UC-NRLF $B 7b3 b7fl Z-t. I si THE OLD RJ^GIME. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. OLD PARIS: Its Court and Literary Salons. THE OLD REGIME : Court. Salons and Theatres. THE OLD REGIME COURT, SALONS, AND THEATRES CATHERINE CHARLOHE, UDY JACKSON NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY T2- " Le dixsepti^me si^cle fut I'^poque du g^nie et des oeuvres d' imagination ; le dixhuiti^me fut celle du doute, des recherches et des sciences exactes. " Aux elans de rimagination succede I'^mulation du savoir, et le bel-esprit remplace le gdnie. L'orgueil humain met en doute tout ce qu'il ne comprend pas, et le sifecle savant devient sceptique." De Tocqubville. "II est des ^poques oil la socidte ressemble au festin de Balthazar. EUe s'enivre jusqu'au reveil terrible, fatal comme les lettres de feu sur les murs d'airain." Capefigue. i CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. I!XGB Introductory i CHAPTER II. The Council of Regency. — Lc Due d'Orleans declared Re- gent. — Courting Popularity. — First Acts of the Regent — Golden Opinions. — The Young King. — His First Lit-de- Justice. — The King and his Governor. — The King's First Public Speech. — Popularity of the Regent it CHAPTER III. The Regency. — Its Ubcrtinage. — The Regent's Rou6s. — Seek- ing Interviews with Satan. — Madame Lucifer. — Madame, the Regent's Mother. — Audacity of Voltaire. — Character of the Regent. — A Boaster of Vices. — Yet Generally Popu- lar.— The Regent's Gallantry 31 CHAPTER IV. Un Salon trfes Respectable. — The Hotel Lambert. — La Mar- quise de Lambert. — The Palais Mazarin. — Weekly Literary Dinners. — French Cooks of the Eighteenth Century. — The Wealthy Financiers. — A Party of Old Friends. — La Motte- Houdart. — Homer and Madame Dacier. — The Salon Lam- bert. — The Bureau d' Esprit. — The Goddess of Sceaux. — The Marquis de St. Aulaire. — The Due du Maine. — A Desperate Little Woman. — Portrait of the Duchess. — Genealogical Researches. — Drowsy Reading 29 253688 iv CONTENTS. CHAPTER V. PAGtt Royal Academy of Music. — Opera, Paniers, and Masks. — "See Paris, and Die!" — Watteau's Early Studies. — Cos- tumes a la Watteau. — Bals de I'Op^ra. — La Duchesse de Berri. — La Duchesse, en reine. — La Duchesse, en peni- tence. — Le Comte de Riom. — Mdme. de Maintenon's Nieces % 43 CHAPTER VL Return of the Italian Troupe. — Les Troupes Foraines. — ^Vaude- ville and Op6ra Comique. — Winter and Summer Fairs. — Th6^tre dc la Foire suppressed 52 CHAPTER Vn. Michel Baron. — Bembourg, as N6ron. — Horace and Camille. — Adrienne Le Couvreur. — Ths. Corneille's "Comte d'Es- sex." — Baron Returns to the Stage. — A Caesar; a Baron; a Roscius. — A Second Triumphant D6but. — The First Baron of France. — The Grand Pretre, in " Athalie. " — The Prince and the Actor. — " Mon Pauvre Boyron." — An Actress's Dinners and Suppers. — Results of Popularity. — Voltaire and his Nurse. — Galland's "Arabian Nights. " 56 CHAPTER VIIL Racine's Academic Address. — A Political Intrigante. — The Spanish Plot. — Arrest of La Duchesse du Maine. — Con- fessions and Apologies. — A Traitor in the Camp. — A General Lover. — The Eye's Eloquence. — A Persevering Lover. — Results of Gallantry. — La Duchesse de Richelieu. — The Due de Modena. — A Desponding Bride. — A Heart- \ess Lover. — A Learned Academician. — A Noble Ba- daud 68 CHAPTER IX. Une N6glig6e— Louis XV.— The Financier's Wife.— A Fash- ionable Financier. — The Vicomte and Vicomtesse de F . — John Law, — La Banque du Roi. — The Mississippi CONTENTS, V PAOR Company. — The Rue Quincampoix. — Cupidity and De- spair. — Grand Hotels and Opera Boxes. — The Courtiers Pay their Debts. — The *' Regent " and the " Sancy." — The First Blow to the Syst6me. — Deceived and Ruined. — Law Escapes to Flanders. — A Change from Paris to Brussels. — Order out of Disorder 80 CHAPTER X Death of Madame de Maintenon. — The Czar's Visit to St Cyr. — A Complimentar)' Salutation. — The Czar Peter in Paris. — Thirst for Useful Knowledge. — Special " Inter- viewing." — The Invitation to the Ball — Efifect of Peter's Visit to Paris. — Madame de Caylus. — Palais Royal Ban- quets. — B6chamel, Marin, Soubise. — Supper after the Opera. — Fashions of the Period. — The Ladies' Toilettes. — Lcs Belles Dames at Supper. — An Example to the Cxar 92 CHAPTER XL The Turkish Ambassador.— The Turk's Blessing. — The King's Unwonted Docility.— The Young King's Amuse- ments.— The King's Pastors and Masters.— The King and his Confessor.— Massillon's Petit Car^me.— The Preach- ing of Massillon. — Massillon in Society. — Villeroi's Devo- tion to his King. — A Youthful Gambler. — Projected Mar- riages.— The Bulle Unigenitus. — A Very Vicious Bull. — Taken by the Horns —The Marriages Arranged 104 CHAPTER XII. The New Cardinal Archbishop. — An Unwilling Bridegroom. — A Sorrowful Fate.— The Chateau de Rambouillet. — The Rambouillet M6nage 116 CHAPTER XIII. Madame de Tencin. — Gambling at the Hotel Tencin. — A Terrible Reputation. — " Le Grand Cyrus." — " Le Comte de Comminges." — A Delighted Audience. — Voltaire on his Vi CONTENTS. PAGfi Knees, — Destouches and Marivaux, — Veteran Leaders of Society. — The Literary Menagerie. — Madame de Tencin's Suppers. — Up to the Ankles in Mud. — Fontenelle's Mis- take I20 CHAPTER XIV. Exuberant Joy. — Dining in Public. — Public Rejoicings. — Loyalty still Flourishes. — The Mar6chal de Villeroi. — When Louis XIV. was Young. — The Majestic Perruque. — A Grand Seigneur of the Old Regime. — Fireworks of the Eighteenth Century. — The Young King's Greeting. — The Grand Bow Louis XIV. — Villeroi Dismissed. — Un Abb6 E16gant. — The Bishop Retires to Issy. — Coronation of Louis XV. — Death of Dubois. — Dubois' Immense Wealth. — Political Lessons. — The Regent First Minister. — Death of the Regent 130 CHAPTER XV. Monsieur le Due. — Taking Time by the Forelock. — The New Limits of Paris. — The Street Lamp Invented. — Dark Streets of Old Paris. — Crossing the Gutters. — What became of the Children. — The Liveliest City in Europe. — Shop- keepers' Sign-boards. — The Lieutenant of Police. — The Terrible "Damn6." — Police Espionage. — A Keeper of Secrets 145 CHAPTER XVI. The Palais Royal Gardens. — Married, but Unattached, Cou- ples. — Que voulez-vous? C'est la Mode. — La Haute Bourgeoisie. — Ennobled Bourgeoises. — Summer Evening Strolls. — The Chestnut Avenue. — Expulsion of the Infanta. — Supplanting the Bishop. — The Regent's Daughters. — Mdlle. de Vermandois. — Portrait of Louis XV. — The In- fanta. — The Rambouillet Circle. — Marie Leczinska. — The Bishop of Fr6jus. — The King's Preceptor. — The Royal Bride. — The Young Bridegroom. — The Queen's Dowry X55 CONTENTS, vii CHAPTER XVII. PAGB. Sledging at Versailles. — La Dame du Palais. — The Queen's Secluded Life.— Piety of the Queen and King.— The Sound of the Hunting Horn. — The Good Old Days. — The Rain and the Sunshine. — Intrigues of Mdme. de Prie. — The Bishop Retires to Issy. — A Domestic Tempest. — A Scene at the Theatre. — Two Lettres-de-Cachet. — Paris- Duvernay. — Fortune's Wheel Moves Round. — An Old Normandy Chateau. — Death of Madame de Prie 170 CHAPTER XVIII. Fleury's Exonomy. — Mimi and Titite. — "Notre Toulouse." — Mdlle. de Vichy-Chamroud.— A Singular Caprice. — The Epidemic — Ennui. — An Interesting Couple. — A Desolate Normandy Chateau. — The Menagerie in Eclipse. — Emerging from the Cloud. — " Le Podme de la Ligue." — A Pious Theft — A Noble Chevalier. — " Rohan je suis."- Homage to Madame du Defiant. — "Adieu, la belle France." 182 CHAPTER XIX. Prayers for a Dauphin. — The Prayer is granted. — Louis XV. a Model Husband. — Baron's Final Retirement. — Death of Adrienne Le Couvreur. — Jealous Rivals. — Generosity of Adrienne. — Burial of Mdlle. Le Couvreur. — Voltaire's Lines on Adrienne. — Zaire, ou Les Enfants Trouv6s. — Grandval the Actor. — The Prime Donne. — Rameau. — The Abb6 Pelligem. — A Musical Cabal. — Voltaire et les Danseuses. — The Apotheosis of Hercules. — Boucher's Painting Room 194 CHAPTER XX. A Drawing-Room Picture. — The Young Comte de Mirabeau. — Rival Gambling Salons. — The Foundling, d'Alembert. — The Irrepressible Bull. — Mdlle. Daucour. — The Rich Fermier General. — The Hotel La Popliniere. — A Scene of Enchantment. — A French Mephistopheles. — The Banished Wife. — The Infamous de Richelieu 208 X CdJStTENTS. PAGE Usages Contemned. — Popularity of the Chevalier. — Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. — Charles Edward Arrested. — "How Time Flies!" — Public Disapprobation. — The Mass in London— 1748 300 CHAPTER XXX. The Salon of Mdme. Geoffrin. — A Graduate of the Salons. — Marie Th6rese Rodet. — Les Glaces des Gobelins. — A Constant Dinner-Guest. — Anecdotes of M. Geoffrin. — A Student of History. — A Bourgeois Household. — "La Fontenelle des Femmes." — An Aged Gallant. — A Cher- ished Antique. — The Pastorals of Sceaux. — " Le Grand Prosateur." — The Well of Ste. Genevieve. —A Joke of the Salons. — Le Sublime and le Frivole. — In Quest of Conversation. — From St. Louis to St. Honore 308 CHAPTER XXXL Madame de GrafEgny. — The Duchesse de Richelieu. — A Death-bed Scene. — An Affectionate Husband. — A Visit to the Chateau de Cirey. — Knick-knacks and Objets d'Art. — " Lettres d'une Peruvienne." — " Lettres d'Aza." — M. de La Marche-Courmont. — A Sensitive Authoress. — D'Holbach and Helvetius. — Mdlle. de Ligneville. — A Philosopher in Love. — The Physician Helvetius. — A Rival of Voltaire. — The Epicurean Principle. — A Grateful Annuitant. — Wonderful Moderation. — The Sweepings of a Salon 321 CHAPTER XXXIL L'Hospice Pompadour. — A Royal Visit to the Hospice. — Charles Parrocel. — The Flemish Campaigns. — Abel Francois Poisson. — The Marquis d'Avant-Hier. — The Little Brother. — Le Comte de Maurepas. — The French Navy. — The King becomes Sallow. — Le Comte d'Argen- son. — Madame de Pompadour, as Minister. — Brother and Sister. — Le Docteur Quesnay. — A Remedy for Low Spirits. — Lessons in Political Economy 335 CONTENTS. XK CHAPTER XXXIII. PAQB Rousseau's Prize Essay. — Rousseau, un Vrai Genevois. — Rous- seau's Theories Refuted. — Voltaire ct L' Homme Sauvage. — A Morbid State of Feeling. — Th6rtise Levasseur. — Jean- Jacques' Second £^say. — Diderot and Jean-Jacques. — The Trowel versus the Pen, — " Le Diable & Quatre." — L'Homme Sauvage in Society. — ** Jean-Jacques, Love your Country." — An Abjuration 347 CHAPTER XXXIV. Anglo-mania. — A New Source of Favor. — The Wines of Bor- deaux — A Present from Richelieu. — Chateau-Lafitte pro- moted. — A Challenge to Burgundy. — The Ecole Mili- taire.— Its Real Projector.— L'H6tel dcs Invalides.— The Academy of Architecture. — The Rubens Gallery. — Vernet's French Seaporis. — Jean Honor6 Fragonard. — The Painter Chardin. — The Queen's Oratoire. — The Winner of the Grand Prix. — Advice to a Young Artist. — An Admirable Plan. — Funds not Forthcoming 357 CHAPTER XXXV. Madame, La Duchesse. — The Promenade de Longchamps. — La Duchesse, in Court Dress. — Complimentary Fireworks. — The Jesuit, de Sacy. — Give Satan his Due. — An Angry Woman's Letter. — "Je le Veux." — A Perfect Picture of Flora. — The Queen's Toilettes. — I pray you. Sing me a Song. — Grand Triumphal Air. — A very Great Lady. — Alexandrine d'^tioles. — Death of Alexandrine. — Le Comte de Kaunitz-Rietberg. — D6sagrements of the Chase. — A Martyr to Duty. — Kaunitz at Versailles. — An Ally of Voltaire 37i CHAPTER XXXVL Cr6billon and Voltaire. — Voltaire and the Court. — Crfebillon at the Toilette. — Rising and Setting Stars. — Adieu, La Belle France. — Clerical and other Cabals. — Lekain's D6but. — Voltaire's Pupil, at Sceaux. — "Heavens! how Ugly he is !" — A Stage-struck Painter. — An Unfortunate xii CONTENTS. PAGB D6butant. — Belcourt invited to Paris. — Advice to a Young Actor. — Lekain in Despair. — Lekain at Versailles. — A Discourteous Greeting. — A Triumph for Lekain. — A Reform in Costume. — Clairon's Grande R6v6rence. — Clairon and Marmontel. — A Vexatious Contretemps. . . . 386 CHAPTER XXXVII. A Musical Squabble. — A Latter-day Blessing. — ^Jean- Jacques on French Music. — Rameau Converted. — Tweedledum and Tweedledee. — A Question of State. — The Grand*- chambre Banished. — " Dieu Protege la France." — Birth of the Due de Berri. — The Harbinger of Peace 402 CHAPTER XXXVIII. Diplomatists in Conference. — An Old Custom Revived. — ^A Projected Dethronement. — Les Abb6s Sans Fonction. — Babet, the Flower GirL — ^Drawing-room Priestlings. — A Pertinent Quotation. — " LeVoyagedu Jeune Anacharsis." — LaDuchesse de Choiseul. — L'Abb6 Barthelemy. — Mar- montei's Plays. — "Les Fun6railles de S6sostris." — The Shadow of Favor. — Marmontel Consoled. — The Comte and the Marechal. — Frozen out of Versailles 410 CHAPTER XXXIX. Surrender of Port Mahon. — The Warrior's Welcome. — The Macedonian Phalanx, — Richelieu's Intrigues. — Le Mar- echal d'Estr6es. — L'Abb6 de Bernis' Suggestion. — A Sad Catastrophe. — The King's Reply to the Dauphin. — A Per- plexing Position. — The Prisoner of Dourlens. — "Nous avons Deux G6n6raux." — Discontent of the People. — Royal Economy. — Le Jeu du Roi. — A Startling Event. — Fran9ois Damiens. — In Distress for a Shirt. — Confessed and Absolved. — Damiens' Letter to Louis XV. — The Force of Habit. — Execution of Damiens 423 CHAPTER XL. Voltaire, en Grand Seigneur. — Voltaire at Ferney. — Pretty Ma- dame du Bocage. — A Pilgrimage to Ferney. — Death of CONTENTS. Xiii TAGR •* Cher FontencUe." — Walpole and Madame du Deflfant. — "L'Orph61in de la Chine."— " L'Orph61in" and the Jesuits.— War k Outrance.— " De 1' Esprit" of Helvetius. — Jesuits and Jansenists. — A Grand Auto-da-F6. — Philoso- phism and Loyalty.— A Sojourn in the Bastille.—" He is a Strange Man." — Philosopher and Critic 439 CHAPTER XLI. The Battle of Rosbach. — A Warrior- Priest. — Soubise at Lutzel- bach. — L'Aimable Vainqueur. — Close of the Third Cam- paign. — "Liberty, Equality." — Lc Due de Choiseul. — Braving the Dauphin. — La Divine Sophie Arnould. — Disappearance of Sophie. — Manners and Morals. — The Muse Terpsichore. — The Muse at Longchamps. — An Opulent Danseuse. — A Real Sister of Mercy 45a CHAPTER XLIL Lady Romancists. — "La Nouvelle H6loise." — Gallantry and Politeness. — Lackadaisical Vice. — Madame d'£pinay's " Tame Bear." — Le Baron Grimm. — L'Homme Sauvage in Love. — La Comtesse d'Houdetot. — A Warrior-Poet and his Ladylove. — Le Chateau de Montmorency. — "!6mile" Denounced and Burnt. — Popularity of "£mile." — "After us the Deluge." — " Le Contrat Social." — " I do not Love You, Sir." — Jean-Jacques Marries Th6r6se. — "Devil take Pythagoras!" — Rousseau versus Ragonneau 464 CHAPTER XLIIL A Humiliating Usage. — An Empty Title. — Failing Health and Spirits. — A Wearying Part to Play. — The qttasi Queen of France. — Manufactures Roy ales. — A Distin- guished Artist. — Insensibility of Louis XV. — " Was she about to Die ?" — Death of Mdme. de Pompadour. — Engrav- ings of Mdme. de Pompadour 477 CHAPTER XLIV. •* Ah ! Poor Duchesse !" — MdlleLeEspinasse. — Singularly Af- fectionate. — A Tale of Sentimental Love. — " Behold Your Queen !" — A Horrid Thing to have Nerves. — The xiv CONTENTS. Aristocratic Author. — L'Abbe Maury's First Sermon. — Madame Doublet de Persan. — Distraction for the Dau- phin. — Death of the Dauphin. — M. Thomas's Eulogy on the Dauphin. — Piron's Tribute of Laudation. — Death of King Stanislaus. — Bossuet Parodied 486 CHAPTER XLV. Birth of Napoleon Buonaparte. — " Forming" a Queen of France. — The Empress Marie Th6r6se. — Madame d'Esparb6s Unmasked. — Rival Intrigantes. — Noble Hopes O'erthrown. — Retribution Exacted. — Installing the Favorite. — A Favorite's Privileges. — Enter La Comtesse du Barry. — The Hair-dresser in a Difficulty. — " La Belle Bourbonnaise." 