this I received an early visit from the duc de la
Vrillière, who came to apprize me, that my protégée from the isle of St.
Marguerite was in my antechamber awaiting permission to offer me her
grateful thanks. I desired she might instantly be admitted; her appearance
shocked me; not a single trace of that beauty which had proved so fatal to
its possessor now remained. She was pale, emaciated, and her countenance,
on which care and confinement had imprinted the wrinkles of premature old
age, was sad and dejected even to idiocy. I could have wished that madame
de Pompadour, by way of punishment for her cruelty, could but have seen
the object of her relentless persecution. I think she would have blushed
for herself. When the poor girl entered my apartment she looked wildly
around her, and casting herself at my feet, inquired with many tears to
what motive she was indebted for my generous interference in her behalf.
The duc de la Vrillière contemplated with the utmost sang froid the
spectacle of a misery he had so largely contributed to. I requested of him
to leave us to ourselves. I then raised my weeping protégée,
consoled her to the best of my ability, and then requested her to give me
the history of her captivity. Her story was soon told: she had been an
inhabitant of the same prison for seventeen years and five months, without
either seeing a human being, or hearing the sound of a human voice. Her
recital made me shudder, and I promised her that henceforward her life
should be rendered as happy as it had hitherto been miserable.
The king supped with me that evening. By some singular chance he was on
this occasion in the happiest temper possible: he laughed, sung, joked
with such unusual spirits, that I hesitated ere I disturbed a gaiety to
which Louis XV was so little prone. However, I took him aside, saying,
“Sire, I have to ask atonement and reparation for a most horrible piece of
injustice.” After which, I proceeded to acquaint him with the distressing
history of his unfortunate mistress. He appeared perfectly well to
recollect the female to whom I alluded; and when I ceased speaking, he
said, with a half-suppressed sigh,
“Poor creature! she has indeed been unfortunate; seventeen years and five
months in prison! The duc de la Vrillière is greatly to blame in the
affair; but when once he has placed persons between four walls, he thinks
he has fulfilled the whole of his duty. He should recollect, that a good
memory is a necessary qualification for situation he holds; it is indeed
an imperative duty in him to think of the poor wretches he deprives of
their liberty.”
“And in you too, sire,” interrupted I; “and it appears to me that you have
lost sight of it, in the present affair, as culpably as your minister.”
“I confess it, indeed,” answered Louis XV; “but the unfortunate sufferer
herself was not without a due share of blame in the matter. Her
presumption had greatly irritated madame de Pompadour, who punished her as
she thought fit: of course I could not, consistently with the regard I
professed for the marchioness, interfere in the execution of her
vengeance.”
“I do not agree with you,” said I.
“Why, what else could I do?” asked Louis XV, with the most imperturbable
calmness; “she had superior claims, was acknowledged as chief favorite,
and I could not refuse her the sacrifice of a mere temporary caprice.”
“Very well said,” answered I, “and founded upon excellent principles; but
surely it was not necessary to shut up the object of your caprice in a
state prison, and, above all, to leave her there for such a length of
time. However, the mischief is done; and all we have to think of is to
repair it. You have now, sire, a fine opportunity of displaying your royal
munificence.”
“You think, then,” returned Louis XV, “that I am bound to make this
unhappy girl some present? Well, I will; to-morrow I will send her 10,000
louis.”
“A thousand louis!” exclaimed I, clasping my hands; “what, as a recompense
for seventeen years’ imprisonment? No, no, sire, you shall not get off so
easily; you must must settle on her a pension of 12,000 livres, and
present her with an order for 100,000 more as an immediate supply.”
“Bless me!” ejaculated the king, “why all, the girls in my kingdom would
go to prison for such a dowry: however, she shall have the pension; but,
in truth, my treasury is exhausted.”
“Then, sire,” returned I, “borrow of your friends.”
“Come, come, let us finish this business; I will give your protégée
4000 louis.”
“No, I cannot agree,” answered I, “to less than 5000.”
The king promised me I should have them; and, on the following day, his
valet Turpigny brought me the order for the pension, and a bag, in which I
found only 4000 louis. This piece of meanness did not surprise me, but it
made me shrug up my shoulders, and sent me to my cabinet to take the sum
deficient from my own funds. With this dowry my poor protégée soon
found a suitable husband in the person of one of her cousins, for whom I
procured a lucrative post under government. These worthy people have since
well repaid me by their grateful and devoted attachment for the service I
was enabled to render them. One individual of their family was, however,
far from resembling them either in goodness of heart or generosity of
sentiment—I allude to the brother of the lady; that same brother who
formerly supplied his sister with his clothes, that she might visit the
king unsuspected. Upon the incarceration of the father the son succeeded
him in his office of valet de chambre, and acquired considerable
credit at court; yet, although in the daily habit of seeing the king, he
neither by word nor deed sought to obtain the deliverance of either his
parent or sister. On the contrary, he suffered the former to perish in a
dungeon, and allowed the latter to languish in one during more than
seventeen years, and in all probability she would have ended her days
without receiving the slightest mark of his recollection of his
unfortunate relative. I know no trait of base selfishness more truly
revolting than the one I have just related.
But this story has led me far from the subject I was previously
commencing: this narrative, which I never call to mind without a feeling
of pleasure, has led me away in spite of myself. Still I trust that my
narrative has been sufficiently interesting to induce you to pardon the
digression it has occasioned, and now I will resume the thread of my
discourse.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Have you any curiosity to learn the dénouement of the story I was telling
you of my anonymous correspondent? Read what follows, then, and your
wishes shall be gratified: that is, if you have patience to hear a rather
long story; for I cannot promise you that mine will very speedily be
completed. Let me see: where did I leave off? Oh, I recollect.
I was telling you that madame de Mirepoix urged me to repair, as I was
requested, to the Baths of Apollo. I had a key which opened all the park
gates; we entered the park, took the path which turns off to the left, and
after having walked for about five minutes, found ourselves opposite the
person we were in search of. It was a female of from thirty to forty years
of age, of diminutive stature, dressed after the fashion of the bourgeoises
of the day, but still an air of good taste was evident through the
simplicity of her attire. Her countenance must once have been handsome, if
one might judge by the beauty of her eyes and mouth, but she was pale,
withered and already impressed with the traces of a premature old age. But
her beauties, although faded, were still animated by a quick and
ever-varying expression of a keen and lively wit.
Whilst I made these hasty remarks the stranger saluted me, and afterwards
the maréchale de Mirepoix, with a ease of manner which perfectly surprised
me. Nor did she in any other instance betray the embarrassment of a person
who finds herself for the first time in the presence of persons of a rank
superior to her own.
“Madam,” she said, addressing herself to me, “I trust you will pardon me
for having given you the trouble of coming hither; I might have spared it
you, had your people permitted me to see you when I called at your house
yesterday.”
“Your invitation,” replied I, “was so pressingly enforced, that I confess
my curiosity has been most keenly awakened.”
“I will immediately satisfy it,” answered she, “but what I have to say
must be told to yourself alone.”
“Well, then,” said the maréchale, “I will leave you for the present: I am
going to admire that fine group of Girardon”; and so saying, she quitted
the walk in which I was standing.
Directly she was gone the stranger said to me, “Madam, I will explain
myself without reserve or unnecessary prolixity; I beseech of you to
listen attentively whilst I tell you, in the first place, that both your
life and that of the king is in imminent danger.”
“Heavens!” cried I, “what do I hear?”
“That which I well know to be true,” answered the female, with a firm
voice; “I repeat that your life and that of the king is in danger.”
These words, pronounced in a low, solemn voice, froze me with terror; my
limbs tottered under me, and I almost sank to the ground. The stranger
assisted me to a bench, offered me her arm, and when she saw me a little
recovered, she continued,
“Yes, madam, a conspiracy is afoot against yourself and Louis XV. You are
to be made away with out of revenge, and Louis XV is to suffer, in the
hopes of his death effecting a change in the present face of affairs.”
“And who,” inquired I, “are the conspirators?”
“The Jesuits and parliamentarians; these ancient rivals, equally
persecuted by the royal government, have determined to make common cause
against their mutual foe. The Jesuits flatter themselves that the dauphin
inherits the kind feelings entertained by his father for their order, and
the parliamentarians justly reckon upon the friendly disposition of the
young prince towards the old magistracy. Both parties equally flatter
themselves that a fresh reign would bring about their re-establishment,
and they are impatient to accelerate so desirable an event: the conspiracy
is directed by four Jesuits and the same number of the ex-members of the
parliament of Paris. The remainder of the two corporations are not
initiated in the secret of the enterprise. I am not able at present to
give you the names of the eight conspirators, the person from whom I
derive my information not having as yet confided them even to myself, but
I trust ere long to obtain such a mark of confidence.”
The female ceased speaking, and I remained in a state of doubt, fear, and
alarm, impossible to describe. Still one thing appeared clear to me, that
information so mysteriously conveyed was not deserving of belief, unless
supported by more corroborating testimony. My unknown friend evidently
divined all that was passing in my mind, for she observed,
“I perceive that my recital appears to you improbable; one particular
which I will state may perhaps overcome your incredulity. Are you not in
the habit, madam, of taking every evening eau sucrée mixed with a
large proportion of orange-flower water?”
“I am,” replied I.
“This day,” continued my informant, “you will receive four bottles of
orange-flower water contained in a box bearing the usual appearances of
having come from the perfumers’, but it is sent by other hands, and the
liquor contained in the flasks is mingled with a deadly poison.”
These last words made me tremble. “You must complete your kind offices,”
cried I to my visitor, “by bringing me acquainted with the person from
whom you have derived your intelligence: that individual must be
acquainted with the whole of the plot; and, believe me, I will not be
unmindful of either of you.”
“Stay one instant,” replied the lady, without evincing the slightest
emotion; “the man who was my informant is assuredly aware of the names of
those concerned in the conspiracy, but he has charged me not to state who
he is but upon certain conditions; a recommendation I shall most certainly
attend to.”
“Be assured,” interrupted I, “that your demands shall be acceded to; you
shall yourself fix the price of your entire disclosure of every fact
connected with the business.”
“It will not be an exorbitant one,” replied the lady; “merely 600,000
francs, to be equally divided between the friend you desire to know and
myself; for this sum, which is not a very large one, you may command the
services of both of us. One word more, madam, and I am gone. Observe a
strict silence upon all I have told you; or, if you must have a counsellor
in such perilous circumstances, confide merely in some tried friend; say
the duc d’Aiguillon or the chancellor, or both should you deem it
necessary; but have a care how you admit a third to a participation of the
affair; you could scarcely select another person without choosing one
already corrupted by your enemies. It is said that they are in
correspondence with even those persons immediately about the person of the
king. Adieu, madam; I will see you at your own apartments the day after
to-morrow, when I trust you will have ready 100,000 francs, on account of
the 600,000 I have stipulated for.”
So saying, she curtsied and left me, overcome with surprise. A thousand
fearful ideas pressed upon my brain, and my heart sickened at the long
train of gloomy images which presented themselves. I had had sufficient
proofs since my elevation of the deadly hatred borne me by those whom my
good fortune had rendered my enemies: yet, hitherto, my strongest
apprehensions had never been directed to anything more terrible than being
supplanted in the favor of the king, or being confined in my château du
Lucienne. The horrible ideas of murder, poison, or assassination by any
means, had never presented themselves to me. All at once I recollected the
young man in the garden of the Tuileries; his predictions of my future
greatness had been accomplished. He had also announced to me fearful
vicissitudes, and had threatened to appear to me when these catastrophes
were about to occur. Doubtless he would keep his word; now was the time
for so doing, and I timidly glanced around as I caught the sound of a
slight rustle among the branches, fully expecting to see my young prophet;
but the figure which met my eye was that of madame de Mirepoix, who, tired
of waiting, had come to rejoin me.
“What!” said she, “are you alone? I did not observe your visitor leave
you. Did she vanish into air?”
“Very possibly,” answered I.
“So then,” replied the maréchale, “she proved a fairy, or some beneficent
génie, after all?”
“If she were a spirit,” said I, “it certainly was not to the better sort
she belonged.”
“Have a care,” cried the maréchale; “I have already formed a thousand
conjectures as to what this woman has been telling.”
“And all your suppositions,” replied I, “would fall short of the reality.
Listen, my dear maréchale,” added I, rising, and taking her arm to proceed
homewards, “I have been strictly prohibited from admitting any counsellor
but the duc d’Aiguillon and the chancellor; still I can have no reserves
with you, who I know, f rom the regard you bear both to the king and
myself, will advise me to the best of your power.”
As we walked towards the château, I explained to my companion the joint
conspiracy of the Jesuits and ancient members of the parliament against
the king’s life and my own. When I had ceased speaking, she replied,
“All this is very possible; despair may conduct the Jesuits and
parliamentarians to the greatest extremities; but still this mysterious
female may be nothing more than an impostor. At any rate, I am anxious to
learn whether the box she described has been left at your house; if so, it
will be a strong corroboration, if not, a convincing proof of the
falsehood of what she asserts.”
We had by this time reached the bottom of the staircase which conducted to
my apartments; we ascended the stairs rapidly, and the first person I met
in the anteroom was Henriette.
“Henriette,” said I, “has any thing been brought for me during my
absence?”
“Nothing except a box of orange-flower water from Michel the perfumer’s,
which I presume you ordered, madam.”
A glance of mutual surprise and consternation passed between the maréchale
and myself. We entered my chamber, where madame de Mirepoix opened the
fatal box; it contained the four bottles exactly as had been described. We
regarded each other in profound silence, not daring to communicate our
reflections. However, it was requisite to take some steps, and, catching
up a pen, I hastily wrote the following billet to the duc d’Aiguillon,
“MONSIEUR LE DUC,—Whatever may be the affairs with which you are at
present occupied, I pray of you to throw them aside, and hasten to me
instantly upon receipt of this. Nothing can equal in importance the
subject upon which I wish to see you; I cannot now explain myself fully,
but prepare for news of the most horrible description, and it refers to
the safety and preservation of the most valuable life in the kingdom. I
cannot delay time by writing more; I can only beseech of you not to lose
one moment in obeying this summons. Adieu; fail not to come and bring me
back this note.”
The duke hastened to me full of terror and alarm.
“Your letter has really frightened me,” said he; “what can be the matter?
Surely the life of his majesty is not in danger?”
“Too truly is it,” answered I; “but sit down, and you shall know all the
affair. The maréchale is already aware of the matter and need not
withdraw.”
The duke listened with extreme attention to the recital of my interview in
the grove surrounding the Baths of Apollo, as well as to the account of
the discourse I had held there with the strange female. I endeavoured to
relate the conversation as minutely and accurately as possible, but still
the duke sought further particulars. He inquired the style of countenance,
dress, manner, and tone of voice possessed by the incognita. One
might have supposed, by the closeness of his questions, that he already
fancied he had identified this mysterious personage: he then examined the
box, which stood on the table, and remarked, “This is a very serious
affair, nor can I undertake the management of it alone; it involves a too
great responsibility. Spite of the lady’s assertions, I am confident the
fullest confidence might be placed in all the ministers. However, I will
first have a conference with M. de Saint-Florentin and the chancellor, in
whose presence I will send for the lieutenant of police; and the contents
of these bottles shall be immediately analyzed.”
The duke, without quitting me, wrote immediately to his two colleagues as
well as to M. de Sartines, requesting this latter to repair to my
apartment without delay. One of the ministers summoned by M. d’Aiguillon
was not at that moment at Versailles, having left at an early hour in the
morning for Paris. Neither he nor M. de Sartines could possibly be with us
before eight o’clock in the evening; it was therefore agreed to adjourn
our conference till their arrival. Meanwhile M. d’Aiguillon, the
maréchale, and myself, remained in a state of the most cruel anxiety. The
duke first blamed me for not having caused the woman to be arrested, and
afterwards he confessed to the maréchale, that perhaps it was better the
conspiracy should be allowed time to ripen into maturity. Daring this time
the liquid contained in the four bottles was being decomposed: M. Quesnay,
first physician, Messrs. Thiebault and Varennes, visiting physicians, M.
de la Martinière, counsellor of state, surgeon to his majesty, as well as
Messrs. Ducor and Prost, apothecaries to his majesty, had been collected
together for this purpose by the duc d’Aiguillon.
These gentlemen came to report the termination of their experiments at the
very moment when the chancellor and lieutenant of police entered the room;
the duc de la Vrillière had preceded them by about five minutes; the duc
d’Aiguillon requested these gentlemen to be seated. The doctors Quesnay
and la Martinière were introduced, and desired to make known the result of
their operations. My newly-arrived guests, who as yet understood nothing
of what was going on, were struck with astonishment at hearing it said,
that the four bottles of orange-flower water contained a considerable
proportion of a most active poison, of which a few drops would be
sufficient to cause instantaneous death. Having thus executed their
commission, the medical gentlemen bowed and retired.
M. d’Aiguillon then explained to my wondering friends the horrible affair
which had occasioned their being sent for so hastily. I cannot tell you
what effect this disclosure produced on M. de la Vrillière or M. de
Maupeou, my whole attention being fixed upon M. de Sartines. You may
suppose that a lieutenant of police, particularly one who piqued himself
upon knowing every thing, could not feel very much at his ease, when each
word that was uttered convicted him either of incapacity or negligence.
His brow became contracted, he hemmed, choked, fidgeted about, and
appeared as though he would have given every thing in the world f or
liberty to justify himself, but etiquette forbade it, and he was only
permitted to speak after the secretaries of state then present, or if
called upon by either of them.
When M. d’Aiguillon had ceased speaking, the chancellor in his turn took
up the conversation. M. de Maupeou was by nature cold and sarcastic,
delighting in annoying any person; but, on the present occasion, the
ill-nature inherent in him was still excited by the decided hatred he bore
to the unfortunate M. de Sartines. He began by saying, that the conspiracy
was evident, and was easily explained by the state of exasperation in
which the Jesuits and parliamentarians now were; both orders looking for
no other prospect of amendment in their condition than such as might arise
from some sudden convulsion of the kingdom. He expressed his opinion of
the necessity of instituting a rigorous inquiry into the conduct of these
two bodies; and then, turning to M. de Sartines, whose cheek grew pale at
the movement, he charged him to lay before the council all those
particulars which he must necessarily possess as head of the police,
either respecting the present plot, or relating to any of the ancient
members of parliament or the order of Jesuits.
This was a dagger to the heart of M. de Sartines, who in vain sought to
frame a suitable reply: but what could he say? He did not in reality
possess any of the information for which he had received credit, and after
many awkward endeavours at explaining himself, he was compelled frankly to
confess, that he knew not a word more of the conspiracy than he had just
then heard.
It was now the turn of M. de la Vrillière to speak. He also would fain
have attacked the unfortunate lieutenant of police; but, whether M. de
Maupeou thought that his own correction had been sufficiently strong, or
whether he begrudged any other person interfering with his vengeance upon
his personal foe, he abruptly interrupted the tirade of M. de la
Vrillière, by observing, that a conspiracy conducted by only eight persons
might very possibly escape the eye of the police; but, furnished as it now
was with so many circumstances and particulars, it was impossible that the
plot should any longer defy their vigilant researches.
M. d’Aiguillon fully concurred in this observation, and M. de Sartines,
recovered in some measure from his first alarm, promised every thing they
could desire; and it was finally arranged that the police should this
night use every precautionary measure in Paris, and that the officers of
the guard should receive orders to redouble their zeal and activity in
watching the château; and that when the unknown female called again on me,
she should be conducted by madame de Mirepoix to the duc d’Aiguillon, who
would interrogate her closely.
These measures decided on, the council broke up, and I went to receive the
king, who was this evening to do me the favour of taking his supper in my
apartments.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
M. de Sartines did not sleep on his post, but his researches were
fruitless; and, on the following day, three successive messengers came to
announce to us that they had as yet made no discovery. The day passed
without bringing any fresh intelligence, and our anxiety increased daily.
At length arrived the period fixed for the visit of the incognita.
I awaited the coming of this female with an impatience impossible to
describe. About mid-day a note was brought me; I instantly recognized the
writing as that of my mysterious friend, and hastily breaking the seal,
read as follows:
“MADAM,—I must entreat your pardon for breaking the appointment for
to-day, imperative duties still detain me in Paris.
