 
MANY of the events remaining to be recorded are very obscure. If they had any importance, they would have figured in the collections of historic enigmas and problems waiting to be solved; but they hardly merit the honour, as few of them have had any such influence over the destinies of France as had, for instance, the fact of the subjection of Anne of Austria to Mazarin. Nor do any possess the romantic attraction which attached to the legend of the "Man with the Iron Mask" before its explanation. Petty details, however, bring the French society of this period near to us, and the fact that events cannot always be interpreted makes them seem more like real life. It is only in romances that all is explained. The most obscure of these smaller problems is the question of the marriage of Mademoiselle with the "little man," as she herself called him. Contemporary opinion has been almost unanimous in its belief in this marriage. Neither date nor place nor names of the possible witnesses have ever been satisfactorily established, as was done in the case of The belief that a secret bond had remained, after the official rupture, rested in the mind of most people interested. One of the correspondents Would Mademoiselle accept this other way? Doubt is permissible. Marriages of conscience, if fashionable in the seventeenth century, created false situations, sometimes very humiliating ones, to a person not an absolute sovereign accountable to no one, and in a position to let the truth come out or not as it pleased him. For the rest of mortals, secret marriages must actually remain concealed, or there would result endless difficulties. On this account, the married pair could only meet through a happy chance, which is not agreeable, while it was also almost impossible to escape suspicious commentaries and the uncomfortable dependence upon the fidelity of servants. Segrais would never believe that Mademoiselle had married Lauzun, and one of the reasons given was "that she sent away Madelon, her chambermaid, and she would not have done this if Madelon had been able to gossip." Segrais might have added that his mistress had always severely criticised the equivocations arising from marriages of conscience. But all was changed after the serious conversation between the King and Mademoiselle behind the closed doors. Mademoiselle encouraged Lauzun to assume airs of authority, and she was meekly submissive. "He regarded me with such a look that I no longer dared to weep, the power that he had over me retaining my tears. It is much wiser not to lose self-control!" It was by his advice that she cleared her palace of all who had blamed their first plan. M. de Montausier and Mme. de SÉvignÉ tried in vain The winter passed in this manner. In the spring, the Court returned to Flanders. During a sojourn at Dunkerque so much was said of the intimacy of the "dwarf" with the Grande Mademoiselle, that the report reached the ears of the Princess: "The rumour is circulating that we were married before leaving Paris, and the Gazette de Hollande confirms this. Some one brought the paper to me; I showed it to Lauzun, who laughed." Two There was a question in this same spring of a trip to Fontainebleau:
She preached neatness to him. "If you are slovenly, it will be said that I have bad taste. For my sake, you must be careful." Lauzun only laughed. Indeed, she scolded him through jealousy, fearing that he was escaping from her influence and going she did not know where, and perceiving this, he cajoled her. "As soon as he saw that I wished to scold him, he had unequalled methods for putting me in a good humour." All this folly resembled a honeymoon, and the MÉmoires of Mademoiselle for this same year include a passage which is almost a confession. "It is still said that we are married. We neither of us say anything, it being only our particular friends who would dare to address us, and The conduct of Mademoiselle during the ten years following being a perpetual and striking confirmation of this half-confession, the fact of the secret marriage would seem to be assured, and the date would be placed between May and November, 1671, if it were not for a last quotation, to be given at its proper date, which again throws doubt upon the event. Whatever the truth may be, it would appear that Mademoiselle had known how to reunite the broken fragments of her happiness; but Lauzun, for a second time, lost everything. He had easily learned that he owed the rupture of the first plan to Mme. de Montespan, and had conceived so furious a hate against this false friend that he lost his head. After a scene worthy of fishwives, in which he had called her names impossible to print, he would proceed to declaim against her in the salons, with the utmost violence, and sometimes at only a few steps from her ears. The courtiers marvelled at the excessive insolence on the one side and the curious patience on the other, for Mme. de Montespan endured these outrages without whispering a single protest. It was rumoured that she had once been his mistress, and that his power was derived from this fact. It is to this enforced penitence of the all-powerful favourite that Mme. Scarron alluded when at a supper, the account of which is given by Mme. de SÉvignÉ Lauzun was arrested at Saint-Germain, in his chamber, the evening of November 25, 1671. The evening previous, Mademoiselle had departed for Paris declaring: "I do not know what is the matter; I am in such dreadful apprehension that I cannot remain here." She wept on the way. She very well knew the cause. One of her friends had been asked, "if M. de Lauzun had been arrested," and this query had worried her. Delayed by chance or by precaution, the news of the arrest did not reach the Luxembourg until twenty-four hours later. Lauzun was already on the road to Pignerol. Before him hastened M. de Nallot, a man of confidence despatched by Louvois, who certainly felt a ferocious joy in the action, to bear the instructions of his master to the Sieur de Saint-Mars, governor of the prison of Pignerol, and of those enclosed within Saint-Mars thus responded:
All the officials of the citadel had written to Louvois after the arrival of his agent, so great an impression had been made. It was said that M. de Lauzun was a great criminal and a very dangerous one to necessitate such precautions. Each wished to show his special zeal. Louis XIV. was also well informed about the prison destined for his old favourite. Louvois showed the King the plan he had received. The apartment consisted of two low vaulted rooms facing a deserted court, through which no one ever passed. The windows were darkened by iron bars and were covered with a sort of basket-work used in prisons, to prevent the occupant seeing or being seen. Noises from without, even those from the guards and the kitchen, did not penetrate into this remote place, the most "noiseless" of all the citadel, on account of the enormous thickness of the walls and of the vaulting. "Never," said one of the letters, "will M. Foucquet know that he has a companion." The When this new command left Saint-Germain, Lauzun was already locked up at Pignerol. He appeared very sad and depressed during the journey. His grief was changed into fury at sight of the dungeon which awaited him. Saint-Mars wrote to Louvois (December 22, 1671): "Monseigneur, my prisoner is in so profound a grief, that I can hardly describe it. He said to me that I had made him a lodging sÆcula sÆculorum." Lauzun declared that he would lose his reason, and his agitation seemed to point to this danger.
Lauzun had well divined the cause of his arrest, but he had not been told. All explanation had been refused at Saint-Germain, and the condemning him to such a dungeon with the most rigorous secrecy, with no declared reason, seemed a crying and tyrannical act of injustice.