497 CHAPTER XLVI. The Dauphin and his Brothers. — Arrival of the Bride. — ^A Timid Young Bridegroom. — Les Fetes Magiques. — F^te of the City of Paris. — A Terrible Catastrophe. — Lamenta- tion, Mourning, and Woe. — Marie Antoinette 506 CHAPTER XLVII. Stanislaus Poniatowski. — Madame Geoffrin at Vienna. — L'Autrichienne. — Mesdames the King's Daughters. — " Gros Madame." — L' Ingenue. — The Court of the Dau- phine. — A Marriage on the Tapis. — " Nineveh shall be Overthrown." — The Candle Extinguished. — "Et Pour- tant, il 6tait ^ Fontenoy!" 512 CHAPTER XLVIII. The Last Lettre-de-Cachet.— " The Rights of Man."— "The Crown Chafes." — The Young King and Queen. — The Queen's Coiffeur, — Hurrying on to Perdition. — Visits to Luviciennes. — The Due de Cosse-Brissac. — Voltaire's Return to Paris. — Voltaire's Reception. — Death of Lekain. — Les Femmes Philosophes. — France Crowns Voltaire. — Death of Voltaire. — L'lle des Peupliers. — The End of the Old Regime ,..,,..., 521 THE OLD REGIME. COURT, SALONS, AND THEATRES. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. A FEELING of joy thrills through every pulse in the nation. The French people are aware that their Grand Monarque is stricken down by disease which seems likely to terminate in death. Deliverance at last, then, is at hand. Deliverance from a moral in- cubus, as it were, that has long weighed heavily on all classes, and, ever increasing in oppressiveness, is become a burden to them well-nigh intolerable. During the past year the king's health had been visibly declining. He had undergone also unusual mental anxiety. The expediency of nominating a Council of Regency, and giving his legitimated sons prominent posts in it, had been urged on him with ex- treme persistency, by Madame de Maintenon and the Duchesse du Maine. They suggested that thus would the recently conferred rights of those princes, who, in the possible failure of the legitimate line, were to be called on to ascend the throne, be more firmly secured to them. At the same time, a needful check would be placed on the ambitious, even criminal, views attrib- uted to the dissolute Due d'Orleans, in the near pros- :2l\ \;: .^: THE OLD REGIME. pect of his assuming the regency. The king adopted the course recommended, to free himself, it has been said, from further importunity. But, as if foreseeing how little consideration such an arrangement would receive when the time came for giving effect to it, Saint-Simon asserts that when Louis XIV. had signed this important testament, he exclaimed, '' What shall be will be ; but at least I shall be at ease, arxd not obliged to listen to any more talk on the subject." This was in 17 14. He had made these concessions, then, to purchase repose for the brief span of time that remained to him. But he did not yet allow that he felt any symptoms of disease. He said he was per- fectly well ; he indeed resented the allusions to his impaired state of health conveyed in the recommenda- tions of his physician, at the suggestion of Madame de Maintenon, that his majesty would eat fewer straw- berries and green peas. His constitution had been vigorous. Habitually he drank little wine, but he ate voraciously ; often in the course of the night. He had always had a very large appetite, Which he still re- tained and continued to indulge, not only with im- moderate quantities of strawberries and peas, but with a variety of highly seasoned dishes.* For another twelve months he bore up bravely enough; neither discontinued nor shortened his accustomed daily walks, notwithstanding uncomfortable sensations in the legs, nor absented himself from the royal hunts., though he returned from them much out of temper, being prostrated by fatigue. But, on the 13th of August, 17 15, still heedless of the warnings he had received to husband his failing * Lettres de Mde. de Maintenon. TOUCHING FOR THE KING'S EVIL. 3 Strength, he gave audience, standing, to the Persian ambassador and his suite, and conversed with him, through an interpreter, for a considerable time. The next day he was compelled to succumb. His despotic will had subdued and crushed out the spirit of a great nation, but its strength was found weakness in the struggle with failing nature. So the Grand Monarque kept his bed that day, hoping to rise on the morrow with strength recruited and well braced up for his cus- tomary part in the ceremonial to be observed on the great Fete of St. Louis. After receiving the Euchar- ist, the solemn farce of touching for the king's evil was then usually performed, the suppliants kneeling in a line on either side of the corridor leading from the chapel to the palace. As the shadow of the superb Louis fell upon these poor creatures, and the act of grace conveyed in the touch of the royal hand of the " Anointed of the Lord and eldest son of the Church" was vouchsafed to them, the Cardinal Grand Almoner, with attendant bishops, followed, in great state, re- peating the formula, " The king touches you, may the Lord heal you." It appears that an unusually large number of suffer- ing children had been brought from various parts of France, for this particular fete, as a favorable occa- sion for the cure of their ailments by the royal touch. Great, therefore, was the disappointment and despair of the friends of these unfortunates, when it was an- nounced that the ceremony could not take place. The king was very languid and weak that morning, and his physicians declared that an attempt to attend would be fatal to him. To weakness succeeded pain, but it was not until the 25th, though daily growing worse, sight and hearing also failing him, that he would 4 THE OLD REGIME. believe death to be so near at hand. It was then tnat the Grand Almoner, Cardinal de Rohan, thinking the occasion one likely to be productive of much spiritual consolation to the ailing monarch, and of especial benefit to the halt and the maimed who sought heal- ing from his touch, mentioned to the king that the presbytery was crowded with poor sick folk, come from afar, for his Majesty's Fete, The cure of Ver- sailles had charitably assembled them there, and, as means offered, was despatching them to their homes. But the cardinal interfered and prevented this, and obtained the king's consent to the ceremony of the attouchement being performed in his bedchamber, on the morning of the 26th. The fatigue of it was so great that, although his hands were supported by the ecclesiastics at his bedside, it was not fully completed when the king fell heavily back on his cushions, as if dead. For upwards of five hours he remained in a state of utter unconsciousness. So little was he expected to revive, that Madame de Maintenon was prevailed on to leave for St. Cyr, and as no signs of returning life were perceived after three hours' anxious watching, the courtiers who crowded the salons and antechambers of the palace, gradually departed to fill the hitherto deserted apartments of the Due d'Orleans. But Louis XIV. still lives, recovers from his length- ened swoon and inquires for Madame de Maintenon, for whom a courier is instantly despatched. The news, the unwelcome news, swiftly reaches the Palais Royal. Immediately the worshippers of the rising sun fly back to pay homage to the setting luminary; whom, in their precipitancy, when but obscured by a passing cloud, they believed already sunk below the TEMPORARY REVIVAL OF THE KING. 5 horizon. Versailles again swarms with anxious in- quirers, and the Due d'Orleans is left once more alone. He laughs cynically at the practical lesson he has re- ceived of the truth of the maxim of his former pre- ceptor, the Abb6 Dubois, who had striven to impress it indelibly on his mind, that " the mainspring of all men's actions is sheer self-interest." It is the basis of the duke's moral creed, that virtue is wholly non- existent, and that the so-called moral qualities, though invested with names, are but the sentimental imagin- ings of the inexperienced and weak-minded. An empiric, who had treated with success some complaints of the same sciatic nature as that from which the king was supposed to be sufifering, was per- mitted to prescribe for him a so-called elixir. Its effects were speedy, and apparently beneficial; a satis- faction to the very few who desired the prolongation of a reign already too long by fifteen years, as most persons thought. The revival, however, was but as a transitory gleam from a fading fire; the spark of life was too nearly extinct to be rekindled. Louis himself was quite conscious of it, and expressed a wish that his successor should be brought to him, and his family assemble around him. He remarked on the 29th that he had not heard the aubade, or military reueil^ which it was customary, at dawn of day, to play under his chamber windows; and he gave orders that neither it, nor the usual daily performance in the Salle des Gardes, at his dinner hour, of the sixty musicians of his pri- vate band, should be discontinued, until the Grand Almoner announced the administration of the last sacraments. The regret, the remorse, said to have been evinced by Louis XIV. for many of the acts of his past life; his 6 THE OLD rAgIME. injunctions to his youthful heir to avoid treading in^ the path of vain-glory he had himself pursued, and which had brought so much sorrow and suffering on the nation; his recommendation of the aged Madame de Maintenon to the kindness and generosity of his nephew; and his somewhat specious statement to that nephew respecting the provisions of his testament, need not here be enlarged upon. Nor is it necessary to repeat the speeches attributed to him on his death-bed. Those stagey, oratorical death-beds are the reverse of edifying; and it is probable that the king was as little loquacious as poor human nature at its last gasp usu- ally is. The Grand Monarque died on the first of Sep- tember, and the announcement of his death " was hailed throughout France with an explosion of de- light;" for it was regarded as the end of a public calamity, the removal of the yoke of bondage he had bound on the neck of the nation. Such was the agitated state of public feeling in the first frenzied burst of popular joy, that it was deemed expedient, in order to avoid insult from a turbulent crowd that surrounded Versailles, to convey Madame de Maintenon to St. Cyr, in the private carriage of Marechal de Villeroi; also to post small parties of guards at short intervals along the road, to protect her from ill-treatment should she be recognized. The relics worn by the king, and which, probably, were her gifts, were handed to her. They became objects of fervent adoration at St. Cyr. A piece of the " wood of the true cross," amongst " the best certified of the relics," she says, she presented to her niece, Madame de Caylus, a lady of very wavering faith and worldly tastes. DESPOTISM OF LOUIS XIV. j Louis XIV. had, doubtless, succeeded in convincing himself, as well as his subjects, that he was the incar- nation of glory and grandeur. He was actually the centre of authority, and the possessor of power more irresponsible and absolute than any French monarch before or since has wielded. To stamp out the vigor of the nation, to suppress the slightest manifesta- tion of national sentiment, were the great objects of his reign, from the time of the Fronde. If he had acquired little else, he had thoroughly acquired the art of reigning with despotic and uncontrolled sway. In that sense, and in that alone, Louis XIV. was a great king; though very far indeed from being a great man. He was the light and glory, the sun and centre, of the system of government of which he was the cre- ator. It was his sublime good pleasure, as ruler of France, to be all things to all men; to allow them no will of their own, but to make his the pivot on which opinion and feeling throughout the nation should turn. And he succeeded; so readily do the French yield to a high-handed despot. Men fell into the habit of saying, " May his majesty guard me against it," in- stead of, " God forbid," and generally of speaking of their Grand Monarque with far more humility and rev- erence than of the Ruler of the universe. ^^L'etat, c'etaitlui — La France, c'etaitlui'' — La patrie had become an obsolete term, merged in that of " Le Roi." The dissolute pleasures of his younger days, when vice was so exquisitely varnished that it was said to have put on the dignified aspect of virtue, naturally, with advancing years, grew less attractive to him. He turned then to devotion. His court followed suit. Piety was the fashion; even the bourgeoisie became g TBE OLD REGIME. more devout, and all who aspired to win favor wore a sanctimonious air. " Lorsque le grand Louis brMa d'un tendre amour, Paris devint Cythere, et tout suivit la cour; Quand il se fit d6v6t, ardent a la pri^re, Tout z61e citadin marmota son br6viaire." Eptt. du Gd. Frederic* Primness was good taste with the beauties of the day, who, however, contrived to invest it with a cer- tain air of mockery that was very coquettish, and very effective under a " sad-colored " coiffe. Court balls were not wholly given up; they were only less fre- quent, and the hours devoted to them fewer; perhaps because they were somewhat formal and dull, not- withstanding the romping and boisterous gayety of the young Duchess of Burgundy. State concerts also sometimes took place. Madame de Maintenon would have had them solely devoted to the singing of the canticles of the Church. But Louis was, in this respect, less rigid than she. He still loved to hear his own praises, and to sing them himself, in the fulsome verses of Quinault, set to music by Lulli. Lulli's music was then thought rather out of date, but the king, who piqued himself on his musical taste, would listen to the works of no other composer, ignoring altogether the rising reputation of Compra and Rameau. In the absence of other excitement, play was pursued with increased avidity. The stakes were higher, the losses more ruinous. It should be remembered that it was when piety was most in favor with Louis XIV., the greatest roue of the eighteenth century made his * " When Louis the great was in