Том 8

                                VOLUME 8.

CHAPTER LV

State of the Country.--New Taxes.--The King's Conscience Troubled.--

Decision of the Sorbonne.--Debate in the Council.--Effect of the Royal

Tithe.--Tax on Agioteurs.--Merriment at Court.--Death of a Son of

Marechal Boufflers.--The Jesuits.

CHAPTER LVI

My Interview with Du Mont.--A Mysterious Communication. --Anger of

Monseigneur against Me.--Household of the Duchesse de Berry.--Monseigneur

Taken Ill of the Smallpox.--Effect of the News.--The King Goes to

Meudon.--The Danger Diminishes.--Madame de Maintenon at Meudon.--The

Court at Versailles.--Hopes and Fears.--The Danger Returns.--Death of

Monseigneur.--Conduct of the King.

CHAPTER LVII

A Rumour Reaches Versailles.--Aspect of the Court.--Various Forms of

Grief.--The Duc d'Orleans.--The News Confirmed at Versailles.--Behaviour

of the Courtiers.--The Duc and Duchesse de Berry.--The Duc and Duchesse

de Bourgogne.--Madame.--A Swiss Asleep.--Picture of a Court.--The Heir-

Apparent's Night.--The King Returns to Marly.--Character of Monseigneur.

--Effect of His Death.

CHAPTER LVIII

State of the Court at Death of Monseigneur.--Conduct of the Dauphin and

the Dauphine.--The Duchesse de Berry.--My Interview with the Dauphin.--

He is Reconciled with M. d'Orleans.

CHAPTER LIX

Warnings to the Dauphin and the Dauphine.--The Dauphine Sickens and

Dies.--Illness of the Dauphin.--His Death.--Character and Manners of the

Dauphine.--And of the Dauphin.

CHAPTER LX

Certainty of Poison.--The Supposed Criminal.--Excitement of the People

against M. d'Orleans.--The Cabal.--My Danger and Escape.--The Dauphin's

Casket.

CHAPTER LV

Although, as we have just seen, matters were beginning to brighten a

little in Spain, they remained as dull and overcast as ever in France.

The impossibility of obtaining peace, and the exhaustion of the realm,

threw, the King into the most cruel anguish, and Desmarets into the

saddest embarrassment.  The paper of ail kinds with which trade was

inundated, and which had all more or less lost credit, made a chaos for

which no remedy could be perceived.  State-bills, bank-bills, receiver-

general's-bills, title-bills, utensil-bills, were the ruin of private

people, who were forced by the King to take them in payment, and who lost

half, two-thirds, and sometimes more, by the transaction.  This

depreciation enriched the money people, at the expense of the public; and

the circulation of money ceased, because there was no longer any money;

because the King no longer paid anybody, but drew his revenues still; and

because all the specie out of his control was locked up in the coffers of

the possessors.

The capitation tax was doubled and trebled, at the will of the Intendants

of the Provinces; merchandise and all kinds of provision were taxed to

the amount of four times their value; new taxes of all kinds and upon all

sorts of things were exacted; all this crushed nobles and roturiers,

lords and clergy, and yet did not bring enough to the King, who drew the

blood of all his subjects, squeezed out their very marrow, without

distinction, and who enriched an army of tax-gatherers and officials of

all kinds, in whose hands the best part of what was collected remained.

Desmarets, in whom the King had been forced to put all his confidence in

finance matters, conceived the idea of establishing, in addition to so

many taxes, that Royal Tithe upon all the property of each community and

of each private person of the realm, that the Marechal de Vauban, on the

one hand, and Boisguilbert on the other, had formerly proposed; but, as I

have already described, as a simple and stile tax which would suffice for

all, which would all enter the coffers of the King, and by means of which

every other impost would be abolished.

We have seen what success this proposition met with; how the fanciers

trembled at it; how the ministers blushed at it, with what anathemas it

was rejected, and to what extent these two excellent and skilful citizens

were disgraced.  All this must be recollected here, since Desmarets, who

had not lost sight of this system (not as relief and remedy--unpardonable

crimes in the financial doctrine), now had recourse to it.

He imparted his project to three friends, Councillors of State, who

examined it well, and worked hard to see how to overcome the obstacles

which arose in the way of its execution.  In the first place, it was

necessary, in order to collect this tax, to draw from each person a clear

statement of his wealth, of his debts, and so on.  It was necessary to

demand sure proofs on these points so as not to be deceived.  Here was

all the difficulty.  Nothing was thought of the desolation this extra

impost must cause to a prodigious number of men, or of their despair upon

finding themselves obliged to disclose their family secrets; to hate a

lamp thrown, as it were, upon their most delicate parts; all these

things, I say, went for nothing.  Less than a month sufficed these humane

commissioners to render an account of this gentle project to the Cyclops

who had charged them with it.  Desmarets thereupon proposed it to the

King, who, accustomed as he was to the most ruinous imposts, could not

avoid being terrified at this.  For a long while he had heard nothing

talked of but the most extreme misery; this increase saddened him in a

manner so evident, that his valets perceived it several days running, and

were so disturbed at it, that Marechal (who related all this curious

anecdote to me) made bold to speak to the King upon this sadness, fearing

for his health.  The King avowed to him that he felt infinite trouble,

and threw himself vaguely upon the state of affairs.  Eight or ten days.

after (during which he continued to feel the same melancholy), the King

regained his usual calmness, and called Marechal to explain the cause of

his trouble.

The King related to Marechal that the extremity of his affairs had forced

him to put on furious imposts; that setting aside compassion, scruples

had much tormented him for taking thus the wealth of his subjects; that

at last he had unbosomed himself to the Pere Tellier, who had asked for a

few days to think upon the matter, and that he had returned after having

had a consultation with some of the most skilful doctors of the Sorbonne,

who had decided that all the wealth of his subjects was his, and that

when he took it he only took what belonged to him!  The King added, that

this decision had taken away all his scruples, and had restored to him

the calm and tranquillity he had lost.  Marechal was so astonished, so

bewildered to hear, this recital, that he could not offer one word.

Happily for him, the King quitted him almost immediately, and Marechal

remained some time in the same place, scarcely knowing where he was.

After the King had been thus satisfied by his confessor, no time was lost

in establishing the tax.  On Tuesday, the 30th of September, Desmarets

entered the Finance Council with the necessary edict in his bag.

For some days everybody had known of this bombshell in the air, and had

trembled with that remnant of hope which is founded only upon desire; all

the Court as well as all Paris waited in a dejected sadness to see what

would happen.  People whispered to each other, and even when the project

was rendered public, no one dared to talk of it aloud.

On the day above-named, the King brought forward this measure in the

Council, by saying, that the impossibility of obtaining peace, and the

extreme difficulty of sustaining the war, had caused Desmarets to look

about in order to discover some means, which should appear good, of

raising money; that he had pitched upon this tax; that he (the King),

although sorry to adopt such a resource, approved it, and had no doubt

the Council would do so likewise, when it was explained to them.

Desmarets, in a pathetic discourse, then dwelt upon the reasons which had

induced him to propose this tax, and afterwards read the edict through

from beginning to end without interruption.

No one spoke, moreover, when it was over, until the King asked

D'Aguesseau his opinion.  D'Aguesseau replied, that it would be necessary

for him to take home the edict and read it through very carefully before

expressing an opinion.  The King said that D'Aguesseau was right--it

would take a long time to examine the edict--but after all, examination

was unnecessary, and would only be loss of time.  All remained silent

again, except the Duc de Beauvilliers, who, seduced by the nephew of

Colbert, whom he thought an oracle in finance, said a few words in favour

of the project.

Thus was settled this bloody business, and immediately after signed,

sealed, and registered, among stifled sobs, and published amidst the most

gentle but most piteous complaints.  The product of this tax was nothing

like so much as had been imagined in this bureau of Cannibals; and the

King did not pay a single farthing more to any one than he had previously

done.  Thus all the fine relief expected by this tax ended in smoke.

The Marechal de Vauban had died of grief at the ill-success of his task

and his zeal, as I have related in its place.  Poor Boisguilbert, in the

exile his zeal had brought him, was terribly afflicted, to find he had

innocently given advice which he intended for the relief of the State,

but which had been made use of in this frightful manner.  Every man,

without exception, saw himself a prey to the tax-gatherers: reduced to

calculate and discuss with them his own patrimony, to receive their

signature and their protection under the most terrible pains; to show in

public all the secrets of his family; to bring into the broad open

daylight domestic turpitudes enveloped until then in the folds of

precautions the wisest and the most multiplied.  Many had to convince the

tax agents, but vainly, that although proprietors, they did not enjoy the

tenth part of them property.  All Languedoc offered to give up its entire

wealth, if allowed to enjoy, free from every impost, the tenth part of

it.  The proposition not only was not listened to, but was reputed an

insult and severely blamed.

Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne spoke openly against this tax; and

against the finance people, who lived upon the very marrow of the people;

spoke with a just and holy anger that recalled the memory of Saint-Louis,

of Louis XII., Father of the People, and of Louis the Just.  Monseigneur,

too, moved by this indignation, so unusual, of his son, sided with him,

and showed anger at so many exactions as injurious as barbarous, and at

so many insignificant men so monstrously enriched with the nation's

blood.  Both father and son infinitely surprised those who heard them,

and made themselves looked upon, in some sort as resources from which

something might hereafter be hoped for.  But the edict was issued, and

though there might be some hope in the future, there was none in the

present.  And no one knew who was to be the real successor of Louis XIV.,

and how under the next government we were to be still more overwhelmed

than under this one.

One result of this tax was, that it enabled the King to augment all his

infantry with five men per company.

A tax was also levied upon the usurers, who had much gained by

trafficking in the paper of the King, that is to say, had taken advantage

of the need of those to whom the King gave this paper in payment.  These

usurers are called 'agioteurs'.  Their mode was, ordinarily, to give, for

example, according as the holder of paper was more or less pressed, three

or four hundred francs (the greater part often in provisions), for a bill

of a thousand francs!  This game was called 'agio'.  It was said that

thirty millions were obtained from this tax.  Many people gained much by

it; I know not if the King was the better treated.

Soon after this the coin was re-coined, by which much profit was made for

the King, and much wrong done to private people and to trade.  In all

times it has, been regarded as a very great misfortune to meddle with

corn and money.  Desmarets has accustomed us to tricks with the money;

M. le Duc and Cardinal Fleury to interfere with corn and to fictitious

famine.

At the commencement of December, the King declared that he wished there

should be, contrary to custom, plays and "apartments" at Versailles even

when Monseigneur should be at Meudon.  He thought apparently he must keep

his Court full of amusements, to hide, if it was possible, abroad and at

home, the disorder and the extremity of affairs.  For the same reason,

the carnival was opened early this season, and all through the winter

there were many balls of all kinds at the Court, where the wives of the

ministers gave very magnificent displays, like fetes, to Madame la

Duchesse de Bourgogne and to all the Court.

But Paris did not remain less wretched or the provinces less desolated.

And thus I have arrived at the end of 1710.

At the commencement of the following year, 1711, that is to say, a few

days after the middle of March, a cruel misfortune happened to the

Marechal de Boufflers.  His eldest son was fourteen years of age,

handsome, well made, of much promise, and who succeeded marvellously at

the Court, when his father presented him there to the King to thank his

Majesty for the reversion of the government of Flow and of Lille.  He

returned afterwards to the College of the Jesuits, where he was being

educated.  I know not what youthful folly he was guilty of with the two

sons of D'Argenson; but the Jesuits, wishing to show that they made no

distinction of persons, whipped the little lad, because, to say the

truth, they had nothing to fear from the Marechal de Boufflers; but they

took good care to left the others off, although equally guilty, because

they had to reckon with D'Argenson, lieutenant of the police, of much

credit in book matters, Jansenism, and all sorts of things and affairs in

which they were interested.

Little Boufflers, who was full of courage, and who had done no more than

the two Argensons, and with them, was seized with such despair, that he

fell ill that same day.  He was carried to the Marechal's house, but it

was impossible to save him.  The heart was seized, the blood diseased,

the purples appeared; in four days all was over.  The state of the father

and mother may be imagined!  The King, who was much touched by it, did

not let them ask or wait for him.  He sent one of his gentlemen to

testify to them the share he had in their loss, and announced that he

would give to their remaining son 'what he had already given to the

other.  As for the Jesuits, the universal cry against them was

prodigious; but that was all.  This would be the place, now that I am

speaking of the Jesuits, to speak of another affair in which they were

concerned.  But I pass over, for the present, the dissensions that broke

out at about this time, and that ultimately led to the famous Papal Bull

Unigenitus, so fatal to the Church and to the State, so shameful far

Rome, and so injurious to religion; and I proceed to speak of the great

event of this year which led to others so memorable and so unexpected.

CHAPTER LVI

But in Order to understand the part I played in the event I have alluded

to and the interest I took in it, it is necessary for me to relate some

personal matters that occurred in the previous year. Du Mont was one of

the confidants of Monseigneur; but also had never forgotten what his

father owed to mine.  Some days after the commencement of the second

voyage to Marly, subsequently to the marriage of the Duchesse de Berry,

as I was coming back from the King's mass, the said Du Mont, in the crush

at the door of the little salon of the chapel, took an opportunity when

he was not perceived, to pull me by my coat, and when I turned round put

a finger to his lips, and pointed towards the gardens which are at the

bottom of the river, that is to say, of that superb cascade which the

Cardinal Fleury has destroyed, and which faced the rear of the chateau.

At the same time du Mont whispered in my car: "To the arbours!" That part

of the garden was surrounded with arbours palisaded so as to conceal what

was inside.  It was the least frequented place at Marly, leading to

nothing; and in the afternoon even, and the evening, few people within

them.

Uneasy to know what Du Mont wished to communicate with so much mystery,

I gently went towards the arbours where, without being seen, I looked

through one of the openings until I saw him appear.  He slipped in by the

corner of the chapel, and I went towards him.  As he joined me he begged

me to return towards the river, so as to be still more out of the way;

and then we set ourselves against the thickest palisades, as far as

possible from all openings, so as to be still more concealed.  All this

surprised and frightened me: I was still more so when I learned what was

the matter.

Du Mont then told me, on condition that I promised not to show that I

knew it, and not to make use of my knowledge in any way without his

consent, that two days after the marriage of the Duc de Berry, having

entered towards the end of the morning the cabinet of Monseigneur, he

found him alone, looking very serious.  He followed Monseigneur, through

the gardens alone, until he entered by the window the apartments of the

Princesse de Conti, who was also alone.  As he entered Monseigneur said

with an air not natural to him, and very inflamed--as if by way of

interrogation--that she "sat very quietly there."  This frightened her

so, that she asked if there was any news from Flanders, and what had

happened.  Monseigneur answered, in a tone of great annoyance, that there

was no news except that the Duc de Saint-Simon had said, that now that

the marriage of the Duc de Berry was brought about, it would be proper to

drive away Madame la Duchesse and the Princesse de Conti, after which it

would be easy to govern "the great imbecile," meaning himself.  This was

why he thought she ought not to be so much at her ease.  Then, suddenly,

as if lashing his sides to get into a greater rage, he spoke in a way

such a speech would have deserved, added menaces, said that he would have

the Duc de Bourgogne to fear me, to put me aside, and separate himself

entirely from me.  This sort of soliloquy lasted a long time, and I was

not told what the Princesse de Conti said to it; but from the silence of

Du Mont, her annoyance at the marriage, I had brought about, and other

reasons, it seems to me unlikely that she tried to soften Monseigneur.

