Mlle. de Villeneuve asked her in what “merit” consisted. She answered: “In having an assemblage of virtues and good qualities, and, above all, religion and reason.” Then she explained Justice; saying that justice in action consists in rendering to every one that which is due to him, and consenting that others should render to us what we deserve. “What do we deserve when we do wrong? Mlle. de Laudonie, answer.”
“We deserve blame,” answered the young lady.
“Yes,” said Mme. de Maintenon, “and it is therefore justice to suffer ourselves to be blamed when we do wrong; that is one of the best ways of repairing our faults; there is no one who cannot act justly in that way. It is the mark of a good mind to recognize our faults and admit them. On the other hand, it is the mark of a very small mind not to be able to see and admit that we are wrong, and to seek for false excuses to cover it.”
She next said that besides that sort of justice, which ought to be found in our actions, there was one of judgment, called equity, which so works that, without being influenced by our inclinations or dislikes, it obliges us to form just ideas on all things, to distinguish good from evil (even to seeing the faults of friends without being blinded in their favour by affection), and to recognize in good faith the good qualities which may exist in persons whom we like least and who are even unpleasant to us. “Not,” she said, “that we are obliged to disclose the faults of our friends; because friendship demands that we should cover and excuse them unless it is necessary to stop an evil by disclosing them; but justice requires that we should judge to be bad that which is bad, and good that which is good, independently of our inclinations either way in respect to the persons concerned. The first and surest rule to avoid being mistaken in our judgments is to conform them as nearly as possible to those of God, which are shown to us in Holy Scripture and in the Gospel; and the second rule, which is also drawn from the Gospel, is to judge others as we wish that they should think and judge of us, and to treat them in all things as we should wish to be treated.
“But there is still another degree of justice more excellent than these and which demands a very different kind of virtue: it is unselfishness, which makes us capable of deciding against ourselves in favour of those who have right on their side. There are many persons sufficiently equitable to judge justly about the cases of others; but as soon as they themselves are interested we find them biased in their own favour. That is not justice, for justice insists that we shall declare for the right on whichever side it is found. The king did a praiseworthy action, which has been much admired as to this. Some time ago he had a lawsuit against certain private persons in Paris who had believed, the ramparts of the town being greatly neglected, that they were free to appropriate a piece of land and build upon it. Many years after they had done so the officers charged with the king’s revenue reflected that as that land belonged to him, the houses that were built upon it ought also to belong to him, or at least that he ought to be paid the value of the land on which they were built. The private persons contended that the long time they had been in possession was a sufficient title to make the property theirs. The affair was carried to the king and judged in his presence; half of the judges were for him, half declared for the other side, which was very praiseworthy, the king being present. Now it is a law of the kingdom, in suits thus judged before the king according to plurality of opinions, that in case of an equal division he shall give the casting vote; it depended therefore on the king himself to win his case; but instead of doing so he gave his vote to the opposite side, saying that, inasmuch as there were good reasons on both sides, he preferred to relinquish his rights rather than press them farther to the injury of his subjects.
“Let us now pass to Prudence. That is a virtue that rules all our words and actions according to reason and religion; it enables us to discern what we should do or omit doing, say or keep silence about, according to occasions and circumstances; it is opposed to the indiscretion of speaking out of season.” Thereupon she asked Mlle. de Saint-Maixant what she considered most contrary to charity, to ridicule a person for corporal defects, or for defects of mind or temper. The young lady answered, “To ridicule defects of mind or heart.” “It is never right to ridicule any defects,” said Mme. de Maintenon; “charity enjoins us to excuse all; but I think that it is base and cruel to blame a person for a natural defect which he has had no share in producing, and which he cannot correct. Good hearts and minds are incapable of laughing at such defects; they endure them and ignore them out of care and tenderness for those who have them. But I should think it more excusable to blame a defect of mind or temper; for, after all, the person who has it could correct it, or at least diminish it; therefore that person is blamable to give way to it. Nevertheless, charity forbids us to reproach him for that as well as for the other. One means of avoiding the indiscretion which is so disagreeable in society is to become prudent, to reflect on what we are about to say, in order to foresee whether it will have any evil result or give pain to others.
“Prudence also induces us to consult those who are wise and experienced; it makes us take judicious measures to carry out that which we undertake to do; and it teaches us to undertake nothing that is not judicious, and has not a fair appearance of success.
“Temperance is a virtue which moderates us in all things, and makes us keep the golden mean between too much and too little. It should be in continual use; it prevents all excitements of passion, whether of joy or sadness; if we laugh, it is with moderation and modesty; if we weep, it is not as delivering ourselves up entirely to grief, but as bearing it peaceably and patiently; if we eat, it is with moderation; in short, temperance prevents excess in all things. Temperance is to you, who are here, very necessary on all occasions, because the foible of youth is to be carried away by joy and pleasure; everything turns the head of youth and prevents it from possessing itself, unless it takes great care to control this tendency. Remember carefully what I am about to say to you: every person who is not mistress of herself will never have merit, whether before God or before the world. She must be mistress of her joy and not give way to fits of laughter, to excessive demonstrations; all joy shown by postures of the body is immoderate, and, consequently, opposed to temperance. We should never hear a modest and well brought-up young person laugh noisily; the Holy Spirit, as you know, says Himself that the laugh of a fool is known because he laughs loudly, but the wise man laughs beneath his breath because he is master of all his motions and knows how to moderate them. And yet everything puts you beside yourselves. If the ball rolls into trou madame [a game] that is enough to make you shout and scream with laughter; and still more if you win the game. I do not condemn a little joy on such occasions, but it should not go so far as immoderate shouts and losing your self-possession. We break the Reds of such uproars of joy, how much therefore should you, who ought to be more reasonable, break yourselves of this habit.