love, Paris became Cythera; When he became devout, every citizen murmured a prayer.' VN LETTREDE-CACMET, ^ d/but at Marly, and was petted and caressed by the whole court, including both Madame de Maintenon and the king. " He is a prodigy," writes the former; "he is the dearest doll in the world." This prodigy was the young Due de Fronsac, afterwards de Riche- lieu — a libertine from his youth. He danced, we are told, with wonderful grace; fenced with inimitable skill; rode with the ease and dashing bearing of an accomplished cavalier; and sought the good graces of the ladies with extraordinary success. The pious court of Marly was the real scene of " Les premiers amours de Richelieu." He was then in his fifteenth year. From twenty to thirty thousand francs were lost by this brilliant youth in the course of an evening at a t^te-(t~t^te game of cards. He made love with exceed- ing persistency to the Duchess of Burgundy, who at least appears to have been amused by it, and to have smiled so graciously upon him that it gave rise to many jests, which reached the king's ears and dis- pleased him extremely. Idle tongues were immedi- ately silenced; and this dangerous young gentleman — already married to Mdlle. de Noailles — was dismissed the court. A lettre-de-cachet, enclosed in a letter of strong complaint, was despatched to his father, who himself took charge of his hopeful son, and conveyed him to the Bastille. To amuse him, for inability to ramble about Paris was his only punishment, a clever, pleasant-tempered Abbe was sent to him, as companion and tutor. During his confinement he acquired some notions of reading and writing, and, assisted by the Abbe, was supposed to have translated Virgil. De Fronsac was not a solitary instance of vicious propen- sities in the rising generation of courtiers at that to THE OLD rAgIME. period of hypocritical devotion. Many of the young nobility resembled him, and were looking forward no less anxiously than the bourgeoisie for the ardently de- sired liberty then anticipated from a change of rulers. Famine and pestilence, meanwhile, were frequent in the provinces, and their victims were numerous. Dis- tress was general, and so extremely severe during the terrible winter of 1709-10, that of the mass of the French people a large proportion could scarcely obtain bread to appease hunger. Yet letters and memoirs attest that the king was as selfishly extravagant and reckless in expenditure as ever. New taxes were im- posed on the suffering people, for the State's coffers were empty. The needs of the king and his armies were pressing, and money must be wrung from some quarter. Were not the possessions of his subjects his to their last ecu ? — the control of their purses, no less than the control of their consciences, the indisputable prerogative of his kingly power? Louis XIV. was convinced that it was so. Yet he conscientiously sought for his conviction the sanction of high ecclesi- astical authority. " Mankind," says Dr. Moore, " are governed by force and opinion. They were the agents made use of by Louis XIV. in a supreme degree. Aided by them he had brought his subjects to submit with alacrity to heavier exactions than were ever wrung by tyranny from man." But although national pride, love of in- dependence, and every noble and elevating sentiment seemed to be extinguished in France, yet, as the reign of Louis XIV. drew towards its close, the misery and ruin he had wrought in the land kindled in men's hearts the fire of an intense hate, a feverish impatience of the existing order of things, and an ardent longing FUNERAL OF LOUIS XIV. \\ for the end of it. No wonder, then, that when the end came it was hailed throughout the land with delirious joy, and that the people, as with one voice, shouted thanksgiving to God for the deliverance vouchsafed to them. To the infant prince who succeeded him, Louis XIV. left a kingdom drained to the utmost of its resources; an empty treasury, and a debt of near two hundred millions sterling; lands ravaged by foreign foes; com- merce destroyed, and once flourishing manufactures extinct. In the ruined provinces, a despairing, de- pressed population; and amongst the enervated and corrupt aristocracy, reared amidst the idle pleasures of a vicious, hypocritical court, not one able statesman to take the helm of a government, long isolated in the person of an absolute ruler whose place was now filled by so feeble an image of royalty. Louis XIV. left his heart to the Jesuits. His body, on the 9th of September, was borne with little cere- mony to the Abbey of St. Denis. As at the funeral of his father, near seventy-three years before, " the people" — to use the words of Tallemant des Reaux on that occasion — " followed as joyously as though going to a wedding." But even greater indecorum was antici- pated. In consequence, the funeral procession, forsak- ing the high-road, reached St. Denis by the way of the fields and by-paths. A frantic multitude had assem- bled in the faubourg, and received " with gibes and curses the coffin of the conqueror, whom they accused of being the cause of their troubles, and of wars which sprang only from his arrogance, ambition, and injus- tice." * Throughout the day a sort of fair was held * Soulavie. t± THE OLD REGIME. on the square near the abbaye, and dancing and sing- ing, drinking and jesting, were kept up with vociferous glee until nightfall. " One would have thought," says De Tocqueville, " that the license of the/^ttis-sou^ers were far more in favor than grand dinners. It may be mentioned, by the way, that the distin- guished professors of the gastronomic art, from the regency to within a few years of the revolution, were remarkable for their fertility of imagination, in the invention of new and delicate dishes. Great skill was displayed in combining the ingredients to ensure pleasure to the palate; also, in giving to their savory creations artistic forms agreeable to the cultured eye. Their supremacy in this respect is attested by several of the gastronomic feats of that period, which have remained unapproached, and confessedly are still un- approachable, even by the celebrated artistes of our own day. The post of chef- de-cuisine was regarded probably at the period in question as one of greater distinction (be it said without offence) than at the present time. For it was rare indeed that the culin- ary staff was headed by a chef (even of small preten- sions, if any such there were), except in the royal households and the hotels of the great nobles; where the professors of gastronomy were necessarily of the cordon bleu order. A very broad line had hitherto separated the differ- ent classes of the community. Until the facile man- ners of the regent emboldened audacious spirits (such 34 THE OLD REGIME. as Voltaire,* for instance) to set at naught the bound- aries that hemmed in the wealthy and talented who were not of the court, even the financiers (men such as Samuel Bernard), the wealthiest, and in some sense, therefore, the most influential class in the State, had scarcely given an instance of the presumption of set- ting up a chef. " They enjoyed their wealth at that time by stealth," as somebody has said. Banquets that outrivalled those of princes were modestly en- trusted to the skill of women cooks. Among these, however, were a few well-trained adepts perfectly qualified to compete for the palm of excellence with the most skilful of the culinary brotherhood. But to return to the Palais Cardinal, To the good cheer provided for the guests of Madame de Lambert were added "" the feast of reason and the flow of soul " provided for the hostess by the guests themselves. It was by no means a youthful party. There were the Marquis de Saint-Aulaire, then seventy-five, but des- tined to complete his century (according to some ac- counts, he was one hundred and two when he died); Fontenelle, who attained to the same patriarchal age. Madame de Lambert, herself, was then seventy ; and the celebrated Madame Dacier and her husband, with the Academician, Louis de Sacy — constant guests at * In the early days of his rising reputation, Voltaire, who had been invited to dine with the Prince de Cond6, exclaimed, in reply to the remark of a guest respecting the mixed sort of company he had met at the table of a nobleman on the previous day, " We are, all here, either princes or poets!" — in other words, all of equal rank. It was audacious. But the remark that drew it forth may have been levelled at the young bourgeois poet, who, conscious of the royalty of his genius, probably appeared a little too much at his ease to please his illustrious host. LA MOTTE-HOUDART. 35 her table — were verging also on their threescore and ten. It was, in fact, a weekly meeting of a circle of old friends, who, in a green old age, still kept alive the cherished memories of the brilliant society of their youth. It was at one of these dinners that the reconciliation took place between Madame Dacier and the poet-critic, La Motte-Houdart. The estrangement was of old date, and the incident that gave rise to it is probably well known. Unacquainted with Greek, La Motte had ventured to put the *' Iliad " into verse from a French prose translation ; and, furt.ier, in the famous dispute on the respective merits of the ancient and modern authors had declared in favor of the latter. Worse still, his disparaging remarks and notes on Ho- mer had roused the ire of the usually gentle Madame Dacier, who venerated Homer almost as a god. The presumption of La Motte amazed her, and she charac- terized his criticisms as the result of " ignorance and vanity, and a want of common-sense." This condem- nation from so high an authority La Motte bore with more meekness than he probably would have done had it come from one of his own sex. To soothe the out- raged feelings of the learned lady, he even addressed to her a complimentary ode on her own great attain- ments in classic lore. But her indignation was not so easily appeased; and the breach between them was rather widened than otherwise. Madame de Lambert was a great admirer of the character and talents of Madame Dacier, whom she regarded as an honor to her sex — " uniting," as she said, " vast erudition and the highest domestic virtues with liveliness and wit that gave a charm to the social circle." She was no less just to the merits of La Motte, 36 THE OLD REGIME. and anxiously sought an occasion to reunite the friends whose mutual coldness when they met cast a chill on the gayety of the rest of the party. M. de Valincourt, also an Academician and habitue of her hotel, chanced, however, one day at dinner to make some very happy quotation from Madame Dacier's version of the " Iliad." La Motte was present. Being seated near Madame de Lambert, he requested permission to propose to her guests to drink to the memory of the great Greek poet, and to the health of his accomplished and learned translator. His proposal, of course, met with general approval. The gentlemen rose, and in foaming bum- pers of the famous vtn d'Ai pledged Homer and Ma- dame Dacier with great enthusiasm. La fe^nnie savante was subdued. And when Madame de Lambert, taking La Motte by the hand, led him to her friend that he might make full confession of his errors as regarded his remarks on the " Iliad " of Homer, she graciously con- sented to pardon him. It is not, however, recorded that Madame Dacier either apologized for the offensive epithets she had applied to the critic, or that she with- drew them. Yet the reconciliation was probably sin- cere. Madame Dacier died about three years later — 1720. La Motte wrote her elegy, in terms expressive of high admiration for the character and remarkable talents of that celebrated woman. Besides these weekly dinners, the marquise, every Tuesday, received in the evening a general circle, as she uninterruptedly had done for so many years past. Her salon was one of the very few — probably the only one — where no gambling was allowed. But conver- sation was to be had, " from grave to gay" — lively, but rarely severe. No set theme. No dreary discussion, THE SALON LAMBERT. ^J as in the old Rambouillet days, on the retention or abolition of this or that word, and precise determina- tion of its meaning for the benefit of future genera- tions. The forty arm-chairs had now the monopoly of those subjects which once interested so greatly the pretty women of the salon bUu. The sentimental love topics of the pricicuse school had also had their day. But, unfortunately, the courtesy of listening to what others had to say was going out of fashion. The charming talent for conversation, when the piquant remark of one speaker inspired the witty rejoinder or sparkling bon mot of another, and on which a preced- ing generation had so greatly piqued itself, necessarily was ebbing away too. Everybody wished to be heard, but nobody cared to listen. It was then, in fact, that French women began to evince symptoms of a passion or mania for declaiming rather than conversing. But in the salon Lambert, manners still received their tone from the hostess; while enough of general politeness yet remained to prevent a whole assembly from talk- ing at once, or one of the number from out-talking all the rest. It was a mania that gradually developed itself through the succeeding years of the eighteenth century, until it culminated at the Revolution, and in the person of Madame de Stael and her political har- angues. A modern writer has said that the pomposity and pretensions of the salon Lambert gave rise to the epi- thet ^^ bureau r.f, counted for three. The city still took its tone from the court, and the court becoming yet more devout, the opera of the Academy, under the committee, continued to be a losing speculation. When ladies connected with the court perchance went to the theatre, to save appear- ances and avoid probable disfavor if recognized, they always wore masks. Unlet boxes and the seats at the disposal of the management were, as often as not, largely occupied by friends of certain singers and dancers, whose vanity was flattered by boundless applause, but not a sou was contributed towards their salaries. The Due d'Orleans and his intimates were frequently present; but wherever they went was tabooed ground to the courtiers of Versailles. Distinguished foreigners, and English travellers especially, in the early part of the eighteenth century, began to visit Paris more frequently than before, and of course they went to the Opera. The fame of Paris had spread far and wide as the *' city of magnificence and pleasure." But, as often happens with what is SEE PARIS, AND DIET 45 greatly bepraised, its reputation was much beyond its deserts, so far as concerned its outward aspect. The utmost that can be said for old Paris, in that respect, is that no European city could surpass it in dirt and discomfort, and in the squalid appearance of its nar- row, dark, dirty