“Since our last interview I have been unceasingly occupied in endeavouring
to discover the names of the eight persons of whom I spoke to you, and, I
am sorry to say, I have but partially succeeded. The person who has
hitherto furnished me with my information obstinately refuses to state who
are the parliamentarians concerned in the conspiracy. I am, however,
enabled to forward you the names of the four Jesuits, with some few
particulars relating to these worthy fathers.
“The Jesuits in question are Messrs. Corbin, Berthier, Cerulti, and Dumas;
the first of whom was employed in the education of the dauphin, the second
and the third are sufficiently known; as for the fourth, he is a bold and
enterprising Parisian, capable of conceiving and executing the most daring
schemes. Whilst the order remained in possession of power he had no
opportunity of displaying his extraordinary talents, and consequently he
obtained but a trifling reputation; but since its banishment he has become
its firmest support and principal hope. All the treasures of the
brotherhood are at his disposal, and I learn, that the day before
yesterday he received a considerable sum from Lyons.
“This intrepid and daring spirit is the very soul of the conspiracy; he it
is who conceived the plan and set the whole machine in action. It would be
effectually extinguished could we but once secure him, but this is by no
means an easy task; he has no fixed abode; never sleeps two nights
following in the same home; one day he may be found in one part of Paris
and the next at the very opposite corner; he changes his manner of dress
as frequently as he does his abode.
“I shall have the honour of seeing you to-morrow or the day after at
furthest. Meanwhile lay aside all uneasiness for his majesty’s safety: I
pledge you my word he is for the present in perfect security. The
execution of the plot is still deferred for the want of a Damiens
sufficiently sanguinary to undertake the task.
“Deign, madam, to accept the assurance of my sincere devotion, and believe
that I will neglect no opportunity of affording you proofs of it.
“Yours, madam, etc., etc.”
I immediately communicated this letter to the duc d’Aiguillon, who
convoked a fresh meeting of the persons who had been present on the
preceding day. It was at first deliberated whether or not to arrest the
whole body of Jesuits then in Paris, but this, although the advice of M.
d’Aiguillon, was by no means approved of by the chancellor. M. de Sartines
and M. de la Vrillière were for carrying the idea into execution, but the
objections of M. de Maupeou were too powerful to be overruled, and the
scheme was for the present abandoned. The chancellor maintained that the
other conspirators, warned of their own, danger by the seizure of their
friends, would either escape the vengeance of the laws by flight or by
close confinement in their houses; he greatly dreaded as it was, that his
foes, the parliamentarians, would avoid the punishment he longed to
inflict on them. Indeed, in his estimation, it seemed as though every
measure would be anticipated so long as the female, who seemed so
intimately acquainted with their design, was at liberty; and this last
opinion was unanimously concurred in.
All the delays greatly irritated me, and rendered my impatience to witness
the termination of the affair greater than it had ever been. The stranger
had promised to make her appearance on the following day; it passed away,
however, without my hearing anything of her. On the day following she
came; I immediately sent to apprize M. d’Aiguillon, who, with M. de la
Vrillière and the chancellor, entered my apartments ere the lady had had
time to commence the subject upon which she was there to speak. This
unexpected appearance did not seem to disconcert her in the least, nor did
her sang-froid and ordinary assurance in any degree fail her. She
reproached me for having intrusted the secret to so many persons, but her
reproof was uttered without bitterness, and merely as if she feared lest
my indiscretion might compromise our safety. She was overwhelmed with
questions, and the chancellor interrogated her with the keenest curiosity;
but to all the inquiries put to her she replied with a readiness and
candour which surprised the whole party. She was desired to give the names
of those engaged in the conspiracy, as well as of him who first informed
her of it. She answered that her own name was Lorimer, that she was a
widow living upon her own property. As for the man, her informant, he was
a Swiss, named Cabert, of about thirty years of age, and had long been her
intimate friend: however, the embarrassed tone with which she pronounced
these last words left room for the suspicion, that he had been something
dearer to her than a friend. She was then urged to give up the names of
the four parliamentarians, but she protested that she had not yet been
able to prevail on Cabert to confide them to her, that she was compelled
to use the utmost circumspection in her attempts at discovering the facts
already disclosed, but flattered herself she should yet succeed in gaining
a full and unreserved disclosure. M. de Maupeou encouraged her, by every
possible argument, to neglect no means of arriving at so important a
discovery.
The examination over, and the 100,000 francs she had demanded given to
her, she retired, but followed at a distance by a number of spies, who
were commissioned to watch her slightest movement.
Cabert, the Swiss, was arrested in a furnished lodging he occupied in rue
Saint Roch, and sent without delay to Versailles, where, as before, M.
d’Aiguillon with his two colleagues waited in my study to receive and
question the prisoner. Cabert was a young and handsome man, whose
countenance bore evident marks of a dissolute and profligate life. He
confessed, without any difficulty, that his only means of gaining a
livelihood were derived from the generosity of a female friend, but when
he was pressed upon the subject of the conspiracy, he no longer replied
with the same candour, but merely answered in short and impatient
negatives the many questions put to him, accompanied with fervent
protestations of innocence; adding, that implacable enemies had fabricated
the whole story, only that they might have an opportunity of wreaking
their vengeance, by implicating him in it.
“Accuse not your enemies,” cried I, for the first time mingling in the
conversation, “but rather blame your benefactress; it is madame Lorimer
who has denounced you, and far from intending to harm you by so doing, she
purposes dividing with you the 100,000 livres which are to reward her
disclosures.”
I easily found, by the frowning looks directed towards me by the three
gentlemen present, that I had been guilty of great imprudence in saying so
much; but Cabert, wringing his hands, uttered, with the most despairing
accent,
“I am lost! and most horribly has the unfortunate woman avenged herself.”
“What would you insinuate?”
“That I am the victim of an enraged woman,” replied he.
He afterwards explained, that he had been the lover of madame Lorimer, but
had become wearied of her, and left her in consequence; that she had
violently resented this conduct; and, after having in vain sought to move
him by prayers and supplications, had tried the most horrible threats and
menaces. “I ought not indeed,” continued he, “to have despised these
threats, for well I knew the fiendlike malice of the wretched creature,
and dearly do I pay for my imprudence, by falling into the pit she has dug
for me.”
In vain we endeavoured to induce him to hold a different language. He
persisted with determined obstinacy in his first statement; continually
protesting his own innocence, and loading the author of his woes with
bitter imprecations. It was deemed impossible to allow this man to go at
large; accordingly M. de la Vrillière issued a lettre de cachet,
which sent him that night to seek a lodging in the Bastille. It was
afterwards deemed advisable to put him to the torture, but the agonies of
the rack wrung from him no deviation from, or contradiction of, what he
had previously alleged.
The affair had now become mysterious and inexplicable. However, a speedy
termination was most imperatively called for; if it were permitted to
become generally known, it could not fail of reaching the ears of the
king, whose health was daily declining; and M. de Quesnay had assured us,
that in his present languid state, the shock produced by news so alarming,
might cause his instantaneous death.
Whilst we remained in uncertainty as to our mode of proceeding in the
business, Cabert, the Swiss, three days after his admission into the
Bastille, expired in the most violent convulsions. His body was opened,
but no trace of poison could be discovered: our suspicions were however
awakened, and what followed confirmed them.
Madame Lorimer was arrested. She protested that she had been actuated by
no feelings of enmity against her unfortunate lover, whom she had
certainly reproached for having expended the money she furnished him with
in the society of other females, and to the anger which arose between
herself and Cabert on the occasion could she alone ascribe his infamous
calumnies respecting her; that, for her own part, she had never ceased to
love him, and, as far as she knew, that feeling was reciprocal; and, in
betraying the conspiracy, her principal desire, next to the anxious hope
of preserving the king, was to make the fortune of Cabert. She was
confined in the Bastille, but she did not long remain within its walls;
for at the end of a fortnight she died of an inflammatory disease. Her
death was marked by no convulsions, but the traces of poison were evident.
These two violent deaths occurring so immediately one after another (as
not the slightest doubt existed that Cabert had likewise died of poison)
threw the ministers into a sad state of perplexity. But to whom could they
impute the double crime unless to some accomplice, who dreaded what the
unhappy prisoners might be tempted to reveal. Yet the conduct of the
Jesuitical priests stated by madame Lorimer to be the principal
ring-leaders in the plot, although exposed to the most rigorous scrutiny,
offered not the slightest grounds for suspicion. Neither did their letters
(which were all intercepted at the various post-houses) give any
indication of a treasonable correspondence.
M. de Sartines caused the private papers of the suspected parties to be
opened during their owners’ absence, without discovering anything which
could compromise their character. I am speaking, however, of the fathers
Corbin, Berthier, and Cerulti, for all our efforts could not trace father
Dumas throughout all Paris. Nor was the innocence of the parliamentarians
less evident; they vented their hatred against the ministry, and
particularly against M. de Maupeou, in pamphlets, couplets, and epigrams,
both in French and Latin, but they had no idea of conspiracies or plots.
And thus terminated an affair, which had caused so much alarm, and which
continued for a considerable period to engage the attention of ministers.
How was the mystery to be cleared up? The poisoned orange-flower water,
and the sudden deaths of the two prisoners, were facts difficult to
reconcile with the no less undeniable innocence of the three accused
Jesuits. The whole business was to me an incomprehensible mass of
confusion, in which incidents the most horrible were mingled. At last we
agreed that the best and only thing to be done was to consign the affair
to oblivion; but there were circumstances which did not so easily depart
from the recollection of my excellent friend, the maréchale de Mirepoix.
“My dear soul,” said she to me one day, “have you ever inquired what
became of the 100,000 livres given to madame Lorimer? she had no time to
employ them in any way before her imprisonment in the Bastille. You ought
to inquire into what hands they have fallen.”
I fully comprehended the drift of this question, which I put to M. de
Sartines the first time I saw him.
“Bless me,” exclaimed he, “you remind me that these 100,000 livres have
been lying in a drawer in my office. But I have such a terrible memory.”
“Happily,” replied I, “I have a friend whose memory is as good as yours
seems defective upon such occasions. It will not be wise to permit such a
sum to remain uselessly in your office: at the same time I need not point
out that you, by your conduct in the late affair, have by no means earned
a right to them.”
He attempted to justify himself; but, interrupting him, I exclaimed, “My
good friend, you have set up a reputation of your own creating and
inventing; and well it is you took the office upon yourself for no one
else would have done it for you; but you perceive how frail have been its
foundations; for the moment you are compelled to stand upon your own
resources you faint, and are easily overcome.”
He endeavoured to make a joke of the affair, but indeed it seemed to
accord as ill with his natural inclination as did the restitution of the
100,000 livres. However, he brought them to me the following day, and as I
was expecting the arrival of madame de Mirepoix, I placed them in a
porcelain vase which stood upon my chimney-piece. Unfortunately for the
maréchale, comte Jean presented himself before she did. He came to inform
me, that my husband (of whose quitting Toulouse I had forgotten to tell
you) had again arrived in Paris. I did not disguise the vexation which
this piece of intelligence excited in me.
“And wherefore has comte Guillaume returned to Paris?” inquired I,
angrily.
“Because he is afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” replied I.
“Of being murdered,” answered comte Jean: “it is a most horrible and
authentic story. Imagine to yourself the dangers of his situation: some
brigands, who have a design on his life, have written him an anonymous
billet, in which they protest they will certainly murder him, unless he
deposits 50,000 livres in a certain place. You may suppose his terror;
money he had none, neither was his credit sufficiently good to enable him
to borrow any. As a last and only chance, he threw himself into a
carriage, and hastened, tremblingly, to implore your assistance.”
“And I am quite certain you will not withhold yours from him,” answered I
“You are perfectly right,” cried he, “but unfortunately just now I have
not a single crown I can call my own; so that it rests with you alone, my
dearest sister, to save the life of this hapless comte du Barry.”
“I am extremely distressed, my dear brother-in-law,” replied I, “that I am
just as poor, and as unable to afford the necessary aid as yourself; my
purse is quite empty.”
“Faith, my dear sister-in-law, I am not surprised at that if you convert a
china vase into a receptacle for your bank notes.”
Saying this, he drew a bundle of notes from the hiding-place in which I
had deposited them. “Do you know,” continued comte Jean, “I really think
we shall find money enough here.” He began to count them: and when he had
finished he said, “My dear sister, neither your husband nor myself wish to
importune you, or put you to any inconvenience, therefore you shall merely
oblige him with the loan of these 50,000 livres to extricate him from his
present peril; they shall be faithfully and quickly restored to you, and a
note of hand given you for that purpose if you desire it.” So saying, he
divided the money into two parts, replaced one in the vase, and pocketed
the other.
I was very indignant at the cool impudence with which this was done, and
my patience had well nigh forsaken me: however, I restrained myself; and I
was happy enough that I could so far conquer myself. My reproaches would
not have induced comte Jean to give me back my money, and would only have
roused his violence; which, when once excited, found vent in language so
vehement and energetic, that I did not desire to hear any more of it than
I could help. At these moments he selected not the politest expressions,
but those which were the strongest: and besides, such was the ungovernable
nature of comte Jean’s temper, that once roused, he would have treated the
king himself with as little consideration as he did me. Still, he never
deliberately insulted me, nor did he compose those insulting verses
respecting me, which were printed as his, in “Les Anecdotes sur Madame
du Barry.” This would have been an indignity I would quickly have
caused him to repent having offered.
“Well,” inquired I, “are you very glad to see your brother in Paris?”
“No, ‘pon my soul!” returned he; “but since he is here, we must do the
best we can with him; he was very anxious to see his sister-in-law and
niece. He says the former is ugly as sin, and the latter almost as
handsome as you.”
“Very gallant,” replied I; “but tell me, comte Jean, does this elegant
compliment proceed from my husband or yourself?”
We were just then interrupted by the arrival of the maréchale, and comte
Jean retired.
“Well, my dear,” she began, “have you seen M. de Sartines, and did you
speak to him respecting those 100,000 livres?”
“Oh, yes,” replied I, “he gave them back to me; but I have already had
half of them stolen from me.”
“By comte Jean, I’ll engage,” cried she. “Upon my word, that man is a
perfect spendthrift, a prodigal; who, if you do not take great care, will
certainly ruin you. And what will you do with the remaining 50,000 livres,
my dear friend; where will you place them?”
“In your hands, my dear maréchale; ‘tis his majesty’s command.”
“To that command,” answered she, “I must perforce submit”; and, taking the
bundle of notes, she continued, “Assure his majesty that it will ever be
my greatest pride and pleasure to obey his slightest wish. My respect for
his orders can only be equalled by my tender friendship for her who is the
bearer of the royal mandate.” Then, deliberately putting the money in her
pocket, she exclaimed, “You must own that comte Jean is a great rogue.”
CHAPTER XXXIX
I had occasionally some unaccountable whims and caprices. Among other
follies I took it into my head to become jealous of the duchesse de Cossé,
under the idea that the duke would return to her, and that I should no
longer possess his affections. Now the cause of this extravagant conduct
was the firmness with which madame de Cossé refused all overtures to visit
me, and I had really become so spoiled and petted, that I could not be
brought to understand the reasonableness of the duchesse de Cossé refusing
to sanction her rival by her presence.
You may perceive that I had not carried my heroic projects with regard to
madame de Cossé into execution. Upon these occasions, the person most to
be pitied was the duke, whom I made answerable for the dignified and
virtuous conduct of his wife. My injustice drove him nearly to despair,
and he used every kind and sensible argument to convince me of my error,
as though it had been possible for one so headstrong and misguided as
myself to listen to or comprehend the language of reason. I replied to his
tender and beseeching epistles by every cutting and mortifying remark; in
a word, all common sense appeared to have forsaken me. Our quarrel was
strongly suspected by part of the court; but the extreme prudence and
forbearance of M. de Cossé prevented their suppositions from ever
obtaining any confirmation. But this was not the only subject I had for
annoyance. On the one hand, my emissaries informed me that the king still
continued to visit the baroness de New—-k, although with every
appearance of caution and mystery, by the assistance and connivance of the
duc de Duras, who had given me his solemn promise never again to meddle
with the affair. The gouvernante of the Parc-aux-Cerfs
furnished me likewise with a long account of the many visits paid by his
majesty to her establishment. The fact was, the king could not be
satisfied without a continual variety, and his passion, which ultimately
destroyed him, appeared to have come on only as he advanced in years.
All these things created in my mind an extreme agitation and an alarm,
and, improbable as the thing appeared even to myself, there were moments
when I trembled lest I should be supplanted either by the baroness or some
fresh object of the king’s caprice; and again a cold dread stole over me
as I anticipated the probability of the health of Louis XV falling a
sacrifice to the irregularity of his life. It was well known throughout
the château, that La Martinière, the king’s surgeon, had strongly
recommended a very temperate course of life, as essentially necessary to
recruit his constitution, wasted by so many excesses, and had even gone so
far as to recommend his no longer having a mistress; this the courtiers
construed into a prohibition against his possessing a friend of any other
sex than his own; for my own part, I experienced very slight apprehensions
of being dismissed, for I well knew that Louis XV reckoned too much on my
society to permit my leaving the court, and if one, the more tender, part
of our union were dissolved, etiquette could no longer object to my
presence. Still the advice of La Martinière was far from giving me a
reason for congratulation, but these minor grievances were soon to be
swallowed up in one fatal catastrophe, by which the honours, and pleasures
of Versailles were for ever torn from me.
The madame of the Parc-aux-Cerfs, fearing that some of the
subordinate members of that establishment might bring me intimation of
what was going on there without her cognizance, came one day to apprize me
that his majesty had fallen desperately in love with a young orphan of
high birth, whom chance had conducted within the walls of her harem; that
to an extraordinary share of beauty, Julie (for that was the name of my
rival) united the most insatiate ambition; her aims were directed to
reducing the king into a state of the most absolute bondage, “and he,”
said madame, “bids fair to become all that the designing girl would have
him.”
Julie feigned the most violent love for her royal admirer, nay she did not
hesitate to carry her language and caresses far beyond the strict rules of
decency; her manners were those of one accustomed to the most polished
society, whilst her expressions were peculiarly adapted to please one who,
like the king, had a peculiar relish for every thing that was indecent or
incorrect. His majesty either visited her daily or sent for her to the
château. I heard likewise from M. d’Aiguillon, that the king had recently
given orders that the three uncles and two brothers of Julie should be
raised by rapid promotion to the highest military rank; at the same time
the grand almoner informed me he had received his majesty’s express
command to appoint a cousin of the young lady to the first vacant
bishopric.
These various reports threw me into a train of painful and uneasy
reflections. Louis XV. had never before bestowed such marks of favour upon
any élève of the Parc-aux-Cerfs, and the intrigue had
attained this height with the most inconceivable rapidity. Chamilly
interrupted my meditations, by presenting himself with an account of his
having been commissioned by his majesty to cause a most splendid suit of
diamonds to be prepared for mademoiselle Julie, the king not considering
any jewels of Paris worthy her acceptance. By way of a finish to all this,
I learned that two ladies, one of whom was a duchess, had openly boasted
at Versailles of their relationship to Julie. This was a more decided
corroborative than all the rest. Courtiers of either sex are skilful
judges of the shiftings of the wind of court favour, and I deemed it high
time to summon my brother-in-law to my assistance, as well as to urge him
to exert his utmost energies to support my tottering power.
My communication tormented comte Jean as much as it did me; he proposed
several means of combating this rising inclination on the part of Louis
XV. I assented to whatever he suggested, and we set to work with an
eagerness, increased on my part by a species of gloomy presentiment, which
subsequent events but too fatally confirmed. The maréchale de Mirepoix,
who, from being on good terms with every person, was sure to be aware of
all that was going on, spoke to me also of this rival who was springing up
in obscurity and retirement; and it was from the same source I learned
what I have told you of the two ladies of the court. She advised me not to
abandon myself to a blind confidence, and this opinion was strengthened
when I related all I had gathered upon the subject.
“You may justly apprehend,” said she, “that Julie will instil some of her
bold and fearless nature into the king, and should she presume to put
herself in competition with you, victory would in all probability incline
to the side of the last comer”; and I felt but too truly that the
maréchale spoke with truth.