“Fortitude is a virtue which makes us pursue our enterprises with courage, and surmount the obstacles we find in ourselves and others to the good we have undertaken, without giving way before difficulties; sustaining all unfortunate events with firmness and without discouragement.
“To which of us is the virtue of fortitude most necessary, Beauvais?”
“To the one who has most defects and those most difficult to conquer,” replied the young lady.
“Yes, I think as you do,” said Mme. de Maintenon. Then she added: “Should those who have the most defects, or who feel they are not so well-born, be discouraged and imagine they can never succeed in conquering them?”
“No, Madame,” said the young lady, “because our merit depends on our efforts aided by the grace of God.”
“That is an admirable answer,” said Mme. de Maintenon; “never forget it, my children; our merit depends upon our effort. With that good word I leave you, but we will talk of it again.”
On making excuses and inappropriate answers.
1706.
“I wish, my dear children,” said Mme. de Maintenon to the young ladies, “that I could rid you of your tendency to make excuses. I know it is very natural, and it forms a religious penance not to make excuses, even when unjustly blamed. But that is not what I require of you; I ask you only, on such occasions, to listen respectfully and tranquilly to what your mistresses say to you, and when they have ended ask them, in a gentle and modest way, to allow you to give your reasons—provided they are good, for it is a thousand times better when you are wrong to acknowledge it than to make a single bad excuse.... I like a girl infinitely more who sometimes does wrongful things and owns it frankly and seems sorry for the trouble she occasions, than another who usually does right but refuses to acknowledge a fault when she happens to commit one. I have often admired Mme. la Duchesse de Bourgogne, who is the first princess in the land and over whom I, naturally, have no authority; you would scarcely believe with what docility, what good spirit, what gratitude she receives the advice I take the liberty to give her. But, more than that, I found her the other day sitting on the stairs outside the door of my room with Jeanne, a coarse village-woman of good sense whom I have in my household, who was telling her of her faults and what she heard said to her disadvantage in Paris; and that charming princess, instead of being offended by the frankness of the good woman, threw her arm round her neck and kissed her several times, saying: ‘I am very much obliged to you, Jeanne; I thank you for all that you have told me, for I know it is out of affection to me.’ And whenever she sees her now she is not only friendly but she kisses her heartily, though she is old and ugly and disgusting.”
On the taste for dress.
1708.
A mistress having said to Madame that some of the young ladies had shown publicly before their companions their delight in being well-dressed, and had said they could not conceive of a greater pleasure and that nuns withered with grief at seeing persons who were thus dressed, ... Madame said: “I cannot sufficiently tell you, my children, what pettiness there is in this desire for adornment, though it is natural in persons of our sex. It is, however, so humiliating that those who care for their reputation, even in the great world, should be careful not to show that weakness if they have it, for it makes them despised by all; the most worldly persons, on the contrary, esteem young ladies who despise their beauty and do not affect to improve it by dress.
“When I exhort you sometimes to endeavour to please, I mean that it shall be by good conduct, and not by fine clothes; sorrow to those who seek to distinguish themselves in that way! If they are not sensitive to the distress of offending God, a love of their own honour should put them above this foible; for the world turns to ridicule those in whom it sees the desire to appear beautiful, especially when they are not so really. Those who have beauty and seem to disregard it are, on the contrary, much esteemed. I wish,” added Madame, sighing, “I had done as much for God as I have for the world to preserve my reputation. In my youth I persisted, in the midst of the highest society, in wearing nothing but simple serge, at a period when no one wore it; I was more singular in my dress than a young lady of Saint-Cyr would be now in the midst of the Court.” Mme. de Champigny asked her if it was from fear of pleasing that she dressed so modestly. “I was not happy enough,” she replied, “to act in that way from piety; I did it from reason and for the sake of my reputation. I had not means enough to equal others in the magnificence of their clothing; so I preferred to throw myself into the other extreme and prove that I was above all desire to make a show by apparel and adornment, rather than let it be thought I snatched at what I could, and did my best to equal them. I could not tell you what esteem such conduct won me; people never tired of admiring a pretty young woman who had the courage, in the midst of society, to keep to such modest apparel; that is just what it was; but there was nothing vulgar or repulsive about it; if the stuff itself was simple, the gown was well-fitting and very ample, the linen was white and fine, nothing was shabby. I made more of an appearance in that way than if I had worn a gown of faded silk, like most of the poor young ladies who try to be in the fashion and who have not the means to pay for it.
“I also maintained with inviolable firmness a disinterested determination to receive no presents; I was so well known for that characteristic that no man ever presumed to offer me any, except one, who was foolish. I do not know what made him do the thing I will now tell you: I had an amber fan, very pretty; I laid it for a moment on a table; and this man, whether as a joke or from design, took it up and broke it in two. I was surprised and angry; I liked my fan very much, and to lose it was a great regret to me. The next day the man sent me a dozen fans the equals of the one he had broken. I sent him word it was not worth while to break mine in order to send me a dozen others, for I should have liked thirteen fans better than twelve, which I returned to him, and remained without any fan at all. I turned the man to ridicule in company for having sent me a present, so that no one after that ever offered me one. You cannot think what a reputation this proceeding gave me; and I was so jealous of maintaining it that I would gladly have done without everything rather than act otherwise. Such love of reputation, though it may be mixed with pride and arrogance, and should consequently be corrected by piety, is nevertheless of great utility to young ladies; it is a supplement to piety, which protects them from many disorders.”
What pains and ennui there are in all states of life.
1710.