streets. Its attractions were all within doors. The formal Englishman was pleased with the gayety, ease, and politeness of the French. The taste- fully furnished apartments must have been charming to eyes accustomed to the stiff, unrelenting Calvinism (if such an application of the term be allowable) of the rigidly designed William III. and Queen Anne furniture. "See Paris, and die!" the Parisians were accus- tomed to say. Die, indeed! What, by the pestilence, or by the dagger of the assassin^which was not an unfrequent occurrence ? Better go to the Opera, and live, and rejoice at what you have seen there. For the eye was always gratified by the beauty of the scenery and the charmingly picturesque costumes of the dancers. All the world did not admire the music of Lulli. But every one was delighted with the produc- tions of the fanciful genius of Watteau. It was he who painted the scenery and designed the dresses. In the painting-room of the Opera-house — as an untu- tored lad, assistant to a mediocre scene-painter — Wat- teau learned his art. It was there he perfected his style, after a short absence spent in the atelier of Mitayer, painting Madonnas, Magdalens, and saints by the dozen (then greatly in request) for three francs a week, with a daily mess of soup generously thrown into the bargain. Poor Watteau! — in those early days of poverty and suffering were sown the seeds of consumption that 4^ THE OLD REGIME. carried him off too soon. Just, too, as fortune had turned so smilingly towards him, and his " Venus em- barking for the Isle of Cythere" had opened for him the door of the Academy of Painting; just when his pictures and panels were eagerly in demand; when every lady's ambition was to secure a Watteau-painted fan. The painter worked day and night, but death had already set his seal on him; and after seeking, of all climates in the world, relief in England, Watteau, in 1 72 1, at the age of thirty-six, breathed his last. His natural genius was never directed by any great master of his art. He was almost self-taught. Connoisseurs have compared him, as a colorist, with Paul Veronese. If he did not exactly reproduce nature in his pictures, it was nature with a difference that was at least very charming. His costumes were truly costumes a la Watteau. They were of no period, no class; but were designed in the fairyland of the artist's fancy, and belonged exclusively to the graceful maidens and youthful shepherdesses who figured in the ballets and operatic fetes champetres. What a pity that all the beauty of scenic effect, pic- turesque dress, and perfection in the arrangement of the operatic stage, should have been half lost to the audience by the wretched lighting up of tallow can- dles. When Law, the financier, was made Conseiller d'etat by the regent, he gained further popularity with the pleasure-loving public of Paris, during his brief term of power, by substituting wax for tallow in the lighting of the Salle de I'Opera. He is said to have done this at his own expense; but whether or not, the reform continued until the glaring, smoky oil-lamps were introduced. Some changes and improvements were made at the same time in the arrangement of the LA DUCHESSE DE BERRI. 47 boxes, and the Royal Academy of Music entered upon a more successful career. It was then that the bah de V Opera were established. They were suggested by the Prince d'Auvergne, Comte de Bouillon, and the privilege of holding them was granted to the Academy of Music by the regent's let- ters patent. These balls, from that time to this, have maintained an evil reputation, though they were pro- posed with a view of counteracting the disorderly scenes which took place at such assemblies when held in unauthorized places. At the opera balls, a military guard did the duty of police, and all brawling and outward indecorum were to be checked by a rigid sur- veillarue. But the regent, himself ; the Due de Noailles, Ministre de Finance ; M. de Rouille, Conseiller d'etat, and one or two others holding high offices in the gov- ernment, so far forgot what they owed to society and to their o.vn p^osition, as to appear at these balls after having indulged too freely in the pleasures of the table. At the opera, the ladies no longer wore masks, but at the opera balls they wore both mask and domino, which sufficed, charitably or otherwise, to cover a mul- titude of sins. Irregularity of conduct, therefore, in- stead of receiving a check, met with encouragement from these balls under distinguished patronage. Madame de Maintenon, having heard from her niece of the bah de Foperay writes: "I am afraid of these balls, though they tell me perfect order is observed. The regent and his presidents do not dance at them." The Duchesse de Berri, eldest daughter of the re- gent, was a constant frequenter of the Salle de I'Opera. She was in mourning for her husband when Louis XIV. died, and had resolved to shorten by one half 48 THE OLD REGIME. the usual period of wearing it. Having done so as regarded the duke, she persuaded the regent to cur- tail, in the same proportion, the mourning for the king. The tearful time of black and violet being past, the duchess, whose fancy it was to play the queen during the regency, appointed for herself four ladies-in-wait- ing. In one of the grandest of the royal carriages with six gayly caparisoned horses, she then set out, splendidly dressed, on a royal progress through the good city of Paris. A company of guards preceded her, followed by a grand flourish of trumpets and a clashing and banging of cymbals. Great, indeed, was the sensation. Heads out of every window ; women and children trooping out from tv&ry porte cochire ; and every one inquiring of his neighbor who this royal lady could be. Those who did not recognize Madame de Berri supposed this pretentious personage to be the Duchesse de Lorraine, the regent's sister, then in Paris with her husband and her husband's chere amte, to do homage for the duke's duchy of Bar. In the evening, early visitors to the opera were sur- prised to see a da'is with canopy of crimson velvet prepared. Presently, in grand state, arrived the Du- chesse de Berri. Having taken her seat, four of the ladies and four gentlemen of her newly appointed household grouped themselves gracefully around her. The rest of her suite took up their position in the pit, while her guards remained in attendance. The regent was inclined to laugh at and to tolerate this freak. Not so the public. Not so the ladies of either of the sections into which society was then divided — the trh respectable of the old court; Xh^ pen reputable of the new. The outcry was general. Friends and foes alike, even the loyal band of roues^ protested, and the regent LE COMTE DE RIOM. 49 was compelled to put a stop to folly that threatened very serious results. The Duchesse de Berri was suspected, unjustly per- haps, of having poisoned her husband; but the ir- regularities of her conduct had alienated from her all sympathy and respect. Her annoyance on this occa- sion was extreme. For consolation she flew to the convent of the Carmelites, and spent a day or two there, as she was accustomed to do after a course of dissipation. That short season of retirement and prayer, confession and absolution, cleared the con- science and gave tone to the nerves. Erring ladies left the comfortable quarters provided for them in that rigid monastic retreat, again to plunge into the whirlpool of pleasure, with the certainty of shortly reappearing at the convent gates, as fair penitents with a fresh burden of sins to be relieved of. On again visiting the opera, the Duchesse de Berri went incognita, in a very plain carriage belonging to the Comte de Riom, and occupied a small grated box, where she could see without being seen. She had privately married this Comte de Riom, disregarding the fact of his being a Knight of Malta, which he had become at her instigation, though his family had in- tended him for the Church. Singularly enough, he was grand-nephew of the Due de Lauzun — still liv- ing, and approaching his ninetieth year — who, fifty years before, had privately married another Mdlle. de Montpensier. The parallel went further. For with the same harshness as Lauzun had treated " la grande Mademoiselle," the Comte de Riom now behaved towards the duchess. In the Luxembourg Palace, and probably in the same splendid apartment that the Due de Lauzun had once occupied, now dwelt the 50 THE OLD REGIME. Comte de Riom; the duchess being, as stated by Du- clos, "an absolute slave to his caprices" — just as Ma- demoiselle had been infatuated with Lauzun. Yet the count appears to have been a less attractive person than his uncle. "He was ugly," says Duclos; "face covered with pimples; polite to all the world; insolent toward the princess." What with extreme jealousy on her side, extrava- gance and free living on his, scenes that are not pleas- ing to dwell upon often occurred between them. In the correspondence of Madame de Caylus with Ma- dame de Maintenon during her last years at St. Cyr, the duchess is often alluded to. Alluded to only. They probably feared to write openly; for Madame de Caylus, whose pension had been reduced in amount — like all those granted by the late king, except that of Madame de Maintenon, which the regent paid regu- larly as well as in full — had an apartment in the Lux- embourg, which she occupied by favor of the Du- chesse de Berri. One seems to detect in the letters of Madame de Caylus that much is withheld of doings at the Luxembourg; probably because she has had a larger share in them than she would perhaps care to acknowledge. " I hear," writes Madame de Maintenon, " that you and Madame de Noailles (her other niece) are giving suppers at the Luxembourg. The expense they in- volve, and the disorder, I am told, that prevails at them, cause me extreme pain. The new pensions are rarely paid. Distress is prevalent; all classes are suf- fering from it. Yet every day we hear that the regent has made some new gift to his mistresses, or con- firmed to them some claim on the taxes. Such an MADAME D£ MAINTENON'S NIECES. 51 employment of the public money excites many mur- murs and complaints. " The young king, they tell me, is very obstinate; but he will grow out of that as he grows older. The teachings of M. de Fr6jus (Fleury) and our Mar^chal (Villeroi) will, I trust, supply the remedy for it. He has sent me his portrait, painted, or rather daubed {* barbouilW) by himself. The Mar6chal has promised me that he will not take him again to see Madame de Berri at the Luxembourg." CHAPTER VI. Return of the Italian Troupe. — Les Troupes Foraines. — Vaudeville and Op6ra Comique. — Winter and Summer Fairs. — Theatre de la Foire suppressed. The Italian comedians, since their banishment from Paris in 1699, had frequently solicited permission to return. But the king was inexorable. A piece called "La Fausse Prude," containing allusions to Madame de Maintenon and the sanctimonious court of Ver- sailles, or which the audience had interpreted as such and received with much mirth, had given him great offence. Denial of any such intention availed not., The theatre was closed; the Italians were driven from the hotel; the lieutenant of police locked the doors, put the keys in his pocket; and the troop received orders to leave the country immediately. Venturing to appeal to the king against a decree so harsh and so ruinous to them, he remarked — " They had nothing to complain of. They were able to return to Italy in their carriages, though when invited to France they had made the journey on foot." However, in 17 18, the Italians returned. The Coun- cillor of State, Rouille, persuaded the regent to allow them to take up their old quarters in the Hotel de Bour- gogne, and to assume the appellation of " Comediens du Regent," Biancotelli only, of the original troop, came with them; for nineteen years had elapsed since their expulsion. But the new troop soon became es- LES TROUPES PO RAINES. 53 tablished favorites. They were not only clever actors, but able to extend their popularity (Italian being little understood by the bourgeoisie) by giving alternate per- formances of the same pieces in Italian and French.* The Theatre Italien, thus becoming partly French, proved a formidable rival to the Royal Academy, also to the Op6ra Comique. The players who had given the latter title to their performances were called troupes foraines^ and might be classed as a company of strollers, having no recog- nized local habitation but the temporary theatres erected on a portion of the ground where the summer and winter fairs of St. Germain and St. Laurent were held. A desperate struggle the directors had had for some years to keep the troop together, and to main- tain their footing in the face of the various decrees issued for their suppression. That they succeeded in doing so at all was probably owing, as Saint- Foixf says, to the fact that, licentious though they were, they represented the wit and vivacity characteristic of the French, as no other troop did, and were largely patronized in consequence. But the Theatre Fran- ^ais had obtained a decree that silenced their eloquent tongues, and permitted them to play pantomime only. This they endeavored, for a year or two, partly to evade by the comical device of unrolling long slips of paper, on which were written, as sometimes one sees in caricatures, the speeches they were forbidden to * Louis Riccoboni, the author of four successful French plays and several critical and historical works connected with theatrical subjects, was one of these Italian comedians. Madame Riccoboni, whose romances were so popular about the middle of the century, was his wife. f " Essais Historiques." 