CHAPTER XXX.
FALL OF DE MONTESPAN
ABOUT this time Madame de Maintenon announced to the King that she had received a mission from Heaven to convert him from the error of his ways. "I was brought to Court miraculously for this purpose; God willed it," she writes to her daughter. Singularly enough, this conviction of her mission coincided with the absence of Madame de Montespan at the baths of Bourbon.
Louis had come to view these temporary absences as a relief. He had grown somewhat weary of the once-adored Marquise. He inclined to think the society of Madame de Maintenon preferable. In her company the charms of friendship exceeded the delights of love. She was leading him up to Heaven by an easy path strewn with flowers. Conscious as he was of his past sins, he yet liked the process of repentance.
The apartments of Madame de Maintenon at Versailles, on the same floor as his own, were well placed for constant intercourse. They no longer exist, but the situation is identified as having been near the south wing, contiguous to his own suite, which was separated from that of the Queen by the Salle de l'Œil de Bœuf, a corridor, and some smaller rooms.
The affection of her pupil, the Duc de Maine, and the esteem and approval of the Queen, strengthened Madame de Maintenon's position. Maria Theresa quite venerated the ci-devant Veuve Scarron.
Maria Theresa, who refused to doubt La Vallière's purity, and who long defended the virtue of Madame de Montespan, was born to be a dupe. Her unsuspicious nature fell an easy prey to the duplicity of Madame de Maintenon, who would have imposed on a stronger-minded person than the guileless Queen. The King carefully intensified these good impressions. He confided to his consort the conviction of Madame de Maintenon that he would infallibly be "damned" if he did not cleave to herself alone, and live with her in love and unity. Such words from the lips of her august husband, whom she had all her life worshipped too entirely to have dared to appropriate to herself, won the Queen's whole heart. Never had she been so blessed. Her Olympian spouse spent hours beside her; his conduct was exemplary. Maria Theresa, overcome by the weight of her obligations to the wily gouvernante, treated her with the utmost distinction. She joined with the King in appointing her lady in waiting to the new Dauphine.
By-and-by Madame de Montespan, having finished her course of drinking and bathing at Bourbon, returned. That the waters had agreed with her was evident. Her eyes were more voluptuous, her aspect more enticing than ever. For a time the King's conviction of Madame de Maintenon's mission wavered; he forgot his salvation.
Madame de Maintenon, invested with the authority of a Christian prophetess, denounced his apostacy. Madame de Montespan was furious; quarrels ensued between herself and Madame de Maintenon, in which the choleric, frank-spoken sinner was over-ruled by the crafty saint. The King, called in as umpire, decided always in favour of the latter; she could clothe her wrongs in such eloquent language, she was so specious, so plausible, she continued to identify herself so entirely with his salvation, that he again became repentant. His coldness towards herself increased. This rival, the governess of her children, insulted Madame la Marquise de Montespan. Her fury knew no bounds. She felt that her fall was approaching; that the ground on which she stood was undermined. She denounced her treacherous governess to the King; she declared that the Veuve Scarron had not been immaculate. She even caused a pamphlet to be printed in which names, places, dates, and details were given. She showed it to the King; Louis shook his head, and replied that she had herself defended her protégée so ably that he was unalterably convinced of her virtue. The Marquise de Montespan was bowed out of Versailles.
The influence of Madame de Maintenon changed the atmosphere of the Court. A holy calm succeeded to strife and agitation. Gallantry, gambling, intrigues, and women no longer formed the staple of general conversation. Religious discussions, theological disputes, and ecclesiastical gossip became the fashion. Anecdotes of the various Court confessors were discussed in the Œil de Bœuf with extraordinary eagerness. The priest of Versailles was a more important personage than a royal duke; Bossuet had more influence than Louvois; Père la Chaise overtopped the great Louis himself. The Court ladies became decided prudes, rolled their eyes sanctimoniously, wore lace kerchiefs, renounced rouge, and rarely smiled. No whisper of scandal profaned the royal circle. His Majesty was subdued and serene, assiduous in the affairs of religion, and constant in his attendance on his comely directress.