Mme. de Maintenon, having had fever all night, and having it still, went up to class Blue and said to them: “I have dragged myself here to see you, my children, in order that you may tell me what you have remembered of the fine conference you had yesterday with M. l’Abbé Tiberge” [one of the confessors of Saint-Cyr]. The young ladies repeated it, and when they came to the part where he told them there were troubles in every state of life she took up the subject and enlarged upon it, saying: “That is true indeed, beginning first with the Court people, whom the world considers so fortunate. There is nothing more burdensome than the life they lead; it costs them infinite trouble, constraint, expense, and ennui to pay their court; and at the end of it all you will hear them say: ‘Ah! how vexed I am; I have stood about since morning and I think the king has not even seen me.’ And, in truth,” continued Mme. de Maintenon, “they get up very early in the morning, dress with care, and are on their feet all day, watching for a favourable moment to make themselves seen and be presented; and often they come back as they went, except that they are in despair at having wasted both time and trouble. But I wish you could see the state of the fortunate ones; that is to say, those who see the king and have the honour to be in his intimacy; there is nothing to equal the ennui that consumes them. We are now at Meudon, a magnificent palace. Well! every one must go to walk, without liking to do so, in a dreadful wind perhaps, out of respect to the king. They come back very tired, and you will see a number of women complaining and saying: ‘How weary I am! this place will kill us all.’ ‘I cannot bear it,’ says another; ‘if I could only walk with some one whom I like, but no! I find myself in file with some one who makes me die of weariness.’ For no one can choose her companion any more than you can here; she must go with whoever presents himself. The fact is,” said Mme. de Maintenon, “they do not really know what to do, and nothing gives them any pleasure. Fête-days are the most wearisome of all for those who are not pious; they do not know how to while away the time. A few ladies are fortunate enough to like to spend those days, as they should, in church; others who like to work are vexed not to dare to do so; others again, who like neither church nor work, find those days intolerably wearisome. You see, my dear girls, how it is with the greatest of the earth; for I am speaking now of princes and princesses, the very first persons of the Court, and those who are the envy of the rest of the world. They are usually not contented anywhere; they are bored by dint of seeking pleasure; they go from palace to palace, Meudon, Marly, Rambouillet, Fontainebleau, in hopes of amusing themselves. All these are delightful places, where you, my children, would be enchanted if you saw them; but these people are bored because they are used to it all. In the long run the finest things cease to give pleasure and become indifferent; besides, such things do not make us happy; happiness must come from within.... As for me, whose favour every one envies because I pass a part of my day with the king,—they think me the most fortunate person in the world; and they are right, so far as the goodness with which his Majesty honours me; and yet there is no one more restrained. When the king is in my room I often sit apart from him because he is writing; no one speaks, unless very low, in order not to disturb him. Before I came to Court, at thirty-two years of age, I can truly say that I never knew ennui; but I have known it enough since, and I believe that I could not bear it, in spite of my reason, if I did not feel that it is God who wills it. If you had to sit in my chamber and never say a word for a portion of your lives you would quiver with impatience, would you not? And yet, in spite of all I tell you, my post is envied. There is no true happiness my children, except in serving God; piety alone can sustain us and give us an equable behaviour, in the midst of pains and tedium as well as in the midst of prosperity, which is a state no less dangerous to our salvation.”
“I am,” Madame said to me [1705], “in great joy whenever I see the door closing behind me as I enter here; and I never go out of it without pain. Often, on returning to Versailles, I think: ‘This is the world, and apparently the world for which Jesus Christ would not pray on the eve of his death. I know there are good souls at Court, and that God has saints in all conditions; but it is certain that what is called the world is centred here; it is here that all passions are in motion,—self-interest, ambition, envy, pleasure; this is the world so often cursed by God.’ I own to you that these reflections give me a sense of sadness and horror for that place, where, nevertheless, I have to live.”
After speaking with Madame of various afflicting things, I said to her that at least she would see none in this house, for all was going on so well it ought to be a place of rest to her, where she could take comfort for what she suffered elsewhere. “That is just so,” replied Madame, “and what should I do without this house? I could not live. I think that God has given it to me, not for my salvation only, but for my rest; it does not serve me only to pray to God and gather myself together, but it diverts my mind; it makes me forget those other things. When I am here, and busy, when we hold counsel together or I talk with the young ladies, I do not even think there is a Court, and I breathe freely.”
“I thought this morning,” I said, “when I saw you taking the communion, that it may have been long since you had such a morning, when you could pray to God at your ease and collect yourself.”
“That is true,” replied Madame. “I have told you often that the only time I can take for my prayers and the mass is when other people sleep; without it, I could not go on; for when people once begin to enter my room I am not my own mistress; I have not an instant to myself.” I replied, as to that, that I always imagined her room to be like the shop of a great merchant, which, once opened, is never empty and where the shopman must remain. “That is just how it is,” said Madame. “They begin to come in about half-past seven; first it is M. Maréchal [the king’s surgeon]; he has no sooner gone than M. Fagon enters; he is followed by M. Bloin [the king’s head valet] or some else sent to inquire how I am. Sometimes I have extremely pressing letters to write, which I must get in here. Next come persons of greater consequence: one day, M. Chamillart; another, the archbishop; to-day, a general of the army on the point of departure; to-morrow, an audience that I must give, having been demanded under such circumstances that I cannot defer it. M. le Duc du Maine waited the other day in my antechamber till M. Chamillart had finished. When M. Chamillart went out M. du Maine came in and kept me till the king arrived; for there is a little etiquette in this, that no one leaves me till some one of higher rank enters and sends them away. When the king comes, they all have to go. The king stays till he goes to mass. I do not know if you have observed that all this time I am not yet dressed; if I were I should not have been able to say my prayers. I still have my night-cap on; but my room by this time is like a church; a perpetual procession is going on, everybody passes through it; the comings and goings are endless.