54 THE OLD REGIME. speak, and which were intended to make clear to the audience what looks and gestures, however eloquent, might have failed to convey. But this clumsy method of giving a play, after hav- ing been once or twice laughed at, became wearisome, both to actors and audience, and eventually was given up. The directors of the troop then entered into an arrangement with the Academy of Music, which had the power of suppressing musical entertainments, and for a good round sum bought the privilege of playing vaudeville and comic opera during the fairs of St. Germain and St. Laurent. The new entertainment provided was not remarkably refined. But the pieces were sparkling and witty; no less attractive to the court of the regent than to the throng of sellers and buyers who came from far and near to these fairs, for business or pleasure. A thriving trade they carried on there. The good housewives supplied themselves with linens and woollens, and other useful goods, and the itinerent merchants took away "articles de Paris" for the provinces. Everything was sold but firearms and books; but veracious lives of saints, and accounts of well-attested miracles, were excepted from the pro- hibition laid on the latter. The ground on which the booths stood belonged to the neighboring monaste- ries, and was leased out by the monks in small plots. An open shop, with a small room over it, was built on each, and disposed in long lines under halles ; the woodwork of which at the St. Germain fair was much admired for its tasteful, if somewhat rudely executed sculpture. At the St. Laurent, or summer fair, an avenue of chestnut trees formed a shady promenade, and the shops were erected on either side of it. The theatres occupied a large space of ground. A THEATRE SUPPRESSED. ' 55 They were not of the travelling-caravan type of the Old English Richardson days; but were built up to be fixtures on the ground as long as the fairs lasted. And as an extension of time was frequently asked, and, bringing good profits to the monks, as frequently granted, the two fairs, from being originally held on the fete days only of St. Germain and St. Laurent, now divided between them the greater part of the year. The shopkeepers gradually left to attend other fairs ; but the comic opera was by no means in a hurry to bring its season to a close. Le Sage, the author of "Gil Bias;" Dorneval ; Fuzelier; and the witty and dissolute Piron, wrote the vaudevilles and songs, which, with the lively music and dancing, so pleased the Parisians that the audience soon became too large for the theatre. The directors, therefore, pro- posed to erect one on a larger scale. The Th6atre Fran^ais, however, had experienced a great falling off in its receipts. The actors were also not a little indignant at the preference shown for this troupe foraine^ at the expense of " Les comediens du roi." Should Piron and Le Sage be allowed to cast Moliere, Racine, and Corneille into the shade? A representation on the subject was made in high quar- ters, which resulted in the suppression, in 17 18, of the spirituel^ but licentious, Theatre de la Foire. The di- rectors appealed to the Parliament; but the Parlia- ment only confirmed the decree. Yet, tenacious of life, the Theatre de la Foire for a number of years con- trived to exist through alternate revivals and suppres- sions ; until comic opera, having assumed " a tone more decent," though none the less spirttziel, forsook the scene of its early successes, and established itself in Paris with eclat. CHAPTER VII. Michel Baron. — Bembourg, as N6ron. — Horace and Camille. — Adrienne Le Couvreur. — Ths. Corneille's " Comte d'Essex." — Baron Returns to the Stage. — A Caesar; a Baron; a Roscius. — A Second Triumphant D6but, — The First Baron of France. — The Grand Pretre, in "Athalie." — The Prince and the Actor. — " Mon Pauvre Boyron." — An Actress's Dinners and Suppers, — Results of Popularity. — Voltaire and his Nurse. — Galland's ' ' Arabian Nights. " It seems singular that a place of amusement of an inferior grade, which, without interference or re- monstrance, had been allowed to exist during the latter years of the reign of Louis XIV., should have been suppressed under the regency. And, more sur- prising still, because of the need of " a purification of the repertory ; because respectable people could no longer endure such pieces." Its toleration at a time of supposed general piety has been accounted for as being a necessary concession to the populace, " to divert the people from their misery." A sad confes- sion that manners, as M. Bungener remarks, needed but little change to become openly what, secretly, they can scarcely be said to have ceased to be — bad. During the temporary eclipse of the Theatre de la Foire and its Opera Comique, which had proved so attractive a rival to the legitimate drama, one star of the Theatre Frangais disappeared. Another bril- liant one, however, arose, yet not to take the place of the latter, Mdlle. MICHEL BAJtOX. S7 Adrienne Le Couvreur. Bembourg had made a great reputation in the course of the twenty-nine years of his theatrical career. Yet it would seem to have been owing less to superior ability or genius on his part than to the general mediocrity of histrionic talent at that period. The great Michel Baron withdrew from the stage in the same year that Bembourg made his dibut. He was at the very height of his fame, and comparatively young, not more than thirty-nine. He had conceived an intense disgust for a profession which, however excellent his conduct and private character might be, branded him as an outcast before God and man. Strange inconsistency, too; that which, as a profes- sion, brought a curse upon him both for time and eter- nity, was with impunity pursued as an amusement by royalty, by great lords and great ladies. They might not only have theatres in their hotels, as most of them had, but it was permitted to them to dance and sing, and to perform plays in public, as they often did, yet without derogating from dignity, without imperilling salvation. These were things that Baron found " hard to be understood." He therefore withdrew in 1691, and left a clear stage for Bembourg. Bembourg was one of those actors who " tear a passion to tatters." For anger, he exhibited ferocity, and stormed, raged, and shrieked rather than fretted his hour on the stage. Le Sage satirized him se- verely. But Le Sage was an unfriendly and partial critic. The vaudeville writer of the Theatre de la Foire could hardly be expected to find praise for the shouting and screaming of Corneille by the actors of the Theatre Frangais, who did their best to put down comic opera. THE OLD RAgIME. Bembourg, as Neron in " Britannicus," is said to have been so furious that it taxed the strongest nerves to witness his performance. He yelled and raved so fearfully, that women were compelled to leave the theatre. Le Mazurier relates that, on one occasion, when " Les Horaces " was given, the imprecation scene was made so terrible by Bembourg's fury, that Mdlle. Duclos, who played Camille, appeared to be quite overpowered by it. She fled across the stage with so much precipitancy that, ere she could reach the side scenes, she fell. Horace, then, descending from the sublime heights of his tragic rage to become, for the moment, only Bembourg the actor, sank thus to the depths of the ridiculous. For, instead of continuing the scene by turning the accident to account and stabbing Camille, there and then (which the play-going Abbe Nadal considered the singularity of the contretemps would have justified), Horace took off his hat, — of course he was in full court dress, — and politely bowing to Ca- mille, gave his hand to assist her to rise. He was then under the necessity, as soon as Camille was again on her feet, of getting up a new whirlwind of passion, and renewing his pursuit in order to assassinate her behind the scenes. Tragedy thus became comedy, and the audience that probably would have applauded an undesigned, therefore allowable, transgression of the rules of the French drama, laughed heartily at the incident. Bembourg had to decide, on the instant, between seeming atrocity and obvious absurdity, and opinions differed as to the judiciousness of his choice. It afforded a theme for conversation in the salons^ and gave rise to much vivacious discussion. Bembourg was a striking example of the truth of the maxim, ADfllENNE LE COUVREUk. 59 " Though one cannot strike truly, he may succeed by striking violently." Some months before he had made up his mind to repose on his laurels and enjoy his theatrical pension, Mdlle. Adrienne Le Couvreur appeared at the Theatre Fran9ais, making a brilliant dibut as Monime in the " Mithridate" of Racine. The Salle was crowded in every part, for she came to Paris with a great pro- vincial reputation. After this performance it was generally allowed, even by the critics of the parterre^ that fame had rather under- than over-stated the merits of this great actress; and her subsequent ap- pearances confirmed this decision. Her voice was full and melodious; her delivery per- fect. To many of the audience Corneille and Racine even appeared new, and the beauty of their language revealed for the first time; so naturally yet so forcibly were the words uttered which hitherto had been monotonously chanted, shrieked, or declaimed. Few actresses have approached Mdlle. Le Couvreur in the difficult art of listening. Her expressive countenance displaying, as the speaker addressed her, the varying emotions of her mind with remarkable distinctness. She was slight in figure, and rather above the mid- dle height. Her eyes were dark and brilliant, and her face more remarkable for g^eat intelligence and ex- pressiveness than regular beauty of feature. Her gestures were graceful, and an idea may be formed of the dignity of her acting from the words of La Motte, who, on entering the salon of Mdlle. de Lambert after having witnessed the play of " Le Comte d'Essex," Mdlle. Le Couvreur being Elizabeth, exclaimed with enthusiasm, " I have seen to-night a queen among the actors." As Phedre and Cornelie, those who have 6o THE OLD REGIME. most studied the annals of the stage believe that her representation of those characters still remains unsur- passed. At that time the dramatis personce of the classical plays of Corneille and Racine wore paniers, powder, and patches, and the full court costume of the French nobility, which scarcely had changed since the days of Henri IV. Nearly half the stage was occupied by privileged spectators, who sat on benches or strutted about at their will, and appeared to have some part assigned them in the performance. The buzzing con- versation they kept up, their coming and going and changing of places, were serious distractions and drawbacks; to which was added the semi-darkness of the tallow-candle-lighted Salle. An actor or actress must have had wonderful talent to hold captive, in spite of them, the attention of an audience disposed, before all things, to be critical. This, Mdlle. Le Cou- vreur appears to have been equal to. She had also the good fortune, soon after the retirement of Bem- bourg, to derive both artistic support and instruction from the return of Michel Baron to the stage. Twenty-nine years had elapsed since his retreat. Old playgoers who remembered him in those days of his prime, deplored his decision to risk the great repu- tation he had retired with by reappearing in his old age, and before an audience that knew him only by the records of former triumphs. But Baron was ex- tremely sensitive on the subject of age. No faded belle could be more so. He would have quarrelled with his best and dearest friend, should he have ven- tured to suggest age as an obstacle to his purpose. He had also the most exalted idea of his own talents, fortunately with good reason. " Every century," he A SECOND TKiUMPUANI' DEBUT. 6 1 said, " could produce a Caesar, but it had taken twenty centuries to produce a Baron. For, since the time of Roscius, he knew but of one — himself." Baron chose Cinna for his second debut. Fifty years before, he had taken the town by storm in the same character. The announcement of his reappearance in it was received with enthusiasm. The regent was present, and every nook and corner of the Salle whence a glimpse of the actor could be obtained, or the sound of his voice heard, had its occupant. The French are rarely very noisily demonstrative in the expression of their approval at the theatre, when listening to the masterpieces of their great dramatists. And rapt attention is certainly a far greater compliment to an actor than the vulgar uproar by which the frequenters of English theatres are wont to express their satisfac- tion; having probably not listened to a line of the speech that seems so much to delight them, and not always being capable of feeling either its beauties or defects, if they have. Eagerly, then, but in breathless expectation, did the vast audience await the re-entrance on the scene of the veteran actor of near threescore and ten. He came. It may be said that he came, saw, and con- quered. For there was a murmur when he appeared that denoted both approval and astonishment, besides a prodigious fluttering of fans amongst the ladies. Ladies of every shade of philosophy and morality, those who remembered the Baron of days of yore and dared to confess it, as well as those who did not; ladies of the old court, of the new court, of the haute bourgeoisie^ and even of th^ petite (these last, common- place people who had the effrontery to appear there with their husbands). However, all thought the occa- 62 THE OLD REGIME. sion one of sufficient importance to be graced by their presence. "Why ! he is the handsomest cavalier in the world!" exclaims the Duchesse de Berri to Madame de Caylus, as she peeps out of her grated box. For Baron, with firmness of gait, and erect as a man in the very sum- mer of life, presents himself, as of old, with a dignity of bearing that even the Grand Monarque at the height of his glory might have envied. Baron was not only the greatest comedian of his time (playing tragedy and the higher range of comedy equally well), but he was considered the handsomest man of his day, and probably none surpassed him in vanity. Contrary to the custom of the period, his habits were regular and abstemious, by which means he retained the vigor of an excellent constitution, and his personal advantages unimpaired, to an unusually late period of life. His fine figure, grand manners, and extremely handsome face, of course had some in- fluence in securing the favor of the ladies. But usually he was haughty and overbearing towards his own sex, who tolerated him only on account of his immense talent, which all felt compelled to acknowledge. This talent he evidently still possessed, and without any apparent diminution of the physical qualities that gave added interest to the expression of it. He passed through the ordeal of representing the haughty Cinna with an eclat worthy of the great reputation acquired in his younger days; proving his right still to claim the appellation of "the first Baron of France." Baron and Mdlle. Le Couvreur, together, were irresistible, and the Theatre Fran9ais flourished. The real motive of Baron's return to the stage was his extraordinary enthusiasm for his art. The exag- THE HIGH PRIEST ''ATHALIEr 63 geration and ranting of Bembourg drove him frantic, and to his evil example he attributed in a great degree the decadence he perceived in the style of French act- ing. As soon, therefore, as Bembourg retired. Baron resolved to afford the younger comedians the benefit of his experience and example. Mdlle. Le Couvreur, who at one time seemed likely to drop into the monot- onous sing-song she so continually heard around her, was saved from it by Baron's warnings and instruc- tions. Mdlle. Duclos, no longer young, had fallen too irretrievably into this vicious habit to reform her style thoroughly, but she was improved by continual re- minders. Mdlle. Belmond, and other young actresses and actors of the troop, were