On the 30th July, 1683, the Queen died. She expired in the arms of Madame de Maintenon. On her death-bed she gave her the nuptial ring which she had received from his Majesty. This gift was significant.
The concealed ambition of Madame de Maintenon, her greed of dominion, the insolence of the inferior about to revenge the wrongs suffered in her obscurity, a sense, too, of her own power, now roused her to grasp that exalted position which, even while the Queen lived, had tempted her imagination. Now began a system of coquetry, so refined, as to claim the distinction of a fine art. The lady is forty-five, and looks young and fresh for her age; her hair is still black and glossy; her forehead smooth, her skin exquisitely white; her figure lissom and upright, if ample. There is a hidden fire in her stealthy eyes; a grandeur in her bearing, that charms while it imposes. Not all the vicissitudes of her chequered career can wash out the blood of the D'Aubignés which flows in her veins. The old King is desperately in love with her. It is the first time in his life he has encountered any opposition to his will. There is a novelty in the sensation wonderfully enthralling. The conquest of a lady who can thus balk him acquires an enormous importance in his eyes. He has run the fortune of war both at home and abroad; he has carried fortresses by storm, assailed the walls of great cities; he has conquered in the open plain; but here is a female citadel that is impregnable. His attack and her defence are conducted in daily interviews, lasting six, and even ten hours. If he can win her, he feels too that his salvation is insured. A life of repentance passed with such an angel, is a foretaste of celestial bliss. There is something sublime in the woman who can reconcile earth with heaven, and satisfy his longings in time and eternity.
Suddenly Madame de Maintenon announces her intention of leaving the Court for ever.
The King who occupies his usual place in her saloon, sitting in an arm-chair placed between the door leading into the antechamber and the chimney-piece, listens with speechless dismay.
Madame de Maintenon, who sits opposite to him, on the other side of the chimney-piece, in a recess hung with red damask, a little table before her, stitches calmly at the tapestry she holds in her hand. She affects not to observe him, and continues speaking in a full firm voice. "My mission is accomplished, Sire. I have been permitted to be the humble instrument of leading your Majesty to higher and holier thoughts. Your peace with Heaven is now made. I desire to retire, leaving my glorious work complete."
"What, madame! Do I hear aright? You propose to leave me? – me, a solitary man, to whom your society is indispensable?" There is a deep longing in the King's eye as it rests upon her, a tremulous solicitude in his manner that she observes with secret joy.
"Sire, I implore you to allow me to depart. I yearn for repose. I have remained at Court greatly against my will, solely for your advantage."
"Remain always," murmurs the King, contemplating her fondly; "my life – my happiness – my very being is bound up in you. Deprived of you, I may again fall into deadly sin. Do not forsake me."
These last words are spoken in a whisper, full of tenderness. He rises from his arm-chair and approaches her. Madame de Maintenon looks at him sharply; then moves her chair backwards. Louis stops midway and gazes at her timidly. He returns to his arm-chair, and sighs profoundly.
"Impossible, your Majesty," replies the Marquise stiffly, arranging the folds of her dress. "I repeat, my task is done. The Court is reformed, your salvation secure. But, while benefiting others, I have exposed myself to calumny. Sire, I am called your mistress. I am branded as the successor of Madame de Montespan."
"What villain has dared to assail your immaculate virtue? Tell me who he is, and there is no punishment he shall not suffer," and the King's face flushes scarlet. There is the old look of command upon his brow – the old decision in his manner.
"Sire," answers Madame de Maintenon quietly, "such passion is unnecessary. I am not worthy of it. I have already done all that is needful, let me go. I can serve you no longer."
"You are worthy, madame, of all that a man – that a monarch can lay at your feet," cries Louis with enthusiasm. A cynical smile plays upon her full-lipped mouth while the King speaks.
"I am at least worthy of respect, Sire. The suspicion of impurity is intolerable. I cannot bear it; I must go."