“When the king has heard mass he returns to me; next comes the Duchesse de Bourgogne with a number of ladies, and there they stay while I eat my dinner. You would think that here at least was a time I could have to myself; but you shall see how it is. I fret lest the Duchesse de Bourgogne should do something unsuitable; I try to make her say a word to this one; I look to see if she treats that one properly, and whether she is behaving well to her husband. I must entertain the company, and do it in a way to unite them all. If some one commits an indiscretion I feel it; I am worried by the manner in which people take what is said to them; in short, it is a tumult of mind that nothing equals. Around me stand a circle of ladies, so that I cannot even ask for something to drink. I turn to them sometimes and say: ‘This is a great honour for me, but I would like to have a footman.’ On that, each of them wants to serve me and hastens to bring me what I want; but that is only another sort of embarrassment and annoyance to me. At last they go off to dine themselves, for my dinner is at twelve o’clock with Mme. d’Heudicourt and Mme. de Dangeau, who are invalids. Here I am at last alone with those two; every one else has gone. If there were a moment in the day when I might what is called amuse myself, this is it, either for talk or a game at backgammon. But usually Monseigneur takes this time to come and see me, because on some days he does not dine, on other days he has dined early, and so comes after the others. He is the hardest man in the world to talk with, for he never says a word. But I must try to entertain him because I am in my own apartment; if it were elsewhere I could lean back in a chair and say nothing if I chose. The ladies who are with me can do that if they like, but I must, as they say, labour it out, and manage to find something to say; and this is not very enlivening.
“After the king’s dinner is over, he comes with all the princesses and the royal family into my room; and they cause it to be intolerably hot. They talk; the king stays about half an hour; then he goes away, but no one else; the rest remain, and as the king is no longer there they come nearer to me; they surround me, and I am forced to listen to the jokes of Mme. la Maréchale de Clérembault, the satire of this one, and the tales of that one. They have nothing to do, those good ladies; and they have done nothing all the morning. It is not so with me, who have much else to do than to sit there and talk, probably with a heart full of care, grief, and distress at bad news, like that from Verrue lately. I have everything on my mind; I am thinking how a thousand men may be perishing, and others in agony.... After they have all stayed some time they begin to go away, and then what do you suppose happens? One or other of these ladies invariably stays behind, wishing to speak to me in private. She takes me by the hand, leads me into my little room, and tells me frequently the most unpleasant and wearisome things, for, as you may well suppose, it is not my affairs that they talk about; they are those of their own family: one has had a quarrel with her husband; another wants to obtain something from the king; an ill turn has been done to this one; a false report has been spread about that one; domestic troubles have embroiled a third; and I am forced to listen to all this, and the one among them whom I like least does not restrain herself more than the others,—she tells me everything; I must be told all the circumstances and speak about them to the king. Often the Duchesse de Bourgogne wants to speak to me in private, like the rest.
“All this makes me think sometimes when I reflect upon it that my position is so singular it must be God who placed me in it. I behold myself in the midst of them all; this person, this old person of mine, the object of all their attention. It is to me they must address themselves, to me, through whom all passes! God has given me grace never to look at my position on its splendid side. I feel nothing but the pains of it; it seems to me that, thank God! I am not dazzled; He enables me to see it just as it is. I do not allow myself to be blinded by the grandeur and the favour that surround me; I regard myself as an instrument which God is using to do good, and I feel that all the influence He permits me to have should be employed in serving Him, in comforting whom I can, and in uniting these princes with one another, if possible. I think sometimes of the hatred that I have instinctively for the Court; it is nothing new; I have had it always. God, nevertheless, destined me to be there; why, then, has He given me this aversion to it? It must be because He wills that I should live in its midst and find my salvation there. Mme. de Montespan, on the contrary, loved the Court, not only for the ties that held her to it, but because she liked Court life. What does God do? He binds to it the one who hates it, He sends away from it the one who loves it, apparently for the salvation of both. Ah! how good it is to let Him act, to abandon ourselves to Him, to live from day to day doing all the good we can. He knows better what we want than ourselves; and, assuredly, He is an excellent director; we need only to yield ourselves to His guidance. But let us go on.
“When the king returns from hunting he comes to me; then my door is closed and no one enters. Here I am, then, alone with him. I must bear his troubles, if he has any, his sadness, his nervous dejection; sometimes he bursts into tears which he cannot control, or else he complains of illness. He has no conversation. Then a minister comes, who often brings fatal news; the king works. If they wish me to be a third in their consultation, they call me; if they do not want me I retire to a little distance, and it is then that I sometimes make my afternoon prayers; I pray to God for about half an hour. If they wish me to hear what is said I cannot do this; I sit there, and hear perhaps that things are going ill; a courier has arrived with bad news; and all that wrings my heart and prevents me from sleeping at night.
“While the king continues to work I sup; but it is not once in two months that I can do so at my ease. I feel that the king is alone, or I have left him sad, or that M. Chamillart has almost finished with him; sometimes he sends and begs me to make haste. Another day he wants to show me something. So that I am always hurried, and the only thing I can do is to eat very fast. I have my fruit brought with the meat to hasten supper; and all this as fast as I can. I leave Mme. d’Heudicourt and Mme. de Dangeau at table, because they cannot eat as fast as I do, and often I am oppressed by it.