similarly indebted to Baron. In the High Priest in " Athalie " he is said to have been perfectly sublime — "As sublime in his acting," says a French writer, "as Racine in his verses." " He never declaimed tragedy; he spoke it, and was tender or passionate, according to the character he assumed. His voice was sonorous, just, and flexible; his tones energetic and varied. His silence, his looks; the vary- ing expression of his countenance, revealing the changing emotions of the mind; his attitudes, his ges- tures — sparingly employed, yet with perfect art — com- pleting the unfailing effect of an utterance inspired by the sensations of nature. He proved that talent, such as his, knew no limits, and was unaffected by age. As when he retired from the stage, so when he returned, the motive assigned for it was not generally accepted as the true one. But it was well known that he was not needy. He was in receipt of two pensions, and possessed private property. He had been very liberally paid during his retreat for teaching princes 64 THE OLD REGIME. and princesses to act, and for superintending their performances at the theatre of the palace of Versailles. He always went to and from the Theatre Fran9ais in his own carriage. On one occasion his coachman and servants quarrelled and fought with those of the Prince de Conti — such brawls were frequent amongst the coachmen and lackeys of those days. Baron's servants appear to have been as arrogant as their master, and having had the worst of this encounter, complained to him loudly of their opponents. Happening to meet the prince in the theatre, Baron mentioned the occur- rence. And using the term " Your people and mine," requested him to reprimand his servants. The prince, one of the regent's roues, thought this unpardonable familiarity. He replied, " But, my poor Boyron, what do you want me to say ? And how the devil did you take it into your head to have * people ' ?" The amour propre of the actor must have been very severely wounded, no less at being tutoye even by a prince, than addressed as " my poor Boyron." Boyron was the original name of his family, but his father, also an actor, and accustomed to play in the theatrical entertainments of the court of Louis XIII., was fre- quently spoken to by the king, who always called him Baron. This name he assumed, his son and other members of his family continued to write themselves Baron; and it was sometimes said in jest that the elder Michel Baron had been ennobled by Louis XIII. He was a tolerably good actor, but the real talent of this theatrical family centred wholly in Michel Baron, his son. He made the name illustrious in histrionic annals, and thus secured to all who bore it a certain degree of favor and tolerance, even when evincing but very mediocre abilities. A.V ACT/BESS'S DINNERS AND SUPPERS. 6$ Baron was often well received in aristocratic circles. He could entirely throw off the comedian and be witty and agreeable. But if he felt that he was pat- ronized and not welcomed as a man of the great world, he could assume an air that greatly disconcerted his would-be patron. He probably took ample revenge on the supercilious Prince de Conti, if there is truth in the anecdote. Anecdotes of Baron are numerous. His great presence of mind was often very serviceable to him on the stage — for envy frequently sought means of embarrassing him, which it was not at all easy to do. His intimacy with La Motte-Houdart, whose four tragedies owed their success to Baron's impersonation of the principal characters, opened to him the saion of Madame de Lambert. In that salon Mdlle. Le Couvreur also, as we learn incidentally from her letters, was sometimes a guest. It may be inferred from it that the " saion trh respecta- ble' was a less straitlaced assembly than might have been supposed. Either from a friendly interest in her, or possibly from mere curiosity, as she had a great reputation for wit, Adrienne was much sought after in society, by the ladies no less than the gentlemen. She herself gave dinners and suppers, and duchesses went to partake of them. She was the fashion, and she and her guests were neither better nor worse than the age they lived in. It is probable that the society of that period was not more dissolute than when, in the pre- ceding century, it was indispensable that every lady should have her ^^ galant et honnete homme,"' and a train of adorers under the name of ^^ amants inoffensifs^ Referring to the invitations she receives, Mdlle. Le Couvreur remarks: "If, from indisposition or other unavoidable cause, I fail to meet a party of ladies, ^ THE OLD R£.GIME, probably, all of them unknown to me, ' You per- ceive,' one says, * she affected the merveilletise' * Ah,' remarks another, ' 'tis because we have no titles — our husbands hold no appointments at court' If I do go among them," she continues, " and happen to be serious — one cannot always be lively with a num- ber of people one has never set eyes on before — they whisper among themselves, raise their eyebrows, shrug their shoulders, ' This, then, is the young person who they say is so witty? ' asks one. ' Remark how disdainful she is. You cannot please her,' says another, ' unless you know Latin and Greek. She is one of Madame de Lambert's set.' " And thus Mdlle. Adrienne found it difficult to satisfy the people who were so anxious to make a lioness of her. She succeeded better perhaps with the gentlemen than with the ladies. Voltaire, amongst others, threw himself at her feet, as he had a habit of doing to wo- men he cared to pay court to. She played the hero- ines of his earlier tragedies, and studied her parts under his direction. Adrienne Le Couvreur was really a good, kind creature; giving all her spare cash to one admirer, selling her diamonds to supply the needs of another, and proving her friendship for Vol- taire by courageously nursing him through the small- pox — a disease attended in his case with the usual disfigurement. Before that misfortune, Voltaire is said to have been fairly good-looking. To beguile the weary hours of a slow convalescence, Adrienne was accustomed to sit by his couch and read for his amusement the "Arabian Nights."* * M. Galland, the French translator of the " Contes Arabes," then in everybody's hands, had lately died in Paris. He was well CALLAND'S "ARABIAN NIGHTS^ 6/ known as an Oriental scholar, and much esteemed in literary society. Shortly before his death a party of young men, return- ing home in a rather hilarious mood from a supper, stopped, with their lantern-bearers, before M. Galland's house in the Rue Dau- phine. Terrible deeds were of nightly occurrence in the streets of Paris in those good old times; and the loud knocking at the door, and the calling for M. Galland on a cold, dark, wintry night greatly alarmed the household. His servant at last cautiously opened a window, and inquired the meaning of this disturbance, and who the nocturnal rioters were. They want M. Galland, they tell him. Presently Galland appears at the window in nightcap and dressing-gown. "Well, gentlemen, what do you want?" he inquires o£ these noisy visitors. Parodying the phrase with which he begins each of the thousand and one chapters of the " Arabian Nights," they reply, ** M. Galland, if you are not asleep, tell us some of those stories you know." M. Galland's window is im- mediately closed with a bang, and the young men, having had their foolish joke out, reassemble their lantern-bearers and depart. The misfortune was that M. Galland was not very well, and the chill he got by being roused from his bed on a cold January night, if it did not actually cause his death, was supposed to have hastened it, as he died very soon after, probably a victim to the fame of his book. CHAPTER VIII. Racine's Academic Address. — A Political Intrigante. — The Span- ish Plot. — Arrest of La Duchesse du Maine. — Confessions and Apologies. — A Traitor in the Camp. — A General Lover. — The Eye's Eloquence. — A Persevering Lover. — Results of Gallantry. — La Duchesse de Richelieu. — The Due de Modena. — A Desponding Bride. — A Heartless Lover. — A Learned Academician. — A Noble Badaud. There is perhaps no period of French history of which it is more difficult to give, in a very succinct form, a clear idea of the general state of society, than that of the regency of Philippe, Due d'Orleans. It was a period crowded with incidents, various as numerous. It was the awakening from torpor and gloom to a life of unrestrained gayety, folly, and vice, and the re-establishing of society under new forms. Political intrigue then found a home in the salons, whence it had been banished since the time of the Fronde, but where now the philosophic spirit began also to develop itself. Montesquieu had published his witty satire, the " Lettres Persanes;" and the influence of Voltaire's sarcastic pen was beginning to be felt. Literature, which under Louis XIV. con- fined itself chiefly to gathering laurels in the fields of poesy and the drama, now ventured on assailing the government. When Racine was installed in his academic arm- chair, he told his learned brethren, in his discourse on that occasion, that their greatest incentive to diligent A POUTJCAL WTRtGANTE. 69 continuance of their efforts to perfect the French lan- guage should be to make it more and more worthy to celebrate the praises of Louis XIV. One is pained to know that so great a genius could thus servilely abase himself, and that he could suggest no worthier theme for a. language he had so nobly and eloquently other- wise employed. Voltaire might well say, " Racine was more poet than philosopher." The philosophers of the new republic of letters took a far different view of the subjects best suited for the display of French eloquence, as well as of their own position in the social scale. They no longer cared to seek the patronage of the fashionable world. Rather they stood aloof, and held reunions amongst them- selves, claiming, as savants and philosophers, to be received as a distinguished section of society. Such consideration can hardly be said to have been already accorded to Voltaire; but by audacity, tact, and talent he had conquered it for himself. Many prejudices had yet to be overcome before rank and wealth could re- ceive literary distinction as its equal. But the barriers fell by degrees before the teachers of new doctrines, and the spread of new opinions — destined by and by entirely to overturn the old organization of things. Chief among female political intrigantes of this period was the Duchesse du Maine. That she, a prin- cess of the blood, should have wedded a man contented to sit quietly down to his studies, and to the collecting of objects of art under the stigma of degraded rank, was a burning thought to this high-souled little woman. The receptions at Sceaux; the private the- atricals, in which she figured with so much eclat; the madrigals addressed to her, sung or recited in her honor — all were now powerless to charm. Her salon ;tO THE OLD REGIME. in Paris became the resort of all who thought they had cause to complain of the government of the re- gency. The disaffected formed a numerous party, and to further their own views lent their aid to the further- ance of the scheme of the duchess. The result was the so-called Spanish plot. Its object was to induce Philip V. to invade France, to secure, if possible, the person of the Due d'Orleans, to claim the regency of the king- dom himself, and of course reinstate the duchess in all those rights and privileges of royal rank she had been deprived of. Great pains were taken to conceal this stratagem from the duke; and as his attention was absorbed by literary pursuits, and love of retirement often took him from Paris to Sceaux, it was not difficult to do so. The scheme was well on its way towards realization. The Spanish ambassador. Prince de Cellamare, and Philip's first minister. Cardinal Alberoni, were deeply engaged in it. Philip himself, more frequently mad than sane, liked the idea of being regent of that France he loved so much. In his fits of despondency he re- garded himself as a usurper of the Spanish throne, lamented his expatriation, often determined to abdi- cate, and always cherished the hope of revisiting France. But if the Due du Maine's eyes were sealed, other and more vigilant ones were open. Espionage was the rule of the French Government. It was the only duty the police executed with regularity and perseverance. Le Comte d'Argenson (to whom the sobriquet of "Z^ Damne'' was given, because of his repulsive counte- nance) had for nineteen years been at the head of the department, and had trained his secret agents to an extraordinary degree of perfection. The eyes of H6- CONFESSIONS AND APOLOGIES. 71 rault, his successor, had been for some time on the duchess. Part of her secret had transpired in the salon of Madame de Tencin, an intrigante also, and amie in- time of Dubois — no longer Abb6, but, to the disgrace of the regent, elevated to the Archbishopric of Cam- brai, and now Minister of Foreign Affairs. The un- usual stir at the Embassy, occasioned by the despatch- ing of emissaries to the Spanish Court, was also remarked by the vigilant lieutenant of police. A seizure of papers took place, and one of the messen- gers was stopped at Poitiers. On the 29th of Decem- ber, 1718, the duchess, to her dismay, was arrested in Paris, and conveyed to the citadel of Dijon. The duke was found very harmlessly occupied in his study at Sceaux, but was sent to the Chateau de Dourlens. Mdlle. Delaunay shared the prison of the duchess, and several other members of the duke's household, as well as some military partisans of Spain, were confined in the Bastille. This ''^abominable conspiration'* — thus it was pro- claimed throughout the land — ended in " confessions and apologies" on the part of the duchess, who, after two years' imprisonment, was allowed to return to Sceaux. It was vainly sought to inculpate the duke, much as the regent and M. le Due desired it. The lat- ter especially is said to have felt towards him " an an- tipathy like that which some persons have for certain reptiles or species of vermin." Against their will, then, he also was liberated, and without any restriction as to his place of residence. But he refused to join the duchess at Sceaux; resenting, as much as it was in his apathetic nature to resent, the two years' imprison- ment to which her schemes had subjected him. But the little duchess on this point would not give *J± THE OLD REGIME. way; though the duke held out for some time against both her commands and entreaties. He had, however, been accustomed to obey; and as she had resolved on having him back at Sceaux, which was his favorite retreat, he at last yielded to her wishes and returned. She also succeeded in making her peace with the re- gent, who good-naturedly assured her that he would forget altogether what had passed. There yet remained, however, one culprit in the Bas- tille — one who had been so deeply and treasonably concerned in this terrible plot that the regent declared he must lose his head. " He has done enough," he ex- claimed, "to forfeit four heads if he had them!" " Four of the handsomest heads in France have not the beauty of his one!" was the energetic reply. Surely such nonsense could have been uttered only by a very young lady. But the regent was by no means moved by it to pity. " Handsome or not," he said, " it is owned by a worth- less person — a disturber of the peace of the kingdom, and a traitor to his country." If he had added, " He has supplanted me in the good graces of several of the ladies of the court," he would have revealed what stung him to the quick in this gentleman's behavior quite as much as the part he had taken in the Spanish affair. It was, however, no less an affair of treason than the having promised Cardinal Alberoni to deliver Bayonne, where this officer's regiment was in garrison, into the hands of the Spanish troops, should Philip determine to invade France. This handsome cavalier, now in the Bastille for the third time, was no other than the young Due de Riche- lieu. He is said to have joined the duchess's party from annoyance that no influential post in the govern- A G^NEkAL LOVEk. 