Du Mont begged me not, for a long time at least, to show that I knew what

had taken place, and to behave with the utmost prudence.  Then he fled

away by the path he had come by, fearing to be seen.  I remained walking

up and down in the arbour all the time, reflecting on the wickedness of

my enemies, and the gross credulity of Monseigneur.  Then I ran away, and

escaped to Madame de Saint-Simon, who, as astonished and frightened as I,

said not a word of the communication I had received.

I never knew who had served me this ill-turn with Monseigneur, but I

always suspected Mademoiselle de Lillebonne.  After a long time, having

obtained with difficulty the consent of the timid Du Mont, I made Madame

de Saint-Simon speak to the Duchesse de Bourgogne, who undertook to

arrange the affair as well as it could be arranged.  The Duchesse spoke

indeed to Monseigneur, and showed him how ridiculously he had been

deceived, when he was persuaded that I could ever have entertained the

ideas attributed to me.  Monseigneur admitted that he had been carried

away by anger; and that there was no likelihood that I should have

thought of anything so wicked and incredible.

About this time the household of the Duc and Duchesse de Berry was

constituted.  Racilly obtained the splendid appointment of first surgeon,

and was worthy of it; but the Duchesse de Berry wept bitterly, because

she did not consider him of high family enough.  She was not so delicate

about La Haye, whose appointment she rapidly secured.  The fellow looked

in the glass more complaisantly than ever.  He was well made, but stiff,

and with a face not at all handsome, and looking as if it had been

skinned.  He was happy in more ways than one, and was far more attached

to his new mistress than to his master.  The King was very angry when he

learned that the Duc de Berry had supplied himself with such an

assistant.

Meantime, I continued on very uneasy terms with Monseigneur, since I had

learned his strange credulity with respect to me.  I began to feel my

position very irksome, not to say painful, on this account.  Meudon I

would not go to--for me it was a place infested with demons--yet by

stopping away I ran great risks of losing the favour and consideration I

enjoyed at Court.  Monseigneur was a man so easily imposed upon, as I had

already experienced, and his intimate friends were so unscrupulous that

there was no saying what might be invented on the one side and swallowed

on the other, to my discredit.  Those friends, too, were, I knew, enraged

against me for divers weighty reasons, and would stop at nothing, I was

satisfied, to procure my downfall.  For want of better support I

sustained myself with courage.  I said to myself, "We never experience

all the evil or all the good that we have apparently the most reason to

expect."  I hoped, therefore, against hope, terribly troubled it must be

confessed on the score of Meudon.  At Easter, this year, I went away to

La Ferme, far from the Court and the world, to solace myself as I could;

but this thorn in my side was cruelly sharp!  At the moment the most

unlooked-for it pleased God to deliver me from it.

At La Ferme I had but few guests: M. de Saint-Louis, an old brigadier of

cavalry, and a Normandy gentleman, who had been in my regiment, and who

was much attached to me.  On Saturday, the 11th of the month, and the day

before Quasimodo, I had been walking with them all the morning, and I had

entered all-alone into my cabinet a little before dinner, when a courier

sent by Madame de Saint-Simon, gave me a letter from her, in which I was

informed that Monseigneur was ill!

I learnt afterwards that this Prince, while on his way to Meudon for the

Easter fetes, met at Chaville a priest, who was carrying Our Lord to a

sick person.  Monseigneur, and Madame de Bourgogne, who was with him,

knelt down to adore the Host, and then Monseigneur inquired what was the

malady of the patient.  "The small-pox," he was told.  That disease was

very prevalent just then.  Monseigneur had had it, but very lightly, and

when young.  He feared it very much, and was struck with the answer he

now received.  In the evening he said to Boudin, his chief doctor, "I

should not be surprised if I were to have the small-pox."  The, day,

however, passed over as usual.

On the morrow, Thursday, the 9th, Monseigneur rose, and meant to go out

wolf-hunting; but as he was dressing, such a fit of weakness seized him,

that he fell into his chair.  Boudin made him get into bed again; but all

the day his pulse was in an alarming state.  The King, only half informed

by Fagon of what had taken place, believed there was nothing the matter,

and went out walking at Marly after dinner, receiving news from time to

time.  Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne and Madame de Bourgogne dined at

Meudon, and they would not quit Monseigneur for one moment.  The Princess

added to the strict duties of a daughter-in-law all that her gracefulness

could suggest, and gave everything to Monseigneur with her own hand.  Her

heart could not have been troubled by what her reason foresaw; but,

nevertheless, her care and attention were extreme, without any airs of

affectation or acting.  The Duc de Bourgogne, simple and holy as he was,

and full of the idea of his duty, exaggerated his attention; and although

there was a strong suspicion of the small-pox, neither quitted

Monseigneur, except for the King's supper.

The next day, Friday, the 10th, in reply to his express demands, the King

was informed of the extremely dangerous state of Monseigneur.  He had

said on the previous evening that he would go on the following morning to

Meudon, and remain there during all the illness of Monseigneur whatever

its nature might be.  He was now as good as his word.  Immediately after

mass he set out for Meudon.  Before doing so, he forbade his children,

and all who had not had the small-pox, to go there, which was suggested

by a motive of kindness.  With Madame de Maintenon and a small suite, he

had just taken up his abode in Meudon, when Madame de Saint-Simon sent me

the letter of which I have just made mention.

I will continue to speak of myself with the same truthfulness I speak of

others, and with as much exactness as possible.  According to the terms

on which I was with Monseigneur and his intimates, may be imagined the

impression made upon me by this news.  I felt that one way or other, well

or ill, the malady of Monseigneur would soon terminate.  I was quite at

my ease at La Ferme.  I resolved therefore to wait there until I received

fresh particulars.  I despatched a courier to Madame de Saint-Simon,

requesting her to send me another the next day, and I passed the rest of

this day, in an ebb and flow of feelings; the man and the Christian

struggling against the man and the courtier, and in the midst of a crowd

of vague fancies catching glimpses of the future, painted in the most

agreeable colours.

The courier I expected so impatiently arrived the next day, Sunday, after

dinner.  The small-pox had declared itself, I learnt, and was going on as

well as could be wished.  I believed Monseigneur saved, and wished to

remain at my own house; nevertheless I took advice, as I have done all my

life, and with great regret set out the next morning.  At La queue, about

six leagues from Versailles, I met a financier of the name of La

Fontaine, whom I knew well.  He was coming from Paris and Versailles, and

came up to me as I changed horses.  Monseigneur, he said, was going on

admirably; and he added details which convinced me he was out of all

danger.  I arrived at Versailles, full of this opinion, which was

confirmed by Madame de Saint-Simon and everybody I met, so that nobody

any longer feared, except on account of the treacherous nature of this

disease in a very fat man of fifty.

The King held his Council, and worked in the evening with his ministers

as usual.  He saw Monseigneur morning and evening, oftentimes in the

afternoon, and always remained long by the bedside.  On the Monday I

arrived he had dined early, and had driven to Marly, where the Duchesse

de Bourgogne joined him.  He saw in passing on the outskirts of the

garden of Versailles his grandchildren, who had come out to meet him, but

he would not let them come near, and said, "good day" from a distance.

The Duchesse de Bourgogne had had the small-pox, but no trace was left.

The King only liked his own houses, and could not bear to be anywhere

else.  This was why his visits to Meudon were few and short, and only

made from complaisance.  Madame de Maintenon was still more out of her

element there.  Although her chamber was everywhere a sanctuary, where

only ladies entitled to the most extreme familiarity entered, she always

wanted another retreat near at hand entirely inaccessible except to the

Duchesse de Bourgogne alone, and that only for a few instants at a time.

Thus she had Saint-Cyr for Versailles and for Marly; and at Marly also a

particular retiring place; at Fontainebleau she had her town house.

Seeing therefore that Monseigneur was getting on well, and that a long

sojourn it Meudon would be necessary, the upholsterers of the King were

ordered to furnish a house in the park which once belonged to the

Chancellor le Tellier, but which Monseigneur had bought.

When I arrived at Versailles, I wrote to M. de Beauvilliers at Meudon

praying him to apprise the King that I had returned on account of the

illness of Monseigneur, and that I would have gone to see him, but that,

never having had the small-pox, I was included in the prohibition.  M. de

Beauvilliers did as I asked, and sent word back to me that my return had

been very well timed, and that the King still forbade me as well as

Madame de Saint-Simon to go to Meudon.  This fresh prohibition did not

distress me in the least.  I was informed of all that was passing there;

and that satisfied me.

There were yet contrasts at Meudon worth noticing.  Mademoiselle Choin

never appeared while the King was with Monseigneur, but kept close in her

loft.  When the coast was clear she came out, and took up her position at

the sick man's bedside.  All sorts of compliments passed between her and

Madame de Maintenon, yet the two ladies never met.  The King asked Madame

de Maintenon if she had seen Mademoiselle Choin, and upon learning that

she had not, was but ill-pleased.  Therefore Madame de Maintenon sent

excuses and apologies to Mademoiselle Choin, and hoped she said to see

her soon,--strange compliments from one chamber to another under the same

roof.  They never saw each other afterwards.

It should be observed, that Pere Tellier was also incognito at Meudon,

and dwelt in a retired room from which he issued to see the King, but

never approached the apartments of Monseigneur.

Versailles presented another scene.  Monseigneur le Duc and Madame la

Duchesse de Bourgogne held their Court openly there; and this Court

resembled the first gleamings of the dawn.  All the Court assembled

there; all Paris also; and as discretion and precaution were never French

virtues, all Meudon came as well.  People were believed on their word

when they declared that they had not entered the apartments of

Monseigneur that day, and consequently could not bring the infection.

When the Prince and Princess rose, when they weft to bed, when they dined

and supped with the ladies,--all public conversations--all meals--all

assembled--were opportunities of paying court to them.  The apartments

could not contain the crowd.  The characteristic features of the room

were many.  Couriers arrived every quarter of an hour, and reminded

people of the illness of Monseigneur--he was going on as well as could be

expected; confidence and hope were easily felt; but there was an extreme

desire to please at the new Court.  The young Prince and the Princess

exhibited majesty and gravity, mixed with gaiety; obligingly received

all, continually spoke to every one; the crowd wore an air of

complaisance; reciprocal satisfaction showed in every face; the Duc and

Duchesse de Berry ware treated almost as nobody.  Thus five days fled

away in increasing thought of future events--in preparation to be ready

for whatever might happen.

On Tuesday, the 14th of April, I went to see the chancellor, and asked

for information upon the state of Monseigneur.  He assured me it was

good, and repeated to me the words Fagon had spoken to him, "that things

were going an according to their wishes, and beyond their hopes."  The

Chancellor appeared to me very confident, and I had faith in him, so much

the more, because he was on extremely good footing with Monseigneur.  The

Prince, indeed, had so much recovered, that the fish-women came in a body

the self-same day to congratulate him, as they did after his attack of

indigestion.  They threw the themselves at the foot of his bed, which

they kissed several times, and in their joy said they would go back to

Paris and have a Te Deum sung.  But Monseigneur, who was not insensible

to these marks of popular affection, told them it was not yet time,

thanked them, and gave them a dinner and some money.

As I was going home, I saw the Duchesse d'Orleans walking on a terrace.

She called to me; but I pretended not to notice her, because La Montauban

was with her, and hastened home, my mind filled with this news, and

withdrew to my cabinet.  Almost immediately afterwards Madame la Duchesse

d'Orleans joined me there.  We were bursting to speak to each other

alone, upon a point on which our thoughts were alike.  She had left

Meudon not an hour before, and she had the same tale to tell as the

Chancellor.  Everybody was at ease there she said; and then she extolled

the care and capacities of the doctors, exaggerating their success; and,

to speak frankly and to our shame, she and I lamented together to see

Monseigneur, in spite of his age and his fat, escape from so dangerous an

illness.  She reflected seriously but wittily, that after an illness of

this sort, apoplexy was not to be looked for; that an attack of

indigestion was equally unlikely to arise, considering the care

Monseigneur had taken not to over-gorge himself since his recent danger;

and we concluded more than dolefully, that henceforth we must make up our

minds that the Prince would live and reign for a long time.  In a word,

we let ourselves loose in this rare conversation, although not without an

occasional scruple of conscience which disturbed it.  Madame de Saint-

Simon all devoutly tried what she could to put a drag upon our tongues,

but the drag broke, so to speak, and we continued our free discourse,

humanly speaking very reasonable on our parts, but which we felt,

nevertheless, was not according to religion.  Thus two hours passed,

seemingly very short.  Madame d'Orleans went away, and I repaired with

Madame de Saint-Simon to receive a numerous company.

While thus all was tranquillity at Versailles, and even at Meudon,

everything had changed its aspect at the chateau.  The King had seen

Monseigneur several times during the day; but in his after-dinner visit

he was so much struck with the extraordinary swelling of the face and of

the head, that he shortened his stay, and on leaving the chateau, shed

tears.  He was reassured as much as possible, and after the council he

took a walk in the garden.

Nevertheless Monseigneur had already mistaken Madame la Princesse de

Conti for some one else; and Boudin, the doctor, was alarmed.

Monseigneur himself had been so from the first, and he admitted, that for

a long time before being attacked, he had been very unwell, and so much

on Good Friday, that he had been unable to read his prayer-book at

chapel.

Towards four o'clock he grew worse, so much so that Boudin proposed to

Fagon to call in other doctors, more familiar with the disease than they

were.  But Fagon flew into a rage at this, and would call in nobody.  He

declared that it would be better to act for themselves, and to keep

Monseigneur's state secret, although it was hourly growing worse, and

towards seven o'clock was perceived by several valets and courtiers.  But

nobody dared to open his mouth before Fagon, and the King was actually

allowed to go to supper and to finish it without interruption, believing

on the faith of Fagon that Monseigneur was going on well.

While the King supped thus tranquilly, all those who were in the sick-

chamber began to lose their wits.  Fagon and the others poured down

physic on physic, without leaving time for any to work.  The Cure, who

was accustomed to go and learn the news every evening, found, against all

custom, the doors thrown wide open, and the valets in confusion.  He

entered the chamber, and perceiving what was the matter, ran to the

bedside, took the hand of Monseigneur, spoke to him of God, and seeing

him full of consciousness, but scarcely able to speak, drew from him a

sort of confession, of which nobody had hitherto thought, and suggested

some acts of contrition.  The poor Prince repeated distinctly several

words suggested to him, and confusedly answered others, struck his

breast, squeezed the Cure's hand, appeared penetrated with the best

sentiments, and received with a contrite and willing air the absolution

of the Cure.