He had never been judged! This was the refrain during ten long years! Foucquet, his neighbour, had judges, indÉpendants or not; he had known the cause of his accusation, and his defence had been heard. Lauzun was in his vault through the good pleasure of the King without having had a chance to justify himself, and this grievance caused his revolt. When Mademoiselle was told of the arrest of Lauzun, she was so overcome that she was astonished "that she did not die." She remained in a most pitiable state until the next day. She was counselled not to delay an appeal to the King, and it was needful to form some plan. If there had been only herself to consider, Mademoiselle would have been ready to bid adieu to the world; but there was Lauzun, who was, according to the custom then legal, to be accused when he could not defend himself, and there was only herself to plead his cause with the King. It was impossible to abandon her lover, and Mademoiselle found strength to rise and to go to Saint-Germain. She only reached the King in the The Court of France was at that date very gay and animated. Monsieur had just remarried (November 16), with Elisabeth Charlotte de BaviÈre, Princess Palatine, famed for the originality of her mind and the freshness of her language. The King, who, without wit, had good taste, was charmed with his new sister-in-law, and was lavish with fÊtes in her honour. At first, Mademoiselle considered it a duty to be present. She pathetically relates the history of an abominable evening during which she was obliged to appear to be enjoying the spectacle of a ballet, while her thoughts were far distant, following a coach surrounded by musketeers:
After each effort, she allowed herself slight relaxation and retired to weep in some corner, then returning to the King with red and swollen eyes. "I am persuaded" wrote she, apropos of a trip with the Court, "that my presence has recalled the memory of M. de Lauzun; this is the reason why I wish to be always before the eyes of the King.... I cannot believe that he will not feel that my looks are ever supplicating him." Mademoiselle was very ingenious in her efforts to refer constantly to the absent one. If a grated window was passed she began to sigh and to pity those in prison. If there was a rumour that Lauzun was ill, she solicited by letter the softening of the rÉgime. Louis never responded, but he did not show any displeasure. The enemies of the disgraced one endeavoured to detach the Princess from her lover. They knew her weakness; she was very jealous, and there might easily be occasion in regard to Lauzun, known as the greatest libertine of this licentious Court. At the moment of arrest his papers had been seized. There were The "caskets" of Lauzun were the great social scandal of the winter, and there were people enough to exploit the contents to Mademoiselle. They gained nothing for their pains; she had the wisdom not to listen. They belonged to the past. The same kind friends endeavoured to open her eyes to the fact that she had been deceived in giving her heart to a man who only desired her millions. They said: "He did not love you; when he was promised wealth, appointments, he readily left you; the day on which the King broke the marriage, Lauzun gambled all the evening with the greatest tranquility; he cares nothing about you." Mademoiselle allows in her MÉmoires that she began to be disturbed when she was forced to hear such statements from morning till night during a series of years. Her own remembrances only too well confirmed the truth. She had never received a word of tenderness from Lauzun, not even a truly gracious word. But misfortune is an invincible safeguard with generous souls. Mademoiselle relates that her heart "fought against itself" in favour of her lover, and the heart conquered, since each new year found her still devoted, still indefatigable in her efforts to obtain his release. At the end of eight years there could be no more doubt. Contemporaries and those of the next generation have tried in vain to discover why Louis XIV. attached so serious an importance to preventing Lauzun from receiving news. Of what was he afraid? Was it essential for the safety of France to insist upon such minute precautions? One day, fresh linen was to be forwarded to Lauzun from Saint-Germain. Louvois wrote to Saint-Mars (February 2, 1672): "Have this washed two or three times before giving it to him." Saint-Mars signified that he comprehended and replied (February 20):
Another time, an ancient servant of Lauzun was arrested near Pignerol, who, realising that he was a prisoner, killed himself, and letters were found on the body. Had there been any intercourse with the prisoner? This thought cast Louvois into an inconceivable agitation. He wished at every cost to clear up the affair, and he found time even during the war with Holland to write letter after letter to Pignerol to order that trace of accomplices should be sought. Men, presumably companions of the dead, were arrested. Two of them, who had fled to Turin, were delivered up through diplomatic action. It was necessary to make them speak "through any means, no matter what"; the question as to whether M. de Lauzun had received news must be solved. The attendants at Pignerol were much perturbed. An officer wrote to Louvois to "conjure" him to denounce the suspected among the soldiers under his orders, that I may arrest them and attach them as villains." And if his two nephews, who were in the citadel, should be found to be the guilty ones he "would be their first executioner." Saint-Mars was humiliated and offended that he should be suspected of being hoodwinked. He became ferocious against the "miserable beings" who had drawn down upon him this insult, and he willingly put them to the torture; "for, to tell the truth," wrote he to Louvois, "I have only to find the smallest charge against a soldier or domestic, and I would hang him at once" (August 20). Some weeks later he summed up the result of the inquest in these terms (October 7): "I cannot swear that an attempt has not been made to communicate with Lauzun, but I can pledge my life in the assurance that the effort has not been successful." Saint-Mars had another grief. Louvois recommended to him incessantly to make his prisoner talk and to report every word, even the most trivial, but Lauzun would not utter a syllable. "I do not know why," wrote Saint-Mars, naÏvely, "but he distrusts me, and hardly dares to speak Saint-Mars inquired about his health. M. de Lauzun cut him short, in declaring that "his health was a matter of no consequence to any one, and that he was really only too well." Saint-Mars did not know what more to say. He became furious. Lauzun perceived this, and grew even more taciturn. It was a fair and even fight. At the end of a year, Saint-Mars had not advanced an inch.