“After this it is, as you may suppose, getting late. I have been about since six in the morning; I have not breathed freely the whole day; I am overcome with weariness and yawning; more than that, I begin to feel what it is that makes old age; I find myself at last so weary that I can no more. Sometimes the king perceives it and says: ‘You are very tired, are you not? You ought to go to bed.’ So I go to bed; my women come and undress me; but I feel that the king wants to talk to me and is waiting till they go; or some minister still remains and he fears my women will hear what he says. That makes him uneasy, and me too. What can I do? I hurry; I hurry so that I almost faint; and you must know that all my life what I have hated most is to be hurried. At five years of age it had the same effect upon me; I was faint if I ran too fast, for being naturally very quick and consequently inclined to haste, I was also very delicate, so that to run, as I tell you, choked me. Well, at last I am in bed; I send away my women; the king approaches and sits down by my pillow. What can I do then? I am in bed, but I have need of many things; mine is not a glorified body without wants. There is no one there whom I can ask for what I need; not a single woman. It is not because I could not have them, for the king is full of kindness, and if he thought I wanted one woman he would endure ten; but it never comes into his mind that I am constraining myself. As he is master everywhere, and does exactly what he wishes, he cannot imagine that any one should do otherwise; he believes that if I show no wants, I have none. You know that my rule is to take everything on myself and think for others. Great people, as a rule, are not like that; they never constrain themselves, they never think that others are constrained by them, nor do they feel grateful for it, simply because they are so accustomed to see everything done in reference only to themselves that they are no longer struck by it and pay no heed. I have sometimes, during my severe colds, been on the point of choking with a cough I was unable to check. M. de Pontchartrain, who saw me one day all crimson with the effort, said to the king: ‘She cannot bear it; some one must be called.’
“The king stays with me till he goes to supper, and about a quarter of an hour before the supper is served M. le Dauphin, M. le Duc and Mme. la Duchesse de Bourgogne come to me. At ten o’clock or a quarter past ten everybody goes away. There is my day. I am now alone, and I take the relief of which I am in need; but often the anxieties and fatigues I have gone through keep me from sleeping.”
I expressed to Madame how trying all that seemed to me, and said I should not be surprised if some one should speak of her as the most unhappy person in the world. “And yet,” she added, “could they not also say, ‘She is the happiest. She is with the king from morning till night?’ But they do not remember, in saying that, that kings and princes are men like other men; they have their griefs and troubles which we must share with them. Moreover, there are a thousand things that our princes never think of which fall upon me. For example, Mme. la Princesse des Ursins is about to return to Spain; I must busy myself with her; I must repair as best I can by my attentions the coldness of the Duchesse de Bourgogne, the stiffness of the king, the indifference of others. I go to see her; I give her time with me; I listen to a thousand matters I do not care about; and all that merely that she may go away pleased with others, and say good of them, especially of the Duchesse de Bourgogne. I see they are all too negligent to do this for themselves; I must supply the want; and so with a thousand other things. I have always on my mind Spain nearly lost to us, peace receding farther than ever, miseries that I hear of on all sides, thousands of persons suffering before my very eyes and I not able to help them,—and then, besides these sorrows, the excesses that reign at Court, drunkenness, gluttony, excessive luxury, and, worst of all, the visible dangers to religion.”
I asked Madame if she were not sometimes impatient; she answered: “Ah! indeed yes, I am; I am often, as they say, up to my throat in it; but it must be borne; and besides, God has arranged it. When I reflect on my condition, and how burdened I am with cares and griefs, I think: ‘How would it be with my soul if this were not so? If, with this magnificence, wealth, and luxury, I had nothing to pain me, would anything on this earth be so likely to ruin me? A grandeur like this, if combined with ease of life, would soon lead me to forget God. I am lodged like the king; my furniture is magnificent; I am in luxury; but God shows his mercy throughout all that by mingling with it pains and distresses which serve as a counterpoise and make me turn to Him.’”
To M. le Duc de Noailles.
Saint-Cyr, September 5, 1706.
Our dear princess [Duchesse de Bourgogne] is fairly well; she is too anxious about the war for a person of her age. M. le Duc de Bourgogne is always pious, amorous, and scrupulous; but he is becoming every day more reasonable. I have no one to speak with, and I think that spares me many sins; for my confidences would be neither favourable to nor honourable for my neighbours. The men are all on bad terms with me, and the women I pay no heed to. Adieu, my dear duke. It is not necessary to urge you to zeal for the king and State; you act from principles that cannot change; and if you do not meet with all the gratitude you deserve, you will receive a more solid reward hereafter.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Saint-Cyr, October 17, 1706.
I can only add that our princess is taking great care to carry her child to the end. She is fairly well, but extremely sad. She has an affection for her father, but feels a great resentment to him; she loves her mother tenderly, and takes as great an interest in the affairs of Spain as in those of France. She loves the king, and never sees him more serious than usual without the tears coming into her eyes; and with her excessive kindness she interests herself also in my pains and woes. I should like to comfort her, but, on the contrary, I distress her. This is a terrible state for a person of her age, and one who has, I think, without speaking of it, much uneasiness about her approaching confinement, and many fears lest she should have a girl.
To Mme. de Glapion.
Saint-Cyr, February, 1707.
