The Memoirs of Louis XIV., Volume 5

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MEMOIRS OF LOUIS XIV AND HIS COURT AND OF THE REGENCY

BY THE DUKE OF SAINT-SIMON




VOLUME 5.




CHAPTER XXXIII

Two very different persons died towards the latter part of this year.
The first was Lamoignon, Chief President; the second, Ninon, known by the
name of Mademoiselle de l'Enclos. Of Lamoignon I will relate a single
anecdote, curious and instructive, which will show the corruption of
which he was capable.

One day--I am speaking of a time many years previous to the date of the
occurrences just related--one day there was a great hunting party at
Saint Germain. The chase was pursued so long, that the King gave up,
and returned to Saint Germain. A number of courtiers, among whom was
M. de Lauzun, who related this story to me, continued their sport; and
just as darkness was coming on, discovered that they had lost their way.
After a time, they espied a light, by which they guided their steps, and
at length reached the door of a kind of castle. They knocked, they
called aloud, they named themselves, and asked for hospitality. It was
then between ten and eleven at night, and towards the end of autumn.
The door was opened to them. The master of the house came forth.
He made them take their boots off, and warm themselves; he put their
horses into his stables; and at the same time had a supper prepared for
his guests, who stood much in need of it. They did not wait long for the
meal; yet when served it proved excellent; the wines served with it, too,
were of several kinds, and excellent likewise: as for the master of the
house, he was so polite and respectful, yet without being ceremonious or
eager, that it was evident he had frequented the best company. The
courtiers soon learnt that his name vitas Fargues, that the place was
called Courson, and that he had lived there in retirement several years.
After having supped, Fargues showed each of them into a separate bedroom,
where they were waited upon by his valets with every proper attention.
In the morning, as soon as the courtiers had dressed themselves, they
found an excellent breakfast awaiting them; and upon leaving the table
they saw their horses ready for them, and as thoroughly attended to as
they had been themselves. Charmed with the politeness and with the
manners of Fargues, and touched by his hospitable reception of them, they
made him many offers of service, and made their way back to Saint
Germain. Their non-appearance on the previous night had been the common
talk, their return and the adventure they had met with was no less so.

These gentlemen were then the very flower of the Court, and all of them
very intimate with the King. They related to him, therefore, their
story, the manner of their reception, and highly praised the master of
the house and his good cheer. The King asked his name, and, as soon as
he heard it, exclaimed, "What, Fargues! is he so near here, then?"
The courtiers redoubled their praises, and the King said no more; but
soon after, went to the Queen-mother, and told her what had happened.

Fargues, indeed, was no stranger, either to her or to the King. He had
taken a prominent part in the movements of Paris against the Court and
Cardinal Mazarin. If he had not been hanged, it was because he was well
supported by his party, who had him included in the amnesty granted to
those who had been engaged in these troubles. Fearing, however, that the
hatred of his enemies might place his life in danger if he remained in
Paris, he retired from the capital to this country-house which has just
been mentioned, where he continued to live in strict privacy, even when
the death of Cardinal Mazarin seemed to render such seclusion no longer
necessary.

The King and the Queen-mother, who had pardoned Fargues in spite of
themselves, were much annoyed at finding that he was living in opulence
and tranquillity so near the Court; thought him extremely bold to do so;
and determined to punish him for this and for his former insolence. They
directed Lamoignon, therefore, to find out something in the past life of
Fargues for which punishment might be awarded; and Lamoignon, eager to
please, and make a profit out of his eagerness, was not long in
satisfying them. He made researches, and found means to implicate
Fargues in a murder that had been committed in Paris at the height of the
troubles. Officers were accordingly sent to Courson, and its owner was
arrested.

Fargues was much astonished when he learnt of what he was accused. He
exculpated himself, nevertheless, completely; alleging, moreover, that as
the murder of which he was accused had been committed during the
troubles, the amnesty in which he was included effaced all memory of the
deed, according to law and usage, which had never been contested until
this occasion. The courtiers who had been so well treated by the unhappy
man, did everything they could with the judges and the King to obtain the
release of the accused. It was all in vain. Fargues was decapitated at
once, and all his wealth was given by way of recompense to the Chief-
President Lamoignon, who had no scruple thus to enrich himself with the
blood of the innocent.