73 ment had yet been given to him. But the regent dis- liked him, and Richelieu took his revenge by making a point of stepping in between him and his mistresses. He had not the power of conferring titles upon them and extensive estates, or of making over to their use certain items of the taxes; but he had the advantage of being but twenty-three, while the regent was forty- six. He was exceedingly handsome, too, and very seductive, but perfectly heartless and thoroughly un- principled. He squandered his income freely enough, and, though without a particle of feeling, he could as- sume with success the rdUoi the despairing, passionate lover. He had succeeded not long before in gaining, clan- destinely, of course, the affections of Mdlle. de Charo- lais, sister of Monsieur le Due; and his conquests in the royal houses he greatly piqued himself upon. She was very young and exceedingly pretty. Her eyes were beautiful, and so remarkably lustrous that she was recognized by them when wearing a mask. Mdlle. de Valois, one of the regent's daughters, a very hand- some girl, had also attracted him greatly, when she made her debut at a court ball given to celebrate the visit to Paris of the Duchesse de Lorraine. The young duke was almost in love with her; he decidedly ad- mired her, and determined she should know it. It was difficult. But that gave zest and piquancy to his pur- pose. It had been difficult to make Mdlle. de Charo- lais understand that her smile or frown was life or death to him. He was an adept in that " eloquence, twin-born of thought," the eloquent language of the eyes. But so was the keen-sighted Madame de Prie, the " amie inttme** as it was customary to say, of M. le Due; and any openly displayed attentions to Mdlle. 74 ^^^ OLD REGIME. de Charolais would have been very unceremoniously resented by her brother. But Richelieu had evaded suspicion, and won the young princess's heart. He has now a new conquest to achieve, many obstacles to overcome. Mdlle. de Valois has elderly and careful attendants, and appears to be vigilantly guarded. From this circumstance, it may be observed, in passing, one is willing to believe that the conduct and character of the regent's daugh- ters have usually been described with much exaggera- tion. Mere folly, doubtless, has frequently been mag- nified into vice, owing to the unfortunate mania that prevailed in the court of the regent, and far beyond that circle, of assuming an air of reckless depravity as a protest against the hypocritical piety of the old court of Versailles. But to return to Richelieu. To accomplish his ob- ject, he had to bribe, to persuade, to make love to serving-women; to assume numerous disguises; to write, or to get written, love-letters — tender, implor- ing, passionate, despairing — and to tax his poor brain to invent methods for their safe delivery to the prin- cess. At every court fete, ball, or concert, the Due de Richelieu was sure to be present; but not always Mdlle. de Valois. Though she now comprehended that the perfumed notes which reached her hands hid- den in roses or other flowers — so frequently lying on her writing-desk, her embroidery-frame, or toilet-table, and placed there she knew not how — were missives from the handsome young duke, whose despairing, languishing gaze she so often encountered, and re- plied to with a burning blush. At length an interview took place. The lovers met in the apartment of one of the officials of the house- /RESULTS OF GALLANTRY. 75 hold, whose services Richelieu had secured. Many stolen meetings followed; the duke always in some new disguise. The jealous suspicions of Mdlle. de Charolais, however, led to the discovery of this in- timacy. Richelieu had but recently left the Bastille after a three weeks' detention there; the cause of his impris- onment being a desperate encounter with swords be- tween him and the Comte de Gare — at mid-day, in Paris, in the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre — the result of a violent quarrel concerning an affair of gallantry. It happened at that time that the King of Sardinia made proposals for the hand of Mdlle. de Valois. It was therefore desirable, as the regent was willing to accede to them, to hush up the princess's love affair. Richelieu, in consequence, escaped another visit to the Bastille, but was ordered to join his regiment at Bayonne. Madame, however, in her correspondence with the German courts, related the incident. It was repeated, commented upon, and exaggerated, until the tale reached Piedmont, and with all its additions and embellishments came to the ears of the Sardinian king, who forthwith hastened to withdraw his pro- posal of marriage. The regent was naturally much incensed, and it being immediately afterwards discovered that Riche- lieu was implicated in the Spanish plot, his arrest was ordered, and for the third time he took up his quar- ters in the Bastille. Worse than that, he must lay his handsome head on the block — for the regent has vowed he shall lose it. Mdlle. de Valois is in despair; she is devotedly attached to him. Mdlle. de Charolais the same. But who shall write the list of ladies, noble if not royal, ^6 'TH^ OLD R^GIM^. beautiful if not noble, who with sighs and tears ask the life of this gay Lothario? Even the duchess en- treats — the wife whose very existence he determined (and has kept his determination) systematically to ignore, from the day, when but a boy of fourteen, his father injudiciously married him to her. She was Mdlle. de Noailles, a young lady some few years his senior; very plain-faced and very sedate. She was to check the exuberant spirits of her wild young hus- band, who already gave promise of becoming the greatest libertine of the age. The bride was eighteen, petite, and in appearance younger than De Fronsac (his title at that time). He was tall for his age, well grown and handsome. He had probably forgotten his wife's existence when she visited him in the Bastille, eight years after their marriage. No other lady was allowed to see him; all applicants for that favor were sternly refused. She, however, came as a sur- prise upon him; her folly in displaying so much inter- est in his fate diverting him greatly. It is doubtful whether the regent could, with im- punity, have sent this great lord to the scaffold. More likely a lett^-e- de-cachet would have banished him to his estates. But fortune again smiled upon him. Mdlle. de Valois continued to weep and lament, and on her knees to implore her father to pardon and release her lover. The regent was annoyed at this importunity, and angrily desired her to desist. But another suitor soon appeared on the scene, the Due de Modena, who had sent a special envoy to ask Mdlle. de Valois in marriage. Of this the regent took advantage. He was anxious to marry this daughter, and having missed the queenly diadem, he resolved that she should wear the ducal one. The duke having sent A DESPONDING BRIDE. 77 his portrait — which, though probably flattered, was by no means attractive — the regent presented it to the lady. She refused to look at it, or to hear the word marriage mentioned. The regent calmly replied that the pardon and immediate release of Richelieu de- pended on her promise to accept the Due de Modena. She caught at the words, "to save her lover's life she would gladly give her own. She would make even a greater sacrifice, she would marry the duke." Instantly she gave her promise; exacted her father's; turned her eyes on ^he frowning brow of the portrait, and swooned. The regent, in this instance, faithfully kept his word; for Richelieu was walking about Paris the next evening. Some few days after, the ceremony of the marriage, by proxy, took place at the Palais Royal. The regent was anxious to conclude the arrangements, the bride being in a very desponding state of mind. The first feelings of enthusiasm having calmed down, her grief became excessive. The preparations for her marriage and departure for Italy filled her with terror, and she would take no part in them. "On the day," says a contemporary memoir, " that Mdlle. de. Valois was united by proxy to the Due de Modena, her appearance was that of a victim led to the sacrifice. Pale, trembling, and tearful, she excited the utmost sympathy; while, to add to her distress, prominently placed amongst the guests stood the Due de Richelieu." The regent had had the cruelty to invite him, and he the heartlessness to attend. Beside him was Mdlle. de Charolais, with whom, apparently unmoved, he occasionally laughed and conversed, both of them observing the bride with a critical eye. False sentimentality had not yet come into fashion, 78 THE OLD REGIME. and real emotion was not easily excited amongst the gay company assembled to witness the bridal cere- mony. But the story of the victim and her seducer, though hushed up, and all mention of it carefully sup- pressed, was well known to every one present. Riche- lieu's air of bravado inspired, therefore, general con- tempt. The Duchesse de Modena and Mdlle. de Charolais later in life more thoroughly understood the character of the man who had deceived them both, and both learned to despise him. His triste celebrity, however, suffered not from such- passing clouds, but rather increased than diminished. Not long before this marriage took place, even Madame de Maintenon, writing from St. Cyr, and referring to Richelieu, calls him " my favorite." She says also, "I do not always dislike scapegraces;" but she adds, " provided they do not pass the bounds of vice and dishonor." Richelieu had certainly long before passed from the scapegrace state to that of vice and dishonor. From some inexplicable motive, he aspired at this time to an academic arm-chair, and in the course of the next year, being not yet twenty-four, a vacancy occurring, he was elected to fill it, "never having written," says Duclos, "anything but a few love-let- ters." Through what powerful female influence he obtained that honor is not stated. It may have grati- fied his vanity to have a seat amongst the Forty, but it must have been singular to hear one of the professed guardians of the purity of the French language talk like an illiterate badaud or Parisian cockney. It was the fashion to do so at the reunions of the dissolute young men of the regency, and none had cultivated A NOBLE BADAUD. 79 this unenviable accomplishment more sedulously than the Due de Richelieu. Vtuz done M^sieux; v'la quiques Louis. Faut mef fd dans sa poche; faut pas V renfermer dans f secritaire^'' etc., is a specimen given of his usual manner of speaking. But this is probably a libel. Sentimental love-mak- ing could never have thus been carried on. It might have succeeded with the grisetUs, and been assumed when masked, as well as have diverted both him and his wild companions to talk in that fashion at their nocturnal revels, nothing more. Yet it has been asserted that Richelieu had so thoroughly contracted this habit that he could never entirely divest himself of it — the badaud would peep out, and often when least desired. CHAPTER IX. Une N6glig6e. — Louis XV. — The Financier's Wife. —A Fashion- able Financier. — The Vicomte and Vicomtesse de F . — John Law. — La Banque du Roi. — The Mississippi Company. — The Rue Quincampoix. — Cupidity and Despair. — Grand Hotels and Opera Boxes. — The Courtiers Pay their Debts. — The "Regent" and the "Sancy." — The First Blow to the Systeme. — Deceived and Ruined. — Law Escapes to Flanders. — A Change from Paris to Brussels. — Order out of Disorder. In a splendidly furnished apartment in one of the hotels of the Place Vendome sit a lady and gentle- man, taking their morning meal — a substantial repast, less of a French than a Scotch breakfast. The now fashionable coffee-pot is there, prominently in the centre of the table. The Parisians have been a long time making up their minds whether to accept or re- ject coffee. But merit has prevailed over prejudice. The Vicomte de Bechamel, the regent's 7naitre d' hotel, has already placed on his menus black coffee, in small cups, for Palais Royal dinners. The ladies have also discovered that it is excellent with milk, and are fall- ing into the habit of sipping their cup of coffee in the morning. Madame de Sevigne, therefore, in her double prediction that both coffee and the plays of Racine were destined to pass out of favor after a very short reign, has proved a false prophetess. But the lady and gentleman have finished their breakfast. The lady wears an elaborately embroid- ered negligee of Indian muslin, with ruffles of fine lace, THE FINANCIER'S WIFE. 8 1 the finest that Valenciennes can produce. It is looped up with rose-colored ribands; the white silk petticoat has a broad border of rose color; the dress, a long flowing sash of the same; and the whole is displayed over a/(7/z/>r of ample size. She has a patch on the left cheek, another on her chin, and a third on the right temple — those little black patches, you know, that the Duchesse du Maine has just brought into vogue again. There is a soup^on of powder in her hair; her head-dress is of fine lace, with rose-colored silk lappets; her mittens are lace, and her high-heeled slippers rose-colored silk, embroidered in white and frilled with Valenciennes. The lady is by no means the great lady one might suppose her to be, though she is accustomed to give herself very grand airs. Her elegant toilets, luxurious surroundings, her half-dozen chateaux, comt6s, and marquisates, have all been so recently showered upon her, that she still is not perfectly at ease under them. To be borne with dignity, these