I have just been witness of a conversation between the king and M. le Dauphin which has caused me great pain. I spend my life in trying to unite them and in warding off everything that is likely to cause misunderstandings between them, and yet here they are on the verge of quarrelling about a trifle. Monseigneur wanted to give a public ball to which society in general should be admitted; he was absolutely determined about it, and with him the Duchesse de Bourgogne. The king, with charming gentleness, opposed it, and told Monseigneur it was not proper, if he wished the Duchesse de Bourgogne to be present, that all sorts of men and women should be present also. The princess, on her side, could see no harm in it, for she is just as ready to dance with a comedian as with a prince of the blood. I cannot tell you how this little squabble has made me suffer, and what a night I have passed. I blame myself for my too great sensibility, and yet, on the other hand, it seems to me I am right to desire peace in the royal family and to dread, between a king of seventy and a dauphin of forty-six, whatever may set them against each other and add to our general war a civil one.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Saint-Cyr, April 10, 1707.
Our king is tranquil, gentle, and equable in temper, such as you left him. His health is very good; his occupations the same as ever; it would really seem as though nothing had happened to give him pain [reference to disasters in war]. This is something surprising, which amazes me constantly.
Our princess makes great efforts to amuse herself, and only succeeds in making herself giddy with fatigue. She went yesterday to dine at Meudon followed by twenty-four ladies; after that they were to go to the fair and see some famous rope-dancers, return to sup at Meudon, and play cards, no doubt, till daybreak. She must have come home this morning,—ill perhaps, certainly serious, for that is the usual result of all her pleasures.
Versailles, later.
Mme. la Duchesse de Bourgogne has a severe headache. M. Fagon has fever and must be bled. Wherever I turn I find subjects for distress and anxiety. How can you, madame, wish for my letters?
To Mme. la Marquise de Dangeau.
Saint-Cyr, Saturday, July 16, 1707.
It is in order that I may speak to you, madame, of the Duchesse de Bourgogne, that I have asked you to put off your visit to Paris till to-morrow. The king said to me last evening that he had been much surprised to hear of the card-playing at Bretesch [a village between Marly and Versailles]. I saw by that that the Duchesse de Bourgogne had deceived me. She told me that Mme. la Duchesse had invited herself to supper, but I see now it was a prearranged party, for the king tells me that the princess herself invited Mme. la Duchesse, and that M. de Lorges was the first to arrive. I answered that it was quite natural that Mme. la Duchesse should sup at her brother’s house, but that as for the cards, I was more sorry than any one.
The king said, “Is not a dinner, a cavalcade, a hunt, a collation enough for one day?” Then he added after a while, “I should do well to tell those gentlemen they are not paying their court well in gambling with the Duchesse de Bourgogne.” I said that lansquenet had always troubled me, for fear she might make some trip that would do her harm and put her on a bad footing. We talked of other things and then the king returned to the subject and said to me, “Should I not do better to speak to those gentlemen?” I replied that I thought that manner of acting might be injurious to the Duchesse de Bourgogne, and that he had better speak to her herself, so that the matter might remain secret. He said he should do so to-day; and I have begged you to remain in order that you may warn her. We have now come sooner than I expected to the alienation I have all along apprehended. The king will think he has vexed her by stopping her lansquenet and will be more stiff with her; she will certainly be vexed and be cold with him; I shall feel the same and return to the formal respect I owe to her; but I am not yet detached enough from the esteem of the world to consent to let it think I approve such conduct. [We know already how the sweet temper of the princess took these rebukes and turned away wrath.]
The Duchesse de Bourgogne will be compassionated by Mme. la Duchesse; which makes me remember the traps that her mother [Mme. de Montespan] used to lay for the queen and Mme. de la Vallière, in order to make the king notice later what their behaviour had been. If after speaking to the princess you could come out to Saint-Cyr I should be glad; but I doubt whether, after so painful a conversation, you will be in a state to appear. If you find it possible to approach the Duchesse de Bourgogne you might give her this letter to prepare her for answering the king, and then you can speak to her in the evening more at length. You can imagine, madame, what a night I have passed. Let us pray God for our princess, who is drowning herself in a glass of water.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Fontainebleau, July 23, 1708.
You know now, madame, that our happiness has not lasted long. The reduction of Ghent to the power of his Catholic Majesty had placed us in a situation of great advantage, which ought to have been maintained through the rest of the campaign; the enemy were on the retreat and quite disheartened. M. de Vendôme, who believes what he wishes, chose to give battle and lost it [Oudenarde], and we are worse off now than we were before, as much from fear of consequences and the air of superiority assumed by the enemy as from the loss of our troops.
In this condition we have felt the joy of the taking of Tortosa much less [taken by the Duc d’Orléans, July 11], though we see all the value of it. Madame is delighted, and with good reason; she sees M. le Duc d’Orléans covered with glory, and out of the danger to which he was exposed.
You know, madame, the levity of Frenchmen, and it seems to me that their talk is reaching you. Ghent, they are now saying, put us in a condition to make peace on any terms we chose; now all is lost, and we have to ask it with a cord round our necks. And yet, madame, neither statement is true. The enemy had great resources though we had Ghent; we should have had more if M. de Vendôme had chosen to act with more precaution. Our army is still very fine and very good, the troops have done their duty, they are in nowise discouraged, and are now asking only to redeem themselves; but that they must not be allowed to attempt except with the order and caution to be observed on such occasions. The Duc de Bourgogne has held the wisest opinions, but he was ordered to yield to M. de Vendôme as being more experienced. Our princes have been in a position to be captured; imagine, madame, where we should then have been. That is a comfort I try to give to the Duchesse de Bourgogne in the extreme distress she feels. She shows throughout these sad events the feelings of a true Frenchwoman, such as I have always known her to feel; but I own I did not think that she loved M. le Duc de Bourgogne to the point we now see. Her tenderness goes even to delicate sentiment; she keenly feels that his first battle has proved disastrous; she would like him to have been as much exposed as a grenadier, and then to have come back to her without a scratch. She feels, too, his pain for the troubles that have happened; she shares the uneasiness that his present position must give him; she would like a battle, in order to have him win, and yet she fears it. Nothing escapes her; she is worse than I. This affliction which, in one aspect, gives me some pleasure because it proves her merit, gives me also great uneasiness about her health, which seems to have changed. Milk had done her some good and her fine colour was returning; but all these troubles distress her; and she is capable of prolonged grief; we saw after the death of Monsieur how long she felt it; and she is still feeling it.