A few days after this, the king being alone with me, comte Jean entered.
After the usual salutations, he exclaimed, “I have just seen a most lovely
creature.”
“Who is she?” inquired his majesty, hastily.
“No high-born dame,” answered comte Jean, “but the daughter of a
cabinet-maker at Versailles; I think I never beheld such matchless
beauty.”
“Always excepting present company,” replied the king.
“Assuredly,” rejoined my brother-in-law, “but, sire, the beauteous object
of whom I speak is a nymph in grace, a sylph in airy lightness, and an
angel in feature.”
“Comte Jean seems deeply smitten indeed, madam,” exclaimed Louis XV,
turning towards me.
“Not I indeed,” replied my brother-in-law, “my lovemaking days are over.”
“Oh! oh!” cried the king, smiling, “fructus belli.”
“What does your majesty say?” inquired I.
“Nay, let the comte explain,” cried Louis XV.
“The king observed, my dear sister,” answered comte Jean, “that ladies—but,
in fact, I can neither explain the observation, nor was it intended for
you—so let it rest.”
He continued for some time to jest with comte Jean upon his supposed
passion for the fair daughter of the cabinet-maker; and the king, whilst
affecting the utmost indifference, took every pains to obtain the fullest
particulars as to where this peerless beauty might be found.
When my brother-in-law and myself were alone, he said to me, “I played my
part famously, did I not? How eagerly the bait was swallowed!”
“Explain yourself,” said I.
“My good sister, what I have said respecting this perfection of loveliness
is no fiction, neither have I at all exaggerated either her perfections or
her beauty, and I trust by her aid we shall obliterate from the king’s
mind every recollection of the syren of the Parc-aux-Cerfs.”
“Heaven grant it,” exclaimed I.
“My dear sister,” replied comte Jean, “heaven has nothing to do with such
things.”
Alas! he was mistaken, and Providence only employed the present occasion
as a means of causing us to be precipitated into the very abyss of ruin we
had dug for others. On the following morning, Chamilly came to me to
inquire whether it was my pleasure that the present scheme should be
carried into execution.
“Yes, yes,” answered I eagerly, “by all means, the more we direct the
inclinations of the king for the present, the better for him and for us
likewise.”
Armed with my consent, Chamilly dispatched to the unhappy girl that madame,
whose skill in such delicate commissions had never been known to fail. Not
that in the present instance any great bribes were requisite, but it was
necessary to employ some agent whose specious reasoning and oily tongue
should have power to vanquish the virtuous reluctance of the victim
herself, as well as to obtain a promise of strict silence from her family.
They were soon induced to listen to their artful temptress; and the
daughter, dazzled by the glittering prospect held out to her, was induced
to accompany madame back to Trianon, where the king was to sup, in
company with the ducs d’Aiguillon and de Richelieu, the prince de Soubise,
the ducs de Cossé, de Duras, and de Noailles, mesdames de Mirepoix, de
Forcalquier, de Flaracourt, and myself; my brother-in-law and Chon were
also of the party, although not among the number of those who sat down to
supper. Their presence was merely to keep up my spirits, and with a view
to divert me from dwelling on the presumed infidelity of the king.
We had promised ourselves a most delightful evening, and had all come with
the expectation of finding considerable amusement in watching the
countenances and conduct of those who were not aware of the real state of
the game, whilst such as were admitted into my entire confidence, were
sanguine in their hopes and expectations of employing the simple beauty of
the maiden of Versailles to crush the aspiring views of my haughty rival
of the Parc-aux-Cerfs. This was, indeed, the point at which I
aimed, and my further intention was to request the king to portion off
mademoiselle Julie, so that she might be ever removed from again crossing
my path.
Meanwhile, by way of passing the tedious hours, I went to satisfy my
curiosity respecting those charms of which comte Jean had spoken so
highly. I found the object of so many conjectures possessed of an uncommon
share of beauty, set off, on the present occasion, by every aid that a
splendid and elaborate toilette could impart; her features were perfect,
her form tall and symmetrical, her hair was in the richest style of
luxuriance; but by way of drawback to so many advantages, both her hands
and feet were large and coarse. I had expected to have found her timid,
yet exulting, but she seemed languid and dejected even to indisposition. I
attributed the lassitude and heaviness which hung over her to some natural
regrets for sacrificing some youthful passion at the shrine of ambition;
but I was far from guessing the truth. Had I but suspected the real cause!
but I contented myself with a silent scrutiny (I should have questioned
her on the subject), but passed on to the saloon, where the guests were
already assembled. The evening passed away most delightfully; the
maréchale de Mirepoix excelled herself in keeping up a continual flow of
lively conversation. Never had messieurs de Cossé and de Richelieu
appeared to equal advantage. The king laughed heartily at the many
humorous tales told, and his gaiety was the more excited, from his
believing that I was in utter ignorance of his infidelity. The champagne
was passed freely round the table, till all was one burst of hilarious
mirth. A thousand different topics were started, and dismissed only to
give way to fresh subjects more piquant than the preceding.
The king, in a fit of good humour, began to relate his adventures with
madame de Grammont; but here you must pardon me, my friend, for so
entirely did his majesty give the reins to his inclination for a plain
style of language, that, although excess of prudery formed no part of the
character of any of the ladies assembled, we were compelled to sit with
our eyes fixed upon our plate or glass, not daring to meet the glance of
those near us. I have little doubt but that Louis XV indulged himself to
this extent by a kind of mental vow to settle the affair with his
confessor at the earliest opportunity.
We were still at table when the clock struck two hours past midnight.
“Bless me! so late?” inquired the king.
“Indeed, sire,” replied the maréchale de Mirepoix, “your agreeable society
drives all recollection of time away.”
“Then ‘tis but fit I should furnish you all with memory enough to
recollect what is necessary for your own health. Come, my friends, morning
will soon call us to our different cares, so away to your pillows.”
So saying, the king bade us a friendly farewell, and retired with the ducs
de Duras and de Noailles. We remained after his majesty, and retiring into
the great saloon, threw ourselves without any ceremony upon the different
couches and ottomans.
“For my own part,” said the prince de Soubise, “I shall not think of
separating from so agreeable a party till daylight warns me hence.”
“The first beams of morn will soon shine through these windows,” replied
M. d’Aiguillon.
“We can already perceive the brightest rays of Aurora reflected in the
sparkling eyes around us,” exclaimed M. de Cossé.
“A truce with your gallantry, gentlemen,” replied madame de Mirepoix, “at
my age I can only believe myself capable of reflecting the last rays of
the setting sun.”
“Hush!” interrupted madame de Forcalquier, “you forget we are at
Versailles, where age is never thought of, but where, like our gracious
sovereign, all are young.”
“Come, ladies,” said madame de Flaracourt, “let us retire; I for one,
plead guilty of being in need of repose.”
“No, no!” replied the duc de Richelieu, “let us employ the remaining hours
in pleasing and social converse,” and with a tremulous voice he began that
charming trio in “Selina and Azor,” “Veillons mes soeurs.” We
joined chorus with him, and the echoes of the palace of Louis XV resounded
with the mirthful strain. This burst of noisy mirth did not last long, and
we relapsed into increased taciturnity, spite of our endeavours to keep up
a general conversation. We were all fatigued, though none but madame de
Flaracourt would confess the fact. Tired nature called loudly for repose,
and we were each compelled to seek it in the different apartments assigned
us. The duc d’Aiguillon alone was compelled, by the duties of his office,
to return to Versailles.
Upon entering my chamber I found my brother-in-law there, in the most
violent fit of ill humour, that the king (who was in fact ignorant of his
being at Trianon) had not invited him to supper. As I have before told
you, comte Jean was no favourite with his majesty, and as I had displayed
no wish for his company, Louis XV had gladly profited by my indifference
to omit him upon the present occasion. I endeavoured to justify the king,
without succeeding, however, in appeasing comte Jean, who very
unceremoniously consigned us all to the care and company of a certain old
gentleman, whose territory is supposed to lie beneath “the round globe
which we inhabit.”
“I have to thank you,” replied I, “for a very flattering mode of saying
‘good night.’”
“Perhaps,” answered comte Jean roughly, “you would prefer—”
“Nothing from your lips if you please, my polite brother,” cried I,
interrupting him, “nothing you will say in your present humour can be at
all to my taste.”
Chon interfered between us, and effected a reconciliation, which I was the
more willing to listen to, that I might enjoy that sleep my weary eye-lids
craved for. Scarcely was my head on my pillow, than I fell into a profound
sleep: could I but have anticipated to what I should awake! It was eleven
o’clock on the following morning when an immense noise of some person
entering my chamber, aroused me from the sweet slumbers I was still buried
in. Vexed at the disturbance, I inquired, in a peevish tone, “Who is
there?”
“Tis I, my sister,” replied Chon, “M. de Chamilly is here, anxious to
speak with you upon a matter of great importance.”
Chamilly, who was close behind mademoiselle du Barry, begged to be
admitted.
“What is the matter, Chamilly?” cried I, “and what do you want? Is
mademoiselle Julie to set off into the country immediately?”
“Alas! madam,” replied Chamilly, “his majesty is extremely ill.”
These words completely roused me, and raising myself on my arm, I eagerly
repeated, “Ill! of what does he complain?”
“Of general and universal pain and suffering,” replied Chamilly.
“And the female who was here last night, how is she?”
“Nearly as bad, madam; she arose this morning complaining of illness and
languor, which increased so rapidly, that she was compelled to be carried
to one of the nearest beds, where she now is.”
All this tormented me to the greatest degree, and I dismissed Chamilly for
the purpose of rising, although I had no distinct idea of what it would be
most desirable to say or do. My sister-in-law, with more self-possession,
suggested the propriety of summoning Bordeu, my physician; a proposal
which I at once concurred in, more especially when she informed me, that
La Martinière was already sent for, and hourly expected.
“I trust,” said I, “that Bouvart knows nothing of this, for I neither
approve of him as a man or a doctor.”
The fact was, I should have trembled for my own power, had both Bouvart
and La Martinière got the king into their hands. With La Martinière I knew
very well I was no favourite; yet it was impossible to prevent his
attendance; the king would never have fancied a prescription in which he
did not concur.
Meanwhile I proceeded with my toilette as rapidly as possible, that I
might, by visiting the king, satisfy myself of the nature of his malady.
Ere I had finished dressing, my brother-in-law, who had likewise been
aroused by the mention of his majesty’s illness, entered my chamber with a
gloomy look; he already saw the greatness of the danger which threatened
us, he had entirely forgotten our quarrel of the preceding evening, but
his temper was by no means improved by the present state of things. We had
no need of explaining ourselves by words, and he continued walking up and
down the room with, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the floor, till
we were joined by the maréchale de Mirepoix and the comtesse de
Forcalquier. Madame de Flaracourt had taken her departure at an early
hour, either ignorant of what had occurred or with the intention of being
prepared for whatever might happen.
As yet, it was but little in the power of any person to predict the coming
blow. “The king is ill,” said each of us as we met. “The king is ill,” was
the morning salutation of the ducs de Richelieu, de Noailles, de Duras,
and de Cossé. The prince de Soubise had followed the example of madame de
Flaracourt, and had quitted Trianon; it seemed as though the hour for
defection were already arrived. A summons now arrived from his majesty who
wished to see me. I lost not a moment in repairing to his apartment, where
I found him in bed, apparently in much pain and uneasiness. He received me
tenderly, took my hands in his, and kissed them; then exclaimed,
“I feel more indisposed than I can describe, a weight seems pressing on my
chest, and universal languor appears to chain my faculties both of body
and mind. I should like to see La Martinière.”
“And would you not likewise wish to have the advice of Bordeu?”
“‘Yes,” said he, “let both come, they are both clever men, and I have full
confidence in their skill. But do you imagine that my present illness will
be of a serious nature?”
“By no means, sire,” returned I, “merely temporary, I trust and believe.”
“Perhaps I took more wine than agreed with me last evening; but where is
the maréchale?”
“In my chamber with madame de Forcalquier.”
“And the prince de Soubise?”
“He has taken flight,” replied I, laughing.
“I suppose so,” returned Louis XV, “he could not bear a long absence from
Paris; company he must have.”
“In that respect he resembles you, sire, for you generally consider
company as a necessary good.”
He smiled, and then closing his eyes remained for some minutes silent and
motionless, after a while he said,
“My head is very heavy, so farewell, my sweet friend, I will endeavour to
get some sleep.”
“Sleep, sire!” said I, “and may it prove as healthful and refreshing as I
pray it may.”
So saying, I glided out of the room and returned to my friends, I found
madame de Mirepoix and the duc de Cossé waiting for me in the anteroom.
“How is the king?” inquired they both in a breath.
“Better than I expected,” I replied, “but he is desirous of sleeping.”
“So much the worse,” observed the duc de Cossé; “I should have thought
better of his case had he been more wakeful.”
“Are you aware of the most imperative step for you to take?” inquired the
maréchale de Mirepoix.
“No,” said I, “what is it?”
“To keep his majesty at Trianon,” replied she; “it will be far better for
you that the present illness should take its course at Trianon rather than
at Versailles.”
“I second that advice,” cried the duc de Richelieu, who just then entered
the room; “yes, yes, as madame de Mirepoix wisely observes, this is the
place for the king to be ill in.”
“But,” exclaimed I, “must we not be guided by the physicians’ advice?”
“Do you make sure of Bordeu,” said the duke, “and I will speak to La
Martinière.”
M. de Cossé took me aside, and assured me that I might rely upon him in
life or death. When we had conversed together for some minutes, I besought
of him to leave the place as early as possible; “Take madame de
Forcalquier with you,” said I, “your presence just now at Trianon would be
too much commented upon.”
He made some difficulties in obeying me, but I insisted and he went. After
his departure, the duc de Richelieu, the maréchale and myself walked
together in the garden. Our walk was so directed that we could see through
the colonnade every person who arrived up the avenue. We spoke but little,
and an indescribable feeling of solemnity was mingled with the few words
which passed, when, all at once, our attention was attracted by the sight
of comte Jean, who rushed towards me in a state of frenzy.
“Accursed day,” cried he, stopping when he saw us, “that wretched girl
from Versailles has brought the small-pox with her.”
At this fatal news I heaved a deep sigh and fainted. I was carried under
the portico, while the poor maréchale, scarcely more in her senses than
myself, stood over me weeping like a child, while every endeavour was
being made to restore me to life. Bordeu, who chanced to be at Versailles,
arrived, and supposing it was on my account he had been summoned, hastened
to my assistance. The duc de Richelieu and comte Jean informed him of all
that had passed, upon which he requested to see the unfortunate female
immediately; while he was conducted thither, I remained alone with the
maréchale and Henriette, who had come to Trianon with my suite. My first
impulse upon regaining the use of my senses, was to throw myself in the
arms of the maréchale.
“What will become of me?” exclaimed I, weeping, “if the king should take
this fatal malady, he will never survive it.”
“Let us hope for the best,” answered madame de Mirepoix; “it would be
encouraging grief to believe a misfortune, which we have at present no
reason to suspect.”
Comte Jean now rejoined us, accompanied by Bordeu and the duc de
Richelieu; their countenances were gloomy and dejected. The miserable
victim of ambition had the symptoms of the most malignant sort of
small-pox; this was a finishing stroke to my previous alarms. However,
comte Jean whispered in my ear, “Bordeu will arrange that the king shall
remain here.”
This assurance restored me to something like composure; but these hopes
were speedily dissipated by the arrival of La Martinière.
“What is the matter?” inquired he, “is the king very ill?”
“That remains for you to decide”; replied the duc de Richelieu; “but
however it may be, madame du Barry entreats of you not to think of
removing the king to Versailles.”
“And why so?” asked La Martinière, with his accustomed abruptness. “His
majesty would be much better there than here.”
“He can nowhere be better than at Trianon, monsieur,” said I.
“That, madam,” answered La Martinière, “is the only point upon which you
must excuse my consulting you, unless, indeed, you are armed with a
physician’s diploma.”
“Monsieur la Martinière,” cried the duc de Richelieu, “you might employ
more gentle language when speaking to a lady.”
“Was I sent for hither,” inquired the angry physician, “to go through a
course of politeness?”
For my own part I felt the utmost dread, I scarcely knew of what. Bordeu,
seeing my consternation, hastened to interfere, by saying,
“At any rate, monsieur la Martinière, you will not alarm the king
needlessly.”
“Nor lull him into a false security,” answered the determined La
Martinière. “But what is his malady have you seen him, doctor Bordeu?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why do we linger here? Your servant, ladies and gentlemen.”
The medical men then departed, accompanied the duc de Richelieu.
CHAPTER XL
We continued for some minutes silently gazing on the retreating figures of
La Martinière and his companions.
“Come,” said the maréchale, “let us return to the house”; saying which,
she supported herself by the arm of comte Jean, whilst I mechanically
followed her example, and sadly and sorrowfully we bent our steps beneath
the splendid colonnade which formed the entrance to the mansion.
When I reached my chamber, I found mademoiselle du Barry there, still
ignorant of the alarming news I had just learned. She earnestly pressed me
to return to bed, but this I refused; for my burning anxiety to learn
every particular relative to the king would have prevented my sleeping.
How different was the style of our present conversation to that of the
preceding evening; no sound of gaiety was heard; hushed alike were the
witty repartee, and the approving laugh which followed it. Now, we spoke
but by fits and starts, with eye and ear on the watch to catch the
slightest sound, whilst the most trifling noise, or the opening of a door,
made us start with trepidation and alarm. The time appeared to drag on to
an interminable length.
At last the duc de Richelieu made his appearance.
“Well, my friends,” said he, “the king is to be removed to Versailles,
spite of your wishes, madam, spite of his own royal inclination, and
against mine, likewise. La Martinière has thundered forth his edict, and
poor Bordeu opposed him in vain. His majesty, who expresses a wish to
remain here, stated his pleasure to La Martinière.”
“‘Sire,’ answered the obstinate physician, ‘it cannot be. You are too ill
to be permitted to take your choice in the matter, and to the château at
Versailles you must be removed.’
“‘Your words imply my being dangerously indisposed,’ said the king,
inquiringly.
“‘Your majesty is sufficiently ill to justify every precaution, and to
require our best cares. You must return to the château; Trianon is not
healthy; you will be much better at Versailles.’
“‘Upon my word, doctor,’ replied the king, ‘your words are far from
consoling; there must be danger, then, in my present sickness?’
“‘There would be considerable danger were you to remain here, whilst it is
very probable you may avoid any chance of it by following my directions
with regard to an immediate removal to Versailles.’
“‘I feel but little disposed for the journey,’ said his majesty.
“‘Still, your majesty must be removed, there is an absolute necessity for
it, and I take all the responsibility upon myself.’
“‘What do you think of this determination, Bordeu?’
“‘I think, sire, that you may be permitted to please yourself.’
“‘You hear that, La Martinière?’
“‘Yes, sire, and your majesty heard my opinion likewise.’ Then turning
towards Bordeu, ‘Sir,’ exclaimed he, ‘I call upon you in my capacity of
head physician to the king, to state your opinion in writing, and to abide
by the consequences of it; you who are not one of his majesty’s
physicians.’
“At this direct appeal, your doctor, driven to extremities, adopted either
the wise or cowardly resolution of maintaining a strict silence. The king,
who was awaiting his reply with much impatience, perceiving his reluctance
to speak, turned towards the duc de Duras, who was in attendance upon him,
and said, ‘Let them take me when and where my head physician advises.’”
At this recital I shed fresh tears. The duke afterwards told us that when
La Martinière had quitted his majesty, he went to ascertain the condition
of the wretched girl who had introduced all this uneasiness among us, and
after having attentively examined her, he exclaimed, “She is past all
hope, God only knows what the consequences may be.” This gloomy prognostic
added still more to my distress, and whilst those around me strove to
communicate fresh hopes and confidence to my tortured mind, I remained in
a state too depressed and dejected to admit one, even one ray of
consolation.