As the King rose from the supper-table, he well-nigh fell backward when

Fagon, coming forward, cried in great trouble that all was lost.  It may

be imagined what terror seized all the company at this abrupt passage

from perfect security to hopeless despair.  The King, scarcely master of

himself, at once began to go towards the apartment of Monseigneur, and

repelled very stiffly the indiscreet eagerness of some courtiers who

wished to prevent him, saying that he would see his son again, and be

quite certain that nothing could be done.  As he was about to enter the

chamber, Madame la Princesse de Conti presented herself before him, and

prevented him from going in.  She pushed him back with her hands, and

said that henceforth he had only to think of himself.  Then the King,

nearly fainting from a shock so complete and so sudden, fell upon a sofa

that stood near.  He asked unceasingly for news of all who passed, but

scarce anybody dared to reply to him.  He had sent for here Tellier, who

went into Monseigneur's room; but it was no longer time.  It is true the

Jesuit, perhaps to console the King, said that he gave him a well-founded

absolution.  Madame de Maintenon hastened after the King, and sitting

down beside him on the same sofa, tried to cry.  She endeavoured to lead

away the King into the carriage already waiting for him in the

courtyard, but he would not go, and sat thus outside the door until

Monseigneur had expired.

The agony, without consciousness, of Monseigneur lasted more than an hour

after the King had come into the cabinet.  Madame la Duchesse and Madame

la Princesse de Conti divided their cares between the dying man and the

King, to whom they constantly came back; whilst the faculty confounded,

the valets bewildered, the courtiers hurrying and murmuring, hustled

against each other, and moved unceasingly to and fro, backwards and

forwards, in the same narrow space.  At last the fatal moment arrived.

Fagon came out, and allowed so much to be understood.

The King, much afflicted, and very grieved that Monseigneur's confession

had been so tardily made, abused Fagon a little; and went away led by

Madame de Maintenon and the two Princesses.  He was somewhat struck by

finding the vehicle of Monseigneur outside; and made a sign that he would

have another coach, for that one made him suffer, and left the chateau.

He was not, however, so much occupied with his grief that he could not

call Pontchartrain to arrange the hour of the council on the next day.

I will not comment on this coolness, and shall merely say it surprised

extremely all present; and that if Pontchartrain had not said the council

could be put off, no interruption to business would have taken place.

The King got into his coach with difficulty, supported on both sides.

Madame de Maintenon seated herself beside him.  A crowd of officers of

Monseigneur lined both sides of the court on their knees, as he passed

out, crying to him with strange howlings to have compassion on them, for

they had lost all, and must die of hunger.

CHAPTER LVII

While Meudon was filled with horror, all was tranquil at Versailles,

without the least suspicion.  We had supped.  The company some time after

had retired, and I was talking with Madame de Saint-Simon, who had nearly

finished undressing herself to go to bed, when a servant of Madame la

Duchesse de Berry, who had formerly belonged to us, entered, all

terrified.  He said that there must be some bad news from Meudon, since

Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne had just whispered in the ear of M. le

Duc de Berry, whose eyes had at once become red, that he left the table,

and that all the company shortly after him rose with precipitation.  So

sudden a change rendered my surprise extreme.  I ran in hot haste to

Madame la Duchesse de Berry's.  Nobody was there.  Everybody had gone to

Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne.  I followed on with all speed.

I found all Versailles assembled on arriving, all the ladies hastily

dressed--the majority having been on the point of going to bed--all the

doors open, and all in trouble.  I learnt that Monseigneur had received

the extreme unction, that he was without consciousness and beyond hope,

and that the King had sent word to Madame de Bourgogne that he was going

to Marly, and that she was to meet him as he passed through the avenue

between the two stables.

The spectacle before me attracted all the attention I could bestow.  The

two Princes and the two Princesses were in the little cabinet behind the

bed.

The bed toilette was as usual in the chamber of the Duchesse de

Bourgogne, which was filled with all the Court in confusion.  She came

and went from the cabinet to the chamber, waiting for the moment when she

was to meet the King; and her demeanour, always distinguished by the same

graces, was one of trouble and compassion, which the trouble and

compassion of others induced them to take for grief.  Now and then, in

passing, she said a few rare words.  All present were in truth expressive

personages.  Whoever had eyes, without any knowledge of the Court, could

see the interests of all interested painted on their faces, and the

indifference of the indifferent; these tranquil, the former penetrated

with grief, or gravely attentive to themselves to, hide their

emancipation and their joy.

For my part, my first care was to inform myself thoroughly of the state

of affairs, fearing lest there might be too much alarm for too trifling a

cause; then, recovering myself, I reflected upon the misery common to all

men, and that I myself should find myself some day at the gates of death.

Joy, nevertheless, found its way through the momentary reflections of

religion and of humanity, by which I tried to master myself.  My own

private deliverance seemed so great and so unhoped for, that it appeared

to me that the State must gain everything by such a loss.  And with these

thoughts I felt, in spite of myself, a lingering fear lest the sick man

should recover, and was extremely ashamed of it.

Wrapped up thus in myself, I did not fail, nevertheless, to cast

clandestine looks upon each face, to see what was passing there.  I saw

Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans arrive, but her countenance, majestic and

constrained, said nothing.  She went into the little cabinet, whence she

presently issued with the Duc d'Orleans, whose activity and turbulent air

marked his emotion at the spectacle more than any other sentiment.  They

went away, and I notice this expressly, on account of what happened

afterwards in my presence.

Soon afterwards I caught a distant glimpse of the Duc de Bourgogne, who

seemed much moved and troubled; but the glance with which I probed him

rapidly, revealed nothing tender, and told merely of a mind profoundly

occupied with the bearings of what had taken place.

Valets and chamber-women were already indiscreetly crying out; and their

grief showed well that they were about to lose something!

Towards half-past twelve we had news of the King, and immediately after

Madame de Bourgogne came out of the little cabinet with the Duke, who

seemed more touched than when I first saw him.  The Princess took her

scarf and her coifs from the toilette, standing with a deliberate air,

her eyes scarcely wet--a fact betrayed by inquisitive glances cast

rapidly to the right and left--and, followed only by her ladies, went to

her coach by the great staircase.

I took the opportunity to go to the Duchesse d'Orleans, where I found

many people.  Their presence made me very impatient; the Duchess, who was

equally impatient, took a light and went in.  I whispered in the ear of

the Duchesse de Villeroy, who thought as I thought of this event.  She

nudged me, and said in a very low voice that I must contain myself.

I was smothered with silence, amidst the complaints and the narrative

surprises of these ladies; but at last M. le Duc d'Orleans appeared at

the door of his cabinet, and beckoned me to come to him.

I followed him into the cabinet, where we were alone.  What was my

surprise, remembering the terms on which he was with Monseigneur, to see

the tears streaming from his eyes.

"Sir!" exclaimed I, rising: He understood me at once; and answered in a

broken voice, really crying: "You are right to be surprised--I am

surprised myself; but such a spectacle touches.  He was a man with whom I

passed much of my life, and who treated me well when he was uninfluenced.

I feel very well that my grief won't last long; in a few days I shall

discover motives of joy; at present, blood, relationship, humanity,--all

work; and my entrails are moved."  I praised his sentiments, but repeated

my surprise.  He rose, thrust his head into a corner, and with his nose

there, wept bitterly and sobbed, which if I had not seen I could not have

believed.

After a little silence, however, I exhorted him to calm himself.  I

represented to him that, everybody knowing on what terms he had been with

Monseigneur, he would be laughed at, as playing a part, if his eyes

showed that he had been weeping.  He did what he could to remove the

marks of his tears, and we then went back into the other room.

The interview of the Duchesse de Bourgogne with the King had not been

long.  She met him in the avenue between the two stables, got down, and

went to the door of the carriage.  Madame de Maintenon cried out, "Where

are you going?  We bear the plague about with us."  I do not know what

the King said or did.  The Princess returned to her carriage, and came

back to Versailles, bringing in reality the first news of the actual

death of Monseigneur.

Acting upon the advice of M. de Beauvilliers, all the company had gone

into the salon.  The two Princes, Monseigneur de Bourgogne and M. de

Berry, were there, seated on one sofa, their Princesses at their sides;

all the rest of the company were scattered about in confusion, seated or

standing, some of the ladies being on the floor, near the sofa.  There

could be no doubt of what had happened.  It was plainly written on every

face in the chamber and throughout the apartment.  Monseigneur was no

more: it was known: it was spoken of: constraint with respect to him no

longer existed.  Amidst the surprise, the confusion, and the movements

that prevailed, the sentiments of all were painted to the life in looks

and gestures.

In the outside rooms were heard the constrained groans and sighs of the

valets--grieving for the master they had lost as well as for the master

that had succeeded.  Farther on began the crowd of courtiers of all

kinds.  The greater number--that is to say the fools--pumped up sighs as

well as they could, and with wandering but dry eyes, sung the praises of

Monseigneur--insisting especially on his goodness.  They pitied the King

for the loss of so good a son.  The keener began already to be uneasy

about the health of the King; and admired themselves for preserving so

much judgment amidst so much trouble, which could be perceived by the

frequency of their repetitions.  Others, really afflicted--the

discomfited cabal--wept bitterly, and kept themselves under with an

effort as easy to notice as sobs.  The most strong-minded or the wisest,

with eyes fixed on the ground, in corners, meditated on the consequences

of such an event--and especially on their own interests.  Few words

passed in conversation--here and there an exclamation wrung from grief

was answered by some neighbouring grief--a word every quarter of an hour

--sombre and haggard eyes--movements quite involuntary of the hands--

immobility of all other parts of the body.  Those who already looked upon

the event as favourable in vain exaggerated their gravity so as to make

it resemble chagrin and severity; the veil over their faces was

transparent and hid not a single feature.  They remained as motionless as

those who grieved most, fearing opinion, curiosity, their own

satisfaction, their every movement; but their eyes made up for their

immobility.  Indeed they could not refrain from repeatedly changing their

attitude like people ill at ease, sitting or standing, from avoiding each

other too carefully, even from allowing their eyes to meet--nor repress a

manifest air of liberty--nor conceal their increased liveliness--nor put

out a sort of brilliancy which distinguished them in spite of themselves.

The two Princes, and the two Princesses who sat by their sides, were more

exposed to view than any other.  The Duc de Bourgogne wept with

tenderness, sincerity, and gentleness, the tears of nature, of religion,

and patience.  M. le Duc de Berry also sincerely shed abundance of tears,

but bloody tears, so to speak, so great appeared their bitterness; and he

uttered not only sobs, but cries, nay, even yells.  He was silent

sometimes, but from suffocation, and then would burst out again with such

a noise, such a trumpet sound of despair, that the majority present burst

out also at these dolorous repetitions, either impelled by affliction or

decorum.  He became so bad, in fact, that his people were forced to

undress him then and there, put him to bed, and call in the doctor,

Madame la Duchesse de Berry was beside herself, and we shall soon see

why.  The most bitter despair was painted with horror on her face.  There

was seen written, as it were, a sort of furious grief, based on interest,

not affection; now and then came dry lulls deep and sullen, then a

torrent of tears and involuntary gestures, yet restrained, which showed

extreme bitterness of mind, fruit of the profound meditation that had

preceded.  Often aroused by the cries of her husband, prompt to assist

him, to support him, to embrace him, to give her smelling-bottle, her

care for him was evident; but soon came another profound reverie--then a

gush of tears assisted to suppress her cries.  As for Madame la Duchesse

de Bourgogne she consoled her husband with less trouble than she had to

appear herself in want of consolation.  Without attempting to play a

part, it was evident that she did her best to acquit herself of a

pressing duty of decorum.  But she found extreme difficulty in keeping up

appearances.  When the Prince her brother-in-law howled, she blew her

nose.  She had brought some tears along with her and kept them up with

care; and these, combined with the art of the handkerchief, enabled her

to redden her eyes, and make them swell, and smudge her face; but her

glances often wandered on the sly to the countenances of all present.

Madame arrived, in full dress she knew not why, and howling she knew not

why, inundated everybody with her tears in embracing them, making the

chateau echo with renewed cries, and furnished the odd spectacle of a

Princess putting on her robes of ceremony in the dead of night to come

and cry among a crowd of women with but little on except their night-

dresses,--almost as masqueraders.

In the gallery several ladies, Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans, Madame de

Castries, and Madame de Saint-Simon among the rest, finding no one close

by, drew near each other by the side of a tent-bedstead, and began to

open their hearts to each other, which they did with the more freedom,

inasmuch as they had but one sentiment in common upon what had occurred.

In this gallery, and in the salon, there were always during the night

several beds, in which, for security's sake, certain Swiss guards and

servants slept.  These beds had been put in their usual place this

evening before the bad news carne from Meudon.  In the midst of the

conversation of the ladies, Madame de Castries touched the bed, felt

something move, and was much terrified.  A moment after they saw a sturdy

arm, nearly naked, raise on a sudden the curtains, and thus show them a

great brawny Swiss under the sheets, half awake, and wholly amazed.  The

fellow was a long time in making out his position, fixing his eyes upon

every face one after the other; but at last, not judging it advisable to

get up in the midst of such a grand company, he reburied himself in his

bed, and closed the curtains.  Apparently the good man had gone to bed

before anything had transpired, and had slept so soundly ever since that

he had not been aroused until then.  The saddest sights have often the

most ridiculous contrasts.  This caused some of the ladies to laugh, and

Madame d'Orleans to fear lest the conversation should have been

overheard.  But after reflection, the sleep and the stupidity of the

sleeper reassured her.

I had some doubts yet as to the event that had taken place; for I did not

like to abandon myself to belief, until the word was pronounced by some

one in whom I could have faith.  By chance I met D'O, and I asked him.

He answered me clearly that Monseigneur was no more.  Thus answered, I

tried not to be glad.  I know not if I succeeded well, but at least it is

certain, that neither joy nor sorrow blunted my curiosity, and that while

taking due care to preserve all decorum, I did not consider myself in any

way forced to play the doleful.  I no longer feared any fresh attack from

the citadel of Meudon, nor any cruel charges from its implacable

garrison.  I felt, therefore, under no constraint, and followed every

face with my glances, and tried to scrutinise them unobserved.

It must be admitted, that for him who is well acquainted with the

privacies of a Court, the first sight of rare events of this nature, so

interesting in so many different respects, is extremely satisfactory.

Every countenance recalls the cares, the intrigues, the labours employed

in the advancement of fortunes--in the overthrow of rivals: the

relations, the coldness, the hatreds, the evil offices done, the baseness

of all; hope, despair, rage, satisfaction, express themselves in the

features.  See how all eyes wander to and fro examining what passes

around--how some are astonished to find others more mean, or less mean

than was expected!  Thus this spectacle produced a pleasure, which,

hollow as it may be, is one of the greatest a Court can bestow.