Saint-Mars tried to force the situation. It was he who furnished the prisoner with everything; who gave him clothes, furniture, bought his Saint-Mars would perceive, in entering, some wornout or broken object placed in a conspicuous position, having the air of saying something. "Sometimes," wrote the governor of the citadel, "I feign not to notice, and in order to oblige me to speak, Lauzun will direct his steps so as to pass the object again and again until I am forced to comprehend." (May 6, 1672.) The valet was almost as close as his master. Saint-Mars did not cease to lament the trouble which "these people" gave him. Prisoners' valets shared the fate of their masters. Once confined, they passed the sill of the prison only with the culprit; that is to say, in many cases never, which fact rendered it extremely difficult to procure servants. The one with Lauzun was a "wicked rascal" who had been bribed, but who at the end of three months refused to do his duty as spy. Saint-Mars was indignant (February 20, 1672): "With your permission, I will put him [the valet] in a place that I reserve, which makes the dumb speak after a month's sojourn. I shall learn all from him, and I am certain that he will not forget the least trifle." Upon reflection, however, Saint-Mars ended by being patient. How was he to replace the fellow? "No one of the valets attached to the citadel would enter this There was a slight recompense, however, on the days on which Lauzun fell into a rage, which often happened. The prisoner could not digest the fact that his questions remained unanswered. This might be reasonable enough if he asked if France were at war, or if Mademoiselle were married; but why refuse news of his own affairs? Why conceal from him the fact of his mother being alive or dead? His vexation became rage. He poured out a torrent of imprecations and bitter complaints, and Louvois had the pleasure of hearing by the next mail that silence did not indicate absence of suffering. One day (January 28, 1673), after giving an account of one of these explosions, Saint-Mars added: "He said all this, weeping hot tears and crying that he detested his miserable life; he complained loudly of the horrible dungeon which I have given him, where he has lost his sight and his health." The wails of grief echoed even through Paris, leaking out from the cabinet of Louvois and the chamber of Mme. de Montespan, and the public demanded with curiosity what Lauzun had done to deserve a punishment so rigorous. "I can never believe," wrote Mademoiselle, "that it is by the orders of the King." It was easily guessed that It is needful to recollect that the seventeenth century had no greater respect for human liberty than for human life. Only rank and birth were of value, and these were honoured in a greater degree than it is possible now to comprehend. This same Louvois, who was tormenting Lauzun almost to the point of insanity, had hastened to send him a silver-service, and had asked him to complain if his guards were impolite. "M. de Saint-Mars," wrote the Minister, "has orders never to fail in according the respect due to your birth and to the position which you have held at Court" (December 12, 1672). From like considerations, the birth of Lauzun had brought him new furniture, but not a single object of any kind which could aid him in inventing occupation or employment. This was the real punishment: a complete inaction with not a single echo from the outer world which might prevent his mind from continually turning inward upon itself. Lauzun only obtained a few books at long intervals, and always with great difficulty, after every page had been examined in detail; messages written in invisible ink were feared, and phrases which might throw light upon the events of the day. When the It will be remembered that Mademoiselle had scolded the "little man" to make him take greater care of his person and toilet. In prison, Lauzun had grown very careless. (April 20, 1672:) "He grows so negligent that for three weeks he has worn a handkerchief knotted around his neck in place of a cravat." From note of July 30, 1672, more than seven months after his arrival: "He has not had his room swept, nor his glass rinsed; he is extremely negligent." Lauzun had permitted his beard to grow, which contributed to his neglected appearance. Saint-Mars declared that it was a half-yard long. (February 11, 1673:) "He is as disorderly at his meals as in his person and in his apartment." Years passed. In 1673, they pruned the trees which cut off the light. This was the only change. In 1674, the prisoner almost died. His health was shattered and his temper changed. He became tranquil, except for an occasional access of anger, and was very polite to his jailer, who attributed this metamorphosis to the effects of the books of piety and the holy water freely supplied. Saint-Mars found him "very often" on his knees, saying his prayers before an image of the Virgin, and had much In 1676, in the month of February, Louvois received a letter, He descended by this ladder to the moat surrounding the fortress, "pierced the wall on the side of the moat," The poor prisoner was brought back to his dungeon, and Louvois stormed at the authorities of Pignerol, who permitted walls and windows to be demolished without perceiving that anything strange was occurring. Repairs and numerous new measures of precaution were ordered, and Saint-Mars, very much abashed, swore by all the gods that such a thing should never again happen. In spite of these oaths, many of the prisoners succeeded in gaining access to their neighbours, according to the account of Saint-Simon. Saint-Mars, however, only knew of these practices after the death of Foucquet; the troubles of Lauzun were then at an end. The death of
When they were all somewhat composed, Isarn entered into a summary of the affairs to be regulated. At the first pause, Lauzun interrupted. "He said coldly, that having been kept for six years and a portion of a seventh in a very restricted prison, and not having heard any business details for so long a time, and having met no one, his mind had become so 'sealed,' and his intelligence so clouded, that it was impossible for him to comprehend anything I was saying." He added affectionate words for his sister, touching sentiments upon his grief at having displeased the King, and, as if overcome by the remembrance of his much-loved master, he carried his handkerchief to his eyes, "where it remained a long time." This spectacle provoked such an outburst of tears and groans that it was impossible to continue the conference. Lauzun "withdrew with Saint-Mars without speaking." The sister was carried away in a dead faint. The It may be through compassion, it may be, as was hinted, through some new and mysterious combination, that this appeal produced a relaxation in the prison discipline, which ended in a half-freedom. Lauzun was permitted to give dinners, to buy saddle horses, "to ride in the court and on the bastions." He quitted Pignerol April 22, 1681. Foucquet had died March 23, 1680. This left to Saint-Mars only a single man of note; the Man with the Iron Mask had been in the fortress some time at this date. Robinson Crusoe, leaving his island, was not more of a stranger to the course of events than a state prisoner after years of life in a dungeon. Foucquet had believed in listening to Lauzun that he was mentally deranged. When it was the fate of the latter to again come in contact with ordinary life, he found much difficulty in placing himself in the current. The history of France had been lengthened by a chapter while he was raging in his dungeon. The intimate story of Court life, the most important for an ancient favourite desirous of regaining a foothold, would have filled a volume with its tragi-comic complications. At first glance, the chapter of national history was dazzling. The war with Holland had given to France, Franche-ComtÉ; to Louis XIV., a glory and power which had raised him in European opinion above all other sovereigns. In the eyes of strangers, he was more than a king, he was the King, the incarnation of the monarchical idea, the Prince who had made France the mistress of the civilised world.