The king was removed from Trianon, followed by all the persons belonging
to his suite. The maréchale insisted upon deferring her departure till I
quitted the place. We set out a few minutes after his majesty, and my
coachman had orders to observe the same slow pace at which the royal
carriage travelled. Scarcely had we reached Versailles, when mechanically
directing my eyes towards the iron gate leading to the garden, a sudden
paleness overspread my countenance, and a cry of terror escaped me, for,
leaning against the gate in question, I perceived that singular being,
who, after having foretold my elevation, had engaged to present himself
before me, when a sudden reverse was about to overtake me. This unexpected
fulfilment of his promise threw me into the most cruel agitation, and I
could not refrain from explaining the cause of my alarm to those who were
with me. No sooner had I made myself understood than Comte Jean stopped
the carriage, and jumped out with the intention of questioning this
mysterious visitor. We waited with extreme impatience the return of my
brother-in-law, but he came back alone, nor had he been able to discover
the least trace of the object of his search. In vain had he employed the
two footmen from behind the carriage to examine the different avenues by
which he might have retired. Nothing could be heard of him, and I
remained, more than ever, convinced that the entire fulfilment of the
prophecy was at hand, and that the fatal hour would shortly strike, which
would witness my fall from all my pomp and greatness. We continued our
route slowly and silently; the maréchale accompanied me to the door of my
apartment, where I bade her adieu, spite of her wish to remain with me;
but even her society was now fatiguing to me, and I longed to be alone
with merely my own family.
My two sisters-in-law, the wife of comte d’Hargicourt and that of my
nephew, were speedily assembled to talk over with me the events of the
last twelve hours. I threw myself upon my bed in a state of mental and
bodily fatigue, impossible to describe. I strove in vain to collect my
ideas, and arm myself for what I well saw was approaching, and the exact
appearance of the singular predicter of my destiny prepared me for the
rapid accomplishing of all that had been promised.
Louis XV, during this fatal illness, was placed under the care of Bordeu
and Lemonnier. No particularly alarming symptoms appeared during that day,
and we remained in a state of suspense more difficult to bear than even
the most dreadful certainty. As soon as the king felt himself sufficiently
recovered from the fatigues of his removal he requested to see me. After
bestowing on me the most gratifying marks of the sincerest attachment, he
said,
“I am well punished, my dear countess, for my inconstancy towards you, but
forgive me. I pray and believe that, however my fancy may wander, my heart
is all your own.”
“Is that quite true?” said I, smiling. “Have you not some reservations?
Does not a noble female in the Parc-aux-Cerfs come in for a share
as well as the baroness de New——k?”
The king pressed my hand, and replied,
“You must not believe all those idle tales; I met the baroness by chance,
and, for a time, I thought her pretty. As for the other, if she renders
you in any way uneasy, let her be married at once, and sent where we need
never see her again.”
“This is, indeed, the language of sincerity,” cried I, “and from this
moment I shall have the fullest confidence in you.”
The conversation was carried on for a long while in this strain. The
physicians had made so light of the complaint, that the king believed his
illness to be merely of a temporary nature, and his gaiety and good
spirits returned almost to their natural height. He inquired after madame
de Mirepoix, and whether my sisters-in-law were uneasy respecting his
state of health. You may imagine that my reply was worded with all the
caution necessary to keep him in profound ignorance as to his real
condition. When I returned to my apartment I found Bordeu there, who
appeared quite at a loss what to say respecting the king’s malady, the
symptoms still remained too uncertain to warrant any person in calling it
the small-pox.
“And should it prove that horrible complaint?” inquired I.
“There would, in that case, be considerable danger,” replied Bordeu, not
without extreme embarrassment..
“Perhaps even to the extinction of all hope?” asked I.
“God alone can tell,” returned Bordeu.
“I understand,” interrupted I, quickly, “and, spite of the mystery with
which you would fain conceal the extent of his majesty’s danger, I know,
and venture to assert, that you consider him already as dead.”
“Have a care, madam,” exclaimed Bordeu, “how you admit such an idea, and
still more of proclaiming it. I pledge you my word that I do not consider
the king is in danger; I have seen many cures equally extraordinary with
his.”
I shook my head in token of disbelief. I had uttered what I firmly
supposed the truth, and the sight of my evil genius in the person of the
prophet who had awaited my return to Versailles, turned the encouraging
words of Bordeu into a cold, heavy chill, which struck to my heart. Bordeu
quitted me to resume his attendance upon the king. After him came the duc
d’Aiguillon, whose features bore the visible marks of care and disquiet.
He met me with the utmost tenderness and concern, asked of me the very
smallest details of the disastrous events of the morning. I concealed
nothing from him, and he listened to my recital with the most lively
interest; and the account of the apparition of the wonderful being who
seemed destined to follow me throughout my career was not the least
interesting part of our conversation.
“There are,” said the duke, “many very extraordinary things in this life,
reason questions them, philosophy laughs at them, and yet it is impossible
to deny that there are various hidden causes, or sudden inspirations,
which have the greatest effect upon our destiny. As a proof, I will relate
to you the following circumstance. You are aware,” continued the duke,
“that the cardinal de Richelieu, the author of our good fortune, spite of
the superiority of his mind, believed in judicial astrology. When his own
immediate line became extinct by the unexpected death of his family and
relatives, he wished to ascertain what would be the fate of those children
belonging to his sister, whom he had adopted as the successors of his
name, arms, and fortune. The planets were consulted, and the answer
received was, that two centuries from the day on which Providence had so
highly elevated himself, the family, upon whom rested all his hopes of
perpetuating his name, should fail entirely in its male descent. You see
that the duc de Fronsac has only one child, an infant not many days old. I
also have but one, and these two feeble branches seem but little
calculated to falsify the prediction. Judge, my dear countess, how great
must be my paternal anxiety!”
This relation on the part of the duc d’Aiguillon was but ill calculated to
restore my drooping spirits, and although I had no reason for concluding
that the astrologer had spoken prophetically to the grand cardinal, I was
not the less inclined to believe, with increased confidence, the
predictions uttered respecting myself by my inexplicable visitor of the
morning. My ever kind friend, the duchesse d’Aiguillon, was not long ere
she too made her appearance, with the view, and in the hope of consoling
me. I could not resist her earnest endeavours to rouse me from my grief,
and a grateful sense of her goodness obliged me to deck my features with
at least the semblance of cheerfulness. Every hour fresh accounts of the
king’s health were brought me, of a most encouraging nature; by these
bulletins one might naturally suppose him rapidly recovering, and we all
began to smile at our folly in having been so soon alarmed; in fact, my
spirits rose in proportion as the mysterious visit of my evil genius
gradually faded from my recollection.
In this manner the day passed away. I visited the king from time to time,
and he, although evidently much oppressed and indisposed, conversed with
me without any painful effort. His affection for me seemed to gain fresh
strength as his bodily vigour declined, and the fervent attachment he
expressed for me, at a time when self might reasonably have been expected
to hold possession of his mind, filled me with regret at not being able
more fully to return so much tenderness. wished to be alone, the maréchale
de Mirepoix had sent to request a private interview, and I awaited her
arrival in my chamber, whilst an immense concourse of visitors filled my
salons. The king’s danger was not yet sufficiently decided for the
courtiers to abandon me, and the favour to warrant any one of them in
withdrawing from me their usual attentions. Comte Jean, however, presented
himself before me, spite of the orders I had given to exclude every person
but the maréchale.
“My dear sister,” cried he, as he entered, “Chamilly has just told me that
he has received the royal command to have Julie married off without delay;
now this is a piece of delicacy towards yourself on the part of the king
for which you owe him many thanks. But I have another communication to
make you, of a less pleasing nature. The unfortunate girl who has been
left at Trianon, has called incessantly for you the whole of this day; she
asserts that she has matters of importance to communicate to you.”
Whatever surprise I experienced at this intelligence, it was impossible it
could be otherwise than true, for was it likely that, at a time like the
present, comte Jean would attempt to impose such a tale upon me.
“What would you have me do?” asked I of my brother-in-law.
“Hark ye, sister,” replied he, “we are both of us in a very critical
situation just now, and should spare no endeavour to extricate ourselves
from it. Very possibly this girl may be in possession of facts more
important than you at present conceive possible; the earnestness with
which she perseveres in her desire of seeing you, and her repeated prayers
to those around her to beg your attendance, proves that it is something
more than the mere whim of a sick person, and in your place, I should not
hesitate to comply with her wishes.”
“And how could we do so?” said I.
“To-night,” returned he, “when all your guests have retired, and
Versailles is in a manner deserted, I will fetch you; we have keys which
open the various gates in the park, and walking through which, and the
gardens, we can reach Trianon unobserved. No person will be aware of our
excursion, and we shall return with the same caution with which we went.
We will, after our visit, cause our clothes to be burnt, take a bath, and
use every possible precaution to purify ourselves from all chance of
infection. When that is done you may venture into the apartment of his
majesty, even if that malady which at present hangs over him should turn
out to be the small-pox.”
I thought but little of the consequences of our scheme, or of the personal
danger I incurred, and I promised my brother-in-law that I would hold
myself in readiness to accompany him. We then conversed together upon the
state of the king, and, what you will have some difficulty in crediting,
not one word escaped either of us relative to our future plans or
prospects; still it was the point to which the thoughts of comte Jean must
naturally have turned.
We were interrupted in our tête-à-tête by the arrival of the
maréchale, whose exactitude I could not but admire. Comte Jean, having
hastily paid his compliments, left us together.
“Well, my dear countess,” said she, taking my hand with a friendly
pressure, “and how goes on the dear invalid?”
“Better, I hope,” replied I, “and indeed, this illness, at first so
alarming to me, seems rather calculated to allay my former fears and
anxieties by affording the king calm and impartial reflection; the result
of it is that my dreaded rival of the Parc-aux-Cerfs is dismissed.”
“I am delighted to hear this,” replied madame de Mirepoix, “but, my dear
soul, let me caution you against too implicitly trusting these deceitful
appearances, to-morrow may destroy these flattering hopes, and the next
day—”
“Indeed!” cried I, interrupting her, “the physicians answer for his
recovery.”
“And suppose they should chance to be mistaken,” returned my cautious
friend, “what then? But, my dear countess, my regard or you compels me to
speak out, and to warn you of reposing in tranquillity when you ought to
be acting. Do not deceive yourself, leave nothing to chance; and if you
have any favour to ask of the king, lose no time in so doing while yet you
have the opportunity.”
“And what favour would you advise me to ask?” said I
“You do not understand me, then?” exclaimed the maréchale, “I say that it
is imperatively necessary for you to accept whatever the king may feel
disposed to offer you as a future provision, and as affording you the
means of passing the remainder of your days in ease and tranquillity. What
would become of you in case of the worst? Your numerous creditors would
besiege you with a rapacity, still further excited by the support they
would receive from court. You look at me with surprise because I speak the
language of truth; be a reasonable creature I implore of you once in your
life, and do not thus sacrifice the interests of your life to a romantic
disregard of self.”
I could not feel offended with the maréchale for addressing me thus, but I
could not help fancying the moment was ill chosen, and unable to frame an
answer to my mind, I remained silent. Mistaken as to the cause of my
taciturnity, she continued,
“Come, I am well pleased to see you thus reflecting upon what I have said;
but lose no time, strike the iron while it is hot. Do as I have
recommended either to-night or early to-morrow; possibly, after that time
it may be too late. May I venture also to remind you of your friends, my
dear countess. I am in great trouble just now, and I trust you will not
refuse to obtain for me, from his majesty, a favour of which I stand in
the utmost need—50,000 francs would come very seasonably; I have
lost that sum at cards, and must pay it, but how I know not.”
“Let not that distress you,” said I, “for I can relieve you of that
difficulty until the king’s convalescence enables him to undertake the
pleasing office of assisting your wishes. M. de Laborde has orders to
honour all my drafts upon him, I will therefore draw for the sum you
require.” So saying, I hastily scrawled upon a little tumbled piece of
paper those magic words, which had power to unlock the strong coffers of a
court banker. The maréchale embraced me several times with the utmost
vivacity.
“You are my guardian angel,” cried she, “you save me from despair. But,
tell me, my generous friend, do you think M. de Laborde will make any
difficulty?”
“Why,” said I, “should you suppose it possible he will do so?”
“Oh, merely on account of present circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“The illness—no, I mean the indisposition of his majesty.”
“He is an excellent man,” said I, “and I doubt not but he will act nobly
and honourably.”
“If we could but procure his majesty’s signature—”
“But that is quite impossible to-night.”
“I know it is, and, therefore, I will tell you what I think of doing.
Perhaps, if I were to set out for Paris immediately, I might be able to
present this cheque before Laborde is acquainted with our misfortune. It
is not late, so farewell, my dearest countess. I shall return to-morrow
before you are up, but do not forget what I have said to you; and
remember, that under any circumstances, the king should secure you a safe
and ample independence. If his death finds you well provided for, you will
still have a court, friends, relatives, partisans, in a word, the means of
gratifying every inclination. Be guided by me, and follow my advice.”
And after this lesson of practical morality, the maréchale quitted me to
hurry to Paris; and I, wearied and heartsick, flew to my crowded salons as
a remedy against the gloomy ideas her conversation had given rise to.
On this evening my guests were more numerous and brilliant than usual, for
no person entertaining the least suspicion of the king’s danger, all vied
with each other in evincing, by their presence, the desire they felt of
expressing their regard for me. My friends, acquaintances, people whom I
scarcely knew at all, were collected together in my drawing-rooms; this
large assemblage of joyous and cheerful faces, drove away for a moment all
the gloom which had bung over me. I even forgot the morning’s visitor, and
if the health of the king were at all alluded to, it was only en
passant. It seemed a generally understood thing not to believe him
seriously ill; in fact, to deny all possibility of such a thing being the
case. Thus all went on as usual, scandal, slander, epigrams, jeux
d’esprits, all the lively nonsense usually circulated upon such
occasions, went round, and were laughed at and admired according to the
tastes of those to whom they were addressed.
Could a stranger have seen us, so careless, thoughtless, and gay, he would
have been far from suspecting that we were upon the eve of a catastrophe
which must change the whole face of affairs in France. For my own part, my
spirits rose to a height with the giddy crowd around me, and in levity and
folly, I really believe I exceeded them.
At a late hour my rooms were at length forsaken, and I retired to my
chamber where, having dismissed my other attendants, I remained alone (as
was frequently my custom) with my faithful Henriette, whom I caused to
exchange my evening dress for a dark robe, which I covered with a large
Spanish mantle I had never before worn, and thus equipped, I waited the
arrival of comte Jean. Henriette, surprised at these preparations, pressed
me with so many questions, that at last I explained my whole purpose to
her. The attached creature exerted all her eloquence to point out the
dangers of the enterprise, which she implored of me to abandon, but I
refused to listen to her remonstrances, and she ceased urging me further,
only protesting she should await my return with the most lively
impatience.
At length, comte Jean appeared, armed with a small sword-stick and pistols
in his pocket, with every other precaution necessary for undertaking so
perilous an adventure. We descended into the garden with many smiles at
the singular figures we made, but no sooner were we in the open air, than
the sight of the clear heavens sparkling with sta lined with statues,
which resembled a troop of white phantoms, the gentle waving of the
branches, as the evening breeze stirred their leaves, with that feeling of
awe and solemnity generally attendant upon the midnight hour, awoke in our
minds ideas more suitable to our situation. We ceased speaking and walked
slowly down the walk past the basin of the dragon, in order, by crossing
the park, to reach the château de Trianon.
Fortune favoured us, for we met only one guard in the park, this man
having recognised us as we drew near, saluted us, and was about to retire,
when my brother-in-law called him back an desired him to take our key, and
open with it the nearest gates to the place which we wished to go to. He
also commanded him to await our return. The soldier was accustomed to
these nocturnal excursions even on the part of the most scrupulous and
correct gentlemen and ladies of the court. He, therefore, assured us of
his punctuality, and opened for us a great iron gate, which it would have
cost my brother-in-law much trouble to have turned upon its hinges.
The nearer we approached the end of our journey, the more fully did our
minds become impressed with new and painful disquietudes. At length, we
reached the place of our destination.
My brother-in-law desired he might be announced but said nothing of who I
was. We were expected, for a Swiss belonging to the palace conducted us to
a chamber at one end of the château, where, stretched on a bed of
loathsome disease, was the creature who, but a few hours before, had been
deemed worthy the embraces of a powerful monarch. Beside her were an
elderly female, her mother, and an aged priest, who had been likewise
summoned by the unfortunate girl, and her brother, a young man of about
twenty-four years of age, with an eye of fire, and a frame of Herculean
power. He was sitting with his back turned towards the door; the mother,
half reclining on the bed, held in her hand a handkerchief steeped in her
tears, while the ecclesiastic read prayers to them from a book which he
held. A nurse, whom we had not before perceived, answered the call of the
Swiss, and inquired of him what he wanted.
“I want nothing, myself,” answered he, “but here is comte Jean du Barry
with a lady from Versailles; they say they come at the request of
mademoiselle Anne.”
We were now on the threshold of the door, and the nurse, crossing the
chamber, spoke to the mother, who hastily rose, while the priest
discontinued his prayers. The mother looked at us, then whispered some
words to her daughter. The patient stirred in her bed, and the nurse
returning to us, said to comte Jean that he might approach the bed of the
invalid.
He advanced and I followed him, although the noisome effluvia with which
the air was loaded produced a sickness I scarcely could surmount. The
gloom of the place was still further increased by the dim light of two wax
candles placed in a nook of the room.
The priest, having recognised my brother-in-law, and suspecting doubtless
who I was, was preparing to withdraw, but the sick girl made signs for him
to remain. He obeyed, but removing to a distance, he took his place beside
the young man, who, understanding only that strangers had arrived, rose
from his seat and displayed his tall gigantic height to the fullest
advantage.
CHAPTER XLI
The gloomy and mysterious air scattered over the group which presented
itself to our eyes filled us with desponding thoughts. There appeared
throughout the party a kind of concentrated grief and silent despair which
struck us with terror. We remained motionless in the same spot without any
persons quitting their f ixed attitude to offer us a seat. After some
minutes of a deep silence, which I durst not interrupt any more than comte
Jean, whose accustomed hardihood seemed effectually checked, the suffering
girl raised herself in her bed, and in a hollow voice exclaimed,
“Comtesse du Barry, what brings you here?”
The sound of her hoarse and grating voice made me start, spite of myself.
“My poor child,” answered I, tenderly, “I come to see you at your
request.”
“Yes, yes,” replied she, bursting into a frightful fit of laughter, “I
wished to see you to thank you for my dishonour, and for the perdition
into which you have involved me.”
“My daughter,” said the priest, approaching her, “is this what you
promised me?”
“And what did I promise to God when I vowed to hold myself chaste and
spotless? Perjured wretch that I am, I have sold my honour for paltry
gold; wheedled by the deceitful flattery of that man who stands before me,
I joined his infamous companion in the path of guilt and shame. But the
just vengeance of heaven has overtaken me, and I am rightly punished.”
Whether this language was the result of a previously studied lesson I know
not, but it was ill-calculated to raise my failing spirits.
“My child, my beloved child!” exclaimed the weeping mother, “fear not, God
is merciful and will accept your sincere abhorrence of your fault. I have
this day offered in your name a fine wax taper to your patroness, St.
Anne, who will, no doubt, intercede for you.”
“No, no!” replied the unhappy girl, “there is no longer any hope for me;
and the torments I now suffer are but the preludes to those which I am
doomed to endure everlastingly.”
This singular scene almost convulsed me with agitation. I seized the arm
of my brother-in-law with the intention of escaping from so miserable a
spot; the invalid perceived my design and vehemently exclaimed,
“Stay, comtesse du Barry; I have not yet finished with you, I have not yet
announced the full revenge I shall take for your share in my present
hopeless condition; your infamous exaltation draws to a close, the same
poison which is destroying me, circulates in the veins of him you have too
long governed; but your reign is at an end. He will soon quit his earthly
crown, and my hand strikes the blow which sends him hence. But still,
dying a victim to a cruel and loathsome complaint, I go to my grave
triumphing over my haughty rival, for I shall die the last possessor of
the king’s affections. Heavens! what agonies are these?” cried she; then,
after a short silence, she continued, extending to me her arms hideous
with the leprous blotches of her disgusting malady, “yes, you have been my
destruction; your accursed example led me to sell myself for the wages of
infamy, and to the villainous artifices of the man who brought you here I
owe all my sufferings. I am dying more young, more beautiful, more beloved
than you; I am hurried to an untimely end. God of heaven! die I did I say
die? I cannot, will not—Mother, save your child!—Brother, help
me, save me!”