"You are too hurried, dearest madame," returns the King; "too impressionable. Whatever observations may be aroused by our intimacy, and my well-known attachment to you, they should not annoy you. Your character is an all-sufficient defence."
"Ah, Sire, this is not sufficient. I must fly from even the semblance of suspicion. You are a single man, I am a widow. I must leave Versailles. Your Majesty cannot wish me to remain, to become an object of contempt."
"Contempt? Impossible!" exclaims Louis abruptly. "No woman whom I, the King of France, have loved, has ever suffered contempt."
No sooner were these words out of his mouth, than the King had reason to repent having uttered them. The outraged prude burst into a flood of tears. After all, was her crafty scheming to be in vain? Would Louis not understand that as a wife – and a wife only – she would remain?
"Ah, Sire," sobs she with genuine sorrow, "is this the return you make for my too great devotion to your Majesty's salvation? I, who have led you step by step towards that Deity, whose wrath your transgressions had so justly incensed? Is it for this I have rescued you from the flames of Purgatory – the fire of everlasting Hell?"
Louis turns ghastly pale; a nervous tremor seizes him. He dare not look Madame de Maintenon in the face, for her piercing black eyes glare upon him, and seem to scan his inmost soul. He dare not interrupt her; he must listen to all she has to say, so great is her empire over him.
She continues: —
"Am I sunk so low in your esteem that you mention me in the same breath with a Montespan, a Fontanges? Alas, I have soiled my good name to serve you, and is this then my recompense?"
As she speaks, in a hard resolute voice, her reproachful eyes rivet themselves upon Louis.
"Do you forget, Sire, that I am the woman whom your sainted Queen specially esteemed? On whose bosom she expired? To whom, as she drew her dying breath, she gave this ring?"
She takes from her finger the nuptial ring which Maria Theresa had given her. It was a single diamond of remarkable brilliancy. After contemplating it for an instant she drops it on the floor, midway between herself and Louis, then, with a stately gesture, she rises to depart.
The impress of many passions is visible on the countenance of the aged monarch. Love and pride are written there. Pride is on his broad forehead – in the carriage of his head – in his arched and bushy eyebrows – in his still erect form – in the action of his hands and arms, as they grasp the chair on which he sits upright. Pride, intense, inflexible pride. But his dark eyes glow with passion. Those eyes devour Madame de Maintenon, as she stands erect before him, her eyes turned towards heaven, the ring at her feet. His mouth, around which deep wrinkles gather, works – as did his father's – with a nervous spasm; but the parted lips seem to pant for the beloved object before him. At length he raises himself slowly from his chair – stoops – picks up the nuptial ring of his first wife – kisses it, and places it on the finger of Madame de Maintenon.
"Mon amie," he says, with solemnity, "do not leave me. As your husband I will defend you."
Even in the reign of Louis XIV. public opinion made itself heard. Placards appeared upon the walls of Paris to this effect: —
"Lost – The Royal Sceptre. The finder will be well rewarded."
The next day was announced, in the same place:
"The Sceptre found – Discovered on the toilette of a hypocrite.
"The Scales of Justice, also lost, found hidden in the sleeve of a Jesuit."
Other placards followed; they ran as follows:
GRAND SPECTACLE
His Majesty … Marionettes
In the Chapel of Versailles
Gratis!
On a day to be hereafter announced
Louis XIV. will fill the part of Gargantua; Madame de Maintenon, Madame Gigogne; the Abbé Gobélin, Pierrot; Père la Chaise, Satan (the lover of Madame Gigogne).
CHAPTER XXXI.
