THE rapid multiplication of books and libraries during this period naturally led to a corresponding increase in the use of ex-libris. About the same time a new style of ex-libris comes in, more fanciful and artistic than of yore, but it must be confessed of a less practical character. These remain, for the greater part, heraldic in design, in fact, more pretentiously heraldic than ever. For, with the progress of education and the advance of philosophical speculation in France, people began to realize the absurdity of purchasing heraldic bearings, and, seeing what a sham the whole thing had become, finished by assuming arms and coronets to keep in the fashion. “Le blason,” wrote the Sieur de Chevigni in 1723, “est devenu un jardin public oÙ chacun s’accommode À sa fantaisie pour les armoiries comme pour les couronnes.”

Helmet, wreath, and mantling disappear, whilst the shield and coronet no longer face one boldly and squarely, but appear in fantastic perspective; the supporters assume attitudes never before contemplated in heraldry—under or over the shield, or playing at hide and seek behind the shield. Cupids, angels, cherubim, and mythological deities lend their aid, and a background of clouds, with or without rainbows, completes the curious fashion in vogue about 1750, which lasted, with some modifications, down to the time of the Revolution.

As time creeps slowly forward dated plates become more fashionable, and the owners’ names are more generally inserted. Indeed, French vanity begins to assert itself in lengthy inscriptions setting forth the high-sounding titles, distinctions, and offices held by the owners of these elaborate armorial book-plates.

The plate of the AbbÉ de Gricourt shows us that he considered the terrestrial globe unworthy to bear his coat-of-arms, which is therefore being carried away to its home in paradise by a swarm of little angels singing psalms in his praise, and weaving garlands of flowers to crown his achievement. This ambitious plate is signed by A. T. Cys (Adrien ThÉry, À Cisoing), who was a brother of the AbbÉ de Gricourt.

The plates of this later period are, for the most part, affected, pompous, and even ridiculous in their assumptions. Shields in impossible attitudes, either resting on nothing, or falling over the supporters. These, in their turn, no longer perform their ancient duties seriously, but lounge about, lie asleep at their posts, or yawn with ennui at having to take a part in such a farce as heraldry in France had now become. As for the few plates of this period which preserve the ancient regularity of form and correct heraldic drawing, these usually belong to the families most entitled to bear arms, yet they look archaic and formal beside their more ornate brethren.

The plates which have been reproduced to illustrate this period, 1700 to 1789, have been selected principally to show the varying styles in fashion in each decade, until we reach a date when French society is rudely convulsed by political events.

Three scarce plates are those of Louis XV., of Madame Victoire de France, and of the Bastille. That of Louis XV. is a fine plate for folio size, designed by A. Dieu and engraved by L. Audran. It has a monogram of double L on a shield, which is surrounded by trophies, and surmounted by the royal crown.

The plates for Madame Victoire de France (daughter of Louis XV.) and for the ChÂteau de la Bastille bear the French royal arms—azure, three fleurs-de-lys or.

Apart from heraldry, we have now reached the period when purely artistic and decorative ex-libris commence to show themselves, and when artists such as Ferrand, Beaumont, F. Montulay, L. Monnier, Nicole and Collin, both of Nancy, J. Traiteur, de la Gardette, Berthault, L. Choffard, Le Roy, Cochin, Gravelot, Marillier, Moreau le jeune, Pierre St.-Aubin, and Gaucher, put some of their best work into these little copper plates.

Even Boucher condescended to engrave a few plates, of which, however, but three are known, and one only is signed.

With the multiplication of books in the eighteenth century came a proportionate decrease in their intrinsic value. With the exception of an occasional Édition de luxe, or of books scarce only because they ought never to have existed at all, lovers of artistic bookbinding found their hobby almost useless.

Why spend pounds to bind a book which cost but a few shillings? Why put costly clothing on a child having 999 brothers, all so exactly similar that the father and mother, author and printer, could not discriminate between them? As the book was bought so it generally remained, or, as an especial honour, it might perhaps be put into half calf.

Exit whole morocco, with arms elaborately emblazoned on the sides, and monograms in dainty tooling on the back.

Enter modern book-plate.

Under the Bourbon Kings the government of France was an absolute monarchy tempered by epigrams, and regulated chiefly by priests, soldiers, and the ladies of the Court. The system was vicious and corrupt, but very simple, and eminently satisfactory to the privileged classes. It ruined France, but, whilst it lasted, the kings and their mistresses, the nobility, and the clergy, enjoyed most of the pleasures, and all the vices, this life could afford.