The other person who died at the same time was, as I have said, Ninon,
the famous courtesan, known, since age had compelled her to quit that
trade, as Mademoiselle de l'Enclos. She was a new example of the triumph
of vice carried on cleverly and repaired by some virtue. The stir that
she made, and still more the disorder that she caused among the highest
and most brilliant youth, overcame the extreme indulgence that, not
without cause, the Queen-mother entertained for persons whose conduct was
gallant, and more than gallant, and made her send her an order to retire
into a convent. But Ninon, observing that no especial convent was named,
said, with a great courtesy, to the officer who brought the order, that,
as the option was left to her, she would choose "the convent of the
Cordeliers at Paris;" which impudent joke so diverted the Queen that she
left her alone for the future. Ninon never had but one lover at a time--
but her admirers were numberless--so that when wearied of one incumbent
she told him so frankly, and took another: The abandoned one might groan
and complain; her decree was without appeal; and this creature had
acquired such an influence, that the deserted lovers never dared to take
revenge on the favoured one, and were too happy to remain on the footing
of friend of the house. She sometimes kept faithful to one, when he
pleased her very much, during an entire campaign.

Ninon had illustrious friends of all sorts, and had so much wit that she
preserved them all and kept them on good terms with each other; or, at
least, no quarrels ever came to light. There was an external respect and
decency about everything that passed in her house, such as princesses of
the highest rank have rarely been able to preserve in their intrigues.

In this way she had among her friends a selection of the best members of
the Court; so that it became the fashion to be received by her, and it
was useful to be so, on account of the connections that were thus formed.

There was never any gambling there, nor loud laughing, nor disputes, nor
talk about religion or politics; but much and elegant wit, ancient and
modern stories, news of gallantries, yet without scandal. All was
delicate, light, measured; and she herself maintained the conversation by
her wit and her great knowledge of facts. The respect which, strange to
say, she had acquired, and the number and distinction of her friends and
acquaintances, continued when her charms ceased to attract; and when
propriety and fashion compelled her to use only intellectual baits. She
knew all the intrigues of the old and the new Court, serious and
otherwise; her conversation was charming; she was disinterested,
faithful, secret, safe to the last degree; and, setting aside her
frailty, virtuous and full of probity. She frequently succoured her
friends with money and influence; constantly did them the most important
services, and very faithfully kept the secrets or the money deposits that
were confided to her.

She had been intimate with Madame de Maintenon during the whole of her
residence at Paris; but Madame de Maintenon, although not daring to
disavow this friendship, did not like to hear her spoken about.

She wrote to Ninon with amity from time to time, even until her death;
and Ninon in like manner, when she wanted to serve any friend in whom she
took great interest, wrote to Madame de Maintenon, who did her what
service she required efficaciously and with promptness.

But since Madame de Maintenon came to power, they had only seen each
other two or three times, and then in secret.

Ninon was remarkable for her repartees. One that she made to the last
Marechal de Choiseul is worth repeating. The Marechal was virtue itself,
but not fond of company or blessed with much wit. One day, after a long
visit he had paid her, Ninon gaped, looked at the Marechal, and cried:

"Oh, my lord! how many virtues you make me detest!"

A line from I know not what play. The laughter at this may be imagined.
L'Enclos lived, long beyond her eightieth year, always healthy, visited,
respected. She gave her last years to God, and her death was the news of
the day. The singularity of this personage has made me extend my
observations upon her.