To M. le Duc de Noailles.
Saint-Cyr, June 13, 1710.
We are awaiting the dispensation from Rome to marry the Duc de Berry; there would be many things to write you about that if prudence did not restrain me; but it is time to have a little of that virtue. There will be no fêtes, rejoicings, or expense; all will be done with regard to the present condition of affairs....
Our tall Princesse de Conti is greatly afflicted by the death of the Duchesse de la Vallière. She is hurt that the king has not been to see her; but he thought he ought not to renew a matter of which he repents daily. The princess no longer conceals her piety, and she sets a great example to the Court with much sense and courage. We shall go to Marly immediately after the wedding; I have some impatience to see two little rooms next the chapel, which the king has given me that I may go and rest sometimes, and get away from the annoyance of visitors in the morning.
The Duchesse de Bourgogne becomes more sensible every day. She is to be trusted with the feeding and education of the Duchesse de Berry, who for some time to come is not to have an establishment of her own. People are beginning to say, however, that a contract of marriage cannot be made without giving an appanage; and the king may give them that which Mme. de Guise once had. No one has ever seen a better household than that of the Duc and Duchesse d’Orléans; they are never apart, and they take all their pleasures together. It is thought that Mme. de Saint-Simon will be lady of honour.
The whole talk now is of the new chapel [the present chapel at Versailles]; every one is rushing from all parts to see it; it is magnificent; I have not enough good taste to judge as to the rest.
In addition to my other woes I have a toothache, which does not make me gay. Let us all take courage and hope in the vicissitudes of this world. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Versailles, December 15, 1710.
I consulted M. Fagon this morning to know if he approved of your taking back with you to Madrid the waters of Barège; he tells me that he has written in favour of it to your physicians, and told them of the experiments made by Gervais in that matter.
Though I know that your queen is above all other women, I cannot help feeling for what disfigures her. [The Queen of Spain, Louise de Savoie, had glandular swellings, which increased terribly and finally killed her February, 1714, just two years after her sister’s death.] I entreat you, madame, to send me news of her condition.
You must allow me, madame, to pour out to you my feelings about the Duchesse de Bourgogne. After having borne with much discussion as to the bad system I had pursued in her education; after being blamed by all the world for the liberties she has taken in running about from morning till night; after seeing her hated by some for never saying a word, and accused of horrible dissimulation in the attachment she has shown to the king and the goodness with which she honoured me, I see her to-day with all the world chanting her praises, believing in her good heart, also in her great mind, and agreeing that she knows well how to hold a large Court to respect; I see her adored by the Duc de Bourgogne, tenderly beloved by the king, who has just placed her household in her own hands to manage as she likes, saying publicly that she is capable of governing much greater things. I tell you of my joy about all this, madame, convinced that you will be glad of it, for you were the first to discover, sooner than others, the merits of our princess.
Mme. la Duchesse de Berry is still a child; her husband loves her passionately. M. le Dauphin said last night that he himself was the man in the world who had made the most good husbands. May God preserve them all.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Saint-Cyr, November 30, 1711.
We have no courier to-day, madame; perhaps he is delayed by the floods that surround us on all sides. For a month it has rained every day and all night too; but no matter, we are soon apparently to have peace. The passports have been sent; the Dutch are beginning to change their ideas; Philippe V. and his amiable descendants will reign securely on the throne of Spain; I have always hoped for a miracle in his favour: and we shall profit by what is now to happen to him—which he has deserved far more than we. I still hope, old as I am, to see the King of England return to his kingdom.
What glory for our king, madame, to have sustained a ten years’ war against all Europe, endured the misfortunes which arose, experienced famine and a species of pestilence that carried off millions of souls, and now to see it end in a peace which places the monarchy of Spain in his family, and re-establishes a Catholic king in his kingdom—for I will not doubt that that will follow upon peace. The king is blest with a health which makes me hope he will long enjoy the rest he is now to have. I think you sufficiently a Frenchwoman (in spite of all my insults) to rejoice with us.
Mme. la Dauphine takes eagerly to this subject of joy; she revels in it to its fullest extent; she imagines the happiness of her mother, and often talks to me of that of your queen. She intends to do something on the day peace is concluded that she has never done before in her life and never will do again; but she has not yet found out what it shall be. Meantime she is going to the Te Deum at Notre-Dame, to dinner with the Duchesse du Lude in a beautiful new house, after that to the opera, and to sup with the Prince de Rohan in that magnificent hôtel de Guise, then cards and a ball all night, and as the hour of her return will be that of my waking, she will probably come and ask me for some breakfast on arriving. I think, madame, that you would find such a day rather long in spite of its pleasures.
M. le Comte de Toulouse was extremely well until the twenty-first day after the operation, when the king went to see him, and the whole Court, with French indiscretion, went also, which threw him into a fever.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Versailles, January 11, 1712.
I do not know, madame, if the courier of to-day will bring me letters from you; but I have one by M. de Torcy’s courier and another by the last courier to answer.