The turmoil in this vast apartment lasted about an hour, at the end of

which M. de Beauvilliers thought it was high time to deliver the Princes

of their company.  The rooms were cleared.  M. le Duc de Berry went away

to his rooms, partly supported by his wife.  All through the night he

asked, amid tears and cries, for news from Meudon; he would not

understand the cause of the King's departure to Marly.  When at length

the mournful curtain was drawn from before his eyes, the state he fell

into cannot be described.  The night of Monseigneur and Madame de

Bourgogne was more tranquil.  Some one having said to the Princess, that

having--no real cause to be affected, it would be terrible to play a

part, she replied, quite naturally, that without feigning, pity touched

her and decorum controlled her; and indeed she kept herself within these

bounds with truth and decency.  Their chamber, in which they invited

several ladies to pass the night in armchairs, became immediately a

palace of Morpheus.  All quietly fell asleep.  The curtains were left

open, so that the Prince and Princess could be seen sleeping profoundly.

They woke up once or twice for a moment.  In the morning the Duke and

Duchess rose early, their tears quite dried up.  They shed no more for

this cause, except on special and rare occasions.  The ladies who had

watched and slept in their chamber, told their friends how tranquil the

night had been.  But nobody was surprised, and as there was no longer a

Monseigneur, nobody was scandalised.  Madame de Saint-Simon and I

remained up two hours before going to bed, and then went there without

feeling any want of rest.  In fact, I slept so little that at seven in

the morning I was up; but it must be admitted that such restlessness is

sweet, and such re-awakenings are savoury.

Horror reigned at Meudon.  As soon as the King left, all the courtiers

left also, crowding into the first carriages that came.  In an instant

Meudon was empty.  Mademoiselle Choin remained alone in her garret, and

unaware of what had taken place.  She learned it only by the cry raised.

Nobody thought of telling her.  At last some friends went up to her,

hurried her into a hired coach, and took her to Paris.  The dispersion

was general.  One or two valets, at the most, remained near the body.

La Villiere, to his praise be it said, was the only courtier who, not

having abandoned Monseigneur during life, did not abandon him after his

death.  He had some difficulty to find somebody to go in search of

Capuchins to pray over the corpse.  The decomposition became so rapid and

so great, that the opening of the windows was not enough; the Capuchins,

La Vrilliere, and the valets, were compelled to pass the night outside.

At Marly everybody had felt so confident that the King's return there was

not dreamt of.  Nothing was ready, no keys of the rooms, no fires,

scarcely an end of candle.  The King was more than an hour thus with

Madame de Maintenon and other ladies in one of the ante-chambers.  The

King retired into a corner, seated between Madame de Maintenon and two

other ladies, and wept at long intervals.  At last the chamber of Madame

de Maintenon was ready.  The King entered, remained there an hour, and

then 'went to bed at nearly four o'clock in the morning.

Monseigneur was rather tall than short; very fat, but without being

bloated; with a very lofty and noble aspect without any harshness; and he

would have had a very agreeable face if M. le Prince de Conti had not

unfortunately broken his nose in playing while they were both young.  He

was of a very beautiful fair complexion; he had a face everywhere covered

with a healthy red, but without expression; the most beautiful legs in

the world; his feet singularly small and delicate.  He wavered always in

walking, and felt his way with his feet; he was always afraid of falling,

and if the path was not perfectly even and straight, he called for

assistance.  He was a good horseman, and looked well when mounted; but he

was not a bold rider.  When hunting--they had persuaded him that he liked

this amusement--a servant rode before him; if he lost sight of this

servant he gave himself up for lost, slicked his pace to a gentle trot,

and oftentimes waited under a tree for the hunting party, and returned to

it slowly.  He was very fond of the table, but always without indecency.

Ever since that great attack of indigestion, which was taken at first for

apoplexy, he made but one real meal a day, and was content,--although a

great eater, like the rest of the royal family.  Nearly all his portraits

well resemble him.

As for his character he had none; he was without enlightenment or

knowledge of any kind, radically incapable of acquiring any; very idle,

without imagination or productiveness; without taste, without choice,

without discernment; neither seeing the weariness he caused others, nor

that he was as a ball moving at hap-hazard by the impulsion of others;

obstinate and little to excess in everything; amazingly credulous and

accessible to prejudice, keeping himself, always, in the most pernicious

hands, yet incapable of seeing his position or of changing it; absorbed

in his fat and his ignorance; so that without any desire to do ill he

would have made a pernicious King.

His avariciousness, except in certain things, passed all belief.  He kept

an account of his personal expenditure, and knew to a penny what his

smallest and his largest expenses amounted to.  He spent large sums in

building, in furniture, in jewels, and in hunting, which he made himself

believe he was fond of.

It is inconceivable the little he gave to La Choin, whom he so much

loved.  It never exceeded four hundred Louis a quarter in gold, or

sixteen hundred Louis a year, whatever the Louis might be worth.  He gave

them to her with his own hand, without adding or subtracting a pistole,

and, at the most, made her but one present a year, and that he looked at

twice before giving.  It was said that they were married, and certain

circumstances seemed to justify this rumour.  As for instance, during the

illness of Monseigneur, the King, as I have said, asked Madame de

Maintenon if she had seen Mademoiselle Choin, and upon receiving negative

reply, was displeased.  Instead of driving her away from the chateau he

inquired particularly after her!  This, to say the least, looked as

though Mademoiselle Choin was Monseigneur's Maintenon--but the matter

remained incomprehensible to the last.  Mademoiselle Choin threw no light

upon it, although she spoke on many other things concerning Monseigneur.

In the modest home at Paris, to which she had retired for the rest of her

days.  The King gave her a pension of twelve thousand livres.

Monseigneur was, I have said, ignorant to the last degree, and had a

thorough aversion for learning; so that, according to his own admission,

ever since he had been released from the hands of teachers he had never

read anything except the article in the "Gazette de France," in which

deaths and marriages are recorded.  His timidity, especially before the

King, was equal to his ignorance, which indeed contributed not a little

to cause it.  The King took advantage of it, and never treated him as a

son, but as a subject.  He was the monarch always, never the father.

Monseigneur had not the slightest influence with the King.  If he showed

any preference for a person it was enough!  That person was sure to be

kept back by the King.  The King was so anxious to show that Monseigneur

could do nothing, that Monseigneur after a time did not even try.  He

contented himself by complaining occasionally in monosyllables, and by

hoping for better times.

The body of Monseigneur so soon grew decomposed; that immediate burial

was necessary.  At midnight on Wednesday he was carried, with but little

ceremony, to Saint-Denis, and deposited in the royal vaults.  His funeral

services were said at Saint-Denis on the 18th of the following June, and

at Notre Dame on the 3rd of July.  As the procession passed through Paris

nothing but cries, acclamations, and eulogiums of the defunct were heard.

Monseigneur had, I know not how, much endeared himself to the common

people of Paris, and this sentiment soon gained the provinces; so true it

is, that in France it costs little to its Princes to make themselves

almost adored!

The King soon got over his affliction for the loss of this son of fifty.

Never was a man so ready with tears, so backward with grief, or so

promptly restored to his ordinary state.  The morning after the death of

Monseigneur he rose late, called M. de Beauvilliers into his cabinet,

shed some more tears, and then said that from that time Monseigneur le

Duc de Bourgogne and Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne were to enjoy the

honours, the rank, and the name of Dauphin and of Dauphine.  Henceforth I

shall call them by no other names.

My joy at this change may be imagined.  In a few days all my causes of

disquietude had been removed, and I saw a future opening before me full

of light and promise.  Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne become Dauphin,

heir to the throne of France; what favour might I not hope for?  I could

not conceal or control my satisfaction.

But alas!  it was soon followed by sad disappointment and grievous

sorrow.

CHAPTER LVIII

The death of Monseigneur, as we have seen, made a great change in the

aspect of the Court and in the relative positions of its members.  But

the two persons to whom I must chiefly direct attention are the Duchesse

de Bourgogne and the Duchesse de Berry.  The former, on account of her

husband's fall in the opinion of his father, had long been out of favour

likewise.  Although Monseigneur had begun to treat her less well for a

long time, and most harshly during the campaign of Lille, and above all

after the expulsion of the Duc de Vendome from Marly and Meudon; yet

after the marriage of the Duc de Berry his coldness had still further

increased. The adroit Princess, it is true, had rowed against the current

with a steadiness and grace capable of disarming even a well-founded

resentment; but the persons who surrounded him looked upon the meeting of

them as dangerous for their projects.  The Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne

were every day still further removed in comparative disgrace.

Things even went so far that apropos of an engagement broken off, the

Duchesse resolved to exert her power instead of her persuasion, and

threatened the two Lillebonnes.  A sort of reconciliation was then

patched up, but it was neither sincere nor apparently so.

The cabal which laboured to destroy the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne was

equally assiduous in augmenting the influence of the Duc de Berry, whose

wife had at once been admitted without having asked into the sanctuary of

the Parvulo.  The object was to disunite the two brothers and excite

jealousy between then.  In this they did not succeed even in the

slightest degree.  But they found a formidable ally in the Duchesse de

Berry, who proved as full of wickedness and ambition as any among them.

The Duc d'Orleans often called his Duchess Madame Lucifer, at which she

used to smile with complacency.  He was right, for she would have been a

prodigy of pride had she not, had a daughter who far surpassed her.  This

is not yet the time to paint their portraits; but I must give a word or

two of explanation on the Duchesse de Berry.

That princess was a marvel of wit, of pride, of ingratitude and folly--

nay, of debauchery and obstinacy.

Scarcely had she been married a week when she began to exhibit herself in

all these lights,--not too manifestly it is true, for one of the

qualities of which she was most vain was her falsity and power of

concealment, but sufficiently to make an impression on those around her.

People soon perceived how annoyed she was to be the daughter of an

illegitimate mother, and to have lived under her restraint however mild;

how she despised the weakness of her father, the Duc d'Orleans, and how

confident she was of her influence over him; and how she had hated all

who had interfered in her marriage--merely because she could not bear to

be under obligations to any one--a reason she was absurd enough publicly

to avow and boast of.  Her conduct was now based on those motives.  This

is an example of how in this world people work with their heads in a

sack, and how human prudence and wisdom are sometimes confounded by

successes which have been reasonably desired and which turn out to be

detestable!  We had brought about this marriage to avoid a marriage with

Mademoiselle de Bourbon and to cement the union of the two brothers.  We

now discovered that there was little danger of Mademoiselle de Bourbon,

and then instead of her we had a Fury who had no thought but how to ruin

those who had established her, to injure her benefactors, to make her

husband and her brother quarrel; and to put herself in the power of her

enemies because they were the enemies of her natural friends.  It never

occurred to her that the cabal would not be likely to abandon to her the

fruit of so much labour and so many crimes.

It may easily be imagined that she was neither gentle nor docile when

Madame la Duchesse began to give her advice.  Certain that her father

would support her, she played the stranger and the daughter of France

with her mother.  Estrangement, however, soon came on.  She behaved

differently in form, but in effect the same with the Duchesse de

Bourgogne, who wished to guide her as a daughter, but who soon gave up

the attempt.  The Duchesse de Berry's object could only be gained by

bringing about disunion between the two brothers, and for this purpose

she employed as a spring the passion of her husband for herself.

The first night at Versailles after the death of Monseigneur was

sleepless.  The Dauphin and Dauphine heard mass early next morning.

I went to see them.  Few persons were present on account of the hour.

The Princess wished to be at Marly at the King's waking.  Their eyes were

wonderfully dry, but carefully managed; and it was easy to see they were

more occupied with their new position than with the death of Monseigneur.

A smile which they exchanged as they spoke, in whispers convinced me of

this.  One of their first cares was to endeavour to increase their good

relations with the Duc and Duchesse de Berry.  They were to see them

before they were up.  The Duc de Berry showed himself very sensible to

this act, and the Duchess was eloquent, clever, and full of tears.  But

her heart was wrung by these advances of pure generosity.  The separation

she had planned soon followed: and the two princesses felt relieved at no

longer being obliged to dine together.

Thus never was change greater or more marked than that brought about by

the death of Monseigneur.  That prince had become the centre of all hope

and of all fear, a formidable cabal had seized upon him, yet without

awakening the jealousy of the King, before whom all trembled, but whose

anxieties did not extend beyond his own lifetime, during which, and very

reasonably, he feared nothing.

Before I go any further, let me note a circumstance characteristic of the

King.  Madame la Dauphine went every day to Marly to see him.  On the day

after the death of Monseigneur she received, not without surprise, easily

understood, a hint from Madame de Maintenon.  It was to the effect that

she should dress herself with some little care, inasmuch as the

negligence of her attire displeased the King!  The Princess did not think

that dress ought to occupy her then; and even if she had thought so, she

would have believed, and with good reason, that she was committing a

grave fault against decorum, a fault which would have been less readily

pardoned, since in every way she had gained too much by what had just

occurred not to be very guarded in her behaviour.  On the next day she

took more pains with her toilette; but what she did not being found

sufficient, the day following she carried with her some things and

dressed herself secretly in Madame de Maintenon's rooms; and resumed

there her ordinary apparel before returning to Versailles.  Thus she

avoided offence both to the King and to society.  The latter certainly

would with difficulty have been persuaded that in this ill-timed

adornment of her person, her own tastes went for nothing.  The Comtesse

de Mailly, who invented the scheme, and Madame de Nogaret, who both liked

Monseigneur, related this to me and were piqued by it.  From this fact

and from the circumstance that all the ordinary pleasures and occupations

were resumed immediately after the death of Monseigneur, the King passing

his days without any constraint,--it may be assumed that if the royal

grief was bitter its evidences were of a kind to promise that it would

not be of long duration.

M. le Dauphin, for, as I have said, it is by that title I shall now name

Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne--M. le Dauphin, I say, soon gained all

hearts.  In the first days of solitude following upon the death of

Monseigneur, the King intimated to M. de Beauvilliers that he should not

care to see the new Dauphin go very often to Meudon.  This was enough.

M. le Dauphin at once declared that he would never set his foot in that

palace, and that he would never quit the King.  He was as good as his

word, and not one single visit did he ever afterwards pay to Meudon.  The

King wished to give him fifty thousand livres a month, Monseigneur having

had that sum.  M. le Dauphin would not accept them.  He had only six

thousand livres per month.  He was satisfied with double that amount and

would not receive more.  This disinterestedness much pleased the public.

M. le Dauphin wished for nothing special on his account, and persisted in

remaining in nearly everything as he was during the life of Monseigneur.

These auguries of a prudent and measured reign, suggested the brightest

of hopes.