A short time after the death of Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, a terrible
adventure happened to Courtenvaux, eldest son of M. de Louvois.
Courtenvaux was commander of the Cent-Suisses, fond of obscure debauches;
with a ridiculous voice, miserly, quarrelsome, though modest and
respectful; and in fine a very stupid fellow. The King, more eager to
know all that was passing than most people believed, although they gave
him credit for not a little curiosity in this respect, had authorised
Bontems to engage a number of Swiss in addition to those posted at the
doors, and in the parks and gardens. These attendants had orders to
stroll morning, noon, and night, along the corridors, the passages, the
staircases, even into the private places, and, when it was fine, in the
court-yards and gardens; and in secret to watch people, to follow them,
to notice where they went, to notice who was there, to listen to all the
conversation they could hear, and to make reports of their discoveries.
This was assiduously done at Versailles, at Marly, at Trianon, at
Fontainebleau, and in all the places where the King was. These new
attendants vexed Courtenvaux considerably, for over such new-comers he
had no sort of authority. This season, at Fontainebleau, a room, which
had formerly been occupied by a party of the Cent-Suisses and of the
body-guard, was given up entirely to the new corps. The room was in a
public passage of communication indispensable to all in the chateau, and
in consequence, excellently well adapted for watching those who passed
through it. Courtenvaux, more than ever vexed by this new arrangement,
regarded it as a fresh encroachment upon his authority, and flew into a
violent rage with the new-comers, and railed at them in good set terms.
They allowed him to fume as he would; they had their orders, and were too
wise to be disturbed by his rage. The King, who heard of all this, sent
at once for Courtenvaux. As soon as he appeared in the cabinet, the King
called to him from the other end of the room, without giving him time to
approach, and in a rage so terrible, and for him so novel, that not only
Courtenvaux, but Princes, Princesses, and everybody in the chamber,
trembled. Menaces that his post should be taken away from him, terms the
most severe and the most unusual, rained upon Courtenvaux, who, fainting
with fright, and ready to sink under the ground, had neither the time nor
the means to prefer a word. The reprimand finished by the King saying,
"Get out." He had scarcely the strength to obey.

The cause of this strange scene was that Courtenvaux, by the fuss he had
made, had drawn the attention of the whole Court to the change effected
by the King, and that, when once seen, its object was clear to all eyes.
The King, who hid his spy system with the greatest care, had counted upon
this change passing unperceived, and was beside himself with anger when
he found it made apparent to everybody by Courtenvaux's noise. He never
regained the King's favour during the rest of his life; and but for his
family he would certainly have been driven away, and his office taken
from him.

Let me speak now of something of more moment.

The war, as I have said, still continued, but without bringing us any
advantages. On the contrary, our losses in Germany and Italy by
sickness, rather than by the sword, were so great that it was resolved to
augment each company by five men; and, at the same time, twenty-five
thousand militia were raised, thus causing great ruin and great
desolation in the provinces. The King was rocked into the belief that
the people were all anxious to enter this militia, and, from time to
time, at Marly, specimens of those enlisted were shown to him, and their
joy and eagerness to serve made much of. I have heard this often; while,
at the same time, I knew from my own tenantry, and from everything that
was said, that the raising of this militia carried despair everywhere,
and that many people mutilated themselves in order to exempt themselves
from serving. Nobody at the Court was ignorant of this. People lowered
their eyes when they saw the deceit practised upon the King, and the
credulity he displayed, and afterwards whispered one to another what they
thought of flattery so ruinous. Fresh regiments, too, were raised at
this time, and a crowd of new colonels and staffs created, instead of
giving a new battalion or a squadron additional to regiments already in
existence. I saw quite plainly towards what rock we were drifting. We
had met losses at Hochstedt, Gibraltar, and Barcelona; Catalonia and the
neighbouring countries were in revolt; Italy yielding us nothing but
miserable successes; Spain exhausted; France, failing in men and money,
and with incapable generals, protected by the Court against their faults.
I saw all these things so plainly that I could not avoid making
reflections, or reporting them to my friends in office. I thought that
it was time to finish the war before we sank still lower, and that it
might be finished by giving to the Archduke what we could not defend, and
making a division of the rest. My plan was to leave Philip V.
possession of all Italy, except those parts which belonged to the Grand
Duke, the republics of Venice and Genoa, and the ecclesiastical states of
Naples and Sicily; our King to have Lorraine and some other slight
additions of territory; and to place elsewhere the Dukes of Savoy, of
Lorraine, of Parma, and of Modem. I related this plan to the Chancellor
and to Chamillart, amongst others. The contrast between their replies
was striking. The Chancellor, after having listened to me very
attentively, said, if my plan were adopted, he would most willingly kiss
my toe for joy. Chamillart, with gravity replied, that the King would
not give up a single mill of all the Spanish succession. Then I felt the
blindness which had fallen upon us, and how much the results of it were
to be dreaded.