VIEW OF THE PALACE AND GARDENS VIEW OF THE PALACE AND GARDENS OF THE TUILERIES From an engraving by Israel Silvestre, 1673 France was admired and feared. "Louis XIV.," says Ranke again, "reduced several of the German princes individually, and the Empire at large, to a degree of abasement to which they had not fallen during centuries." Spain itself was menaced with the loss of its independence. Europe recognised that in "the history of the world there were few periods in which civilisation had so rapidly advanced and literature was so brilliant as that under Louis XIV." Such was France viewed from without, during the years which separated the peace of NimÈguen (1679) from the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes (1685). This brilliant picture showed, however, some shadows; the vanquished guarded a deep resentment, and the former allies were detached without always being replaced by new ones; but the country considered itself sufficiently strong to support its isolation. Seen from within, France presented to the superficial observer an appearance of prosperity. Upon a closer examination, however, it could be predicted that the lean years were approaching. Many provinces had fallen back into misery. There was a general discontent, the disaffection made rapid progress; the idea of centralised and absolute power, so well received at first, was beginning to pall upon the community. Four years after the death of Mazarin and the arrival to power of Louis XIV. keen-sighted men became anxious. Olivier d'Ormesson, like all the world at first under the influence of the charm of the young King, wrote in 1665 (March): "No one dares But the same criticism cannot be made of Colbert, then enjoying great favour and naturally a man of severity. In 1666 Colbert warned Louis XIV., in an almost brutal memorial, that through his extravagances he was leading France to ruin. VIEW OF THE RESIDENCE OF COLBERT VIEW OF THE RESIDENCE OF COLBERT, SHOWING ALSO HIS SEAL From an engraving by Israel Silvestre, 1675 The memorial commenced by declaring that he (Colbert) did not wish stinginess where it was a matter concerning a good army or fleet, or in sustaining the suitable magnificence of his master in foreign lands, or in any useful expenditures, among which he included the proper representation of a great sovereign. He affirmed that in all these matters he would rather urge a certain lavishness, and this was the truth. But he could not share in the responsibility for the enormous leakage by which the public wealth was being exhausted, for the millions squandered in fantastic camps, in fÊtes costing incredible sums, The memorial mentions also pensions and other gratifications given out freely, and makes other specifications, of which one merits some details, for it is curious, but rarely referred to, and according to Colbert led to the most dangerous consequences. As will be understood, nothing other than actual war cost France so dearly under Louis XIV., as the monarch's passion for playing at soldier in the presence of beautiful ladies. This mania at first glance appears innocent enough, only rather childish. Colbert pointed out the inevitable effects. The King assembled armies to afford to the "ladies" the spectacle of a camp or the simulation of a siege, or the troops were reviewed in places agreeable for women, instead of awaiting him in their barracks. The result was, that the perpetual marching of troops to and fro was causing the exhaustion of the provinces, for "it is sufficient to say that such a city or halting-place has suffered within six months a hundred different impositions of troops, and that there are but few places which have not been obliged to stand at least fifty." The troops lived as they liked, entering and departing from their various lodging-places. "It can be affirmed distinctly that these places were left in a condition to which they would have been brought by a long war." If the King knew "how many peasants of Champagne, and the other provinces lying near the frontier, are passing and arranging to pass to other countries," he would comprehend that this state of affairs could not last. The most delicate reproof was yet to be made, and Colbert approached it courageously. Serious ridicule had fallen upon the great monarch for these fantastic games for the benefit of his "ladies," not only with the French, but also among foreigners only too ready to seize an occasion for unfriendly comment. VIEW OF THE CHÂTEAU OF VERSAILLES VIEW OF THE CHÂTEAU OF VERSAILLES, SHOWING THE FOUNTAIN OF THE DRAGON From an engraving by Israel Silvestre, 1676 Louis had just installed a camp at Moret, motley and smart, with Olivier d'Ormesson did not display great merit in writing his comments in his journal for his eyes alone, but Colbert wrote for the King and had still many criticisms to add. "It is further advisable for your Majesty to know two things which no one has before dared to report: one that there has been a poster in Paris, bearing the words Louis XIV. will give an exhibition of Marionettes in the plain at Moret; the other, the publication of a libel, still more bitter, upon the distinguished deeds of the fantastic captains." The King read the memorial and re-read it in the presence of Colbert, but the following year saw a new camp, in which the royal tent, composed of six sumptuous rooms, "was filled with cavaliers gorgeously attired, and better fitted to attract the enemy than to make him flee." From Louvois, March 7, 1671: "Arrange chamber marked V for Mme. de Montespan, opening a door in the place marked 1. ... Mme. de La ValliÈre will lodge in the chamber marked Y, in which a door must be made in the place marked 3N...." The expense of the numerous doors, with many others equally irregular, entered into the budget of the Minister of War. How was it possible to keep the budget accounts? How reduce unnecessary expenses? Colbert himself was obliged in his budget of the Marine to give space to the "ladies." In 1678, Mme. de Montespan conceived the fantasy of fitting out a privateer, a vessel belonging to the King, be it understood, manned with the royal sailors. Some weeks later, a second and third vessel were sent out in the same manner as privateers, always at the King's expense, "by Mme. de Montespan and the Comtesse de Soissons." DUCHESSE DE LA VALLIÈRE DUCHESSE DE LA VALLIÈRE AND HER CHILDREN From the painting by P. Mignard in the possession of the Marquise d'Oilliamson. The large expenses of Versailles and of Marly are often alluded to, while the unfortunate peasants, who fled across the frontier after every military spectacle offered to the "ladies," are forgotten. Louis XIV. was incapable of keeping accounts; that is his sole excuse. It It is known that in the seventeenth century the repasts were abundant. Those of Louis XIV. were excessively so. In 1664, the King, having invited the Pope's legate to dine with him tÊte-À-tÊte, those in attendance counted the dishes; there were eighty, not including thirty-eight for dessert. This was certainly excessive, and Colbert had said in the Memorial of 1660, "I declare to your Majesty ... that a useless meal, costing a thousand crowns, gives me an incredible pain." But the lavishness of fifteen years later was far greater. On January 16, 1680, the King married Mlle. de Blois, his daughter by La ValliÈre, to Prince Louis-Armand de Conti, nephew of the great CondÉ. "The wedding festival was royal," wrote Bussy-Rabutin; "there were seven hundred dishes on a single table, served in five courses, that is to say, one hundred and forty dishes to each course." Mme. de SÉvignÉ points the moral. "The young husband was ill the entire night. It would be a temptation to say 'Well deserved!'" If, from the incensed and suffering people, the attention is turned towards the Court, the difference between without and within is If souls were debased under Louis, he must be held in large part responsible. The same can be said in regard to the deterioration of manners and morals. France, before the time of Louis XIV., was accustomed enough to both mistresses and bastards, but