It is true, madame, that Madame la Dauphine does greatly regret her youth; there is, however, ground to hope that she will always amuse herself, for she has within her a fund of inexhaustible joy; and if we are fortunate enough to have peace, it is probable that she will always be very happy. Her great gayety does not prevent great sympathy in trouble; she has keenly felt the uncertainty which the King and Queen of Spain have borne; she suffers much on account of her father; but there is no Frenchwoman more attached to the welfare of this country than she; so that I think she never can be held in when all these subjects of distress are lifted from her. She has reason to be happy; she is well married, much beloved by the king and dauphin, and she truly makes the enjoyment of the whole Court. There are days when she has attacks of fever, and then the courtiers are in consternation, and cry out about the irreparable loss she would be to them. The people love her much because she lets herself be seen very readily; she has the most pleasing children she could possibly desire, less handsome than yours, but very vigorous, and perfect pictures,—graceful like herself, and showing already much intelligence.
If we may judge of the king’s life by the present state of his health we may hope that it will last as long as that of the Marquis de Mancera, for their régime is about the same; there is no retrenchment in the meals that you know of; no diminution in the fine appearance, the habit of walking, in fact the whole figure, which you know, madame, is superior to that of all others. M. le Grand, who eats as much as the king and is much younger, is broken down with rheumatism, and can hardly drag himself about. M. de Villeroy always looks finely, but his sobriety does not save him from gout; M. le Duc de Grammont never has a day’s health. These are the contemporaries and the strongest men of his time.
You will probably hear of a little scene with the Duchesse de Berry, who gives much anxiety to Madame, and to the Duchesse d’Orléans. We must hope for some change in a young person only sixteen years old. Why, madame, do you speak to me of respectful attachment? Are you not, as it were, making game of me? You owe me, madame, merely a little friendship in return for the sentiments I have for you. I beg you to place me at the feet of the king and queen; and to believe that I shall esteem and love you all my life; I do not think that in saying that I am wanting in respect.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
February 7, 1712.
I do not know, madame, how I shall have strength to write you of the horrors that surround us. Measles are making great ravages in Paris. M. de Gondrin was buried yesterday; his wife has measles and continued fever with a dead child in her body; she wants to rise at every moment and go to her husband, who they dare not tell her is dead. Mme. la Dauphine has an inflammation in the head, which gives her a fixed pain between the ear and the upper end of the jaw; the place of the pain is so small that it could be covered by a thumb-nail. She has convulsions and screams like a woman in childbirth, and with the same intervals. She was bled twice yesterday and has taken opium three times, and seems a little more quiet at this moment. I am now going to her; and will close this at the last moment to give you the latest news.
Seven o’clock at night.
Mme. la Dauphine, having taken a fourth dose of opium and chewed and smoked tobacco, feels a little easier. They have just come to tell me that she has slept an hour, and hopes to sleep a long time.
[The dauphine died February 12, the dauphin February 18; and their eldest son, the Duc de Bretagne, March 8, leaving the infant Duc d’Anjou (Louis XV.) as the sole direct descendant of Louis XIV.]
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Versailles, February 22, 1712.
You will have heard the unhappy news; it is such that I cannot tell it to you in detail. The grief of the king is too great. All France is in consternation. My own state must not hinder me from thinking often of their Catholic Majesties; I beg you, madame, to assure them of this. The King of Spain loses a saint in losing his brother; the queen is fortunate in never having known our dauphine [she was a little child when Marie-Adélaïde left Savoie]. Adieu, madame; I am quite unable to write you any details.
To M. le Duc de Beauvilliers.
Saint-Cyr, March 15, 1712.
To put your mind at ease, monsieur, I have taken copies of all your writings [found among the dauphin’s papers], and I send them all to you, without exception. Secrecy would have been kept, but circumstances might arise to reveal everything. We have just passed through a sad experience. I should have liked to return to you all the letters from yourself, and from M. de Cambrai [Fénelon], but the king desired to burn them himself. I own to you that I regret this much, for nothing was ever written so beautiful and so good. If the prince we mourn had a few defects it was not because the counsel given him was too timid, nor yet that he was too much flattered. It may be said that those who walk straight can never be confounded.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Saint-Cyr, September 11, 1715.
You are very good, madame, to think of me in the great event that has just happened [death of Louis XIV., September 1, 1715]. We can but bow our heads beneath the hand that strikes us.
I would with all my heart, madame, that your condition were as happy as mine. I have seen the king die like a saint and a hero; I am in the most pleasing retreat I could desire; and wherever I am, madame, I shall be, all my life, your very humble and very obedient servant.
To Mme. la Princesse des Ursins.
Saint-Cyr, December 27, 1715.
It is true, madame, that I have withdrawn from the world as much as possible, and that if my friends were a little less kind to me, I should henceforth see no one. But it is true also that I do not forget those I have esteemed, loved, and honoured, and that I think very often of you, wishing for you that which I believe to be the best of all things. I supposed, madame, that you would go to Rome, and I am very glad that you have done so for the sake of your eyes. Mine have had a different fate. I have left off the spectacles I began thirty-five years ago to wear, and I now work tapestry day and night—for I sleep but little. My retreat is peaceful and most complete. As for society, one can have none with persons who have no knowledge of all that I have seen and who have been brought up in this house and know absolutely nothing but its rules.
There is no state on earth, madame, that does not have its troubles; your good mind, your courage, and your blood have always diminished yours. Our Maréchal de Villeroy scarcely ever sees me now; but he does me kindnesses every day of his life. He is the refuge of the miserable. You would be satisfied with the public opinion of his merit; I know men who do not like him who, nevertheless, cannot help admitting that he makes a noble personage.
Believe me, madame, that I can never forget the marks of your goodness to me, and that I shall die with the same attachment as ever to you.
[Mme. de Maintenon died at Saint-Cyr, April 15, 1719, in the eighty-fifth year of her age.]