“My daughter, my darling child!” cried the despairing mother, wringing her
hands and weeping bitterly.
“My dearest sister Anne, what can I do for you?” inquired the young man,
whose stern features were melted into mere womanish tenderness.
“Daughter,” interrupted the priest, “God is good; he can and will forgive
you if you heartily turn to him, with a sincere desire to atone for your
fault.”
All this took place in less time than it has taken in the recital. My
brother-in-law seemed completely deprived of his usual self-possession by
this burst of frightful raving; his feet appeared rooted to the floor of
the chamber; his colour changed from white to red, and a cold perspiration
covered his brows. For my own part, I was moved beyond description; but my
faculties seemed spell-bound, and when I strove to speak, my tongue
cleaved to my mouth.
The delirium of poor Anne continued for some time to find utterance,
either by convulsive gesticulation, half-uttered expressions, and,
occasionally, loud and vehement imprecations. At length, quite exhausted
with her violence, which required all the efforts of her brother to subdue
by positive force, she sunk into a state of insensibility. The priest, on
his knees, implored in a loud voice the mercy of Providence for the king
and all his subjects. Had any person conceived the design of working on my
fears so far as to induce me to abandon a life at court, they could not
have succeeded more entirely than by exhibiting to me the scene I have
been describing. Had not many contending ideas enabled me to bear up under
all I saw and heard, my senses must have forsaken me; under common
circumstances, the aspect of the brother alone would have terrified me
exceedingly; and even now, I cannot recollect without a shudder, the looks
of dark and sinister meaning he alternately directed at me and at comte
Jean. At this moment, the doctor who had the charge of the unhappy girl
arrived. The warmth and eagerness of manner with which he addressed me
directly he perceived my presence, might have proved to all around that I
was not the hateful creature I had been described. This well-timed
interruption restored me to the use of my faculties, and repulsing the
well-meant attentions of my medical friend, I exclaimed, “Do not heed me,
I conjure you, I am only temporarily indisposed. But hasten to that poor
girl whose dangererous state requires all your care.”
My brother-in-law, recovering himself by a strong effort, profited by the
present opportunity to remove me into another apartment, the pure air of
which contributed to cool my fevered brain; but my trembling limbs refused
to support me, and it was necessary to apply strong restoratives ere I was
sufficiently recovered to quit the fatal spot. At Trianon, as well as at
Versailles, I was considered absolute mistress; those of the royal
household, who were aware of my being at the former, earnestly solicited
me to retire to the chamber I had occupied on the preceding night, but to
this arrangement the comte and myself were equally opposed. A sedan chair
was therefore procured, in which I was rapidly transported back to
Versailles.
You may easily conceive in what a state I arrived there. My good Henriette
was greatly alarmed, and immediately summoned Bordeu, who, not venturing
to bleed me, contented himself with administering some cordials which
revived me in some degree. But the events of the last few hours seemed
indelibly fixed in my mind; and I heard, almost with indifference, the
bulletin issued respecting the state of the king’s health during the fatal
night which had just passed. One object alone engrossed my thoughts;—eyes
seemed still to behold the miserable girl stretched on her dying bed,
whose ravings of despair and threatening words yet rung in my ears, and
produced a fresh chill of horror, as with painful tenacity my mind dwelt
upon them to the utter exclusion of every other consideration. The
unfortunate creature expired on the third day, a victim to the rapid
progress of the most virulent species of small-pox. She died more calmly
and resigned than I had seen her. For my own part, I freely pardoned her
injustice towards myself, and sincerely forgive the priest if he (as I
have been told) excited her bitterness against me.
The severe shock I had experienced might have terminated fatally for me,
had not my thoughts been compelled to rouse themselves for the
contemplation of the alarming prospect before me. It was more than four
o’clock in the morning when I returned to the château, and at nine I rose
again without having obtained the least repose. The king had inquired for
me several times. I instantly went to him, and my languid frame, pale
countenance and heavy eyes, all which he took as the consequences of my
concern for his indisposition, appeared greatly to affect him; and he
sought to comfort me by the assurance of his being considerably better.
This was far from being true, but he was far from suspecting the nature of
the malady to which his frame was about to become a prey. The physicians
had now pronounced with certainty on the subject, nor was it possible to
make any mystery of it with me, who had seen Anne on her sick-bed.
In common with all who knew the real nature of the complaint, I sought to
conceal it from the king, and in this deception the physicians themselves
concurred. In the course of the morning a consultation took place; when
called upon for their opinion, each of them endeavoured to evade a direct
answer, disguising the name of his majesty’s disease under the appellation
of a cutaneous eruption, chicken-pox, etc., etc., none daring to give it
its true denomination. Bordeu and Lemonnier pursued this cautious plan,
but La Martinière, who had first of all pronounced his decision on the
subject, impatient of so much circumlocution on the part of those around
him, could no longer repress his indignation.
“How is this, gentlemen!” exclaimed he, “is science at a standstill with
you? Surely, you cannot be in any doubt on the subject of the king’s
illness. His majesty has the small-pox, with a complication of other
diseases equally dangerous, and I look upon him as a dead man.”
“Monsieur de la Martinière,” cried the duc de Duras, who, in quality of
his office of first gentleman of the bed-chamber, was present at this
conference, “allow me to remind you that you are expressing yourself very
imprudently.”
“Duc de Duras,” replied the abrupt La Martinier, “my business is not to
flatter the king, but to tell him the truth with regard to his health.
None of the medical gentlemen present can deny the truth of what I have
asserted; they are all of my opinion, although I alone have the courage to
act with that candour which my sense of honour dictates.”
The unbroken silence preserved by those who heard this address, clearly
proved the truth of all La Martinière advanced. The duc de Duras was but
too fully convinced of the justice of his opinion.
“The king is then past all hope,” repeated he, “and what remains to be
done?”
“To watch over him, and administer every aid and relief which art
suggests,” was the brief reply of La Martinière.
The different physicians, when separately questioned, hesitated no longer
to express their concurrence in the opinion that his majesty’s case was
entirely hopeless, unless, indeed, some crisis, which human foresight
could not anticipate, should arise in his favour.
This opinion changed the moral face of the château. The duc de Duras, who
had not previously suspected even the existence of danger, began to feel
how weighty a burthen reposed on his shoulders; he recommended to the
medical attendants the utmost caution and silence, pointing out, at the
same time, all the ill consequences which might arise, were any imprudent
or sudden explanation of his real malady made to the august sufferer.
Unable to attend to everything himself, and not inclined to depend upon
his son, whose natural propensity he was fully aware of, he recalled to
his recollection that the comte de Muy, the sincere and attached friend of
the dauphin, son to Louis XV, was then in Versailles. He immediately
sought him out in the apartments he occupied in the château, and
communicated to him the result of the consultation respecting the king’s
illness.
The comte de Muy was one of those rare characters reserved by Providence
for the happiness of a state, when kings are wise enough to employ them.
He thought not of personal interest or advantage, but dictated to the duke
the precise line of conduct he himself would have pursued under similar
circumstances.
“The first thing to be done,” said he, “is to remember that the king is a
Christian, and to conform in every respect to the customs of his
predecessors. You are aware, my lord duke, that directly any member of the
royal family is attacked by the small-pox, he ought immediately to receive
extreme unction; you will, therefore, make the necessary arrangements, and
apprize those whose duty it becomes to administer it.”
“This is, indeed, an unpleasant commission,” replied the duke; “to
administer extreme unction to his majesty, is to announce to him cruelly
and abruptly that his last hour has arrived, and to bid him prepare for
death.”
“The duty is nevertheless imperative,” answered the comte de Muy, “and you
incur no slight responsibility by neglecting it.”
The consequence of this conversation was, that the duke sent off two
couriers immediately, one to madame Louise, and the other to the
archbishop of Paris. He also apprized the ministers of the result of the
consultation which had taken place, whilst the comte de Muy took upon
himself the painful office of acquainting the dauphin with the dangerous
state of his grandfather. This young prince, whose first impulses were
always amiable, immediately burst into tears; the dauphiness endeavoured
to console him. But from that moment her royal highness appeared to show
by her lofty and dignified bearing, her consciousness of the fresh
importance she had necessarily acquired in the eyes of the nation.
Meanwhile, the dauphin hastened to the sick room of his beloved relative,
anxious to bestow upon him the cares and attentions of a son; but in the
anteroom his progress was stopped by the duc de la Vrillière, who informed
him, that the interests of the throne would not permit his royal highness
to endanger his life by inhaling the contagious atmosphere of a room
loaded with the venom of the small-pox. He adjured him, in the name of the
king and his country, not to risk such fearful chances. The lords in
attendance, who did not partake the heroism the young prince, added their
entreaties to those of le petit saint, and succeeded, at length, in
prevailing upon him to return to his apartments, to the great joy of Marie
Antoinette, who could not endure the prospect of being separated from her
husband at so important a juncture.
No sooner had the princesses learned the danger of their august parent,
than without an instant’s hesitation they hurried to him. I was in his
chamber when they arrived; they saluted me with great gentleness and
affability. When the king saw them, he inquired what had brought them
thither at so unusual an hour.
“We are come to see you, my dearest father,” replied madame Adélaïde; “we
have heard of your indisposition, and trifling as it is said to be, we
could not rest without satisfying our anxious wish to know how you found
yourself.”
The other sisters expressed themselves in similar terms.
“It is all very well, my children,” said Louis XV, with a pleasing smile,
“and you are all three very excellent girls, but I would rather you should
keep away from this close room; it can do you no good, and I promise to
let you know if I find myself getting any worse.”
After a slight resistance the princesses feigned an obedience to his will;
but, in reality, they merely retired into an adjoining chamber, concealed
from the sight of their parent, where they remained, until the moment when
they undertook the charge of the patient. Their heroic devotion was the
admiration of all France and Europe.
Much as their presence constrained me, I still kept my place beside the
sick-bed of his majesty, who would not suffer me to leave him for a
minute.
At an early hour the maréchale de Mirepoix returned, according to her
promise. I met her in the corridor as I was passing along on my way to the
king’s apartment; her face was full of cheerful smiles.
“How greatly am I obliged to you for your prompt succour,” said she,
without even inquiring after my health or that of the king. “Do you know,
I was but just in time; ten minutes later, and I should have been refused
payment for your cheque. M. de Laborde, who was so devotedly your friend
only yesterday, counted out to me the glittering coin I was so anxious to
obtain. He even accompanied me to my carriage, when behold, just at the
moment, when, with his hat in his hand, he was most gallantly bowing, and
wishing me a pleasant journey, a courier arrived from Versailles bringing
him the news of the king’s illness. He looked so overwhelmed with
consternation and alarm, that I could not prevent myself from bursting
into a hearty fit of laughter, nor has my gaiety forsaken me up to the
present moment.”
“You are very fortunate,” said I, “to be enabled thus to preserve your
good spirits.”
“My dear creature, I would fain cheat time of some of his claims upon me.
But now I think of it, what is the matter since I was here? Is the king
worse, and what is this I hear whispered abroad of the small-pox?”
“Alas, madam,” answered I, much hurt at the insensibility she displayed,
“we run but too great danger of losing our friend and benefactor for
ever.”
“Dear me, how very shocking! But what has he settled on you? What have you
asked him for?”
“Nothing!” replied I, coolly.
“Nothing! very admirable, indeed; but, my good soul, these fine sentiments
sometimes leave people to eat the bread of charity. So, then, you have not
followed my advice. Once more, I repeat, lose not the present opportunity,
and, in your place, I would set about securing my own interest without one
instant’s delay.”
“That I could not do, madam,” said I; “it is wholly foreign to my nature
to take advantage of the weakness of a dying man.”
“Dying man!” repeated the maréchale incredulously, “come, come, he is not
dead yet; and whilst there is life there is hope; and I suppose you have
carried your ideas of disinterestedness so far as to omit mentioning your
friends, likewise. You will never have any worldly sense, I believe. My
dear soul,” said she, stooping down and whispering in my ear, “you are
surrounded by a set of selfish wretches, who care nothing for you unless
you can forward their interests.”
“I see it, I know it,” exclaimed I impatiently; “but though I beg my
bread, I will not importune the king.”
“As you please,” cried madame de Mirepoix, “pray do not let me disturb
your intentions. Silly woman that you are, leave others to act the sublime
and grand, your part should be that of a reasonable creature. Look at
myself, suppose I had not seized the ball at the bound.”
“You were born at Versailles,” answered I, smiling in spite of myself.
“True, and I confess that with me the greatest of all sense is common
sense, which produces that instinctive feeling of self-preservation
implanted even in animals. But is the king indeed so very ill?”
“He is, indeed, dangerously ill.”
“I am very sorry,” answered she, “his majesty and myself were such old
friends and companions; but things will now be very different, and we
shall soon see the court filled with new faces, whilst you and I, my poor
countess, may hide our diminished heads. A set of hungry wretches will
drive us away from the princely banquet at which we have so long regaled,
and scarcely will their eagerness leave us a few scattered crumbs—how
dreadful! Yes, I repeat that for many reasons, we shall have just cause
for regretting the late king.”
“The late king!” exclaimed I. “His majesty is not yet dead, madame
la maréchale.”
“I know that, but he will die; and by speaking of the event as if it had
already taken place, we prepare our minds to meet the blow with greater
resignation when it does fall. I am much concerned, I can assure you; but
let us quit the close confined air of this corridor, and go where we may
breathe a purer atmosphere.”
She took me by the arm with a greater familiarity than she had ever before
assumed, and led the way to my chamber, where I found the duc de la
Vrillière awaiting me, to request I would return to the king, who had
asked for me more than once. This consummate hypocrite seized the present
opportunity of renewing his assurances of an unalterable attachment to me,
vowing an eternal friendship. I was weak enough to believe him, and when I
gave him my hand in token of reconciliation, I espied the maréchale
standing behind him, making signals to me to distrust his professions.
I know not the reason of this conduct on the part of the duc de l a
Vrillière, but I can only suppose it originated in his considering the
king in less danger than he was said to be; however, I suffered him to
lead me to the chamber of the invalid. When Louis XV saw me return, he
inquired why I had quitted him? I replied, because I was fearful of
wearying him; upon which he assured me, that he only felt easy and
comfortable so long as I was with him.
“But, perhaps, there is some contagion in my present complaint?” exclaimed
he, as though labouring under some painful idea.
“Certainly not,” replied I; “it is but a temporary eruption of the skin,
which will, no doubt, carry off the fever you have suffered with.”
“I feared it was of a more dangerous nature,” answered the king.
“You torment yourself needlessly, sire,” said I; “why should you thus
create phantoms for your own annoyance and alarm? Tranquillize yourself,
and leave the task of curing you to us.”
I easily penetrated the real import of his words; he evidently suspected
the truth, and was filled with the most cruel dread of having his
suspicions confirmed. During the whole of this day he continued in the
same state of uncertainty; the strictest watch was set around him that no
imprudent confession should reveal to him the real nature of his
situation. I continued sitting beside him in a state of great constraint,
from the knowledge of my being closely observed by the princesses, of
whose vicinity we durst not inform him, in the fear of exciting his fears
still more.
The courier, who had been despatched to madame Louise, returned, bringing
a letter from that princess to her sisters, under cover to madame
Adélaïde, in which she implored of them not to suffer any consideration to
prevent their immediately acquainting their father with the dangerous
condition he was in. The duty, she added, was imperative, and the greatest
calamity that could befall them, would be to see this dearly loved parent
expire in a state of sinful indifference as to his spiritual welfare.
The august recluse, detached from all sublunary considerations, saw
nothing but the glorious hereafter, where she would fain join company with
all her beloved friends and connexions of this world.
The archbishop of Paris, M. de Beaumont, a prelate highly esteemed for his
many excellent private qualities, but who had frequently embarrassed the
king by his pertinacity, did not forget him on this occasion; for no
sooner did the account of his majesty’s illness reach him, than, although
suffering with a most painful complaint, he hastened to Versailles, where
his presence embarrassed every one, particularly the grand almoner, who, a
better courtier than priest, was excessively careful never to give offence
to any person, even though the king’s salvation depended upon it; he,
therefore, kept his apartment, giving it out that he was indisposed, and
even took to his bed, the better to avoid any disagreeable or inconvenient
request. The sight of the archbishop of Paris was far from being agreeable
to him. This prelate went first in search of the princesses who were not
to be seen on account of their being with their father. A message was
despatched to them, and mesdames Adélaïde and Sophie, after having a long
conference with him, by his advice, summoned the bishops of Meaux, Goss,
and de Senlis, and held a species of council, in which it was unanimously
agreed that nothing ought to prevent their entering upon an explanation
with the king, and offering him spiritual succour.
Who was to undertake the delicate commission, became the next point to
consider. M. de Roquelaire declined, not wishing, as he said, to infringe
upon the rights of the grand almoner, who was now at Versailles. M. de la
Roche Aymon was therefore sent for, requesting his immediate attendance.
Never did invitation arrive more mal à propos, or more cruelly
disturb any manoeuvring soul. However, to refuse was impossible, and the
cardinal arrived, execrating the zeal of his reverend brother of Paris;
who, after having explained the state of affairs to him, informed him that
he was sent for the purpose of discharging his office by preparing the
king for confession.
The grand almoner replied, that the sacred duty by no means belonged to
him; that his place at court was of a very different nature, and had
nothing at all to do with directing the king’s conscience. His majesty, he
said, had a confessor, who ought to be sent for, and the very sight of him
in the royal chamber would be sufficient to apprize the illustrious
invalid of the motives which brought him thither. In a word, the grand
almoner got rid of the affair, by saying, “that, as it was one of the
utmost importance, it would be necessary to confer with his royal
highness, the dauphin, respecting it.”
CHAPTER XLII
The different members of this concile impromptu declared themselves
in favour of this advice, much to the grief and chagrin of the princess
Adélaïde. She easily perceived by this proposition that the court would
very shortly change masters, and could she hope to preserve the same
influence during the reign of her nephew she had managed to obtain whilst
her father held the sceptre? However, she made no opposition to the
resolution of the prelates, who forthwith proceeded to the dauphin, who
received them with considerable coolness. As yet, but ill-assured in the
new part he had to play, the prince showed himself fearful and
embarrassed. The dauphiness would willingly have advised him, but that
prudence would not permit her to do, so that the dauphin, left wholly to
himself, knew not on what to determine.
This was precisely what the grand almoner had hoped and expected, and he
laughed in his sleeve at the useless trouble taken by the archbishop; and
whilst he openly affected to promote his desires as much as was in his
power, he secretly took measures to prevent their success. M. de Beaumont,
who was of a most open and upright nature, was far from suspecting these
intrigues; indeed, his simple and pious character but ill-qualified him
for the corrupt and deceitful atmosphere of a court, especially such a one
as Versailles. His situation now became one of difficulty; abandoned by
the bishops and the grand almoner, disappointed in his hopes of finding a
supporter in the dauphin, what could he do alone with the princesses, who,
in their dread of causing an emotion, which might be fatal to their
parent, knew not what to resolve upon. As a last resource, they summoned
the abbé Mandaux, the king’s confessor. The prelate excited his zeal in
all its fervour, and this simple and obscure priest determined to
undertake that which many more eminent personages had shrunk from
attempting.
He therefore sought admittance into the chamber of the king, where he
found the ducs de Duras and de Richelieu, to whom he communicated the
mission upon which he was come.
At this declaration, the consequences of which he plainly foresaw, the duc
de Duras hesitated to reply, scarcely knowing how to ward off a blow the
responsibility of which must fall upon him alone. The duc de Richelieu,
with greater self-command, extricated him from his difficulty.
“Sir,” said he to the abbé, “your zeal is highly praise-worthy, both the
duke and myself are aware of all that should be done upon such an occasion
as the present; and although I freely admit that the sacred act you speak
of is of an imperative nature, yet I would observe, that the king being
still in ignorance of his fatal malady, neither your duties nor ours can
begin, until the moment when the physicians shall have thought proper to
reveal the whole truth to his majesty. This is a matter of form and
etiquette to which all must submit who have any functions to fulfil in the
château.”