not to the prerogatives of second wives conferred on the first, nor the legitimatising of adulteries which encouraged his subjects to consider no longer seriously either law or morality. The example of the master ended in deadening consciences already somewhat feeble, and husbands might be seen encouraging their wives, the mothers of their daughters, to imitate La ValliÈre and de Montespan. LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE, IN THE GARB OF THE ORDER OF THE CARMELITES. After the painting by D. Plaats Louis had been in some degree punished for having played sultan. The young King had been spoiled by Louise de La ValliÈre, who was gentleness itself, and whom love inclined to pardon all. None of the other mistresses really loved Louis, except perhaps Marie Mancini. Louis did not really please women; it was only the King for whose favour they disputed. Mlle. de La ValliÈre had entered the Carmelite convent in 1674. Left alone upon the "breach," Mme. de Montespan defended the situation like a lioness. She was naturally sharp-tempered, and her fits of anger were often ungovernable, It had been remarked since 1675 that Louis aspired to moments of "repose and of liberty." Mme. de Montespan, with all her intelligence, could not comprehend that there comes a time of life at which men can no longer live in the midst of tempests, and this error was the cause of her ruin. The King acquired the habit of fleeing for refuge to Mme. de Maintenon, where he found an atmosphere of peace and enjoyed refreshing conversation. It was the first time that an intelligent woman had spoken seriously to him, without seeking to attract a declaration of love, nor to divert him with trifles, but to distract him agreeably from his work, and also to make him reflect upon certain subjects which did not always appeal to him. For example, what the sinner who had taken the wife of another might expect in the next world. She recalled to him the fact that there was a police in heaven as in the palaces of the King of France, and she asked him: "What would you say if some one should tell your Majesty that one of the musketeers you love had seduced a married woman, and that this woman was actually living with him? I am certain that before evening this man would depart from the palace, never to return, however late it might be." MADAME DE MAINTENON MADAME DE MAINTENON After the painting by P. Mignard in 1694 The King laughed. He had never been more in love with Mme. de Montespan,—this happened in 1675, before the Jubilee, which separated them three or four months,—but he was not vexed with Mme. de Maintenon; already he "could not live without her." When the King had passed forty, tranquillity became a need. He believed he had assured it by giving to Mme. de Montespan her official dismissal as the recognised mistress. The date of this event is known. March 29, 1679, the Comtesse de Soissons was prayed to yield to the ancient favourite her charge as superintendent of the palace of the Queen, a position which afforded a kind of regulated retreat. The next day, Mme. de Montespan wrote to the Duc de Noailles to announce to him this arrangement, and she added: "Truly this is very bearable. The King only comes into my room after mass and after supper. It is much better to From Mme. de ScudÉry to Bussy, October 29, 1679: "A diversion has been established for Mme. de Montespan for this winter, and provided that she can do without love, she will retain the consideration of the King. This is all that an honest man can do when he ceases to love." Bussy responded, November 4th: "If Mme. de Montespan is wise she will dream only of cards and will leave the King in peace on the subject of love; for it is impossible through complaints and scoldings to lure back unfaithful lovers." Mme. de Montespan was not wise. In the hope of bringing the King back to her arms by force, she redoubled the disagreeable scenes. At this moment, an obscure past, filled with vague and frightful events, rose against her, and the expiation for having too much loved became almost tragic in its character. La Voisin, the poisoner, cannot be forgotten, nor the prosecution in 1668, which had revealed to the young King the connection of his new mistress with the world of malefactors. This affair was stifled, but the evil continued in its subterranean influence. The merchants of love philters and of poisons and the priests of satanic rites saw their The first executions before the Chambre ardente took place in February, 1679, and the list of the names of those arrested or of those to whom notices of warrants to appear as witnesses had been served, a list which made so great an excitement on account of the aristocrats included, This was done, with the result that Louis was forced to ask himself if the woman whom he adored above all others, and who had borne him seven children, was a vile "corrupter"; if this perfect body for which he From Bussy-Rabutin, May 18, 1680: "The King ... as he was mounting into his carriage with the Queen had some rough words with Mme. de Montespan, about the scents with which she deluged herself, which made his Majesty ill. The King at first spoke politely, but as she responded sharply, his Majesty grew warm." On the 25th, Mme. de SÉvignÉ noted another "serious embroilment." This time Colbert succeeded in reconciling them. The situation grew painful. A long series of letters and mÉmoires have been found in which La Reynie discusses for the King the charges accumulated against Mme. de Montespan. The picture is given of the doubts and fluctuations of an honest man whose responsibilities somewhat rankle in his breast, and who sees an equal peril in dishonouring the throne and in permitting a guilty woman to remain near the King. Louis passed through many successive stages of conviction during the prosecution. The further On July 12, 1680, La Reynie summed up for his master the history of the "petition to be used in poisoning the King." On October 11th he declared that he should be ruined in the affair, and supplicated his Majesty to reflect whether it would be for the "welfare of the State," to make these "horrors" public. In the month of May following, he avowed that he had erred on some points and that there was more evil than at first appeared. The marvellous control that Louis possessed over himself prevented outward betrayal; but certainly these uncertainties, these inferior conflicts, and it is to be hoped some sense of shame and remorse, became chastisements for his faults. On her side, Mme. de Montespan, in spite of the secret of her possible guilt being well guarded both at Court and by the judges and police, could not be ignorant that Mlle. des Œillets had been interrogated, confronted with witnesses, and imprisoned for life in the general Hospital at Tours. Court life, nevertheless, pursued its monotonous course, and Mme. de Montespan continued to figure in positions of honour. In March, 1689, she goes to meet the Dauphin From Louvois to M. de Chauvelin, Intendant, December 16, 1682,