QUEEN MAINTENON
IT is the winter of 1685. The night is dark and starless. Fast falling snow makes the air thick and covers the ground as with a white mantle. An icy blast is blowing, chilling alike to man and beast. As eleven o'clock strikes, the Archbishop of Paris leaves his palace, spite of the inclement weather. He is alone in his coach. Midnight is past when he draws up outside the great gates of Versailles. These open silently. He drives onward, traversing the vast courtyard, passing the equestrian statue of Louis XIV., until he reaches the Cour de Marbre, between the two pavilions of the central portion of the château. Here the outer portal at the foot of the grand staircase is ajar. Bontemps, Governor of the Palace of Versailles, valet, confidant, and purveyor generally to the wants of his Majesty, stands behind it awaiting the Archbishop. He holds a light, which he carefully shades with his hand. Monseigneur de Harlay, Archbishop, descends from his coach shivering all over. His teeth chatter in his head, not only from the cold which is excessive, but from apprehension of what he is about to engage in. Bontemps precedes him up the stairs, holding the light in his hand. They traverse whole suites of rooms, a spacious hall, a long gallery, and many corridors. No word is spoken, every soul is asleep, and it is urgent they should remain so. Once within the King's apartments all is light, warmth, and luxury. The well-nigh frozen dignitary revives. Before him is the King, dignified, composed, and cheerful. With him are the Marquis de Montchevreuil and the Chevalier de Forbin, as witnesses; Père la Chaise is also there to assist the Archbishop. An altar is dressed in the centre of the room. As soon as his Majesty has saluted Monseigneur de Harlay, Bontemps is despatched to fetch Madame de Maintenon. She loses no time in appearing. The marriage rites are performed by Père la Chaise, confessor to the King; the benediction is given by the Archbishop.
The marriage is to be secret; but Louis XIV. henceforth addresses her as "Madame." He receives his Ministers in her saloon; the Marquis de Maintenon the while sitting upon a fauteuil in his presence. These are royal honours. Monseigneur le Dauphin and the princes of the blood never forgive the marriage. The contempt and hatred they feel towards Madame de Maintenon cannot be concealed. As favourite they had tolerated her; as wife they rebel against her. Yet her will is law. The Duc de Maine and the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne, son and daughter-in-law to Monseigneur, are the only exceptions.
We are again at Choisy. Every window is a blaze of light, the terraced garden flashes with millions of coloured lamps. The Dauphin and his consort, the princes and princesses, courtiers, singers, actors, and poets, fill the foreground. Brocade and satin sweep the terraces; cocked hats and feathers, ribbons, lace, plumes, jewels, orders, wave and glitter. There is the sound of laughter and mad jest – joyous music and voluptuous feasting, petit soupers and masked balls, theatricals and concerts.
Long flights of marble stairs descend through bosky groves, sweet with the scent of lilac and honeysuckles, to the Seine, on whose grassy banks, illuminated by torches and bonfires, a flotilla of boats are moored under the overhanging woods. If the essence of all the fêtes given in France was concentrated, the result would be Choisy before the Revolution. In the hands of Monseigneur it is a miniature court, rivalling what Versailles was; a court where youth, joy, and beauty reign supreme. Louis, now old, desires that all the world should be old likewise – fast, pray, confess, and hear sermons like himself. Choisy is a scandal to him. The Dauphin receives orders to quit, and take up his abode at Meudon. Monseigneur, a short, stout, thick-set man, with a fair complexion, and what would have been handsome features had his nose not been broken, appears before Madame de Maintenon, the real ruler of France. She is seated in her apartments, working as usual at her tapestry. She does not rise at his entrance, and her aspect is severe and repellant.
"Madame," says the Dauphin, seating himself at a gesture she makes, "can you explain to me what motive has induced his Majesty to banish me from my favourite residence at Choisy?"
Madame de Maintenon does not raise her eyes from her work. "Banishment you call it, Monseigneur; you mistake the term. Not banishment, simply a change of abode designed for your good, by his Majesty, your august father."
"For my good? surely I am of an age to judge for myself! If I cannot live where I please, I am under arrest. I am not aware in what I have merited the royal displeasure."
"Observe, Monseigneur le Dauphin," answers the Marquise, fixing her black eyes upon him, "the King feels no displeasure; on the contrary, he desires your more constant presence at his Court, near his person." The Marquise spoke these words with special emphasis.
"Madame, I am most grateful for the amiable manner in which you express his Majesty's flattering wish, but might not some plan be found to unite my presence at Court with my residence at Choisy?"