The duc de Duras could have hugged his colleague for this well-timed
reply. The abbé Mandaux felt all the justness of the observation, yet with
all the tenacity of his profession, he replied,
“That since it rested with the physicians to apprize the king of his being
ill with the small-pox, they ought to be summoned and consulted as to the
part to take.”
At these words the duc de Duras slipped away from the group, and went
himself in search of Doctor Bordeu, whom he brought into an angle of the
chamber out of sight of the king’s bed. The duc de Duras having explained
to him what the abbé had just been saying to them, as well as the desire
he had manifested of preparing the king to receive the last sacraments,
the doctor regarded the abbé fixedly for some instance, and asked in a
severe tone, “Whether he had promised any person to murder the king?”
This abrupt and alarming question made the priest change colour, whilst he
asked for an explanation of such a singular charge.
“I say, sir,” replied Bordeu, “that whoever speaks at present to his
majesty of small-pox, confession, or extreme unction, will have to answer
for his life.”
“Do you, indeed, believe,” asked the duc de Richelieu, “that the mention
of these things would produce so fatal a result?”
“Most assuredly I do; and out of one hundred sick persons it would have
the same effect upon sixty, perhaps eighty; indeed, I have known the shock
produce instantaneous death. This I am willing to sign with my own blood
if it be necessary, and my professional brother there will not dispute its
truth.”
At these words he made a sign for Lemonnier to advance, and after having
explained to him the subject of conversation, begged of him to speak his
opinion openly and candidly. Lemonnier was somewhat of a courtier, and one
glance at the two noblemen before whom he stood, was sufficient to apprize
him what opinion was expected from him. He, therefore, fully and
unhesitatingly confirmed all that Bordeu had previously advanced.
Strong in these decisions, the duc de Duras expressed his regret to the
confessor at being unable to accord his request. “But,” added he, “You
perceive the thing is impossible, unless to him who would become a
regicide.”
This terrible expression renewed the former terror of the abbé, who,
satisfied with having shown his zeal, was, perhaps, not very sorry for
having met with such insurmountable obstacles. He immediately returned to
the apartment of madame Sophie, where the council was still assembled, and
related the particulars of his visit; whilst the poor archbishop of Paris,
thus foiled in every attempt, was compelled to leave Versailles wholly
unsuccessful.
I heard all these things from the duc de Richelieu; he told me that
nothing could have been more gratifying than the conduct of Bordeu and
Lemonnier, and that I had every reason for feeling satisfied with the
conduct of all around me. “It is in the moment of peril,” said he, “that
we are best able to know our true friends.”
“I see it,” replied I; “and since our danger is a mutual one ought we not
to forget our old subjects of dispute?”
“For my own part, madam,” returned he, “I do not remember that any ever
existed; besides, is not my cause yours likewise? A new reign will place
me completely in the background. The present king looks upon me as almost
youthful; while, on the contrary, his grandson will consider me as a
specimen of the days of Methuselah. The change of masters can be but to my
disadvantage; let us, therefore, stand firmly together, that we may be the
better enabled to resist the attacks of our enemies.”
“Do you consider,” inquired I, “that we may rely upon the firmness of the
duc de Duras?”
“As safely as you may on mine,” answered he, “so long as he is not
attacked face to face; but if they once assail him with the arms of
etiquette, he is a lost man, he will capitulate. It is unfortunate for him
that I am not likely to be near him upon such an occasion.”
Comte Jean, who never left me, then took up the conversation, and advised
M. de Richelieu to leave him to himself as little as possible; it was,
therefore, agreed that we should cause the duc de Duras to be constantly
surrounded by persons of our party, who should keep those of our
adversaries at a distance.
We had not yet lost all hope of seeing his majesty restored to health;
nature, so languid and powerless in the case of poor Anne, seemed inclined
to make a salutary effort on the part of the king.
Every instant of this day and the next, that I did not spend by the
sick-bed of Louis XV, were engrossed by most intimate friends, the ducs
d’Aiguillon, de Cossé, etc., mesdames de Mirepoix, de Forcalquier, de
Valentinois, de l’Hôpital, de Montmorency, de Flaracourt, and others. As
yet, none of my party had abandoned me; the situation of affairs was not,
up to the present, sufficiently clear to warrant an entire defect. Mathon,
whom chance had conducted to Versailles during the last week, came to
share with Henriette, my sisters-in-law, and my niece, the torments and
uncertainties which distracted my mind. We were continually in a state of
mortal alarm, dreading every instant to hear that the king was aware of
his malady, and the danger which threatened, and our fears but too well
proclaimed our persuasion that such a moment would be the death-blow to
our hopes. It happened that in this exigency, as it most commonly occurs
in affairs of great importance, all our apprehensions had been directed
towards the ecclesiastics, while we entirely overlooked the probability
that the abrupt la Martinière might, in one instant, become the cause of
our ruin. All this so entirely escaped us, that we took not the slightest
precaution to prevent it.
No sooner was the news of the king being attacked with small-pox publicly
known, than a doctor Sulton, an English physician, the pretended professor
of an infallible cure for this disease, presented himself at Versailles,
and tendered his services. The poor man was simple enough to make his
first application to those medical attendants already intrusted with the
management of his majesty, but neither of them would give any attention to
his professions of skill to overcome so fatal a malady. On the contrary,
they treated him as a mere quack, declared that they would never consent
to confide the charge of their august patient to the hands of a stranger
whatever he might be. Sulton returned to Paris, and obtaining an audience
of the duc d’Orleans, related to him what had passed between himself and
the king’s physicians. The prince made it his business the following day
to call upon the princesses, to whom he related the conversation he had
held with doctor Sulton the preceding evening.
In their eagerness to avail themselves of every chance for promoting the
recovery of their beloved parent, the princesses blamed the duke for
having bestowed so little attention upon the Englishman, and conjured him
to return to Paris, see Sulton, and bring him to Versailles on the
following day. The duc d’Orleans acted in strict conformity with their
wishes; and although but little satisfied with the replies made by Sulton
to many of his questions relative to the measures he should pursue in his
treatment of the king, he caused him to accompany him to Versailles, in
order that the princesses might judge for themselves. The task of
receiving him was undertaken by madame Adélaïde. Sulton underwent a
rigorous examination, and was offered an immense sum for the discovery of
his secret, provided he would allow his remedy to be subjected to the
scrutiny of some of the most celebrated chemists of the time. Sulton
declared that the thing was impossible; in the first place, it was too
late, the disease was too far advanced for the application of the remedy
to possess that positive success it would have obtained in the earlier
stage of the malady; in the next place, he could not of himself dispose of
a secret which was the joint property of several members of his family.
Prayers, promises, entreaties were alike uselessly employed to change the
resolution of Sulton; the fact was evidently this, he knew himself to be a
mere pretender to his art, for had he been certain of what he advanced,
had he even conceived the most slender hopes of saving the life of the
king, he would not have hesitated for a single instant to have done all
that was asked.
This chance of safety was, therefore, at an end, and spite of the opinion
I entertained of Sulton, I could not but feel sorry Bordeu had not given
him a better reception when he first made known his professed ability to
surmount this fatal disorder. However, I was careful not to express my
dissatisfaction, for it was but too important for me to avoid any dispute
at a time when the support of my friends had become so essentially
necessary to me.
In proportion as the king became worse, my credit also declined. Two
orders, addressed to the comptroller-general and M. de la Borde, for
money, met with no attention. The latter replied, with extreme politeness,
that the 100,000 francs received by comte Jean a few days before the king
was taken ill, and the 50,000 paid to madame de Mirepoix recently, must be
a convincing proof, in my eyes, of his friendly intentions towards me, but
that he had no money at present in his possession, the first he received
should be at my disposal.
The abbé Terray acted with less ceremony, for he came himself to say,
that, so long as the king remained ill, he would pay no money without his
majesty’s signature, for which my brother-in-law might either ask or wait
till there no longer existed any occasion for such a precaution; and that,
for his own part, he could not conceive how he could have consumed the
enormous sums he had already drawn from the treasury.
This manner of speaking stung me to the quick.
“I find you,” said I to him, “precisely the mean, contemptible wretch you
were described to me; but you are premature. I am not yet an exile from
court, and yet you seem already to have forgotten all you owe to me.”
“I have a very good memory, madam,” replied he, “and if you wish it, I can
count upon my fingers the money you and your family have received of me.
You will see—”
“What shall I see?” interrupted I, “unless, indeed, it be an amount of
your regrets that such a sum was not left in your hands to be pillaged by
your mistresses and their spurious offspring. Really, to hear you talk,
any one would suppose you a Sully for integrity, and a Colbert in
financial talent.”
This vigorous reply staggered the selfish and coarse-minded abbé, who
easily perceived that he had carried matters too far, and had reckoned
erroneously upon the feebleness and timidity of my natural disposition; he
attempted to pacify me, but his cowardly insolence had exasperated me too
highly to admit of any apology or peace-making.
“Have a care what you do,” said I, “or rather employ yourself in packing
up whatever may belong to you, for you shall quit your post whatever may
befall. In the event of the king’s death you will certainly be turned out
by his successor, and if he regain his health, he must then choose between
you and me, there can be no medium. Henceforward, you may consider me only
in the light of your mortal enemy.”
He wished to insist upon my hearing him, but I exclaimed, “Quit the room,
I wish neither to see nor hear more of you.”
The abbé saw that it was necessary to obey, he therefore bowed and
retired. Two hours afterwards he sent me the sum which I had asked of him
for my brother-in-law, accompanied by a most humble and contrite letter.
Certainly, had I only listened to the inspiration of my heart, I should
have sent back the money without touching it, and the epistle without
reading it; but my heroism did not suit comte Jean, who chanced to be
present. “Take it, take it,” cried he; “the only way of punishing a
miscreant, is to break his purse-strings. He would, indeed, have the laugh
on his side were your fit of anger to change into a fit of generosity;
besides, this may be the last we shall ever see.”
My brother-in-law and the comptroller-general were an excellent pair. I
treated the latter with silent contempt, not even replying to his letter;
this was, however, my first and only stroke of vengeance, the disastrous
events which followed did not permit me to pursue my plans for revenging
this treacherous and contemptible conduct.
This quarrel, and the defection of the worthy abbé, had the effect
of rendering me much indisposed. My illness was attributed to an excess of
sorrow for the dangerous condition of his majesty, nor did I contradict
the report; for, in truth, I did most sincerely lament the malady with
which the king was suffering, and my regrets arose far more from a feeling
of gratitude and esteem, than any self-interested calculations. It was,
therefore, in no very excellent humour that I saw the prince de Soubise
enter my apartment. You may remember that this nobleman had quitted
Trianon without saying one word to me, and since that period I had never
seen him, although he had punctually made his inquiries after the king.
When I perceived him, I could not help inquiring, with something of a
sarcastic expression, whether his majesty had been pronounced
convalescent? The prince comprehended the bitterness of the question.
“You are severe, madam,” replied he, “yet I can solemnly affirm that
circumstances, and not inclination, have kept me from your presence until
now.”
“May I believe you?” said I. “Are you quite sure you have not been
imitating the policy of the abbé Terray?” Upon which I related the
behaviour of the comptroller-general.
“Priest-like,” answered the prince.
“And is it not courtier-like also?” inquired I.
“Perhaps it may,” rejoined M. de Soubise; “for the two species of priest
and courtier so nearly resemble each other in many particulars, as to have
become well nigh amalgamated into one; but I claim your indulgence to make
me an exception to the general rule, and to class me as a soldier and a
man of honour; besides which, you are too lovely ever to be forgotten, and
your past goodness to me will ensure you my services let what may occur.”
“Well, then,” said I, extending my hand, “as a reward for your candour,
which I receive as genuine, I will request your forgiveness for any
annoyance I may have caused you on your family’s account, I ought never to
have resented any thing they have done. My presence here could not fail of
being highly disagreeable to them; however, they will soon be relieved
from that source of uneasiness, my stay draws rapidly to a close.”
The prince de Soubise, with a ready grace and obliging manner, for which I
shall ever remember him with a grateful recollection, endeavoured to
dispel my apprehensions as to the state of the king; but whilst I
acknowledged the kindness of his intention, my heart refused all comfort
in a case, which I too well knew was utterly hopeless.
The state of affairs was now so manifest, that already an obsequious crowd
beseiged the doors of the dauphin, anxious to be first in the
demonstration of their adoration of the rising sun; but the young prince,
aided by the clear-minded advice of his august spouse, refused, with
admirable prudence, to receive such premature homage; and since he was
interdicted by the physicians from visiting the royal invalid, he confined
himself within his apartments, admitting no person but a select few who
possessed his confidence.
The disappointed satellites, frustrated in their endeavours to in gratiate
themselves with the dauphin, turned their thoughts towards the comte de
Provence, imagining that this prince, spite of his extreme youth, might
have considerable influence over the mind of his brother, the dauphin. But
this idea, however plausible, was by no means correct; it was too much the
interest of ambitious and mercenary men to create a want of harmony
between the royal pair, and up to the moment in which I am writing, no
attempts have been made to produce a kinder and more fraternal feeling
between two such near relatives.
I quitted the king as little as possible, watching with deep concern the
progress of a malady, the nature of which was a secret to himself alone;
for, in the dread of incurring my displeasure, no person had ventured to
acquaint him with the awful fact. By the aid of the grand almoner, I had
triumphed over the wishes of the archbishop of Paris, and those of the
confessor. The princes and princesses awaited the event; all was calm
composure; when, all at once, the barriers I had been so carefully
erecting were crushed beneath my feet, at one sudden and unexpected blow.
The king was by no means easy in his own mind with regard to his illness.
The many messages that were continually whispered around him, the remedies
administered, and, above all, the absence of his grandsons, all convinced
him that something of a very unusual and alarming nature was progressing.
His own feelings might, likewise, well assure him that he was attacked by
an illness of no ordinary nature. Tortured beyond further bearing by the
suggestions of his fancy, Louis XV at length resolved to ascertain the
truth, and, with this intent, closely questioned Bordeu and Lemonnier, who
did their best to deceive him. Still, dissatisfied with their evasive
replies, he watched an opportunity, when they were both absent, to desire
La Martinière would at once explain the true malady with which he was then
suffering. La Martinière puzzled and confused, could only exclaim,
“I entreat of you, sire, not to fatigue yourself with conversation;
remember how strongly you have been forbidden all exertion.”
“I am no child, La Martinière,” cried Louis XV, his cheeks glowing with
increased fire; “and I insist upon being made acquainted with the precise
nature of my present illness. You have always served me loyally and
faithfully, and from you I expect to receive that candid statement every
one about me seems bent upon concealing.”
“Endeavour to get some sleep, sire,” rejoined La Martinière, “and do not
exhaust yourself by speaking at present.”
“La Martinière, you irritate me beyond all endurance. If you love me,
speak out, I conjure you, and tell me, frankly, the name of my complaint.”
“Do you insist upon it, sire?”
“I do, my friend, I do.”
“Then, sire, you have the small-pox; but be not alarmed, it is a disease
as frequently cured as many others.”
“The small-pox!” exclaimed the king, in a voice of horror; “have I indeed
that fatal disease? and do you talk of curing it?”
“Doubtless, sire; many die of it as well as other disorders, but we are
sanguine in our hopes and expectations of saving your majesty.”
The king made no reply, but, turned heavily in his bed and threw the
coverlet over his face. A silence ensued, which lasted until the return of
the physicians, when, finding they made no allusion to his condition, the
king addressed them in a cool and offended tone.
“Why,” said he, “have you concealed from me the fact of my having the
small-pox?” This abrupt inquiry petrified them with astonishment, and
unable to frame a proper reply, they stood speechless with alarm and
apprehension. “Yes,” resumed the king, “but for La Martinière, I should
have died in ignorance of my danger. I know now the state in which I am,
and before long I shall be gathered to my forefathers.”
All around him strove to combat this idea, and exerted their utmost
endeavours to persuade the royal patient that his disorder had assumed the
most favourable shape, and that not a shadow of danger was perceptible,
but in vain; for the blow had fallen, and the hapless king, struck with a
fatal presentiment of coming ill, turned a deaf ear to all they could
advance.
Bordeu, deeply concerned for what had transpired, hastened to announce to
the duc de Richelieu the turn which had taken place in the face of
affairs. Nothing could exceed the rage with which the news was received.
The duke hurried to the king’s bedside.
“Is it, indeed, true, sire,” inquired he, “that your majesty doubts of
your perfect restoration to health? May I presume to inquire whether any
circumstance has occurred to diminish your confidence in your medical
attendants?”
“Duc de Richelieu,” replied the king, looking as though he would search
into his very soul, “I have the small-pox.”
“Well,” returned the duke, “and, as I understand, of a most favourable
sort; perhaps, it might have been better that La Martinière had said
nothing about it. However, it is a malady as readily subdued by art as any
other; you must not allow yourself to feel any uneasiness respecting it,
science has now so much improved in the treatment of this malady.”
“I doubt not its ability to cure others, but me! Indeed, duc de Richelieu,
I would much rather face my old parliament than this inveterate disease.”
“Your majesty’s being able to jest is a good sign.”
At this moment, ignorant of all that had taken place, I entered the room;
for, in the general confusion, no person had informed me of it. The moment
Louis XV perceived me, he exclaimed in a hollow tone,
“Dearest countess, I have the small-pox.”
At these words a cry of terror escaped me.
“Surely, sire,” exclaimed I, “this is some wandering of your imagination,
and your medical attendants are very wrong to permit you to indulge it for
a minute.”
“Peace!” returned Louis XV; “you know not what you say. I have the
small-pox, I repeat; and, thanks to La Martinière, I now know my real
state.”
I now perceived whose hand had dealt the blow, and seeing at once all the
consequences of the disclosure, exclaimed in my anger, turning towards La
Martinière,
“You have achieved a noble work, indeed, sir; you could not restrain
yourself within the bounds of prudence, and you see the state to which you
have reduced his majesty.”
La Martinière knew not what to reply; the king undertook his defence.
“Blame him not,” said he; “but for him I should have quitted this world
like a heathen, without making my peace with an offended God.”
At these words I fainted in the arms of doctor Bordeu, who, with the aid
of my attendants, carried me to my chamber, and, at length, succeeded in
restoring me. My family crowded around me, and sought to afford me that
consolation they were in equal need of themselves.
Spite of the orders I had given to admit no person, the duc d’Aiguillon
would insist upon seeing me. He exerted his best endeavours to persuade me
to arm myself with courage, and, like a true and attached friend, appeared
to lose sight of his own approaching fall from power in his ardent desire
to serve me.
In this mournful occupation an hour passed away, and left my dejected
companions sighing over the present, and, anticipating even worse
prospects than those now before them.
CHAPTER XLIII
Perhaps no person ever entertained so great a dread of death as Louis XV,
consequently no one required to be more carefully prepared for the
alarming intelligence so abruptly communicated by La Martinière, and
which, in a manner, appeared to sign the king’s death-warrant.
To every person who approached him the despairing monarch could utter only
the fatal phrase, “I have the small-pox,” which, in his lips, was
tantamount to his declaring himself a dead man. Alas! had his malady been
confined to the small-pox, he might still have been spared to our prayers;
but, unhappily, a complication of evils, which had long been lurking in
his veins, burst forth with a violence which, united to his cruel
complaint, bade defiance to surgical or medical skill.
Yet, spite of the terror with which the august sufferer contemplated his
approaching end, he did not lose sight of the interests of the nation as
vested in the person of the dauphin, whom he positively prohibited, as
well as his other grandsons, from entering his chamber or even visiting
the part of the château he occupied. After this he seemed to divest
himself of all further care for sublunary things; no papers were brought
for his inspection, nor did he ever more sign any official document.
The next request made by Louis XV was for his daughters, who presented
themselves bathed in tears, and vainly striving to repress that grief
which burst forth in spite of all their endeavours. The king replied to
their sobs, by saying, “My children, I have the small-pox; but weep not.