Aided by his adroit spouse, who already had full possession of the King's

heart and of that of Madame de Maintenon, M. le Dauphin redoubled his

attentions in order to possess them also.  These attentions, addressed to

Madame de Maintenon, produced their fruit.  She was transported with

pleasure at finding a Dauphin upon whom she could rely, instead of one

whom she did not like, gave herself up to him accordingly, and by that

means secured to him the King's favour.  The first fortnight made evident

to everybody at Marly the extraordinary change that had come over the

King with respect to the Dauphin.  His Majesty, generally severe beyond

measure with his legitimate children, showed the most marked graciousness

for this prince.  The effects of this, and of the change that had taken

place in his state, were soon most clearly visible in the Dauphin.

Instead of being timid and retiring, diffident in speech, and more fond

of his study than of the salon, he became on a sudden easy and frank,

showing himself in public on all occasions, conversing right and left in

a gay, agreeable, and dignified manner; presiding, in fact, over the

Salon of Marly, and over the groups gathered round him, like the divinity

of a temple, who receives with goodness the homage to which he is

accustomed, and recompenses the mortals who offer it with gentle regard.

In a short time hunting became a less usual topic of conversation.

History, and even science, were touched upon lightly, pleasantly, and

discreetly, in a manner that charmed while it instructed.  The Dauphin

spoke with an eloquent freedom that opened all eyes, ears and hearts.

People sometimes, in gathering near him, were less anxious to make their

court than to listen to his natural eloquence, and to draw from it

delicious instruction.  It is astonishing with what rapidity he gained

universal esteem and admiration.  The public joy could not keep silent.

People asked each other if this was really the same man they had known as

the Duc de Bourgogne, whether he was a vision or a reality?  One of M. le

Dauphin's friends, to whom this question was addressed, gave a keen

reply.  He answered, that the cause of all this surprise was, that

previously the people did not, and would not, know this prince, who,

nevertheless, to those who had known him, was the same now as he had ever

been; and that this justice would be rendered to him when time had shown

how much it was deserved.

From the Court to Paris, and from Paris to the provinces, the reputation

of the Dauphin flew on rapid wings.  However founded might be this

prodigious success, we need not believe it was entirely due to the

marvellous qualities of the young prince.  It was in a great measure a

reaction against the hostile feeling towards him which had been excited

by the cabal, whose efforts I have previously spoken of.  Now that people

saw how unjust was this feeling, their astonishment added to their

admiration.  Everybody was filled with a sentiment of joy at seeing the

first dawn of a new state of things, which promised so much order and

happiness after such a long confusion and so much obscurity.

Gracious as the King showed himself to M. le Dauphin, and accustomed as

the people grew to his graciousness, all the Court was strangely

surprised at a fresh mark of favour that was bestowed one morning by his

Majesty on this virtuous prince.  The King, after having been closeted

alone with him for some time, ordered his ministers to work with the

Dauphin whenever sent for, and, whether sent for or not, to make him

acquainted with all public affairs; this command being given once for

all.

It is not easy to describe the prodigious movement caused at the Court by

this order, so directly opposed to the tastes, to the disposition, to the

maxims, to the usage of the King, who thus showed a confidence in the

Dauphin which was nothing less than tacitly transferring to him a large

part of the disposition of public affairs.  This was a thunderbolt for

the ministers; who, accustomed to have almost everything their own way,

to rule over everybody and browbeat everybody at will, to govern the

state abroad and at home, in fact, fixing all punishments, all

recompenses, and always sheltering themselves behind the royal authority

"the King wills it so" being the phrase ever on their lips,--to these

officers, I say, it was a thunderbolt which so bewildered them, that they

could not hide their astonishment or their confusion.  The public joy at

an order which reduced these ministers, or rather these kings, to the

condition of subjects, which put a curb upon their power, and provided

against the abuses they committed, was great indeed!  The ministers were

compelled to bend their necks, though stiff as iron, to the yoke.  They

all went, with a hang-dog look, to show the Dauphin a feigned joy and a

forced obedience to the order they had received.

Here, perhaps, I may as well speak of the situation in which I soon

afterwards found myself with the Dauphin, the confidence as to the

present and the future that I enjoyed with him, and the many

deliberations we had upon public affairs.  The matter is curious and

interesting, and need no longer be deferred.

The Court being changed by the death of Monseigneur, I soon began indeed

to think of changing my conduct with regard to the new Dauphin.  M. de

Beauvilliers spoke to me about this matter first, but he judged, and I

shared his opinion, that slandered as I had been on previous occasions,

and remaining still, as it were, half in disgrace, I must approach the

Dauphin only by slow degrees, and not endeavour to shelter myself under

him until his authority with the King had become strong enough to afford

me a safe asylum.  I believed, nevertheless, that it would be well to

sound him immediately; and one evening, when he was but thinly

accompanied, I joined him in the gardens at Marly and profited by his

gracious welcome to say to him, on the sly, that many reasons, of which

he was not ignorant, had necessarily kept me until then removed from him,

but that now I hoped to be able to follow with less constraint my

attachment and my inclination, and that I flattered myself this would be

agreeable to him.  He replied in a low tone, that there were sometimes

reasons which fettered people, but in our case such no longer existed;

that he knew of my regard for him, and reckoned with pleasure that we

should soon see each other more frequently than before.  I am writing the

exact words of his reply, on account of the singular politeness of the

concluding ones.  I regarded that reply as the successful result of a

bait that had been taken as I wished.  Little by little I became more

assiduous at his promenades, but without following them when the crowd or

any dangerous people do so; and I spoke more freely.  I remained content

with seeing the Dauphin in public, and I approached him in the Salon only

when if I saw a good opportunity.

Some days after, being in the Salon, I saw the Dauphin and the Dauphine

enter together and converse.  I approached and heard their last words;

they stimulated me to ask the prince what was in debate, not in a

straightforward manner, but in a sort of respectful insinuating way which

I already adopted.  He explained to me that he was going to Saint-Germain

to pay an ordinary visit; that on this occasion there would be some

change in the ceremonial; explained the matter, and enlarged with

eagerness on the necessity of not abandoning legitimate rights.

"How glad I am to see you think thus," I replied, "and how well you act

in advocating these forms, the neglect of which tarnishes everything."

He responded with warmth; and I seized the moment to say, that if he,

whose rank was so great and so derided, was right to pay attention to

these things, how such we dukes had reason to complain of our losses, and

to try to sustain ourselves!  Thereupon he entered into the question so

far as to become the advocate of our cause, and finished by saying that

he regarded our restoration as an act of justice important to the state;

that he knew I was well instructed in these things, and that I should

give him pleasure by talking of them some day.  He rejoined at that,

moment the Dauphine, and they set off for Saint-Germain.

A few days after this the Dauphin sent for me.  I entered by the

wardrobe, where a sure and trusty valet was in waiting; he conducted me

to a cabinet in which the Dauphin was sitting alone.  Our conversation at

once commenced.  For a full hour we talked upon the state of affairs, the

Dauphin listening with much attention to all I said, and expressing

himself with infinite modesty, sense, and judgment.  His view, I found,

were almost entirely in harmony with mine.  He was sorry, and touchingly

said so, for the ignorance of all things in which the King was kept by

his ministers; he was anxious to see the power of those ministers

restricted; he looked with dislike upon the incredible elevation of the

illegitimate children; he wished to see the order to which I belonged

restored to the position it deserved to occupy.

It is difficult to express what I felt in quitting the Dauphin.  A

magnificent and near future opened out before me.  I saw a prince, pious,

just, debonnaire, enlightened, and seeking to become more so; with

principles completely in accord with my own, and capacity to carry out

those principles when the time for doing so arrived.  I relished

deliciously a confident so precious and so full upon the most momentous

matters and at a first interview.  I felt all the sweetness of this

perspective, and of my deliverance from a servitude which, in spite of

myself, I sometimes could not help showing myself impatient of.  I felt,

too, that I now had an opportunity of elevating myself, and of

contributing to those grand works, for the happiness and advantage of the

state I so much wished to see accomplished.

A few days after this I had another interview with the Dauphin.  I was

introduced secretly as before, so that no one perceived either my coming

or my departure.  The same subjects we had previously touched upon we now

entered into again, and more amply than on the former occasion.  The

Dauphin, in taking leave of me, gave me full permission to see him in

private as often as I desired, though in public I was still to be

circumspect.

Indeed there was need of great circumspection in carrying on even private

intercourse with the Dauphin.  From this time I continually saw him in

his cabinet, talking with him in all liberty upon the various persons of

the Court, and upon the various subjects relating to the state; but

always with the same secrecy as at first.  This was absolutely necessary;

as I have just said, I was still in a sort of half disgrace the King did

not regard me with the eyes of favour; Madame de Maintenon was resolutely

averse to me.  If they two had suspected my strict intimacy with the heir

to the throne, I should have been assuredly lost.

To show what need there was of precaution in my private interviews with

the Dauphin, let me here recall an incident which one day occurred when

we were closeted together, and which might have led to the greatest

results.  The Prince lodged then in one of the four grand suites of

apartments, on the same level as the Salon, the suite that was broken up

during an illness of Madame la Princesse de Conti, to make way for a

grand stair case, the narrow and crooked one in use annoying the King

when he ascended it.  The chamber of the Dauphine was there; the bed had

its foot towards the window; by the chimney was the door of the obscure

wardrobe by which I entered; between the chimney and one of the two

windows was a little portable bureau; in front of the ordinary entrance

door of the chamber and behind the bureau was the door of one of the

Dauphine's rooms; between the two windows was a chest of drawers which

was used for papers only.

There were always some moments of conversation before the Dauphin set

himself down at his bureau, and ordered me to place myself opposite him.

Having become more free with him, I took the liberty to say one day in

these first moments of our discourse, that he would do well to bolt the

door behind him, the door I mean of the Dauphine's chamber.  He said that

the Dauphine would not come, it not being her hour.  I replied that I did

not fear that princess herself, but the crowd that always accompanied

her.  He was obstinate, and would not bolt the door.  I did not dare to

press him more.  He sat down before his bureau, and ordered me to sit

also.  Our deliberation was long; afterwards we sorted our papers.  Here

let me say this--Every time I went to see the Dauphin I garnished all my

pockets with papers, and I often smiled within myself passing through the

Salon, at seeing there many people who at that moment were in my pockets,

and who were far indeed from suspecting the important discussion that was

going to take place.  To return: the Dauphin gave, me his papers to put

in my pockets, and kept mine.  He locked up some in his cupboard, and

instead of locking up the others in his bureau, kept them out, and began

talking to me, his back to the chimney, his papers in one hand, his keys

in the other.  I was standing at the bureau looking for some other

papers, when on a sudden the door in front of me opened, and the Dauphine

entered!

The first appearance of all three--for, thank God!  she was alone--the

astonishment, the countenance of all have never left my memory.  Our

fixed eyes, our statue-like immobility, and our embarrassment were all

alike, and lasted longer than a slow Pater-poster.  The Princess spoke

first.  She said to the Prince in a very ill-assured voice, that she had

not imagined him in such good company; smiling upon him and upon me.  I

had scarce time to smile also and to lower my eyes, before the Dauphin

replied.

"Since you find me so," said he, smiling in turn, "leave me so."

For an instant she looked on him, he and she both smiling at each other

more; then she looked on me, still smiling with greater liberty than at

first, made a pirouette, went away and closed the door, beyond the

threshold of which she had not come.

Never have I seen woman so astonished; never man so taken aback, as the

Prince after the Dauphine's departure; and never man, to say truth, was

so afraid as I was at first, though I quickly reassured myself when I

found that our intruder was alone.  As soon as she had closed the door,

"Well, Monsieur," said I to the Dauphin, "if you had drawn the bolt?"

"You were right," he replied, "and I was wrong.  But no harm is done.

She was alone fortunately, and I guarantee to you her secrecy."

"I am not troubled," said I to him, (yet I was so mightily) "but it is a

miracle she was alone.  With her suite you would have escaped with a

scolding perhaps but for me, I should have been utterly lost."

He admitted again he had, been wrong, and assure me more and more that

our secret was safe.  The Dauphine had caught us, not only tete-a-tete--

of which no one had the least suspicion--she had caught us in the fact,

so to say, our crimes in out hands.  I felt that she would not expose the

Dauphin, but I feared an after-revelation through some over-easy

confidant.  Nevertheless our secret was so well kept if confided that it

never transpired.  We finished, I to pocket, the Prince to lock up, the

papers.  The rest of the conversation was short, and I withdrew by the

wardrobe as usual.  M. de Beauvilliers, to whom I related this adventure

shortly afterwards, grew pale at first, but recovered when I said the

Dauphine was alone.  He blamed the imprudence of the Dauphin, but assured

me my secret was safe.  Ever since that adventure the Dauphine often

smiled upon me when we met, as if to remind me of it, and showed marked

attention to me.

No sooner did I feel myself pretty firmly established on this footing of

delicious intimacy with the Dauphin than I conceived the desire to unite

him with M. le Duc d'Orleans through the means of M. de Beauvilliers.  At

the very outset, however, an obstacle arose in my path.

I have already said, that the friendship of M. d'Orleans for his

daughter, Madame la Duchesse de Berry, had given employment to the

tongues of Satan, set in Motion by hatred and jealousy.  Evil reports

even reached M. le Duc de Berry, who on his part, wishing to enjoy the

society of his wife in full liberty, was importuned by the continual

presence near her, of her father.  To ward off a quarrel between son-in-

law and father-in-law, based upon so false and so odious a foundation,

appeared to Madame de Saint-Simon and myself a pressing duty.

I had already tried to divert M. le Duc d'Orleans from an assiduity which

wearied M. le Duc de Berry; but I had not succeeded.  I believed it my

duty then to return to the charge more hotly; and remembering my previous

ill-success, I prefaced properly, and then said what I had to say.  M.

d'Orleans was astonished; he cried out against the horror of such a vile

imputation and the villainy that had carried it to M. le Duc de Berry.

He thanked me for having warned him of it, a service few besides myself

would have rendered him.  I left him to draw the proper and natural

conclusion on the conduct he should pursue.  This conversation passed one

day at Versailles about four o'clock in the afternoon.

On the morrow Madame de Saint-Simon related to me, that returning home

the previous evening, from the supper and the cabinet of the King with

Madame la Duchesse de Berry, the Duchess had passed straight into the

wardrobe and called her there; and then with a cold and angry air, said

she was very much astonished that I wished to get up a quarrel between

her and M. le Duc d'Orleans.  Madame Saint-Simon exhibited surprise, but

Madame la Duchesse de Berry declared that nothing was so true; that I

wished to estrange M. d'Orleans from her, but that I should not succeed;

and immediately related all that I had just said to her father.  He had

had the goodness to repeat it to her an hour afterwards!  Madame de

Saint-Simon, still more surprised, listened attentively to the end, and

replied that this horrible report was public, that she herself could see

what consequences it would have, false and abominable as it might be, and

feel whether it was not important that M. le Duc d'Orleans should be

informed of it.  She added, that I had shown such proofs of my attachment

for them and of my desire for their happiness, that I was above all

suspicion.  Then she curtsied and leaving the Princess went to bed.  This

scene appeared to me enormous.