"Impossible, your highness. In a monarchy there can be but one sovereign. The Court must surround that sovereign. Now, permit me to observe, there are two courts, and something like two sovereigns."
"I am not conscious, madame," replies the Dauphin, with dignity, "what action of my life justifies such an accusation. If his Majesty desires to reprimand me, as a father, I ask the favour of hearing it from his own lips."
"Monseigneur," replies Madame de Maintenon, with affected humility, "it is his Majesty who speaks by my voice. I am less than nothing other than through him. If you desire to know what causes his displeasure, it is that in the magnificent fêtes you give at Choisy he observes that one most important element of society is omitted – an element his Majesty considers essential."
"What element, madame?"
"That of the Church, your Highness."
The Dauphin is suddenly convulsed with a fit of violent laughter. He takes a hasty leave.
"The Church at Choisy, ma foi!" he says aloud when he has safely passed the anteroom and is well beyond hearing. "My old master Bossuet, and Bourdaloue, and the Versailles Jesuits assisting at midnight fêtes at Choisy – what a notion! I must tell this to Mademoiselle Choin. How she will laugh!"
Charlotte de Bavière, second wife of Philippe d'Orléans, brother of the King, hated the "old woman," as she called Madame de Maintenon. She saw through her and despised her. Madame de Maintenon returned her animosity with interest, but she dared not provoke her. There was something about this frank, downright German princess that was not to be trifled with. Whatever her eccentricities might be, they were respected; she was left in peace to drink as much beer and to eat as many saucissons as the peculiarity of her constitution required.
In person she was actually repulsive; her pride was a by-word and a jest; but she was a faithful friend and a true wife, and continued to live with her heartless and effeminate husband, Monsieur, in peace.
On her son, the Duc de Chartres, afterwards the Regent Orléans, she doted. In her eyes he was perfect. She was either blind or indifferent to his vices. But even he was not exempt from the violence of her temper. When she was told that he had consented to a marriage with Mademoiselle de Blois, daughter of Madame de Montespan, she struck him in the face. Then she flew to the King. The doors of the royal bedchamber are closed by the attendant Swiss, but the angry voices of Charlotte (Madame) and Louis in angry altercation, penetrate into the gallery of the Œil de Bœuf, where the Court awaits the moment of the royal lever.
"Sire," Madame is heard to say in her guttural German-French accent, "I am come to forbid the marriage of my son with Mademoiselle de Blois."
"How, my sister?" replies the full, deep voice of the King, that voice which usually created so profound an impression on the nerves of those whom he addressed.
"Yes, to forbid it. Had your Majesty desired an alliance between my son and a daughter of your consort, Maria Theresa, I should have considered it my duty to submit."
"Oh!" exclaims the King in a loud voice, and quick steps are heard pacing up and down the room, "you would have condescended to accept a princess-royal for your daughter-in-law."
"Certainly, Sire; but because I committed a mésalliance myself in marrying your brother, Philippe de Orléans – "
"Pardieu! Madame," breaks in the King. "Do you talk of a mésalliance with a grandson of Henry the Great?"
"Certainly I do, your Majesty. What was Henry the Great, but an obscure Prince of Béarn, a beggarly little State among the valleys of the Pyrenees? Does your Majesty think that the hundred quarterings of my escutcheon will gain lustre by the arms of Bourbon?"
Louis is heard to stamp on the floor. "Madame," he cries, so loud that his words echo into every corner of the Œil de Bœuf, "Madame, you forget yourself. How dare you come here to insult me?"
"Sire, I come here to tell you the truth. My son, the Duc de Chartres, has forgotten himself by listening for one instant to your proposal. With my own hand I have chastised him as he deserves. I do not forget myself, whatever others may do. Philippe is too good for any princess in Europe. The blood in his veins is that of my ancestors – the Princes Palatine of the Rhine. We laugh at your modern houses – we laugh! Philippe is the best man in your Court. He knows everything – painting, music, poetry, science. None of you can understand him. You are too ignorant."
"Madame," the King is heard to say, "have a care – you are going too far!"