These gentlemen [pointing towards the physicians] assure me they can cure
me.” But, while uttering this cheerful sentence, his eye caught the stern
and iron countenance of La Martinière, whose look of cool disbelief seemed
to deny the possibility of such an event.
With a view to divert her father from the gloom which all at once came
over his features, the princess Adélaïde informed him that she had a
letter addressed to him by her sister, madame Louise.
“Let me hear it,” cried the king; “it is, no doubt, some heavenly mission
with which she is charged. But who knows?” He stopped, but it was easy to
perceive that to the fear of death was added a dread of his well-being in
another world. Madame Adélaïde then read the letter with a low voice,
while the attendants retired to a respectful distance. All eyes were
directed to the countenance of the king, in order to read there the nature
of its contents; but already had the ravages of his fatal disease robbed
his features of every expression, save that of pain and suffering.
The princesses now took their stations beside their parent, and
established themselves as nurses, an office which, I can with truth
affirm, they continued to fill unto the last with all the devotion of the
purest filial piety.
On this same day Louis XV caused me to be sent for. I ran to his bedside
trembling with alarm. The various persons engaged in his apartment retired
when they saw me, and we were left alone.
“My beloved friend,” said the king, “I have the small-pox; I am still very
ill.”
“Nay, sire,” interrupted I, “you must not fancy things worse than they
are; you will do well, depend upon it, and we shall yet pass many happy
days together.”
“Do you indeed think so?” returned Louis XV. “May heaven grant your
prophecy be a correct one. But see the state in which I now am; give me
your hand.”
He took my hand and made me feel the pustules with which his burning
cheeks were covered. I know not what effect this touch of my hand might
have produced, but the king in his turn patted my face, pushed back the
curls which hung negligently over my brow; then, inclining me towards him,
drew my head upon his pillow. I submitted to this whim with all the
courage I could assume; I even went so far as to be upon the point of
bestowing a gentle kiss upon his forehead. But, stopping me, with a
mournful air, he said, “No, my lovely countess; I am no longer myself, but
here is a miniature which has not undergone the same change as its
unfortunate master.”
I took the miniature, which I placed with respectful tenderness in my
bosom, nor have I ever parted with it since.
This scene lasted for some minutes, after which I was retiring, but the
king called me back, seized my hand, which he tenderly kissed, and then
whispered an affectionate “Adieu.” These were the last words I ever heard
from his lips.
Upon re-entering my apartments I found madame de Mirepoix awaiting me, to
whom I related all that had taken place, expressing, at the same time, my
earnest hope of being again summoned, ere long, to the presence of my
friend and benefactor.
“Do not deceive yourself, my dear,” said she; “depend upon it you have had
your last interview; you should have employed it more profitably. His
portrait! why, if I mistake not, you have five already. Why did you
not carry about with you some deed of settlement ready for signature? he
would have denied you nothing at such a moment, when you may rest assured
he knew himself to be taking his last farewell.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed I. “And can you really suppose the king
believed he spoke to me for the last time?”
“I have not the slightest doubt of it; I have known him for many a day. He
remembers the scene of Metz, and looks upon you as forming the second
edition of the poor duchesse de Chateauroux, who, by the by, was not equal
to you in any respect.”
I burst into a fit of tears, but not of regret for having allowed my late
interview with the king to pass in so unprofitable a manner. However, the
maréchale, misconceiving the cause of this burst of grief, exclaimed,
“Come, come; it is too late now, and all your sorrow cannot recall the
last half-hour. But, mademoiselle du Barry,” continued she, “I advise you
to commence your packing up at once, that when the grand move comes you
may not in your hurry, leave anything behind you.”
These remarks increased my affliction, but the maréchale had no intention
of wounding my feelings, and worldly-minded as she was, considered all
that could be saved out of the wreck as the only subject worthy attention.
Meanwhile, comte Jean, with a gloomy and desponding air, continued
silently with folded arms to pace the room, till all at once, as if
suddenly struck by the arguments of madame de Mirepoix, he exclaimed,
“The maréchale is right”; and abruptly quitted the apartment, as if to
commence his own preparations.
Ere madame de Mirepoix had left me and she remained till a late hour, the
ducs d’Aiguillon and de Cossé arrived, who, although less experienced in
their knowledge of the king’s character, were yet fully of her opinion
respecting my last visit to him.
Scarcely had these visitors withdrawn, than I was apprized that the
chancellor of France desired to see me. He was admitted, and the first
glance of the countenance of M. de Maupeou convinced me that our day of
power was rapidly closing.
“Your servant, cousin,” said he, seating himself without the smallest
ceremony; “at what page of our history have we arrived?”
“By the unusual freedom and effrontery of your manner,” answered I, “I
should surmise that we have reached the word finis.”
“Oh,” replied the chancellor, “I crave your pardon for having omitted my
best bow; but, my good cousin, my present visit is a friendly one, to
advise you to burn your papers with as little delay as possible.”
“Thank you for your considerate counsel,” said I, coolly, “but I have no
papers to destroy. I have neither mixed with any state intrigue, nor
received a pension from the English government. Nothing will be found in
my drawers but some unanswered billets-doux.”
“Then as I can do nothing for you, my good cousin, oblige me by giving
this paper to the duc d’Aiguillon.”
“What is it?” inquired I, with much curiosity.
“Have you forgotten our mutual engagement to support each other, and not
to quit the ministry until the other retired also? I have lately been
compelled (from perceiving how deeply the duke was manoeuvering against
me) to send him a copy of this agreement. Under other circumstances I
might have availed myself of this writing, but now it matters not; the
blow which dismisses me proceeds from other hands than his, and I am
willing to leave him the consolation of remaining in power a few days
after myself. Give him, then, this useless document; and now, farewell, my
pretty cousin, let us take a last embrace.”
Upon which the chancellor, presuming until the last upon our imaginary
relationship, kissed my cheek, and having put into my hands the paper in
question, retired with a profound bow.
This ironical leave taking left me stupefied with astonishment, and well I
presaged my coming disgrace from the absurd mummery the chancellor had
thought fit to play off.
Comte Jean, who had seen M. de Maupeou quit the house, entered my
apartment to inquire the reason of his visit. Silent and dejected, I
allowed my brother-in-law to take up the paper, which he read without any
ceremony. “What is the meaning of this scrawl?” cried comte Jean, with one
of his usual oaths; “upon my word our cousin is a fine fellow,” continued
he, crushing the paper between his fingers. “I’ll engage that he still
hopes to keep his place; however, one thing consoles me, and that is, that
both he and his parliament will soon be sent to the right about.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Chamilly, who came to
acquaint me that the king was sleeping, and did not wish to be again
disturbed that night. Remembering my usual omnipotence in the château, I
was about, like a true idiot, to prove to Chamilly that the king’s
interdict did not extend to me, when I was stopped in my purpose by the
appearance of the duc d’Aiguillon; and as it was now nearly eleven o’clock
at night, I could scarcely doubt his being the bearer of some
extraordinary message.
CHAPTER XLIV
I said I did not expect the duc d’Aiguillon; and the grief which was
spread over his features, and the large tears which stood in his eyes,
persuaded me but too plainly that all hope was at an end.
“Is the king dead?” cried I, in a stifled voice.
“No, madam,” replied he, “Louis XV still lives, nor is it by any means
certain that the misfortune you apprehend is in store for us.”
“He sends me from him, then,” exclaimed I, with a convulsive cry, “and my
enemies have triumphed.”
“His majesty is but of human nature, madam,” replied the duke; “he feels
himself dangerously ill, dreads the future, and believes that he owes his
people a sort of reparation for past errors.”
“How, my lord duke,” interrupted I, “this grave language in your lips—but
no matter. Inform me only at whose desire you state these melancholy
facts; speak, I am prepared for your mission, be it what it may.”
“You shall hear everything, madam,” replied the duke, leading me to an
arm-chair. I seated myself; my sisters-in-law, my niece, and comte Jean
stood around me, eagerly waiting the duke’s communication. “A few hours
after you had been removed from his chamber, the king inquired of the
princess Adélaïde whether it were generally known at Paris that he had the
small-pox. The princess replied in the affirmative, adding:
“‘The archbishop of Paris was here twice during yesterday to inquire after
you.’
“‘Yet I belong more properly to the diocese of Chartres,’ returned the
king, ‘and surely M. de Fleury would not interest himself less about me
than M. de Beaumont.’
“‘They are both truly anxious about you, my dearest father, and if you
would only see them—’
“‘No, no,’ answered Louis XV; ‘they must not be taken from the duties of
their respective dioceses; besides, in case of need, I have my grand
almoner.’
“Madame Adélaïde did not venture to urge the matter further just then,
and, after a short interval of silence, a message was brought from you,
inquiring whether you could see the king, to which he himself replied,
that he felt inclined to sleep, and would rather not see any person that
night. I was in the chamber, and he very shortly called me to him, and
said:
“‘Duc d’Aiguillon, I have the small-pox; and you are aware that there is a
sort of etiquette in my family which enjoins my immediately discharging my
duties as a Christian.’
“‘Yes, sire, if the malady wore a serious aspect; but in your case—’
“‘May God grant,’ replied he, ‘that my disorder be not dangerous; however,
it may become so, if it is as yet harmless, and I would fain die as a
believer rather than an infidel. I have been a great sinner, doubtless;
but I have ever observed Lent with a most scrupulous exactitude. I have
caused more than a hundred thousand masses to be said for the repose of
unhappy souls; I have respected the clergy, and punished the authors of
all impious works, so that I flatter myself I have not been a very bad
Christian.’
“I listened to his discourse with a heavy heart, yet I still strove to
reassure the king respecting his health, of which, I assured him, there
was not the slightest doubt.
“‘There is one sacrifice,’ said the king, in a low and hurried tone, ‘that
my daughter Louise, her sisters, and the clergy, will not be long in
exacting from me in the name of etiquette. I recollect the scene of Metz,
and it would be highly disagreeable to me to have it repeated at
Versailles; let us, therefore, take our precautions in time to prevent it.
Tell the duchesse d’Aiguillon that she will oblige me by taking the
comtesse du Barry to pass two or three days with her at Ruel.’
“‘How, sire!’ exclaimed I, ‘send your dearest friend from you at a time
when you most require her cares?’
“‘I do not send her away,’ answered the king, with mournful tenderness, ‘I
but yield to present necessity; let her submit as she values my happiness,
and say to her, that I hope and believe her absence will be very short.’”
The duke here ceased his recital, which fully confirmed all my previous
anticipations. My female relatives sobbed aloud, while comte Jean,
compressing his lips, endeavoured to assume that firmness he did not
really possess. By a violent effort I forced myself to assume a sort of
resignation.
“Am I required to depart immediately?” inquired I.
“No,” said the duke; “to leave the château in the middle of the night
would be to assume the air of a flight, we had better await the coming
day; it will, besides, afford time to apprize the duchess.”
While the duc d’Aiguillon was thus gone to arrange for my departure, I
requested to be left alone. My heart was oppressed, and I felt the need of
venting my grief upon some friendly bosom. After a few moments, spent in
collecting my thoughts, I addressed two letters, one to the maréchale de
Mirepoix, and the other to the duc de Cossé; to the former I wrote on
account of my retirement to Ruel, bewailed the sad turn my prospects had
assumed, expressed my deep concern for the severe illness of my excellent
friend and benefactor, begging of her to defend my character from all
unjust attacks, and to allow me to be blamed for no faults but such as I
had really been guilty of. I concluded with these words, “I set out at
seven o’clock to-morrow morning; the duchesse d’Aiguillon will conduct me
to Ruel, where I shall remain until I am ordered elsewhere.”
To the duke I merely sent a short account of my present prospects, hour of
departure, etc. And, my feelings somewhat relieved by the penning of these
epistles, I threw myself upon a couch to await the morning. Upon awaking,
I received the following note from the duchesse d’Aiguillon:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE,—I owe his majesty many thanks for the pleasing,
yet mournful, task he has allotted me. Your kindness to my family,
independently of my private regard for you, gives you the surest claim of
my best services during this afflicting period. Let me beseech of you not
to despair, but cheerfully anticipate brighter days.
“I will call for you at seven o’clock, and if you approve of it, we will
use my carriage. Ruel is entirely at your disposal and that of your
family.”
This note was truly characteristic of its amiable writer, who at court
passed for a cold-hearted, frigid being, whilst, in reality, the warm
feelings of her excellent heart were reserved for her chosen friends.
I have never admired those general lovers who profess to love every one,
nor do I feel quite sure it is a very strong recommendation to say a
person is beloved by all who know her. Read, now, a striking contrast to
the short but sympathizing billet of madame d’Aiguillon, in the following
heartless letter f rom the maréchale de Mirepoix, which was put into my
hands as I was ascending the carriage.
“MY LOVELY COUNTESS,—I am all astonishment! Can it be possible that
you are to quit Versailles? You are right in saying you have been the
friend of every one, and those who could speak ill of you are to be pitied
for not having had better opportunities of understanding your real
character. But fear not, the dauphiness is virtue personified, and the
dauphin equally perfect. Every thing promises a peaceful and indulgent
reign, should we have the misfortune to lose his present majesty. Still
there will always be a great void left at Versailles; as far as I am
concerned, I have passed so much of my time with you, that I cannot
imagine what I shall do with my evenings; it will cost me much of my age
to alter habits and customs now so long fixed and settled, but such is
life; nothing certain, nothing stable. We should imitate cats in our
attachments, and rather identify ourselves with the house than the
possessor of it. I trust you have secured an ample provision for the
future; neglect not the present, to-morrow may come in vain for you.
“Be sure you let me know the spot to which you permanently retire, and I
will endeavour to see you as frequently as my engagements will admit of.”
“Adieu, ma belle petite.”
Spite of the bitterness of my feelings, this letter drew a smile to my
lips; the allusion to cats which had escaped the maréchale exactly applied
to her own character, of which I had been warned before I became
acquainted with her; but her protestations of warm and unutterable
attachment had gained my confidence, and I allowed myself to be guided
implicitly by her.
The duchesse d’Aiguillon was waiting for me while I perused the above
letter; at length, with a sigh, I prepared to quit that palace of delights
where I had reigned absolute mistress. I cast a mournful look around me,
on those splendid walks, fountains and statues, worthy the gardens of
Armida, but where there reigned, at this early hour, a sort of gloomy
silence; whilst, in that chamber where love had well nigh deified me and
recognised me as queen of France, lay extended the monarch so lately my
protector and friend.
It was the Wednesday of the fifth of May that I took my seat in the
carriage of the duchesse d’Aiguillon accompanied by my sister-in-law and
the vicomtesse Adolphe, who would not forsake me. Bischi remained with
madame d’Hargicourt, whose duties detained her with the comtesse d’Artois.
Her husband also remained at Versailles, while comte Jean and his son
proceeded to Paris. I will not attempt to describe the emotions with which
I quitted my magnificent suite of apartments, and traversed the halls and
staircases already crowded by persons anxiously awaiting the first
intimation of the king’s decease. I was wrapped in my pelisse, and
effectually eluded observation. It has been said that I left Versailles at
four o’clock in the morning, but that was a mere invention on the part of
my servants to baffle the curiosity of those who might have annoyed me by
their presence.
We pursued our way in mournful reflection, whilst madame d’Aiguillon, with
her wonted goodness, sought by every means to distract me from the
dejection in which I was buried. Her husband, who remained with the king,
engaged to write me a true account of all that transpired during my
absence, and I shall very shortly present you with a specimen of the
fidelity with which he performed his promise. The duchess did the honours
of Ruel.
“Here,” said she, “the great cardinal Richelieu loved to repose himself
from the bustle and turmoil of a court.”
“I think,” answered I, “it would have been less a favourite with his
eminence had it been selected for his abode on the eve of his disgrace.”
Immediately upon my arrival I retired to bed, for fatigue had so
completely overpowered me that I fell into a heavy slumber, from which I
did not awake till the following day; when I found the duchesse
d’Aiguillon, my sister-in-law, Geneviève Mathon, and Henriette, seated by
my bed: the sight of them was cheering and gratifying proof of my not
being as yet abandoned by all the world.
I arose, and we were just about to take our places at table, when madame
de Forcalquier arrived. I must confess that her presence was an agreeable
surprise to me; I was far from reckoning on her constancy in friendship,
and her present conduct proved her worthy of her excellent friend, madame
Boncault, whose steady attachment I had so frequently heard extolled. The
sight of her imparted fresh courage to me, and I even resumed my usual
high spirits, and in the sudden turn my ideas had taken, was childish
enough to express my regrets for the loss of my downy and luxurious bed at
Versailles, complaining of the woful difference between it and the one I
had slept on at Ruel.
The duchesse d’Aiguillon, who must have pitied the puerility of such a
remark, gently endeavoured to reconcile me to it by reminding me that both
the marquise de Pompadour and the cardinal de Richelieu had reposed upon
that very couch.
I endeavoured to return some sportive reply, but my thoughts had flown
back to Versailles, and my momentary exhilaration was at an end. Tears
rose to my eyes and choked my attempts at conversation; I therefore begged
the duchess would excuse me, and retired to my apartment until I could
compose myself; but the kind and attentive friend to whose hospitality I
was then confided needed no further mention of my hard couch, but caused
the best bed Ruel contained to be prepared for me by the time I again
pressed my pillow.
This same evening brought M. de Cossé, who could no longer repress his
impatience to assure me of his entire devotion. He appeared on this
occasion, if possible, more tender and more respectful in his manner of
evincing it than ever.
We supped together without form or ceremony, the party consisting of
mesdames d’Aiguillon, de Forcalquier, and myself, mademoiselle du Barry,
and the vicomtesse Adolphe, the prince de Soubise and the duc de Cossé.
But the meal passed off in sorrowful silence; each of us seemed to abstain
from conversation as though the slightest remark might come fraught with
some painful allusion. On the following day I received the letter from the
duc d’Aiguillon which you will find in the following chapter.
CHAPTER XLV
“My much esteemed friend,—I promised you upon your departure to
inform you of all that transpired, and although the task is a mournful
one, I will do my best to acquit myself with zeal and sincerity, and each
evening I will write you an exact detail of all that has occurred during
the day. The king remains much as you left him, and you must know that
already his medical attendants differ in their opinion respecting him—Lemonnier
utterly despairing of his recovery, while Bordeu is most sanguine that he
shall be enabled to restore him to health. La Martinière persists in his
assertion that the attention of the king should be immediately directed to
his spiritual concerns. The archbishop of Paris remains until called for
in the ante-chamber, and the princesses never leave the bedside of their
august parent.
“The king spoke with me concerning you for some time this morning, and I
can assure you, you are the first object in his thoughts; he has begged of
me never to forsake you, and has deigned to repose in me the enviable post
of your future protector. ‘I bequeath my beloved friend to your fidelity,’
added the suffering prince. I took advantage of this opportunity to remark
that I looked upon your quitting Versailles as too precipitate and
premature a step. ‘No, no,’ replied the king, ‘I have acted for the best;
I have once been deceived as to my condition, and I would willingly
prevent being again taken by surprise. Tell my beloved and excellent
countess how truly I love her’; and hearing the prince de Soubise mention
his design of supping at Ruel, he charged him to embrace you for him.
“The dauphin still remains secluded in his apartment, but I know that he
keeps up a regular correspondence with madame Victoire, whose letters,
after being immersed in vinegar, are carried to the comte de Muy, who
fumigates them previously to allowing them to reach the hands of the
dauphin.
“I am, etc., etc.
“VERSAILLES, May 5, 1774, nine o’clock, evening.”
Upon awaking the following morning I again received news of the king, who
was stated to have passed a good night, and even La Martinière seemed
inclined to hope. As yet, then, there were no safe grounds for abandoning
me, and about two o’clock in the afternoon I was favoured with a visit
from madame de Mirepoix, who, running up to me, exclaimed with her usual
vivacity,
“Oh, my dear creature, how I longed to see you!” and then leading me into
another chamber, she added,
“Do you know I quite missed you? As I wrote you, my time hung heavily on
my hands. What in the world will become of me if I am compelled to resign
the delightful hours granted to the envied few who are permitted the entrée
to the petits appartements? For you see, my dear, the dauphiness
will be far from bestowing that honour upon me. I am too old to form one
of her coterie, and I shall be laid aside like the rest of the antiquities
of the château. By the way,” continued the voluble maréchale, “there is
already a great cabal in the château respecting the formation of a new
ministry, in which, besides desiring lucrative posts for themselves, all
are anxious to introduce their private friends; in the midst of so many
absorbing interests you appear to be already forgotten, which, by the way,
is no bad thing for you. Your best plan is to remain perfectly tranquil.”