For some time after this I ceased entirely to see Duc d'Orleans and

Madame la Duchesse de Berry.  They cajoled me with all sorts of excuses,

apologies, and so forth, but I remained frozen.  They redoubled their

excuses and their prayers.  Friendship, I dare not say compassion,

seduced me, and I allowed myself to be led away.  In a word, we were

reconciled.  I kept aloof, however, from Madame la Duchesse de Berry as

much as possible, visiting her only for form's sake; and as long as she

lived never changed in this respect.

Being reconciled with M. d'Orleans, I again thought of my project of

uniting him to the Dauphin through M. de Beauvilliers.  He had need of

some support, for on all sides he was sadly out of favour.  His

debauchery and his impiety, which he had quitted for a time after

separating himself from Madame d'Argenton, his mistress, had now seized

on him again as firmly as ever.  It seemed as though there were a wager

between him and his daughter, Madame la Duchesse de Berry, which should

cast most contempt on religion and good manners.

The King was nothing ignorant of the conduct of his nephew.  He had been

much shocked with the return to debauchery and low company.  The enemies

of M. d'Orleans, foremost among whom was M. du Maine, had therefore

everything in their favour.  As I have said, without some support M.

d'Orleans seemed in danger of being utterly lost.

It was no easy matter to persuade M. de Beauvilliers to, fall in with the

plan I had concocted, and lend his aid to it.  But I worked him hard.  I

dwelt upon the taste of the Dauphin for history, science, and the arts,

and showed what a ripe knowledge of those subjects M. d'Orleans had, and

what agreeable conversation thereon they both might enjoy together.  In

brief I won over M. de Beauvilliers to my scheme.  M. D'Orleans, on his

side, saw without difficulty the advantage to him of union with the

Dauphin.  To bring it about I laid before him two conditions.  One, that

when in the presence of the Prince he should suppress that detestable

heroism of impiety he affected more than he felt, and allow no licentious

expressions to escape him.  The second was to go less often into evil

company at Paris, and if he must continue his debauchery, to do so at the

least within closed doors, and avoid all public scandal.  He promised

obedience, and was faithful to his promise.  The Dauphin perceived and

approved the change; little by little the object of my desire was gained.

As I have already said, it would be impossible for me to express all the

joy I felt at my deliverance from the dangers I was threatened with

during the lifetime of Monseigneur.  My respect, esteem, and admiration

for the Dauphin grew more and more day by day, as I saw his noble

qualities blossom out in richer luxuriance.  My hopes, too, took a

brighter colour from the rising dawn of prosperity that was breaking

around me.  Alas!  that I should be compelled to relate the cruel manner

in which envious fortune took from me the cup of gladness just as I was

raising it to my lips.

CHAPTER LIX

On Monday, the 18th of January, 1712, after a visit to Versailles, the

King went to Marly.  I mark expressly this journey.  No sooner were we

settled there than Boudin, chief doctor of the Dauphine, warned her to

take care of herself, as he had received sure information that there was

a plot to poison her and the Dauphin, to whom he made a similar

communication.  Not content with this he repeated it with a terrified

manner to everybody in the salon, and frightened all who listened to him.

The King spoke to him about it in private.  Boudin declared that this

information was good, and yet that he did not know whence it came; and he

stuck to this contradiction.  For, if he did not know where the

information came from how could he be assured it was trustworthy?

The most singular thing is, that twenty-four hours after Boudin had

uttered this warning, the Dauphin received a similar one from the King of

Spain, vague, and without mentioning whence obtained, and yet also

declared to be of good source.  In this only the Dauphin was named

distinctly--the Dauphine obscurely and by implication--at least, so the

Dauphin explained the matter, and I never heard that he said otherwise.

People pretended to despise these stories of origin unknown, but they

were struck by them nevertheless, and in the midst of the amusements and

occupations of the Court, seriousness, silence, and consternation were

spread.

The King, as I have said, went to Marly on Monday, the 18th of January,

1712.  The Dauphine came there early with a face very much swelled, and

went to bed at once; yet she rose at seven o'clock in the evening because

the King wished her to preside in the salon.  She played there, in

morning-dress, with her head wrapped up, visited the King m the apartment

of Madame de Maintenon just before his supper, and then again went to

bed, where she supped.  On the morrow, the 19th, she rose only to play in

the salon, and see the King, returning to her bed and supping there.  On

the 20th, her swelling diminished, and she was better.  She was subject

to this complaint, which was caused by her teeth.  She passed the

following days as usual.  On Monday, the 1st of February, the Court

returned to Versailles.

On Friday, the 5th of February, the Duc de Noailles gave a very fine box

full of excellent Spanish snuff to the Dauphine, who took some, and liked

it.  This was towards the end of the morning.  Upon entering her cabinet

(closed to everybody else), she put this box upon the table, and left it

there.  Towards the evening she was seized with trembling fits of fever.

She went to bed, and could not rise again even to go to the King's

cabinet after the supper.  On Saturday, the 6th of February, the

Dauphine, who had had fever all night, did not fail to rise at her

ordinary hour, and to pass the day as usual; but in the evening the fever

returned.  She was but middling all that night, a little worse the next

day; but towards ten o'clock at night she was suddenly seized by a sharp

pain under the temple.  It did not extend to the dimensions of a ten sous

piece, but was so violent that she begged the King, who was coming to see

her, not to enter.  This kind of madness of suffering lasted without

intermission until Monday, the 8th, and was proof against tobacco chewed

and smoked, a quantity of opium, and two bleedings in the arms.  Fever

showed itself more then this pain was a little calmed; the Dauphine said

she had suffered more than in child-birth.

Such a violent illness filled the chamber with rumours concerning the

snuff-box given to the Dauphine by the Duc de Noailles.  In going to bed

the day she had received it and was seized by fever, she spoke of the

snuff to her ladies, highly praising it and the box, which she told one

of them to go and look for upon the table in the cabinet, where, as I

have said, it had been left.  The box could not be found, although looked

for high and low.  This disappearance had seemed very extraordinary from

the first moment it became known.  Now, joined to the grave illness with

which the Dauphine was so cruelly assailed, it aroused the most sombre

suspicions.  Nothing, however, was breathed of these suspicions, beyond a

very restricted circle; for the Princess took snuff with the knowledge of

Madame de Maintenon, but without that of the King, who would have made a

fine scene if he had discovered it.  This was what was feared, if the

singular loss of the box became divulged.

Let me here say, that although one of my friends, the Archbishop of

Rheims, believed to his dying day that the Duc de Noailles had poisoned

the Dauphine by means of this box of Spanish snuff, I never could induce

myself to believe so too.  The Archbishop declared that in the manner of

the Duc de Noailles, after quitting the chamber of the Princess, there

was something which suggested both confusion and contentment.  He brought

forward other proofs of guilt, but they made no impression upon me.  I

endeavoured, on the contrary, to shake his belief, but my labour was in

vain.  I entreated him, however, at least to maintain the most profound

silence upon this horrible thought, and he did so.

Those who afterwards knew the history of the box--and they were in good

number--were as inaccessible to suspicion as I; and nobody thought of

charging the Duc de Noailles with the offence it was said he had

committed.  As for me, I believed in his guilt so little that our

intimacy remained the same; and although that intimacy grew even up to

the death of the King, we never spoke of this fatal snuff-box.

During the night, from Monday to Tuesday, the 9th of February, the

lethargy was great.  During the day the King approached the bed many

times: the fever was strong, the awakenings were short; the head was

confused, and some marks upon the skin gave tokens of measles, because

they extended quickly, and because many people at Versailles and at Paris

were known to be, at this time, attacked with that disease.  The night

from Tuesday to Wednesday passed so much the more badly, because the hope

of measles had already vanished.  The King came in the morning to see

Madame la Dauphine, to whom an emetic had been given.  It operated well,

but produced no relief.  The Dauphin, who scarcely ever left the bedside

of his wife, was forced into the garden to take the air, of which he had

much need; but his disquiet led him back immediately into the chamber.

The malady increased towards the evening, and at eleven o'clock there was

a considerable augmentation of fever.  The night was very bad.

On Thursday, the 11th of February, at nine o'clock in the morning, the

King entered the Dauphine's chamber, which Madame de Maintenon scarcely

ever left, except when he was in her apartments.  The Princess was so ill

that it was resolved to speak to her of receiving the sacrament.

Prostrated though she was she was surprised at this.  She put some

questions as to her state; replies as little terrifying as possible were

given to her, and little by little she was warned against delay.

Grateful for this advice, she said she would prepare herself.

After some time, accidents being feared, Father la Rue, her (Jesuit)

confessor, whom she had always appeared to like, approached her to exhort

her not to delay confession.  She looked at him, replied that she

understood him, and then remained silent.  Like a sensible man he saw

what was the matter, and at once said that if she had any objection to

confess to him to have no hesitation in admitting it.  Thereupon she

indicated that she should like to have M. Bailly, priest of the mission

of the parish of Versailles.  He was a man much esteemed, but not

altogether free from the suspicion of Jansenism.  Bailly, as it happened,

had gone to Paris.  This being told her, the Dauphine asked for Father

Noel, who was instantly sent for.

The excitement that this change of confessor made at a moment so critical

may be imagined.  All the cruelty of the tyranny that the King never

ceased to exercise over every member of his family was now apparent.

They could not have a confessor not of his choosing!  What was his

surprise and the surprise of all the Court, to find that in these last

terrible moments of life the Dauphine wished to change her confessor,

whose order even she repudiated!

Meanwhile the Dauphin had given way.  He had hidden his own illness as

long as he could, so as not to leave the pillow of his Dauphine.  Now the

fever he had was too strong to be dissimulated; and the doctors, who

wished to spare him the sight of the horrors they foresaw, forgot nothing

to induce him to stay in his chamber, where, to sustain him, false news

was, from time to time, brought him of the state of his spouse.

The confession of the Dauphine was long.  Extreme unction was

administered immediately afterwards; and the holy viaticum directly.

An hour afterwards the Dauphine desired the prayers for the dying to be

said.  They told her she was not yet in that state, and with words of

consolation exhorted her to try and get to sleep.  Seven doctors of the

Court and of Paris were sent for.  They consulted together in the

presence of the King and Madame de Maintenon.  All with one voice were in

favour of bleeding at the foot; and in case it did not have the effect

desired, to give an emetic at the end of the night.  The bleeding was

executed at seven o'clock in the evening.  The return of the fever came

and was found less violent than the preceding.  The night was cruel.  The

King came early next morning to see the Dauphine.  The emetic she took at

about nine o'clock had little effect.  The day passed in symptoms each

more sad than the other; consciousness only at rare intervals.  All at

once towards evening, the whole chamber fell into dismay.  A number of

people were allowed to enter although the King was there.  Just before

she expired he left, mounted into his coach at the foot of the grand

staircase, and with Madame de Maintenon and Madame de Caylus went away to

Marly.  They were both in the most bitter grief, and had not the courage

to go to the Dauphin.  Upon arriving at Marly the King supped in his own

room; and passed a short time with M. d'Orleans and his natural children.

M. le Duc de Berry, entirely occupied with his affliction, which was

great and real, had remained at Versailles with Madame la Duchesse de

Berry, who, transported with joy upon seeing herself delivered from a

powerful rival, to whom, however, she owed all, made her face do duty for

her heart.

Monseigneur le Dauphin, ill and agitated by the most bitter grief, kept

his chamber; but on Saturday morning the 13th, being pressed to go to

Marly to avoid the horror of the noise overhead where the Dauphine was

lying dead, he set out for that place at seven o'clock in the morning.

Shortly after arriving he heard mass in the chapel, and thence was

carried in a chair to the window of one of his rooms.  Madame de

Maintenon came to see him there afterwards; the anguish of the interview

was speedily too much for her, and she went away.  Early in the morning I

went uninvited to see M. le Dauphin.  He showed me that he perceived this

with an air of gentleness and of affection which penetrated me.  But I

was terrified with his looks, constrained, fixed and with something wild

about them, with the change in his face and with the marks there, livid

rather than red, that I observed in good number and large; marks observed

by the others also.  The Dauphin was standing.  In a few minutes he was

apprised that the King had awaked.  The tears that he had restrained, now

rolled from his eyes; he turned round at the news but said nothing,

remaining stock still.  His three attendants proposed to him, once or

twice, that he should go to the King.  He neither spoke nor stirred.  I

approached and made signs to him to go, then softly spoke to the same

effect.  Seeing that he still remained speechless and motionless, I made

bold to take his arm, representing to him that sooner or later he must

see the King, who expected him, and assuredly with the desire to see and

embrace him; and pressing him in this manner, I took the liberty to

gently push him.  He cast upon me a look that pierced my soul and went

away: I followed him some few steps and then withdrew to recover breath;

I never saw him again.  May I, by the mercy of God, see him eternally

where God's goodness doubtless has placed him!

The Dauphin reached the chamber of the King, full just then of company.

As soon as, he appeared the King called him and embraced him tenderly

again and again.  These first moments, so touching, passed in words

broken by sobs and tears.

Shortly afterwards the King looking at the Dauphin was terrified by the

same things that had previously struck me with affright.  Everybody

around was so, also the doctors more than the others.  The King ordered

them to feel his pulse; that they found bad, so they said afterwards; for

the time they contented themselves with saying it was not regular, and

that the Dauphin would do wisely to go to bed.  The King embraced him

again, recommended him very tenderly to take care of himself, and ordered

him to go to bed.  He obeyed and rose no more!

It was now late in the morning.  The King had passed a cruel night and

had a bad headache; he saw at his dinner, the few courtiers who presented

themselves, and after dinner went to the Dauphin.  The fever had

augmented: the pulse was worse than before.  The King passed into the

apartments of Madame de Maintenon, and the Dauphin was left with his

attendants and his doctors.  He spent the day in prayers and holy

reading.

On the morrow, Sunday, the uneasiness felt on account of the Dauphin

augmented.  He himself did not conceal his belief that he should never

rise again, and that the plot Boudin had warned him of, had been

executed.  He explained himself to this effect more than once, and always

with a disdain of earthly grandeur and an incomparable submission and

love of God.  It is impossible to describe the general consternation.  On

Monday the 15th, the King was bled.  The Dauphin was no better than

before.  The King and Madame de Maintenon saw him separately several

times during the day, which was passed in prayers and reading.

On Tuesday, the 16th, the Dauphin was worse.  He felt himself devoured by

a consuming fire, which the external fever did not seem to justify; but

the pulse was very extraordinary and exceedingly menacing.  This was a

deceptive day.  The marks on the Dauphin's face extended over all the

body.  They were regarded as the marks of measles.  Hope arose thereon,

but the doctors and the most clear-sighted of the Court could not forget

that these same marks had shown themselves on the body of the Dauphine; a

fact unknown out of her chamber until after death.