Of the military men who acquired power few appear to have indulged in literary tastes, or to have formed libraries. Many handsome ex-libris exist, carrying warlike trophies,—cannons, drums, tents, and flags,—such, for instance, as that of Claude Martin, but few indeed of these plates bear the names of any of the more famous French commanders. Even the plate of Murat (of later date) is doubtful, for what time had le beau sabreur for books?

Of the famous Court beauties who held influence over the kings, some possessed, and others affected, a taste for books, and volumes from their collections are eagerly sought for, partly for their associations, and partly on account of the elegance of their bindings. To name three or four of the most beautiful and most famous of these fair bibliophiles will suffice. First comes Diane de Poitiers, whose monogram, interlaced with that of her royal lover, Henri II., is to be found (along with the crescent of the chaste goddess Diana) on many books exquisitely bound by Le Faucheux.

The Marquise de Maintenon, widow of the deformed jester Scarron, who became the wife, if not the queen, of Louis XIV., was a woman of great tact and intelligence. She formed a valuable library; her books were handsomely bound, and stamped with her arms,—a lion rampant between two palm leaves.

The Marquise de Pompadour, whose books (principally dedicated to the menus plaisirs du Roi, like their owner) were bound by Biziaux, Derome, or Padeloup, and decorated with her arms,—azure, three towers argent. Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson was born the daughter of a butcher in 1722, but was created the Marquise de Pompadour, and, what is more singular, a “dame du palais de la Reine” by Louis XV. But she was beautiful exceedingly, and clever, and even Voltaire himself could not resist flattering her:

Was it her death from small-pox that suggested to Zola that awful closing chapter in “Nana”?

A book-plate was engraved for her, anonymous, but having the above-named arms; it does not appear, however, to have been fixed in her books. La Pompadour died in 1764, and her books were sold in Paris in the following year.

Next comes the plate of Madame Jeanne-Gomart de Vaubernier, Comtesse Du Barry (born at Vaucouleurs in 1743), the last favourite of Louis XV., who, less fortunate than her rival, la Pompadour, survived her royal protector, nay, even royalty itself, and died on the scaffold in December, 1793. Ignorant as she was, she formed a small but valuable collection, her books being bound in red morocco, all richly gilt, and ornamented on the sides with her arms, and her motto, Boutez en avant. Redan was one of her binders. Louis XV. remarked, “La Pompadour had more books than the countess, but they were neither so well chosen nor so well bound, we therefore create her BibliothÉcaire de Versailles.”

Poor Du Barry! She could scarcely read, and could not spell; her books were selected to dispel the ennui and divert the mind of the debauched old king in the last few years of his shameful life. Yet is she worthy of mention here, if for one thing only, she possessed a book-plate engraved by Le Grand, of which, however, she made but little use.

But Louis le Bien-aimÉ died of small-pox in 1774, and henceforward the Du Barry fades from sight for nearly twenty years, until we see her once again, on the way to the guillotine, where, unlike most of the aristocrats who preceded her, she lost courage, and vainly shrieked for mercy from those who knew not what it was.

“Unclean, yet unmalignant, not unpitiable thing! What a course was thine: from that first truckle-bed where thy mother bore thee, with tears, to an unnamed father: forward, through lowest subterranean depths, and over highest sunlit heights, of Harlotdom and Rascaldom—to the guillotine-axe, which shears away thy vainly whimpering head!” Thus does Carlyle epitomize her career.

Louis XV. was known as le Bien-aimÉ, but years before his death his name had lost all the influence it had ever possessed, and

It was computed that during his reign 150,000 men had been imprisoned in the Bastille, whose crimes, real or imaginary, had never been investigated in any court of justice.

They were torn without warning from liberty and friends to languish for years in dark loathsome dungeons, without even knowing of what offences they were accused, nor for what period they would be imprisoned.

A simple Lettre de Cachet was all that was required, which it was by no means difficult for a king’s mistress, minister, or favourite to obtain.

Lettre de Cachet.

Monsieur le Gouverneur, envoyant en mon chÂteau de la Bastille le sieur N——, je vous fais cette lettre pour vous dire que mon intention est que vous ayez À l’y recevoir et retenir en toute seÛretÉ, jusques À nouvel ordre de moy. Et la prÉsente n’estant pour autre fin, je prie Dieu qu’il vous ait, Monsieur le Gouverneur, en sa sainte garde.

Ecrit À —— le —— de l’an ——.

Signature du Roi.