Then rapidly passing to her most prevailing idea, this excellent friend
proceeded to inquire what the king had bestowed on me as a parting
present, “for,” said she, “he would not certainly permit you to leave
Versailles empty-handed.”
“It is a point,” replied I, “that neither his majesty nor myself once
thought of.”
“Then such an omission proves him a vile egotist, and you a prodigious
simpleton,” answered she; “and were I in your place, I would commission
the duc d’Aiguillon to make a direct demand of a future provision for you;
you really should see about this, and secure to yourself a noble
establishment for yourself and your friends, who ought not to suffer for
your overstrained delicacy. Look at the duc de Choiseul, who has kept a
regular court at Chanteloup, and never wanted for a train of courtiers at
it.”
After this lesson of worldly wisdom, the excellent maréchale gave me a
friendly kiss, returned to her carriage, and I saw her no more during my
stay at Ruel.
The evening brought with it a second letter from the duc d’Aiguillon, it
was as follows:—
“MADAM,—I hasten to acquaint you with the pleasing information of
his majesty being considerably better; his strength appears to have
returned, and he himself, in the consciousness of improving health,
expressed aloud his regret for having been so hasty in advising your
removal from him. He has continually repeated, ‘How weak and selfish of me
thus to afflict my dearest countess! would you not advise me, my friend,
to request her immediate return?’ Of course, my reply was in the
affirmative. His majesty then put the same question to the duc de
Richelieu, who answered, that in his opinion it was the best plan he could
decide upon. The bulletin signed by the different physicians accompanies
this: it leaves me nothing to add but to recommend your bearing with
patience this temporary absence from court, to which you will ere long
return, more idolized, more sought after, than ever. The duc de la
Vrillière and the abbé Terray present the assurance of their unbounded
respect and devotion, etc., etc.”
The duchess, my sister-in-law, and niece shared in joy at such gratifying
intelligence, and the ensuing day brought a concourse of visitors to Ruel;
indeed, any one might have supposed that fresh swarms of flatterers and
courtiers had been created only to swell my numbers of humble and
obsequious adorers. I bestowed on each unmeaning guest a smiling welcome,
for indeed, my heart was too light and I felt too happy to be enabled to
frown even upon those who, when the storm appeared near, had basely
deserted me.
It was amusing enough to see with what zeal any person, whom I had
previously recommended was assisted by the various ministers in the
pursuit of their object; the petit saint found himself all at once
at leisure to pay his respects to me. He confirmed all the kind messages
sent me by the king through the duc d’Aiguillon. Madame de Mirepoix, who
had visited me the preceding evening, reserved her next call for the
following day, but a few hours effected a cruel change in my fortune.
CHAPTER XLVI
The account received in the evening from the duc d’Aiguillon I shall not
transcribe, as it was merely a repetition of the good tidings of the
morning. The day following still brought a continuation of favorable
accounts, but the next letter was in these words:—
“MADAM, AND MOST HONORED FRIEND,—Arm yourself with courage; the king
is extremely ill, and I ought not to conceal from you that serious
apprehensions are entertained for his life; he has passed a wretched
night, His daughters, who never quitted his bedside, whispered to him that
the archbishop of Paris and his grand almoner were in the anteroom if he
desired to see them. The king did not seem to hear their words, but about
three o’clock in the morning he called the duc de Duras, whom he bade
inquire whether M. Mandoux were in the château; and, if so, to apprize him
he wished to speak with him.
“At these words the princesses and all who heard them burst into a fit of
weeping, which was only interrupted by the arrival of the confessor, who,
approaching the bedside of the penitent, held a conference with him of
nearly a quarter of an hour: this being concluded, the king, in a low and
firm voice, inquired for his almoner. The latter soon presented himself,
anxious to discharge the duties of his sacred office. His majesty kept
continually repeating to his afflicted children, ‘My daughters, why should
what I am now about to do agitate or alarm you? You are well aware, that
having the small-pox, the etiquette established in my family compels me to
receive the last solemn rites of the church, and I but acquit myself of an
obligation in submitting to it.’
“The tone in which the king spoke convinced his attendants that he rather
strove to re-assure himself than his children, by the persuasion that the
receiving extreme unction was not so much the consequence of his own
dangerous state as a mere act of obedience to an established custom. It
was then decided that the sacred ceremony should take place at seven
o’clock in the morning; and here arose some little embarrassment; the
ecclesiastics insisting upon the necessity of the king’s making some
striking and open atonement for what they were pleased to term the scandal
of his private life.
“The king’s chamber now presented a picture at once solemn and gloomy.
Grouped together on one side the bed might be seen the different noblemen
in attendance upon his majesty; a little removed stood the clergy,
concealed from the invalid by the closely-drawn curtains; in the midst of
these contending parties were the princesses going from one to the other,
vainly seeking by mild and gentle mediation to produce a satisfactory
arrangement. It was at length understood, that, on account of the extreme
weakness of the invalid, the grand almoner should pronounce in his name a
kind of honorable apology for past offences.
“You can scarcely imagine, madam, the universal consternation spread
throughout the château by the information that the king was about to
receive the last rites of his church. The terror and alarm became
overpowering for a while, but subsiding into a more religious feeling
crowds of persons followed with solemn reverence the holy procession as it
passed along, bearing the holy sacrament to the expiring monarch. At the
moment when it was administered the grand almoner, turning towards all
present, pronounced the following words in the king’s name:—
“‘Gentlemen, the weakness of his majesty preventing him from expressing
himself, he has commanded me to inform you, that although he is
responsible to God alone for his conduct, he yet regrets having caused any
scandal to his people by the irregularities of his life, that he sincerely
repents of his sins, and, should Providence restore him to life purposes
living henceforward in all the virtue and morality of his youth, in the
defence and maintenance of religion, in preserving a true faith, and in
watching over the best interests of his people.’
“Yours, madam, etc., etc.”
I learned also, through another channel, that (according to custom) forty
hours’ prayer had been enjoined in every church in France to implore the
mercy of heaven for the king. I heard too that the shrine of Saint
Geneviève had been displayed for the veneration of true believers.
I passed a miserable night, dreaming of graves, winding-sheets, and
funeral-torches, from which I only awoke to receive the morning’s
despatches. Alas! the news but confirmed the distressing state of the
king. The very solitude in which I was left at Ruel might alone have
served to convince me of my misfortune; for, with the exception of the duc
de Cossé, no person came near us. M. de Cossé invited me to walk with him
in the garden; I accepted the arm of this noble friend, and we directed
our steps towards the wood. When we were there secure from interruption,
the duke inquired what were my plans for the future?
“How can I tell you,” answered I; “what is henceforward to be my fate is
better known to our future queen than to myself.”
“That is precisely what I dread,” replied M. de Cossé. “Unfortunately you
have deeply offended the queen elect, who has irritated her husband’s mind
against you; and then the Choiseul faction will, in all probability, come
into power.”
“I see all this,” returned I, “and am prepared for whatever may happen.”
“I admire your calmness in a moment like the present,” cried the duke;
“but have a care. Perhaps the best thing would be to remove you beyond the
reach of the first shock of court displeasure. In your place I would
request passports from the duc d’Aiguillon and travel into England.”
“Oh, speak not of such a thing, I conjure you,” interrupted I; “I have a
horror of such journeys, and would much rather trust to the generosity of
the dauphiness. She is about to become a great queen, while I shall be a
creature so humiliated and abased, that the very difference between our
situations will be a sufficient vengeance in her eyes.”
We returned to the house, and had scarcely entered, when M. de Palchelbel,
plenipotentiary to the prince des Deux Ponts, was announced.
“M. de Palchelbel,” cried I, extending my hand, “what good wind brings you
here?”
“I have been honoured by the commands of the prince, my master, madam,”
replied he, “to bring you the assurances of his unalterable friendship;
and to say further, that whenever you feel dissatisfied with your
residence in France, you will find at Deux Ponts an asylum, which the most
earnest endeavors of the prince, my gracious patron, will strive to render
agreeable to you.”
I was much affected by this mark of generous regard on the part of prince
Charles Auguste; and, turning quickly towards the duke, I exclaimed,
“What think you of all this? Will you henceforward believe those
self-dubbed philosophers, who assert that friendship is unknown to
royalty? You have here a proof of the contrary. For my own part, M. de
Palchelbel,” continued I, turning towards the minister, “I am much
gratified by your message, and entreat of you to thank his royal highness
most sincerely for me. I will write to him myself on the subject, but beg
of you to repeat that, kind as are his offers, I cannot accept of them;
but shall certainly remain in France until the new sovereign commands or
permits me to quit it.”
I afterwards repeated to the minister of Deux Ponts what I had previously
stated in the garden to M. de Cossé, and had the satisfaction of hearing
madam d’Aiguillon approve of my sentiments.
When I retired to my apartment I was followed by my niece.
“How happy are you, dear aunt,” said she, “to preserve such friends in
your present troubles.”
“I owe them,” replied I, “to my simplicity and candor.”
“Will you not retire to Germany?”
“Certainly not,” answered I.
“Yet it would be better to allow the first burst of displeasure on the
part of the dauphiness to pass over.”
“Who gave you this counsel, my dear niece? I am quite sure it does not
originate in yourself.”
“I had promised not to tell,” answered she; “but if you insist upon it, I
must confess, that I was persuaded by the prince de Condé and M. de
Soubise to urge you to follow it.”
“Do they then wish for my absence?” inquired I, angrily.
“Only for your own sake, dearest aunt.”
“I thank them; but my resolution is formed to commit myself entirely to
Providence in this melancholy affair.”
The day passed on; and with feverish impatience I waited the arrival of
the next courier: he came, at length, and confirmed my worst fears; the
king was entirely given over by his physicians, and his dissolution was
hourly expected. The letter containing this mournful tidings concluded
thus:—
“I have just seen comte Jean, he is here incognito. We had entirely
forgotten that passports would be necessary; however, I have now furnished
him with four for England, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland. The count is
far from partaking of your sense of security, and is wisely anxious (as I
think) of shielding himself from the first burst of royal vengeance. The
duchess has informed me of your refusal of an asylum at Deux Ponts; and,
while I admire your courage, permit me to add, that you should rather have
listened to the dictates of prudence than magnanimity under present
circumstances.”
The following morning, at an early hour, comte Jean entered my chamber,
saying,
“I understand the king is dead; have you heard anything of it?”
“Were the report correct,” answered I, “I should have known it ere the
intelligence reached Paris.”
“Well, living or dead, I am advised to keep out of the way; and this night
will see me on my journey from Paris. Will you accompany me?”
“No,” I replied I; “I have refused travelling with a much more creditable
companion than yourself.”
“There you are wrong then; for, depend upon it, a cloister will be your
fate; at any rate my business here is at an end. The new monarch is young,
and attached to his wife, and my daughter-in-law is too great a simpleton
to be turned to any account at court.”
My brother-in-law then requested I would furnish him with money. I gave
him what I had, and placed in his hands diamonds to the value of 30,000
francs. He was very anxious to obtain all my jewels, under pretence of
conveying them safely out of the kingdom, but this I was too wise to agree
to; he would have staked them at the first gaming-table he met with. We
separated without much emotion on either side. He next took leave of Chon
and his daughter-in-law. The former wept bitterly, for she was a most
excellent and amiable girl—but the latter, who knew but too much of
the villainy of her father-in-law, could scarcely repress her joy at his
departure. Comte Jean perceived it; and, according to his brutal custom,
indulged in a coarse jest at her expense; for one of his maxims was to
hold all women in sovereign contempt but such as could be useful to him.
For my own part, his absence gave me something like pleasure; his presence
was wearisome to me; it was like the dregs of the cup which had
intoxicated my senses.
During the day several false reports arrived of the death of the king; but
at length, about half past four o’clock in the afternoon, I received the
following letter:—
“MADAM,-You have lost your best friend and I an excellent master: at three
clock this day his majesty breathed his last. I can scarcely describe to
you the horrors of his death-bed. The princesses Adélaïde and Sophie
braved the frightful contagion to the last and never quitted him till the
last spark had flown. Alas! with the exception of themselves, every
attendant openly expressed their weariness and disgust.
“For several days the physicians have forbidden the windows to be opened;
and those condemned to inhale the pestilential vapor of the room vainly
sought to counteract them by every powerful fumigation. Alas, madam, what
is a king when he can no longer grasp the sceptre? How great a leveller is
death! The prelates abandoned the sick chamber, and left a simple curé of
the chapel to take their place; the lords in waiting and other officers
shrunk from the duties of their office, and with their eyes fixed on a
time-piece eagerly awaited the hour which should free them from it. The
princesses, who perceived this impatience, durst make no complaint, while
the king, occasionally recovering his senses, uttered broken sentences,
expressive of the religious terror which had seized his mind. At length,
at a few minutes past three o’clock, Lemonnier, in his capacity of first
physician, said, after laying his hand upon the heart of the patient, and
placing a glass before his lips, ‘The king is dead.’ At these words all
present strove with indecent haste to quit the chamber; not a single sigh,
not one regret was heard. The princesses were carried insensible to their
apartments.
“The extinction of a bougie which had been placed in a certain
window, announced the accession of the dauphin ere the duc d’Aumont had
informed him of the decease of his august grandsire.”
This letter wrung from me some bitter tears, as well for the king, who had
so lavishly bestowed his affections upon me, as for myself. What would now
be my fate? Alas! I knew not; all my brilliant prospects were buried in
the coffin of my late protector.
The duc d’Aiguillon arrived at Ruel about midnight; he, as well as the
other ministers who had been about the late monarch during his last
illness, being prohibited by etiquette from following the present monarch
to Choisy, whither the whole of the royal family had retired for a few
days. He told us that the duc d’Aumont, having commanded La Martinière to
proceed with the embalming of the royal corpse, that physician replied,
“Certainly, my lord, it shall be done if you command it, but, in that
case, the duties of your office compel you to receive his majesty’s bowels
in a golden dish; and I protest, that such is the state of the body, that
of all who may assist at the operation, not one will survive eight days.
It is for your grace to determine what shall be done.”
M. d’Aumont thought no more of embalming his late master, but gave orders
for the body being immediately placed in a leaden coffin, from which here
still issued frightful effluvia.
Up to the moment of my quitting Ruel madame de Mirepoix gave me no token
of recollection: I heard that herself and the prince de Beauvau were
reconciled, and for her sake I rejoiced at it. No person came near us the
whole of the day with the exception of M. de Cossé, and I sat in hourly
expectation of some order from court. At length we descried a travelling
carriage with six horses, proceeding at a rapid pace up the avenue. “I
know that livery,” exclaimed I; “‘tis that of my humble adorer, my
obsequious slave, my friend at court, the duc de la Vrillière, commonly
called le petit saint. You see that the good soul could not
delegate to another the pleasing task of arresting me; but permit me to
retire to my apartment; it is fitting he should seek me there if he has
any communication to make to me.” The duchess, approved my resolution; and
the duc de la Vrillière having been introduced into the salon, after the
first compliments, requested to see me, that he might acquaint me with the
king’s pleasure.
Mademoiselle du Barry undertook to inform me of the duke’s arrival.
“You were not mistaken, dear sister,” said she; “the duc de la Vrillière
is the bearer of the king’s orders respecting you: but compose yourself, I
beseech you.”
“Fear not,” said I; “I am as calm as you would have me. Tell the vile
dissembler, I mean the duke, I await him.”
M. Tartuffe was but a faint copy of le petit saint as he presented
himself before me. His manners still retained part of their former
servility, but there was a lurking smile about him, which proved how well
he was pleased with the part he had to perform.
He approached me with lingering steps and an air of mysterious importance,
while a sort of sardonic grin contradicted the sorrow he endeavored to
force into his countenance. For my own part, I caused the folding-doors to
be thrown open, and advancing ceremoniously, stood to receive the orders
of the king. I bowed stiffly and silently; and, with something like a
malicious satisfaction, I witnessed the embarrassment into which my cool
and collected manner threw him.
“Madam,” said he at last, “I have a painful duty to perform: in a word, I
am the bearer of a lettre de cachet.”
“Well, sir!” said I, tranquilly.
“Madam, I must request you to believe how greatly I regret the task
imposed upon me; but my duty and obedience to the king—”
“Would enable you to strangle your nearest relative. All that is well
known; but, in the name of all that is base, cowardly, and unmanly, could
no one but you be found to remind a distressed and afflicted woman
that she has lost her only friend and support?”
“Madam, I repeat, obedience—necessity—”
“Enough, sir; I pity you.”
“Madam, you outrage the king in my person.”
“No, sir; I respect the king too highly to believe that there could ever
be any relation between him and one who is too contemptible to remind me
that he was but a few days back the most cringing of my servile slaves.”
Le petit saint, boiling with rage, with an unsteady hand, unfolded
and read, in a trembling voice, the following words:
“MADAME LA COMTESSE Du Barry,—For reasons, which have for their
object the preservation of the tranquillity of my kingdom, and the
prevention of any state secrets confided to you being promulgated, I send
this order for your immediate removal to Pont aux Dames,
accompanied by one female attendant only, and under the escort of the
exempt who has the necessary orders. This measure is by no means intended
to be either disagreeable or of long duration. I therefore pray God to
have you in his holy keeping,
“(Signed) Louis.”
“That, madam,” continued the duke, “is his majesty’s pleasure, and you
have nothing to do but to submit.”
“Your advice was not asked, my lord,” returned I; “I honor and obey the
king’s slightest wish, but your presence is no longer requisite; you will
therefore be pleased to rid me of it.”
The duke, resuming his air of mock humility, bowed low, and departed.
When I was alone, I must confess a few tears escaped me, but I soon wiped
them away; my resolution was taken.
The duchesse d’Aiguillon and my female friends hastened to question me
relative to the duke’s visit. I showed them the lettre de cachet,
which confirmed the misfortune they had suspected from seeing Hamond, who
was to be my escort, waiting in the anteroom to conduct me to the abbey of
Pont aux Dames, near Meaux, the place of my exile. They all evinced
the utmost sorrow, and both Chon and my niece protested that with the
king’s permission, they would willingly attend me in my seclusion. I felt
grateful for this mark of attachment; then sending for the exempt, I
inquired whether I might be allowed sufficient time to write a letter, and
cause a few necessary preparations to be made? “Madam,” replied he, “my
only orders are to accompany you to Pont aux Dames, the hour of
departure is left to yourself.”
I then penned a few hasty lines to the king, indicative of my wishes for
the happiness and prosperity of his reign, of my ready obedience to his
commands, and of my earnest wishes that my sister-in-law and niece might
be permitted to visit me. This letter I was promised should be punctually
delivered. I had now the painful duty to perform of choosing between
Henriette and Geneviève, as only one attendant was allowed me at Pont
aux Dames. Henriette pleaded her claim as my servant, while the
excellent Geneviève timidly urged her early friendship.
“Let chance decide it,” cried I. They drew lots, and Geneviève was
selected.
We reached Pont aux Dames in the middle of the night; it was a miserable
looking place, which took its date from the time of Saint Louis or
Charlemagne for ought I know. What a contrast met my eyes between this
ruinous old building, its bare walls, wooden seats, and gloomy casements,
and the splendor of Versailles or Choisy; all my firmness forsook me, I
threw myself weeping into the arms of Geneviève.
A courier-had announced my intended arrival, and I found all the good
sisters impatient to see me. What eager curiosity did the pious nuns
evince to behold one of whom they had heard so much even in their quiet
retreat, and how many questions had I to reply to from those who had the
courage to address me. Alas! I, of all the throng assembled, was the most
anxious for quiet and solitude.
I was lodged in the best apartments, which, however magnificent the good
people of Pont aux Dames might consider them, were not on a par
with the granaries of Lucienne. But complaint was useless, and I could
only resign myself to what was offered me.