On Wednesday, the 17th, the malady considerably increased.  I had news at

all moments of the Dauphin's state from Cheverny, an excellent apothecary

of the King and of my family.  He hid nothing from us.  He had told us

what he thought of the Dauphine's illness; he told us now what he thought

of the Dauphin's.  I no longer hoped therefore, or rather I hoped to the

end, against all hope.

On Wednesday the pains increased.  They were like a devouring fire, but

more violent than ever.  Very late into the evening the Dauphin sent to

the King for permission to receive the communion early the next morning,

without ceremony and without display, at the mass performed in his

chamber.  Nobody heard of this, that evening; it was not known until the

following morning.  I was in extreme desolation; I scarcely saw the King

once a day.  I did nothing but go in quest of news several times a day,

and to the house of M. de Chevreuse, where I was completely free.  M. de

Chevreuse--always calm, always sanguine--endeavoured to prove to us by

his medical reasonings that there was more reason to hope than to fear,

but he did so with a tranquillity that roused my impatience.  I returned

home to pass a cruel night.

On Thursday morning, the 18th of February, I learned that the Dauphin,

who had waited for midnight with impatience, had heard mass immediately

after the communion, had passed two hours in devout communication with

God, and that his reason then became embarrassed.  Madame de Saint-Simon

told me afterwards that he had received extreme unction: in fine, that he

died at half-past eight.  These memoirs are not written to describe my

private sentiments.  But in reading them,--if, long after me, they shall

ever appear, my state and that of Madame de Saint-Simon will only too

keenly be felt.  I will content myself with saying, that the first days

after the Dauphin's death scarcely appeared to us more than moments; that

I wished to quit all, to withdraw from the Court and the world, and that

I was only hindered by the wisdom, conduct, and power over me of Madame

de Saint-Simon, who yet had much trouble to subdue my sorrowful desires.

Let me say something now of the young prince and his spouse, whom we thus

lost in such quick succession.

Never did princess arrive amongst us so young with so much instruction,

or with such capacity to profit by instruction.  Her skilful father, who

thoroughly knew our Court, had painted it to her, and had made her

acquainted with the only manner of making herself happy there.  From the

first moment of her arrival she had acted upon his lessons.  Gentle,

timid, but adroit, fearing to give the slightest pain to anybody, and

though all lightness and vivacity, very capable of far-stretching views;

constraint, even to annoyance, cost her nothing, though she felt all its

weight.  Complacency was natural to her, flowed from her, and was

exhibited towards every member of the Court.

Regularly plain, with cheeks hanging, a forehead too prominent, a nose

without meaning, thick biting lips, hair and eye-brows of dark chestnut,

and well planted; the most speaking and most beautiful eyes in the world;

few teeth, and those all rotten, about which she was the first to talk

and jest; the most beautiful complexion and skin; not much bosom, but

what there was admirable; the throat long, with the suspicion of a

goitre, which did not ill become her; her head carried gallantly,

majestically, gracefully; her mien noble; her smile most expressive; her

figure long, round, slender, easy, perfectly-shaped; her walk that of a

goddess upon the clouds: with such qualifications she pleased supremely.

Grace accompanied her every step, and shone through her manners and her

most ordinary conversation.  An air always simple and natural, often

naive, but seasoned with wit-this with the ease peculiar to her, charmed

all who approached her, and communicated itself to them.  She wished to

please even the most useless and the most ordinary persons, and yet

without making an effort to do so.  You were tempted to believe her

wholly and solely devoted to those with whom she found herself.  Her

gaiety--young, quick, and active--animated all; and her nymph-like

lightness carried her everywhere, like a whirlwind which fills several

places at once, and gives them movement and life.  She was the ornament

of all diversions, the life and soul of all pleasure, and at balls

ravished everybody by the justness and perfection of her dancing.  She

could be amused by playing for small sums but liked high gambling better,

and was an excellent, good-tempered, and bold gamester.

She spared nothing, not even her health, to gain Madame de Maintenon, and

through her the King.  Her suppleness towards them was without example,

and never for a moment was at fault.  She accompanied it with all the

discretion that her knowledge of them, acquired by study and experience,

had given her, and could measure their dispositions to an inch.  In this

way she had acquired a familiarity with them such as none of the King's

children, not even the bastards, had approached.

In public, serious, measured, with the King, and in timid decorum with

Madame de Maintenon, whom she never addressed except as my aunt, thus

prettily confounding friendship and rank.  In private, prattling,

skipping, flying around them, now perched upon the sides of their arm-

chairs, now playing upon their knees, she clasped them round the neck,

embraced them, kissed them, caressed them, rumpled them, tickled them

under the chin, tormented them, rummaged their tables, their papers,

their letters, broke open the seals, and read the contents in spite of

opposition, if she saw that her waggeries were likely to be received in

good part.  When the King was with his ministers, when he received

couriers, when the most important affairs were under discussion, she was

present, and with such liberty, that, hearing the King and Madame de

Maintenon speak one evening with affection of the Court of England, at

the time when peace was hoped for from Queen Anne, "My aunt," she said,

"you must admit that in England the queens govern better than the kings,

and do you know why, my aunt?" asked she, running about and gambolling

all the time, "because under kings it is women who govern, and men under

queens."  The joke is that they both laughed, and said she was right.

The King really could not do without her.  Everything went wrong with him

if she was not by; even at his public supper, if she were away an

additional cloud of seriousness and silence settled around him.  She took

great care to see him every day upon arriving and departing; and if some

ball in winter, or some pleasure party in summer, made her lose half the

night, she  nevertheless adjusted things so well that she went and

embraced the King the moment he was up, and amused him with a description

of the fete.

She was so far removed from the thoughts of death, that on Candlemas-day

she talked with Madame de Saint-Simon of people who had died since she

had been at Court, and of what she would herself do in old age, of the

life she would lead, and of such like matters.  Alas!  it pleased God,

for our misfortune, to dispose of her differently.

With all her coquetry--and she was not wanting in it--never woman seemed

to take less heed of her appearance; her toilette was finished in a

moment, she cared nothing for finery except at balls and fetes; if she

displayed a little at other times it was simply in order to please the

king.  If the Court subsisted after her it was only to languish.  Never

was princess so regretted, never one so worthy of it: regrets have not

yet passed away, the involuntary and secret bitterness they caused still

remain, with a frightful blank not yet filled up.

Let me now turn to the Dauphin.

The youth of this prince made every one tremble.  Stern and choleric to

the last degree, and even against inanimate objects; impetuous with

frenzy, incapable of suffering the slightest resistance even from the

hours and the elements, without flying into a passion that threatened to

destroy his body; obstinate to excess; passionately fond of all kind of

voluptuousness, of women, with even a worse passion strongly developed at

the same time; fond not less of wine, good living, hunting, music, and

gaming, in which last he could not endure to be beaten; in fine,

abandoned to every passion, and transported by every pleasure; oftentimes

wild, naturally disposed towards cruelty; barbarous in raillery, and with

an all-powerful capacity for ridicule.

He looked down upon all men as from the sky, as atoms with whom he had

nothing in common; even his brothers scarcely appeared connecting links

between himself and human nature, although all had been educated together

in perfect equality.  His sense and penetration shone through everything.

His replies, even in anger, astonished everybody.  He amused himself with

the most abstract knowledge.  The extent and vivacity of his intellect

were prodigious, and rendered him incapable of applying himself to one

study at a time.

So much intelligence and of such a kind, joined to such vivacity,

sensibility, and passion, rendered his education difficult.  But God, who

is the master of all hearts, and whose divine spirit breathes where he

wishes, worked a miracle on this prince between his eighteenth and

twentieth years.  From this abyss he came out affable, gentle, humane,

moderate, patient, modest, penitent, and humble; and austere, even more

than harmonised with his position.  Devoted to his duties, feeling them

to be immense, he thought only how to unite the duties of son and subject

with those he saw to be destined for himself.  The shortness of each day

was his only sorrow.  All his force, all his consolation, was in prayer

and pious reading.  He clung with joy to the cross of his Saviour,

repenting sincerely of his past pride.  The King, with his outside

devotion, soon saw with secret displeasure his own life censured by that

of a prince so young, who refused himself a new desk in order to give the

money it would cost to the poor, and who did not care to accept some new

gilding with which it was proposed to furnish his little room.

Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne, alarmed at so austere a spouse, left

nothing undone in order to soften him.  Her charms, with which he was

smitten, the cunning and the unbridled importunities of the young ladies

of her suite, disguised in a hundred different forms--the attraction of

parties and pleasures to which he was far from insensible, all were

displayed every day..  But for a long time he behaved not like a prince

but like a novice.  On one occasion he refused to be present at a ball on

Twelfth Night, and in various ways made himself ridiculous at Court.

In due time, however, he comprehended that the faithful performance of

the duties proper to the state in which he had been placed, would be the

conduct most agreeable to God.  The bark of the tree, little by little,

grew softer without affecting the solidity of the trunk.  He applied

himself to the studies which were necessary, in order to instruct himself

in public affairs, and at the same time he lent himself more to the

world, doing so with so much grace, with such a natural air, that

everybody soon began to grow reconciled to him.

The discernment of this prince was such, that, like the bee, he gathered

the most perfect substance from the best and most beautiful flowers.  He

tried to fathom men, to draw from them the instruction and the light that

he could hope for.  He conferred sometimes, but rarely, with others

besides his chosen few.  I was the only one, not of that number, who had

complete access to him; with me he opened his heart upon the present and

the future with confidence, with sageness, with discretion.  A volume

would not describe sufficiently my private interviews with this prince,

what love of good!  what forgetfulness of self!  what researches!  what

fruit!  what purity of purpose!--May I say it?  what reflection of the

divinity in that mind, candid, simple, strong, which as much as is

possible here below had preserved the image of its maker!

If you had business, and thought of opening it to him, say for a quarter

of an hour or half an hour, he gave you oftentimes two hours or more,

according as he found himself at liberty.  Yet he was without verbiage,

compliments, prefaces, pleasantries, or other hindrances; went straight

to the point, and allowed you to go also.

His undue scruples of devotion diminished every day, as he found himself

face to face with the world; above all, he was well cured of the

inclination for piety in preference to talent, that is to say, for making

a man ambassador, minister, or general, rather on account of his

devotedness than of his capacity or experience.  He saw the danger of

inducing hypocrisy by placing devotion too high as a qualification for

employ.

It was he who was not afraid to say publicly, in the Salon of Marly, that

"a king is made for his subjects, and not the subjects for him;" a remark

that, except under his own reign, which God did not permit, would have

been the most frightful blasphemy.

Great God!  what a spectacle you gave to us in him.  What tender but

tranquil views he had!  What submission and love of God!  What a

consciousness of his own nothingness, and of his sins!  What a

magnificent idea of the infinite mercy!  What religious and humble fear!

What tempered confidence!  What patience!

What constant goodness for all who approached him!  France fell, in fine,

under this last chastisement.  God showed to her a prince she merited

not.  The earth was not worthy of him; he was ripe already for the

blessed eternity!

CHAPTER LX

The consternation at the event that had taken place was real and general;

it penetrated to foreign lands and courts.  Whilst the people wept for

him who thought only of their relief, and all France lamented a prince

who only wished to reign in order to render it flourishing and happy,

the sovereigns of Europe publicly lamented him whom they regarded as

their example, and whose virtues were preparing him to be their

arbitrator, and the peaceful and revered moderator of nations.  The Pope

was so touched that he resolved of himself to set aside all rule and hold

expressly a consistory; deplored there the infinite loss the church and

all Christianity had sustained, and pronounced a complete eulogium of the

prince who caused the just regrets of all Europe.

On Saturday, the 13th, the corpse of the Dauphine was left in its bed

with uncovered face, and opened the same evening at eleven in presence of

all the faculty.  On the 15th it was placed in the grand cabinet, where

masses were continually said.

On Friday, the 19th, the corpse of Monseigneur le Dauphin was opened, a

little more than twenty-four hours after his death, also in presence of

all the faculty.  His heart was immediately carried to Versailles, and

placed by the side of that of Madame la Dauphine.  Both were afterwards

taken to the Val de Grace.  They arrived at midnight with a numerous

cortege.  All was finished in two hours.  The corpse of Monseigneur le

Dauphin was afterwards carried from Marly to Versailles, and placed by

the side of Madame la Dauphine on the same estrade.

On Tuesday, the 23rd February, the two bodies were taken from Versailles

to Saint-Denis in the same chariot.  The procession began to enter Paris

by the Porte Saint-Honore at two o'clock in the morning, and arrived

between seven and eight o'clock in the morning at Saint-Denis.  There was

great order in Paris, and no confusion.

On Tuesday, the 8th March, Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne, eldest son of

Monsieur le Dauphin, who had succeeded to the name and rank of his

father, being then only five years and some months old, and who had been

seized with measles within a few days, expired, in spite of all the

remedies given him.  His brother, M. le Duc d'Anjou, who still sucked,

was taken ill at the same time, but thanks to the care of the Duchesse de

Ventadour, whom in after life he never forgot, and who administered an

antidote, escaped, and is now King.

Thus three Dauphins died in less than a year, and father, mother, and

eldest son in twenty-four days!  On Wednesday, the 9th of March, the

corpse of the little Dauphin was opened at night, and without any

ceremony his heart was taken to the Val de Grace, his body to Saint-

Denis, and placed by the side of those of his father and mother.  M. le

Duc d'Anjou, now, sole remaining child, succeeded to the title and to the

rank of Dauphin.

I have said that the bodies of the Dauphin and the Dauphine were opened

in presence of all the faculty.  The report made upon the opening of the

latter was not consolatory.  Only one of the doctors declared there were

no signs of poison; the rest were of the opposite opinion.  When the body

of the Dauphin was opened, everybody was terrified.  His viscera were

all dissolved; his heart had no consistency; its substance flowed through

the hands of those who tried to hold it; an intolerable odour, too,

filled the apartment.  The majority of the doctors declared they saw in

all this the effect of a very subtle and very violent poison, which had

consumed all the interior of the body, like a burning fire.  As before,

there was one of their number who held different views, but this was

Marechal, who declared that to persuade the King of the existence of

secret enemies of his family would be to kill him by degrees.

This medical opinion that the cause of the Dauphin's and the Dauphine's

death was poison, soon spread like wildfire over the Court and the city.

Public indignation fell upon M. d'Orleans, who was at once pointed out as

the poisoner.  The rapidity with which this rumour filled the Court,

Paris, the provinces, the least frequented places, the most isolated

monasteries, the most deserted solitudes, all foreign countries and all

the peoples of Europe, recalled to me the efforts of the cabal, which had

previously spread such black reports against the honour of him whom all

the world now wept, and showed that the cabal, though dispersed, was not

dissolved.

In effect M. du Maine, now the head of the cabal, who had all to gain and

nothing to lose by the death of the Dauphin and Dauphine, from both of

whom he had studiously held aloof, and who thoroughly disliked M.

d'Orleans, did all in his power to circulate this odious report.  He

communicated it to Madame de Maintenon, by whom it reached the King.  In

a short time all the Court, down to the meanest valets, publicly cried

vengeance upon M. d'Orleans, with an air of the most unbridled

indignation and of perfect security.