Nevertheless, the King, as if to mock at misfortune and to show his
enemies the little uneasiness he felt, determined, at the commencement of
the new year, 1706, that the Court should be gayer than ever. He
announced that there would be balls at Marly every time he was there this
winter, and he named those who were to dance there; and said he should be
very glad to see balls given to Madame de Bourgogne at Versailles.
Accordingly, many took place there, and also at Marly, and from time to
time there were masquerades. One day, the King wished that everybody,
even the most aged, who were at Marly, should go to the ball masked; and,
to avoid all distinction, he went there himself with a gauze robe above
his habit; but such a slight disguise was for himself alone; everybody
else was completely disguised. M. and Madame de Beauvilliers were there
perfectly disguised. When I say they were there, those who knew the
Court will admit that I have said more than enough. I had the pleasure
of seeing them, and of quietly laughing with them. At all these balls
the King made people dance who had long since passed the age for doing
so. As for the Comte de Brionne and the Chevalier de Sully, their
dancing was so perfect that there was no age for them.




CHAPTER XXXIV

In the midst of all this gaiety, that is to say on the 12th of February,
1706, one of our generals, of whom I have often spoken, I mean M. de
Vendome, arrived at Marly. He had not quitted Italy since succeeding to
Marechal de Villeroy, after the affair of Cremona. His battles, such as
they were, the places he had taken, the authority he had assumed, the
reputation he had usurped, his incomprehensible successes with the King,
the certainty of the support he leaned on,--all this inspired him with
the desire to come and enjoy at Court a situation so brilliant, and which
so far surpassed what he had a right to expect. But before speaking of
the reception which was given him, and of the incredible ascendancy he
took, let me paint him from the life a little more completely than I have
yet done.

Vendome was of ordinary height, rather stout, but vigorous and active:
with a very noble countenance and lofty mien. There was much natural
grace in his carriage and words; he had a good deal of innate wit, which
he had not cultivated, and spoke easily, supported by a natural boldness,
which afterwards turned to the wildest audacity; he knew the world and
the Court; was above all things an admirable courtier; was polite when
necessary, but insolent when he dared--familiar with common people--in
reality, full of the most ravenous pride. As his rank rose and his
favour increased, his obstinacy, and pig-headedness increased too, so
that at last he would listen to no advice whatever, and was inaccessible
to all, except a small number of familiars and valets. No one better
than he knew the subserviency of the French character, or took more
advantage of it. Little by little he accustomed his subalterns, and then
from one to the other all his army, to call him nothing but
"Monseigneur," and "Your Highness." In time the gangrene spread, and
even lieutenant-generals and the most distinguished people did not dare
to address him in any other manner.

The most wonderful thing to whoever knew the King--so gallant to the
ladies during a long part of his life, so devout the other, and often
importunate to make others do as he did--was that the said King had
always a singular horror of the inhabitants of the Cities of the Plain;
and yet M. de Vendome, though most odiously stained with that vice--so
publicly that he treated it as an ordinary gallantry--never found his
favour diminished on that account. The Court, Anet, the army, knew of
these abominations. Valets and subaltern officers soon found the way to
promotion. I have already mentioned how publicly he placed himself in
the doctor's hands, and how basely the Court acted, imitating the King,
who would never have pardoned a legitimate prince what he indulged so
strangely in Vendome.

The idleness of M. de Vendome was equally matter of notoriety. More than
once he ran the risk of being taken prisoner from mere indolence. He
rarely himself saw anything at the army, trusting to his familiars when
ready to trust anybody. The way he employed his day prevented any real
attention to business. He was filthy in the extreme, and proud of it.
Fools called it simplicity. His bed was always full of dogs and bitches,
who littered at his side, the pops rolling in the clothes. He himself
was under constraint in nothing. One of his theses was, that everybody
resembled him, but was not honest enough to confess it as he was. He
mentioned this once to the Princesse de Conti--the cleanest person in the
world, and the most delicate in her cleanliness.