This letter ended the connection of Mme. de Montespan with the affair of the "corrupters of morals" or the poisoners. She was saved, but was this due to proofs of innocence or to reasons of State, to the refusal of Louis to credit the testimony of an AbbÉ Guibourg or Lesage, or to the remnants of an old tenderness? The few men with whom it had been necessary to share the secrets which would respond to these questions were so perfectly mute that contemporaries suspected nothing. They saw the ancient favourite a little neglected, but always dreaming of the possibility of reasserting herself, as the many pages of the MÉmoires of Mademoiselle testify. All this was in the natural course of events. One single indication of what Louis XIV. thought at the bottom of his soul is possessed; a letter from the King to Colbert, who knew all. Mademoiselle had prayed Mme. de Montespan to solicit some favour for Lauzun. The King charged Colbert to reply for him (October, 1681): "You will politely explain to her that I always receive the marks of her friendship and confidence with pleasure, and that I am very vexed when The first preoccupation of Lauzun, in returning to the world, must have been to make clear to himself through legitimate or illegitimate means the chronology of the King's love affairs, a history so essential for the comprehension of the interior life of the Court. The main facts for this record have been already given in the preceding chapter. The returned prisoner had afterwards to learn all that Mademoiselle had accomplished for him during his captivity, and of what the public thought of her efforts, and he recognised that no one in France except Segrais doubted the fact of their marriage. That the marriage had taken place before his imprisonment was the prevalent belief, which was never really shaken. It again came to light in the eighteenth century. The historian Anquetil saw at TrÉport, in 1744, an old person of more than seventy years of age, who resembled the portraits of the Grande Mademoiselle and did not know from whence came her pension. Whatever the fact may be, the Princess gave a very fine example of constancy and fidelity. She lived for ten years absorbed in a single thought. The MÉmoires for the year 1673 say: "I remember nothing which has taken place during the past winter. My grief occupies me so much that I have but little interest in the actions of others." To liberate Lauzun had become a fixed idea, and she attached herself to the steps of the King and to those of Mme. de Montespan, without permitting herself to remember the ill that they had committed, as it was they alone who could loosen the bonds. The more they showed themselves inexorable, the more Mademoiselle redoubled her assiduities. In 1676 she enjoyed for the brief space of two hours the delusion that Louis XIV. at length, at the end of ten years, was moved with a feeling of compassion. The news of the attempted escape of Lauzun had just been received. "I learned that the King had listened to the account with some sign of humanity, I can hardly say of pity. If he had felt this, would he [Lauzun] still be there?" The Princess wrote to the King, but received no response; and again four years rolled by. Mme. de Montespan was no longer favourite. The courtiers considered it shrewd to neglect her. Better inspired, Mademoiselle continued to stand fast by her, and the result proved the
The phrase of a friend came back to her: "But you should let them hope that you will make M. de Maine your heir." She recalled other hints which at first had passed unnoticed, and understood that a bargain was offered. The monarch and his ancient favourite had agreed between them to sell to Mademoiselle the freedom of the man she loved so deeply. What was to be the price? This was not yet disclosed. It was some time before Mademoiselle comprehended, and then she was so disconcerted that she said nothing. She felt that the combat was not an equal one between herself, from whom passion had taken away all judgment, and Mme. de Montespan, who was perfectly calm, and she hesitated, fearing some snare: "Finally, I resolved to make M. de Maine my heir, provided Mademoiselle wished that he would at least give her some news of Lauzun. Mme. de Montespan responded to her insistence: "It is necessary to have patience," and affairs remained at this point. At the end of some weeks, Mademoiselle perceived that she was no longer free. She had counted upon taking her time and having sureties before proceeding further. An immediate execution of the deed of gift was insisted upon, and she was so harassed that she no longer felt at liberty to breathe freely. "The King must not be played with," declared Mme. de Montespan; "when a promise is made it must be kept." "But," objected Mademoiselle, "I wish the freedom of M. de Lauzun, and suppose that after what I have done I should find myself deceived, and my friend should not be liberated?" Louvois was then sent to frighten her, or Colbert in order to compass some concession. It was no longer a matter of testament. A donation while living The gift to the Duc de Maine was signed February 2, 1681. It gave some agreeable days to Mademoiselle. The King assured her of his gratitude. "At supper he regarded me pleasantly and conversed with me; this was most charming." Nevertheless, Lauzun did not appear. One day Mme. de Montespan informed the Princess that the King would never permit Lauzun to be Duc de Montpensier, and that it would be necessary to have a secret marriage. The Princess cried out: "What! Madame, I am to permit him to live with me as my husband with no marriage ceremony! Of what will the world think me capable?" This passage in the MÉmoires apparently fixes the date of marriage after the return of Lauzun from his captivity. There exist, however, a number of moral proofs against this later date. Some time after this conversation, in the beginning of April, 1681, the Court being at Saint-Germain, Mme. de Montespan announced to Mademoiselle the immediate departure of Lauzun for the Baths of Bourbon, and she then drew her, slightly against her will, to the end of the Mademoiselle had been tricked. "Upon this, I began to weep and to talk about the gifts I had made, only on the one condition. Mme. de Montespan said, 'I have promised nothing.' She had gained what she wished, and was willing enough to bear anything I might say." In the evening it was necessary to assume a delighted air and thank the King for Lauzun's freedom; a single sign of ill-humour and Mademoiselle ran the risk of receiving nothing in exchange for her millions. There remained the task of forcing Lauzun to renounce the gifts formerly presented to him. Mme. de Montespan took the route to Bourbon, where "she found greater difficulty than she had anticipated." Her demands so surpassed the expectations of the late prisoner that he revolted. There were many disputes, many despatches, and many delays, Mademoiselle was Lauzun's resource and providence. She compensated him as far as might be with a fresh devotion, in which Saint-Fargeau figured as an item, and found means to pay him nearly 300,000 francs Alas! the charm was broken, and for ever. In March, 1682, at the single interview granted, Lauzun threw himself ten times, consecutively, at the feet of Louis XIV.—the King himself relates this—and employed all his grace, all his flatteries, without succeeding in breaking the ice. Received coolly and dismissed without delay, there was nothing left but to fall back upon Mademoiselle. They had not yet met, and it is a terrible test of devotion to meet after eleven years, and to endeavour to again open the page closed by misfortune. The Grande Mademoiselle of the time previous to the imprisonment at Pignerol singularly resembled the Hermione of Racine, in her jealousy and violence. The one of 1682 Years had not made Lauzun in love with his benefactress, and he arrived to meet her well resolved to finish simply with expressions of gratitude and of love. Mademoiselle was well aware of his infidelities. The grief, mingled with irritation, which she felt displayed itself in a sort of stiffness and embarrassment. The great joy she had anticipated in again seeing her lover, she did not realise. She had existed ten long years for this moment, and when it came, she desired to escape. She went to await Lauzun at Mme. de Montespan's, a first piece of absurdity. "M. de Lauzun," say her MÉmoires, "arrived after his interview with the King; he wore an old undress uniform with short waistcoat, almost in rags, and a very ugly wig. This interview finished, Lauzun considered himself free from his obligations and returned to Paris with a peaceful conscience. Mademoiselle dared not follow him too quickly. The fourth day they were at Choisy, a new mansion that Mademoiselle had built two leagues from Sceaux. Lauzun regarded the Princess while she was having her head adorned with flame-coloured ribbons. "He said, 'I was astonished to see the Queen with many-coloured ribbons on her head.' 