M. d'Orleans, with respect to the two losses that afflicted the public,

had an interest the most directly opposite to that of M. du Maine; he had

everything to gain by the life of the Dauphin and Dauphine, and unless he

had been a monster vomited forth from hell he could not have been guilty

of the crime with which he was charged.  Nevertheless, the odious

accusation flew from mouth to mouth, and took refuge in every breast.

Let us compare the interest M. d'Orleans had in the life of the Dauphin

with the interest M. du Maine had in his death, and then look about for

the poisoner.  But this is not all.  Let us remember how M. le Duc

d'Orleans was treated by Monseigneur, and yet what genuine grief he

displayed at the death of that prince.  What a contrast was this conduct

with that of M. du Maine at another time, who, after leaving the King

(Louis XIV.) at the point of death, delivered over to an ignorant

peasant, imitated that peasant so naturally and so pleasantly, that

bursts of laughter extended to the gallery, and scandalized the passers-

by.  This is a celebrated and very characteristic fact, which will find

its proper place if I live long enough to carry these memoirs up to the

death of the King.

M. d'Orleans was, however, already in such bad odour, that people were

ready to believe anything to his discredit.  They drank in this new

report so rapidly, that on the 17th of February, as he went with Madame

to give the holy water to the corpse of the Dauphine, the crowd of the

people threw out all sorts of accusations against him, which both he and

Madame very distinctly heard, without daring to show it, and were in

trouble, embarrassment, and indignation, as may be imagined.  There was

even ground for fearing worse from an excited and credulous populace when

M. d'Orleans went alone to give the holy water to the corpse of the

Dauphin.  For he had to endure on his passage atrocious insults from a

populace which uttered aloud the most frightful observations, which

pointed the finger at him with the coarsest epithets, and which believed

it was doing him a favour in not falling upon him and tearing him to

pieces!

Similar circumstances took place at the funeral procession.  The streets

resounded more with cries of indignation against M. d'Orleans and abuse

of him than with grief.  Silent precautions were not forgotten in Paris

in order to check the public fury, the boiling over of which was feared

at different moments.  The people recompensed themselves by gestures,

cries, and other atrocities, vomited against M. d'Orleans.  Near the

Palais Royal, before which the procession passed, the increase of shouts,

of cries, of abuse, was so great, that for some minutes everything was to

be feared.

It may be imagined what use M. du Maine contrived to make of the public

folly, the rumours of the Paris cafes, the feeling of the salon of Marly,

that of the Parliament, the reports that arrived from the provinces and

foreign countries.  In a short time so overpowered was M. d'Orleans by

the feeling against him everywhere exhibited, that acting upon very ill-

judged advice he spoke to the King upon the subject, and begged to be

allowed to surrender himself as a prisoner at the Bastille, until his

character was cleared from stain.

I was terribly annoyed when I heard that M. d'Orleans had taken this

step, which could not possibly lead to good.  I had quite another sort of

scheme in my head which I should have proposed to him had I known of his

resolve.  Fortunately, however, the King was persuaded not to grant M.

d'Orleans' request, out of which therefore nothing came.  The Duke

meanwhile lived more abandoned by everybody than ever; if in the salon he

approached a group of courtiers, each, without the least hesitation,

turned to the right or to the left and went elsewhere, so that it was

impossible for him to accost anybody except by surprise, and if he did

so, he was left alone directly after with the most marked indecency.

In a word, I was the only person, I say distinctly, the only person,

who spoke to M. d'Orleans as before.  Whether in his own house or in the

palace I conversed with him, seated myself by his side in a corner of the

salon, where assuredly we had no third person to fear, and walked with

him in the gardens under the very windows of the King and of Madame de

Maintenon.

Nevertheless, all my friends warned me that if I pursued this conduct so

opposite to that in vogue, I should assuredly fall into disgrace.  I held

firm.  I thought that when we did not believe our friends guilty we ought

not to desert them, but, on the contrary, to draw closer to them, as by

honour bound, give them the consolation due from us, and show thus to the

world our hatred for calumny.  My friends insisted; gave me to understand

that the King disapproved my conduct, that Madame de Maintenon was

annoyed at it: they forgot nothing to awaken my fears.  But I was

insensible to all they said to me, and did not omit seeing M. d'Orleans a

single day; often stopping with him two and three hours at a time.

A few weeks had passed over thus, when one morning M. de Beauvilliers

called upon me, and urged me to plead business, and at once withdraw to

La Ferme; intimating that if I did not do so of my own accord, I should

be compelled by an order from the King.  He never explained himself more

fully, but I have always remained persuaded that the King or Madame de

Maintenon had sent him to me, and had told him that I should be banished

if I did not banish myself.  Neither my absence nor my departure made any

stir; nobody suspected anything.  I was carefully informed, without

knowing by whom, when my exile was likely to end: and I returned, after a

month or five weeks, straight to the Court, where I kept up the same

intimacy with M. d'Orleans as before.

But he was not yet at the end of his misfortunes.  The Princesse des

Ursins had not forgiven him his pleasantry at her expense.  Chalais, one

of her most useful agents, was despatched by her on a journey so

mysterious that its obscurity has never been illuminated.  He was

eighteen days on the road, unknown, concealing his name, and passing

within two leagues of Chalais, where his father and mother lived, without

giving them any signs of life, although all were on very good terms.  He

loitered secretly in Poitou, and at last arrested there a Cordelier monk,

of middle age, in the convent of Bressuire, who cried, "Ah! I am lost!"

upon being caught.  Chalais conducted him to the prison of Poitiers,

whence he despatched to Madrid an officer of dragoons he had brought with

him, and who knew this Cordelier, whose name has never transpired,

although it is certain he was really a Cordelier, and that he was

returning from as journey in Italy and Germany that had extended as far

as Vienna.  Chalais pushed on to Paris, and came to Marly on the 27th of

April, a day on which the King had taken medicine.  After dinner he was

taken by Torcy to the King, with whom he remained half an hour, delaying

thus the Council of State for the same time, and then returned

immediately to Paris.  So much trouble had not been taken for no purpose:

and Chalais had not prostituted himself to play the part of prevot to a

miserable monk without expecting good winnings from the game.

Immediately afterwards the most dreadful rumours were everywhere in

circulation against M. d'Orleans, who, it was said, had poisoned the

Dauphin and Dauphine by means of this monk, who, nevertheless, was far

enough away from our Prince and Princess at the time of their death.  In

an instant Paris resounded with these horrors; the provinces were

inundated with them, and immediately afterwards foreign countries--this

too with an incredible rapidity, which plainly showed how well the plot

had been prepared--and a publicity that reached the very caverns of the

earth.  Madame des Ursins was not less served in Spain than M. du Maine

and Madame de Maintenon in France.  The anger of the public was doubled.

The Cordelier was brought, bound hand and foot, to the Bastille, and

delivered up to D'Argenson, Lieutenant of Police.

This D'Argenson rendered an account to the King of many things which

Pontchartrain, as Secretary of State, considered to belong to his

department.  Pontchartrain was vexed beyond measure at this, and could

not see without despair his subaltern become a kind of minister more

feared, more valued, more in consideration than he, and conduct himself

always in such manner that he gained many powerful friends, and made but

few enemies, and those of but little moment.  M. d'Orleans bowed before

the storm that he could not avert; it could not increase the general

desertion; he had accustomed himself to his solitude, and, as he had

never heard this monk spoken of, had not the slightest fear on his

account.  D'Argenson, who questioned the Cordelier several times, and

carried his replies daily to the King, was sufficiently adroit to pay his

court to M. d'Orleans, by telling him that the prisoner had uttered

nothing which concerned him, and by representing the services he did M.

d'Orleans with the King.  Like a sagacious man, D'Argenson saw the

madness of popular anger devoid of all foundation, and which could not

hinder M. d'Orleans from being a very considerable person in France,

during a minority that--the age of the King showed to be pretty near.

He took care, therefore, to avail himself of the mystery which surrounded

his office, to ingratiate himself more and more with M. d'Orleans, whom

he had always carefully though secretly served; and his conduct, as will

be seen in due time, procured him a large fortune.

But I have gone too far.  I must retrace my steps, to speak of things I

have omitted to notice in their proper place.

The two Dauphins and the Dauphine were interred at Saint-Denis, on

Monday, the 18th of April.  The funeral oration was pronounced by Maboul,

Bishop of Aleth, and pleased; M. de Metz, chief chaplain, officiated; the

service commenced at about eleven o'clock.  As it was very long, it was

thought well to have at hand a large vase of vinegar, in case anybody

should be ill.  M. de Metz having taken the first oblation, and observing

that very little wine was left for the second, asked for more.  This

large vase of vinegar was supposed to be wine, and M. de Metz, who wished

to strengthen himself, said, washing his fingers over the chalice, "fill

right up."  He swallowed all at a draught, and did not perceive until the

end that he had drunk vinegar; his grimace and his complaint caused some

little laughter round him; and he often related this adventure, which

much soured him.  On Monday, the 20th of May, the funeral service for the

Dauphin and Dauphine was performed at Notre Dame.

Let me here say, that before the Prince and his spouse were buried, that

is to say, the 6th of April, the King gave orders for the recommencement

of the usual play at Marly; and that M. le Duc de Berry and Madame la

Duchesse de Berry presided in the salon at the public lansquenet and

brelan; and the different gaming tables for all the Court.  In a short

time the King dined in Madame de Maintenon's apartments once or twice a

week, and had music there.  And all this, as I have remarked, with the

corpse of the Dauphin and that of the Dauphine still above ground.

The gap left by the death of the Dauphine could not, however, be easily

filled up.  Some months after her loss, the King began to feel great

ennui steal upon him in the hours when he had no work with his ministers.

The few ladies admitted into the apartments of Madame de Maintenon when

he was there, were unable to entertain him.  Music, frequently

introduced, languished from that cause.  Detached scenes from the

comedies of Moliere were thought of, and were played by the King's

musicians, comedians for the nonce.  Madame de Maintenon introduced, too,

the Marechal de Villeroy, to amuse the King by relating their youthful

adventures.

Evening amusements became more and more frequent in Madame de Maintenon's

apartments, where, however, nothing could fill up the void left by the

poor Dauphine.

I have said little of the grief I felt at the loss of the prince whom

everybody so deeply regretted.  As will be believed, it was bitter and

profound.  The day of his death, I barricaded myself in my own house, and

only left it for one instant in order to join the King at his promenade

in the gardens.  The vexation I felt upon seeing him followed almost as

usual, did not permit me to stop more than an instant.  All the rest of

the stay at Versailles, I scarcely left my room, except to visit M. de

Beauvilliers.  I will admit that, to reach M. de Beauvilliers' house, I

made a circuit between the canal and the gardens of Versailles, so as to

spare myself the sight of the chamber of death, which I had not force

enough to approach.  I admit that I was weak.  I was sustained neither by

the piety, superior to all things, of M. de Beauvilliers, nor by that of

Madame de Saint-Simon, who nevertheless not the less suffered.  The truth

is, I was in despair.  To those who know my position, this will appear

less strange than my being able to support at all so complete a

misfortune.  I experienced this sadness precisely at the same age as that

of my father when he lost Louis XIII.; but he at least had enjoyed the

results of favour, whilst I, 'Gustavi paululum mellis, et ecce morior.'

Yet this was not all.

In the casket of the Dauphin there were several papers he had asked me

for.  I had drawn them up in all confidence; he had preserved them in the

same manner.  There was one, very large, in my hand, which if seen by the

King, would have robbed me of his favour for ever; ruined me without hope

of return.  We do not think in time of such catastrophes.  The King knew

my handwriting; he did not know my mode of thought, but might pretty well

have guessed it.  I had sometimes supplied him with means to do so; my

good friends of the Court had done the rest.  The King when he discovered

my paper would also discover on what close terms of intimacy I had been

with the Dauphin, of which he had no suspicion.  My anguish was then

cruel, and there seemed every reason to believe that if my secret was

found out, I should be disgraced and exiled during all the rest of the

King's reign.

What a contrast between the bright heaven I had so recently gazed upon

and the abyss now yawning at my feet!  But so it is in the Court and the

world!  I felt then the nothingness of even the most desirable future, by

an inward sentiment, which, nevertheless, indicates how we cling to it.

Fear on account of the contents of the casket had scarcely any power over

me.  I was obliged to reflect in order to return to it from time to time.

Regret for this incomparable Dauphin pierced my heart, and suspended all

the faculties of my soul.  For a long time I wished to fly from the

Court, so that I might never again see the deceitful face of the world;

and it was some time before prudence and honour got the upper hand.

It so happened that the, Duc de Beauvilliers himself was able to carry

this casket to the King, who had the key of it.  M. de Beauvilliers in

fact resolved not to trust it out of his own hands, but to wait until he

was well enough to take it to the King, so that he might then try to hide

my papers from view.  This task was difficult, for he did not know the

position in the casket of these dangerous documents, and yet it was our

only resource.  This terrible uncertainty lasted more than a fortnight.

On Tuesday, the 1st of March, M. de Beauvilliers carried the casket to

the King.  He came to me shortly after, and before sitting down,

indicated by signs that there was no further occasion for fear.  He then

related to me that he had found the casket full of a mass of documents,

finance projects, reports from the provinces, papers of all kinds, that

he had read some of them to the King on purpose to weary him, and had

succeeded so well that the King soon was satisfied by hearing only the

titles; and, at last, tired out by not finding anything important, said

it was not worth while to read more, and that there was nothing to do but

to throw everything into the fire.  The Duke assured me that he did not

wait to be told twice, being all the more anxious to comply, because at

the bottom of the casket he had seen some of my handwriting, which he had

promptly covered up in taking other papers to read their titles to the

King; and that immediately the word "fire" was uttered, he confusedly

threw all the papers into the casket, and then emptied it near the fire,

betweein the King and Madame de Maintenon, taking good care as he did so

that my documents should not be seen,--even cautiously using the tongs in

order to prevent any piece flying away, and not quitting the fireplace

until he had seen every page consumed.  We embraced each other, in the

relief we reciprocally felt, relief proportioned to the danger we had

run.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

A king is made for his subjects, and not the subjects for him

A lingering fear lest the sick man should recover

Danger of inducing hypocrisy by placing devotion too high

For want of better support I sustained myself with courage

Interests of all interested painted on their faces

Never was a man so ready with tears, so backward with grief

Suspicion of a goitre, which did not ill become her

The shortness of each day was his only sorrow

End of this Project Gutenberg Etext Memoirs of Louis XIV. and The Regency,

v8, by the Duc de Saint-Simon

          MEMOIRS OF LOUIS XIV AND HIS COURT AND OF THE REGENCY

                        BY THE DUKE OF SAINT-SIMON