He rose rather late when at the army. In this situation he wrote his
letters, and gave his morning orders. Whoever had business with him,
general officers and distinguished persons, could speak to him then. He
had accustomed the army to this infamy. At the same time he gobbled his
breakfast; and whilst he ate, listened, or gave orders, many spectators
always standing round.... (I must be excused these disgraceful details,
in order better to make him known).... On shaving days he used the same
vessel to lather his chin in. This, according to him, was a simplicity
of manner worthy of the ancient Romans, and which condemned the splendour
and superfluity of the others. When all was over, he dressed; then
played high at piquet or hombre; or rode out, if it was absolutely
necessary. All was now over for the day. He supped copiously with his
familiars: was a great eater, of wonderful gluttony; a connoisseur in no
dish, liked fish much, but the stale and stinking better than the good.
The meal prolonged itself in theses and disputes, and above all in praise
and flattery.

He would never have forgiven the slightest blame from any one. He wanted
to pass for the first captain of his age, and spoke with indecent
contempt of Prince Eugene and all the others. The faintest contradiction
would have been a crime. The soldier and the subaltern adored him for
his familiarity with them, and the licence he allowed in order to gain
their hearts; for all which he made up by excessive haughtiness towards
whoever was elevated by rank or birth.

On one occasion the Duke of Parma sent the bishop of that place to
negotiate some affair with him; but M. de Vendome took such disgusting
liberties in his presence, that the ecclesiastic, though without saying a
word, returned to Parma, and declared to his master that never would he
undertake such an embassy again. In his place another envoy was sent,
the famous Alberoni. He was the son of a gardener, who became an Abbe in
order to get on. He was full of buffoonery; and pleased M. de Parma as
might a valet who amused him, but he soon showed talent and capacity for
affairs. The Duke thought that the night-chair of M. de Vendome required
no other ambassador than Alberoni, who was accordingly sent to conclude
what the bishop had left undone. The Abbe determined to please, and was
not proud. M. de Vendome exhibited himself as before; and Alberoni, by
an infamous act of personal adoration, gained his heart. He was
thenceforth much with him, made cheese-soup and other odd messes for him;
and finally worked his way. It is true he was cudgelled by some one he
had offended, for a thousand paces, in sight of the whole army, but this
did not prevent his advancement. Vendome liked such an unscrupulous
flatterer; and yet as we have seen, he was not in want of praise. The
extraordinary favour shown him by the King--the credulity with which his
accounts of victories were received--showed to every one in what
direction their laudation was to be sent.

Such was the man whom the King and the whole Court hastened to caress and
flatter from the first moment of his arrival amongst us. There was a
terrible hubbub: boys, porters, and valets rallied round his postchaise
when he reached Marly. Scarcely had he ascended into his chamber, than
everybody, princes, bastards and all the rest, ran after him. The
ministers followed: so that in a short time nobody was left in the salon
but the ladies. M. de Beauvilliers was at Vaucresson. As for me, I
remained spectator, and did not go and adore this idol.

In a few minutes Vendome was sent for by the King and Monseigneur. As
soon as he could dress himself, surrounded as he was by such a crowd, he
went to the salon, carried by it rather than environed. Monseigneur
stopped the music that was playing, in order to embrace him. The King
left the cabinet where he was at work, and came out to meet him,
embracing him several times. Chamillart on the morrow gave a fete in his
honour at L'Etang, which lasted two days. Following his example,
Pontchartrain, Torcy, and the most distinguished lords of the Court, did
the same. People begged and entreated to give him fetes; people begged
and entreated to be invited to them. Never was triumph equal to his;
each step he took procured him a new one. It is not too much to say,
that everybody disappeared before him; Princes of the blood, ministers,
the grandest seigneurs, all appeared only to show how high he was above
them; even the King seemed only to remain King to elevate him more.

The people joined in this enthusiasm, both in Versailles and at Paris,
where he went under pretence of going to the opera. As he passed along
the streets crowds collected to cheer him; they billed him at the doors,
and every seat was taken in advance; people pushed and squeezed
everywhere, and the price of admission was doubled, as on the nights of
first performances. Vendome, who received all these homages with extreme
ease, was yet internally surprised by a folly so universal. He feared
that all this heat would not last out even the short stay he intended to
make. To keep himself more in reserve, he asked and obtained permission
to go to Anet, in the intervals between the journeys to Marly. All the
Court, however, followed him there, and the King was pleased rather than
otherwise, at seeing Versailles half deserted for Anet, actually asking
some if they had been, others, when they intended to go.