'You must find it wrong, then, that I should wear them, who am older?' He did not reply. I told him that rank permitted the decoration for a longer period." Mademoiselle had at first written, "People of my rank are always young," but had effaced the phrase. Lauzun knew well how to restore her to a good-humour, and he let himself be scolded, escaping towards evening to return to his pleasures. The fifth day they again disputed. Lauzun was in the wrong; he had spoken of his visits to Choisy as duties. Mademoiselle, however, injured her cause with sharpness. "I see clearly," said she, "that in this world people who do good are mocked, as they are bores." Lauzun, vexed, demanded, "How much longer is this pleasantry to last?" "As long as About every two days, Lauzun became metamorphosed, and was again for some hours, or at least minutes, for Mademoiselle the former "little man" whose eccentricities gave an indescribable charm, difficult to explain, but impossible to deny. He had not the least trouble in again captivating his mistress. As soon as he assumed the sweet and submissive air and the enigmatical smile which she had so dearly loved (even combined with the manners which she sometimes distrusted, "of being Other serious difficulties arose from the fact of Lauzun considering the money of Mademoiselle as his own. Choisy appeared to him a useless expense; he found much fault with its management. "The terraces cost immense sums," said he one day while walking in the grounds; "what good are they?" The Princess had sold in his absence a chain of pearls. "Where is the money?" demanded Lauzun. He wished to hold the purse strings, and no longer to be a "beggar." It astonished him that Mademoiselle had not thought of preparing for him, before his arrival, "a beautiful apartment," of organising his establishment, of placing one of her carriages at his disposal. He complained openly in the social world that she left him without a penny; that she had only given him some diamonds, worth perhaps one thousand pistoles in all—and what stones, so "ugly"!—and Those who had the good fortune to visit Eu before the fire of 1902 will not have forgotten the flight of Loves on the ceiling of a chamber situated above that belonging to Mademoiselle. The Chamber of the Loves was the one designed for Lauzun, who failed, however, to honour the symbol. After a delay of three weeks, he no sooner arrived than he committed the unpardonable imprudence of running after the village girls, under the very eyes of Mademoiselle. This was too much. The mistress of the chÂteau beat Lauzun, scratched his face, and turned him out of doors. There he should stay. He was sufficiently shrewd to desire an accommodation. The Comtesse de Fiesque served as intermediary. In the ChÂteau of Eu there was a long gallery filled with family portraits. Mademoiselle appeared at one end; "he [Lauzun] was at the other, and he crept along on his knees the entire length of the gallery, till he reached the feet of Mademoiselle." The final quarrel is related in detail in the MÉmoires of Mademoiselle. It happened in the spring of 1684. France was at war with Spain. On April 22d the King departed to join his army, refusing to permit Lauzun to accompany him, who imagined, rightly or wrongly, that Mademoiselle was responsible for the prohibition, and was indignant. He went to the Luxembourg, where a reception of raillery exasperated him still further:
This rupture made a great scandal. Dangeau, who had followed the King to the frontier, noted on May 6th, in his journal: "The news comes from Paris that Mademoiselle has forbidden M. de Lauzun to appear again before her." Thus ends meanly and miserably, with a scene worthy of Dickens, the most famous passion of the century, after that of ChimÈne and Rodrigue. The first interest in the affair abated, the hero of the romance sank into obscurity. Mademoiselle cast herself into an ecstasy of pious devotion, from which the virtue of pardoning the offences of others was apparently excluded. Lauzun sought some support to which to attach himself, and did not easily find it. He realised too late that one could not quarrel with impunity with a princess of the blood. He made attempts at reconciliation, which Mademoiselle repulsed; she had loved with too much ardour not to be capable of furious hate. The career of both lovers appeared to be finished, when the fantastic star which had guided Lauzun towards so many adventures, marvellous if not always agreeable, led him to England during the autumn of 1688. He sought a more hospitable court, he found a revolution and glory. "I admire the star of M. de Lauzun," wrote Mme. de SÉvignÉ, "which again brings its light over the horizon when it was supposed to be for ever extinguished" (December 24, 1688). The name of Lauzun was actually again on the lips of all. He had saved the Queen of England and her son, and had brought them to Calais at great risk, and suddenly assumed the pose of a true hero, wrongly despised and persecuted. "It is long," at once said Louis, "since Lauzun has seen my writing. I believe that he will rejoice at receiving a letter from me." The royal missive bore to the former favourite more than the pardon for the past; it spoke of "impatience to see him again." In vain the King sent Seignelay to say to his cousin, as a sort of excuse and consolation: "After such services rendered by Lauzun, it is my duty to see him." Mademoiselle grew angry, and said, "This is then the gratitude I receive for having despoiled myself for the sake of the King's children." One of the friends of M. de Lauzun was charged to present her with a letter. She threw it into the fire unread. The "second volume of the romance" offers to those interested an account of the solemn conferring upon the little Lauzun, in the church of Notre Dame, by King James II., of the Order of the Garter. To this chapter succeeds one less brilliant. Lauzun received the appointment as commander of the French troops sent to Ireland to sustain the cause of legitimate monarchy. He lacked the necessary qualifications for this post. He astonished his officers with his incapacity, and made them blush by displaying "a longing to return to France," Louis XIV. consented to make Lauzun Duke, upon "the urgent prayer" As a result of many years of reflection, Mademoiselle at length arrived at the conviction, an accepted commonplace, that happiness is not for To tears succeeded a certain childishness; the execrable Court life had educated her only for a puerile old age, and she hastened to Versailles from time to time, fearing to miss a tournament or some spectacle of this kind. On March 15, 1693, she was seized at Paris with a disease of the bladder which rapidly increased in severity. The Princess died on April 15th, at the age of sixty-six years, and was buried at Saint-Denis with much pomp. In the midst of the ceremony, an urn, in which through a curious arrangement the entrails were enclosed, "broke with a frightful noise and emitted a sudden and intolerable odour." Lauzun went into deep mourning, and made, on the day of the funeral, an offer of marriage, to prove that he was really a widower. Having, on this occasion, been refused, he married (1695) the younger daughter of the MarÉchal de Lorges and became the brother-in-law of Saint-Simon. Mme. de Lauzun was a child of fourteen, She flattered herself that at the end of "two or three years at most" At ninety he himself drove, and sometimes with fiery animals. One day, when he was training a fresh colt in the Bois de Boulogne, the King, Louis XIV., passed. Lauzun executed before him a "hundred capers" and filled the spectators with admiration, by his "address, his strength, and his grace." Mademoiselle was the last to disappear of the grand figures belonging to the time of the Fronde. Retz, CondÉ, Turenne, La Rochefoucauld, Mme. de Chevreuse, Mme. de Longueville, had departed before her. The only one of the ancient rebels which could not perish, the HÔtel de Ville of Paris, had been suppressed from history by royal ordinance for the period corresponding to the Fronde. The accounts of the prosecutions of the Council recorded the revolutionary sentiments which prevailed at the capital during the civil war. The King ordered all the