"No, my brother, I have not gone far enough," rejoins Madame. "You have forgotten the siege of Mons, where he fought under your own eyes – also Steinkerque and Nerwinde. It is your fault that Philippe does not command your armies. He is equal to it. Who would not have such a husband? Sire, my son, the Duc de Chartres, shall never wed with your bastard!"
Again Louis is heard to stamp upon the floor. Then, in a voice hoarse with rage, he replies, "Madame, I shall hold my brother responsible for your insolence."
"Why have you provoked it, then?" is the reply in a calmer tone. Charlotte de Bavière has evidently relieved her own violence by exciting that of the King. "I have a right to resist such a disgraceful proposal. Withdraw your marriage, and I am again your good sister and friend as heretofore."
"We shall see, Madame, we shall see!" shouts the King, whose usual courtesy towards women is not proof against such an attack.
"Yes, Sire, we shall see. No person on earth shall make me sanction a blot on my name. My opposition shall not be only in words. The Duc de Chartres is my only son. I will stop the marriage in your presence. I will stop it at the altar of the chapel-royal."
"Madame, your pride has turned your head. But your husband, my brother, shall obey me."
"Your brother, Sire, will, I know, in this, as in all else, be advised by me. I can defend the honour of his house much better than he can himself, and he knows it. Your brother will do his duty, I shall do mine. I wish your Majesty good-day."
The sound of the King's cane is audible, striking heavily on the floor as he strides up and down the room. The door of his bedchamber opens; Charlotte de Bavière, crimson in the face, appears. She calls her people together, and hastily departs, followed by the wondering glances of the courtiers, standing in groups about the Œil de Bœuf.
The King, fearing that there was no chance of overcoming the opposition of Madame, either by persuasions or by threats, consulted Madam de Maintenon. With characteristic duplicity, she advised that what could not be done openly, must be brought about by stratagem. She sent for the Abbé Dubois, the âme damnée of the young Duke, his tutor and his companion, and by promises of money and speedy preferment she completely made him her own. Dubois promised to hurry on the marriage with or without the consent of Madame. The Duke, who loved his mother, and respected her scruples, only yielded when Dubois artfully presented to him the certain loss of all influence, as well as the personal animosity of the King, if he refused.
Philippe d'Orléans met Mademoiselle de Blois in the apartment of Madame de Maintenon. The marriage took place at Versailles.
Madame was furious at what she termed her "dishonour." She wept, abused, menaced, and scolded by turns. But finding that there was no redress, that the marriage was legal, and that further opposition might arouse the vengeance of the King, she gradually cooled down and received her new daughter-in-law with tolerable civility; particularly as the marriage with Mademoiselle de Blois continued the possession of the Palais Royal, with all its pictures, sculptures, and valuables, in the Orléans family, a gift which somewhat served to gild the bitter pill she was called on to swallow.
This marriage did not improve the Duke's conduct or character. He was galled by what he had been forced to do; his temper was soured; his excesses increased. Nor was the Duchess of a disposition to endear herself to any husband. Imperious, luxurious, and bitter-tongued, she always forgot that her mother, Madame de Montespan, was not the wife of her father, and treated the Duke as her inferior. He bore her extravagant pride, and listened to her harangues, reproaches, and taunts (expressed with real eloquence) in silence. Sometimes he called her Madame Lucifer.
With such parents their children grew up in habits of licentiousness, only equalled by the imperial ladies of Old Rome.
The Duchesse de Berry – the eldest of the Regent's daughters – kept her Court at the Luxembourg with regal pomp. She received embassadors seated on a throne, surmounted by a canopy sprinkled by the lilies of France. But she did not think it beneath her dignity to do the honours of certain petits soupers at the Palais Royal – too well known to need further mention here.
Her sister, Mademoiselle de Valois, was as remarkable for her beauty as for her lack of virtue.
Mademoiselle d'Orléans – third daughter of the Regent – was, if possible, more wanton than her sisters. To the eternal disgrace of the Church she was elected Abbess of Chelles. "Tel père, tel fils," says the proverb.