registers It may be said without too much calumniating the heart of Louis XIV. that the death of his cousin afforded a certain relief. She was too lively a reminder of the execrable period which he did his best to banish from his own memory as well as from that of the public. Saint-Simon, newly arrived at the Court at the date of the death of Mademoiselle, had time to convince himself that she was in the eyes The royal rancour extended to the city of Paris, eternal cradle of French revolutions. Not being able to suppress the capital, Louis XIV. banished himself from its gates. On May 6, 1682, unfortunate date for the French monarchy, the Court installed itself definitely at Versailles, and henceforth left this place only for sojourns at the various country seats, as Fontainebleau and Marly. Paris was abandoned, left to do penance. Not only did Louis XIV. desert this city as a place of residence, but he visited it rarely. It was remarked that he often made long detours rather than to pass through Paris. The nobility and ministers followed the King to Versailles. Royalty and the capital turned their backs on each other. Another important event influenced the ideas of Court decorum and propriety. The Queen Marie-ThÉrÈse dying in 1683 (July 30), Louis XIV. in the course of the winter following formally married Mme. de Maintenon. The physiognomy of the Court, what Saint-Simon would have called the bark (Écorce), entirely changed its character. At the moment of ending this long study it is, then, a different world to which adieu must be said from the one which was found at the beginning, and Absolute monarchy was not a French tradition. It was an importation from Spain. Anne of Austria, who did not understand any other rÉgime, had educated her son to accept her ideas and habits of thought, and the substitution of king for minister was, at the death of Mazarin, accomplished without shock. It was, however, a real coup d'État. Before Louis XIV. the royal power, without being submitted to precise limitations, from time to time hurled itself against certain rights, themselves often loosely defined. There existed privileges of the Parliament, others of the State, together with those of the nobles, and others belonging to bodies and individuals, which when united left the King of France in a situation resembling that in which Gulliver found himself, when the Liliputians bound him with hundreds of minute threads. Each single thread was of no consequence; through the compression of all together every movement was paralysed. Louis XIV. resolutely broke the numerous threads which had trammelled the power of his predecessors. He freed himself in suppressing the ancient liberties of France. No student of history can be ignorant of the material results, so splendid at first, so disastrous in the end; but certain moral consequences of The French aristocracy ceased from the second generation to be a nursery for men of action. This was the result desired from the policy of keeping it chained to the steps of the throne. The end had been attained at the date of the King's death. Saint-Simon, who cannot be suspected of hostility towards the nobility, certifies to this. When the Duke arrived at power under the Regent, his brain swarming with projects for replacing the aristocrats in positions of importance, and when he sought great names with which to fill great posts, he realised that he was too late. The "nursery" was empty. The difficulty, say the MÉmoires
It is proper to render to CÆsar what belongs to CÆsar. The effacement of the French aristocracy is not to be laid at the door of the great Revolution, which acted only upon an accomplished fact; it was the personal work of Louis XIV. The higher classes also, contrary to the generally received opinion, suffered from a serious moral abasement. This fact is the more His distrust even reached the interior life of his subjects. Every one, under penalty of being considered a rebel, must feel and think like the King. This was with Louis a fixed idea, and during his reign gave a peculiar character to the religious persecutions. Jansenists and Protestants were pursued much oftener as enemies of the King than as enemies of God. The hostility of the Prince to the three principal seats of the French conscience, and the destruction of two of these, left the field clear for the licentiousness which marked the end of the reign. Excessive dissipation is always supposed to belong particularly to the time of the Regency, but the abscess had existed for a long time before the The real misfortune was that Louis, who had been brought up and matured in an entirely formal religion, had permitted himself to be imposed upon by scoffers, who came disguised as believers, in order to make their court. The King, who had permitted the representation of Tartuffe, had not sufficiently meditated upon its import. A final misdeed, and not the least for which the absolute rÉgime is responsible, was the launching of the nation in pursuit of one of the most dangerous of political chimeras, that of the need of spiritual unity. Louis XIV. revoked the Edict of Nantes in the name of the fetich that a good Frenchman must be of his King's faith. A century later, the Terror cut off heads in the name of a unity of opinion, because It is through this capital error that the reign of Louis XIV., so glorious in many respects, was the precursor of the great Revolution and really made its coming inevitable. The Jacobins are in some measure the heirs of the great King. Fundamentally, the mania for spiritual and moral unity is simply, under a less odious name, the horror of liberty; a sentiment old as the world, but which in the earlier portion of the seventeenth century had been far from dominant. The word "liberty" occurs again and again in the writings of many people of that period, theorists, jurists, and great nobles, at every point in which they touch politics. The expression contained for them nothing revolutionary. What they were demanding was rather a return to past methods, and, above all, it did not enter their thoughts to associate with liberty the word "equality." It is the eighteenth century, more philosophical, if perhaps less reasonable, that first conceived the idea of uniting two really incompatible things, without perceiving that one of the two was If absolute royalty had remained at Paris, it would have clearly realised the point at which the nation no longer was in sympathy with its rule. At Versailles it saw nothing; it shut itself up in its own tomb. The divorce was consummated between the Court and the Capital, one contenting itself with being figurative and ornamental, the other actively controlling opinions, since royalty had renounced the office of directing the public mind and thoughts. It will be recollected that the rÔle of universal arbitrator was played by the "young Court," the youthful King at its head, at the time in which there was daily contact with Paris, and when the Court was always in the advance in ideas as in fashions. The residence at Versailles ended the possibility of these times ever returning; there was no longer any bond between the King of France and the merchant of the rue St. Denis. In consequence, Paris employed itself in the eighteenth century in the evolution of minds. The Court had decided upon the success of the plays of MoliÈre, the Parisian parquet criticised those of Beaumarchais. If it be considered that the interior politics of Louis XIV. were constantly dominated by a horror of the Fronde, it will be recognised that this abortive revolution brought in its train consequences almost as grave as if it had been successful. This is the reason it has seemed permissible to make the history of the ideas and sentiments existing Neither Retz nor the great CondÉ showed signs in their old age of their characteristics displayed under the Fronde; both had become calmed. The Grande Mademoiselle remained always the Grande Mademoiselle, and this steadfastness, while sometimes a difficulty, was more often her real title to glory. |
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