things need "the aid of use," as Shakespeare says of " our new clothes, that cleave not to their mould without." Yet her salon is frequented by marchionesses and duchesses, and other great ladies. Even princesses have been known to waive etiquette and peep in for a moment. If she does not exactly look down on her high and mighty guests, she contrives to comport herself stiffly enough towards them. She has been made to feel, and still resents it, that the attraction lies not in her, but in the wizard powers of her husband; that if these great ladies visit her in the evening, it is because he would not grant them a five minutes' interview in his private bureau in the morning, and that there is just a chance of whispering a word in his ear in her salon. She is 82 THE OLD REGIME. to them but a solitary cipher, adding nothing what- ever to the weight and influence of the substantial qualities attributed to him. Yet her superb diamonds, laces, and toilet generally often raise sighs of envy, and win her many gracious words and smiles. The gentleman so courted and run after by the ladies, as far as being bewigged and berufiled, and wearing a sword at his side, looks like a grandee of the period. Had the time referred to been but a century nearer to us, one might, after scrutinizing his coun- tenance, have guessed him to be an American cousin. His face is so " cute," shrewd, and clever; but less intellectual than cunning. There is now a shade of anxiety upon it, which is remarkable, as contrasting strangely with the air of audacity and perfect self- possession it usually wears. The lady, too, seems troubled and thoughtful, as she abstractedly opens and shuts and twirls her exquisite Watteau fan. One trembles for the safety of those pretty shepherdesses, so delicately painted on silk, with their lily complex- ions, their rosebud mouths, charming Swiss hats and costumes garlanded with flowers. But the reverie is ended by the entrance of a servant. Is this man a servant ? He enters with a very swaggering air. There is a trace of servitude — that is of livery — in his dress, for he wears a red waistcoat; though, for the rest, he has donned the garb of the haute bourgeoisie. "Monsieur," he says, "I leave your service to-day. That arrangement I mentioned with the Vicomte de F is settled, signed, and sealed, and the price is paid in bank stock of your last issue. But that you may not be inconvenienced by the dearth of serving- men^ I have brought here two who are willing to sue- JOHN LAW. 83 ceed to my place. They wait outside your good pleasure to see them." " Can they drive well, Joseph ?" inquires the master. "They can both drive so well, monsieur, that whichever of the two you may reject, I shall take into my own service." "And Annette?" says the lady inquiringly, referring to her waiting-maid, who is the coachman's wife. " Annette, madame, also leaves you to-day. She is now engaging her maid; and should Joseph and An- nette be wanted to-morrow, they must be inquired for at their hotel, as the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de F , for the title goes with the estates." The lady shrugs her shoulders impatiently. The gentleman cannot forbear a smile. This transforma- tion of his coachman into a vicomte is his own work, and the change in his own social position is scarcely less great. But his influence is on the wane, and a crash is at hand. He is the famous Scotch banker, John Law, who, as Montesquieu says, " turned the State inside out;" who made France, as it were, one vast gambling-house; who demoralized society, by awakening feelings of cupidity, unknown to it before his chimerical system gave rise to that mania for reckless speculation. " From the lowest of the people," says Voltaire, " even to magistrates, bishops, and princes, the cupidity he aroused in every rank diverted every mind from any attention to the public welfare, from all politic and ambitious views, filling them with fear of loss and de- sire of gain." Law was a scheming, calculating man, who in these days would probably be called a " promoter;" but 84 THE OLD REGIME. that modern term for the successful getters-up of bubble projects was not then invented, and he was regarded as a clever financier. A fugitive from Eng- land for some misdemeanor, as soon as he had crossed the Channel he became a Roman Catholic, obtained letters of naturalization and permission to establish a bank. It was at first of very moderate pretensions. But a flattering prospectus invited depositors, and its notes got well into circulation. The State was then burdened with debt, and the regent was at his wits' end for money — both for his own private uses and for carrying on the government. It was in vain that he taxed his brain for new sources of income. It proved so unprofitable an article of taxation that it afforded him nothing but the barren suggestion of giving to specie a threefold nominal value. At this crisis Law presented his project for paying off the debt of the nation. It was submitted to the former Controleur- general, Nicholas Desmarets, nephew of the great Col- bert, and favorably known for his zeal and intelli- gence in averting financial difficulties during the last years of the reign of Louis XIV. He entirely disap- proved Law's scheme. Nevertheless, the regent ac- cepted it. He liked its novelty. Better still, he liked the certainty, as explained to him more minutely by Law, of its drawing forth all the hoarded-up cash in the country, in exchange for stock of the " Banque du Roi," as Law's bank was henceforth to be called. Without attempting to detail the mode of opera- tion in this famous " Systeme Law," — of which an explanation, more or less clear, is to be found in every history of France — it may be mentioned that there was established, in connection with the Royal Bank, a ** Compagnie de Commerce d'Occident," Vv^hich was THE RUE QUINCAMPOIX. ^ guaranteed to realize fabulous profits by trading in tlie Mississippi, colonizing Louisiana, and developing its rich mineral resources. Of the Mississippi few knew more than that it was reported to be a mine of wealth. This company was about as substantial as its bubble contemporary, the South Sea Company. But the fever of speculation excited by the desire to se- cure a share of the imaginary boundless riches that were promised to France, gave rise to scenes in the Rue Quincampoix, where the company had its offices, that exceeded in tumultuousness those of Change Al- ley and Threadneedle Street. Daily, from early dawn, crowds of eager men and women assembled in that long, narrow, grimy street, waiting for the opening of the bureau. As the hour drew on, the throng still in- creased, all struggling to get nearer the door. Press- ing upon each other, some fainted, others fell, and, crushed or trampled upon, were carried away dead. This Rue Quincampoix was the principal stock- jobbing rendezvous; and as the whole of the Parisian population had become stock-jobbers, it was a very animated part of the city. "There was no longer either business or society in Paris," says a French wri- ter. "The workman, the tradesman, the magistrate, the man of letters, concerned themselves only with the rise and fall in stocks; the news of the day being their losses and gains. Nowhere was there any other sub- ject of conversation, or any other gambling than gam- bling in stocks." Enormous fortunes were made so rapidly that a frenzy for acquiring wealth, difficult to describe, took possession of every one's mind. Many who began their speculations with a single govern- ment note of five hundred francs, by taking advantage of the constant fluctuation in the value of specie, bank- 86 THE OLD REGIME, stock, government notes, etc., in the space of a few weeks were the possessors of millions. " Servants who came to Paris at the beginning of the week behind the carriages of their masters, often, through some lucky venture, went home at the end of it in carriages of their own." Law's coachman was not a solitary in- stance of this kind, but one among many. On the other hand, no less frequently, wealthy fami- lies were suddenly reduced to beggary. And suicides, assassinations, and the many crimes born of cupidity and despair, were of daily occurrence. The relative value of bank-stock, specie, and government notes often rose and fell several times in the course of the day. This was regulated solely by Law, attentive only to keep up the speculative fever he had created, and to draw in the cash while continuing to issue new pa- per. Of this the amount in circulation represented more than eighty times the value of all the specie in the kingdom. At the same time, never had there been known such profusion and extravagance in dress, in furniture, in equipages, banquets, and fetes as prevailed in Paris at this period. For it was not only the sumptuous en- tertainments given by the regent and the court circle — surpassing all that had been dreamed of in the good old days of Louis XIV. — that astonished the few per- sons who were staid and sedate, or that yet remained of the old school. It was the lavish style of living of those who had suddenly grown rich; often persons of the lowest class, yet who could find amongst the most splendid hotels of the old nobility no dwelling suffi- ciently magnificent for them. In this way some fine specimens of sixteenth and seventeenth century archi- tecture disappeared, to make way for new edifices, THE COURTIERS PAY THEIR DEBTS. g; often never begun. For before the ground was cleared, the wealthy pan^enu^ who had " dreamt of dwelling in marble halls," had been driven back, by a turn of Fortune's wheel, to his pallet in the cellar or garret; or if begun, the building was usually com- pleted on a scale very inferior in grandeur and extent to that first proposed. The theatres had their full share of this rich harvest of paper. Never, at the Italiens or the Th^dtre Fran- 9ais, had there been witnessed a more splendid array of toilettes, or a more brilliant display of diamonds and other je A'els than nightly might then have been seen there. There was as eager a competition for the pos- session of an opera box as for a share in the Mississippi Company, with this disadvantage to the manager — that he could not multiply his boxes, as Law did his shares, at pleasure. The renter of an opera box had his arms emblazoned on the door. The herald- painter, not too rich or too proud to work, had a flour- ishing time of it among the new nobility. For all of course assumed the de, and generally discovered they had a right to it; unknown survivors of noble families supposed to be extinct being found to be wondrously numerous. So long as the Royal Bank commanded confidence, and its notes circulated freely, the reckless style of liv- ing, and the feverish pursuit of pleasure it had in- duced, went on unabated. Those who, at the flood- tide of fortune, had exchanged their bank paper for substantial possessions, of course remained rich. While those who had sold to obtain this much-coveted paper, looking for enormous dividends, when the gold- laden galleons should bring the treasures of Louisiana to France, sank into hopeless poverty; whose end was 8g TtiE OLD RAcmn. often madness or crime. Rolls of the Royal bank- notes, as many as they needed, were supplied to the regent and the grandees of the court. With these they followed in extravagance the example of the/^r- ve7ius, and also took the opportunity of paying their debts. It was at this time that, advised by Saint-Simon, the famous diamond, known as the " Regent," was bought. The man in whose possession it was had been em- ployed as overlooker in the Golconda mines. Con- triving to secrete this fine stone and to leave his occu- pation unsuspected, he came to Europe and offered his diamond for sale, without success, at every European court. Arriving in France, he sought out Law, who took the diamond to the regent, and proposed to him to purchase it for the king. The price, three millions of francs in hard cash, induced him to decline. But at the suggestion of Saint-Simon, Law was authorized to endeavor to make some arrangement with the owner for a lower sum. Two millions was the price for which he at last consented to part with it. But as im- mediate payment was not convenient, a certain delay was conceded, and the interest for that time on the sum agreed upon was at once handed to him; while, as security for the payment of the two millions, crown jewels to the value of eight millions were deposited in his hands.* * The '* Regent" is considered a much finer stone than the Sancy, which was bought from a Swiss for an /<:«, or three francs, by the Duke of Burgundy, some time during the fifteenth century. After passing through several hands it came into the possession of Har- lay-de-Sancy as security for 40,000 francs lent to Dom Antonio of Portugal, who afterwards sold it to Sancy for a further advance of 60,000 francs. Sancy disposed of it to James, of England, through whom it came into the possession of Louis XIV. DECEIVED A^'D RUWED. 89 The great embezzlement scheme had, up to this time, satisfied those who profited by it. The regent heaped honors, titles, and estates upon Law; made him Councillor of State and Comptroller-general of the finances; though, while enriching others, he had not forgotten his own private interests. But the first blow to the '* systeme" was about to be struck. Just, too, when Monsieur and Madame de Law, finding the hotel in the Place Vendome an unsuitable residence, were in treaty for that more commodious one, the splendid Hotel Soissons. The offices of the Royal Bank were established on the ground-floor of the Hotel Vendome. There, speculating ladies intruded on Law at all hours — seeking advice as to the expe- diency of buying or selling in the course of the day — and sometimes, Mdmes. de Parabere and de Tencin, for instance, taking away a bundle of notes with them; notes that might have been issued from any printing house, as no precautions whatever were taken against forgery. The scarcity of specie — all pensions and salaries being also paid in paper — began to be felt as an ex- treme inconvenience. It even raised suspicions in some minds. A considerable quantity of paper was in consequence presented at the bank, and cash re- quested. The next day appeared an edict prohibit- ing the conversion of the notes into specie, also for- bidding all persons to retain possession of more than five hundred francs in cash. This created a panic. The Parliament remonstrated, and refused to register the edict. Law complained to the regent, and the Parliament was banished to Pontoise. New paper was issued, but could not be put into circulation. For the eyes of most persons began to open to the fact 90 TUR OLD RJ^GIME. that they had been deceived and ruined. Numberless were the expedients resorted to by Law to restore the credit of the now decried paper; but none of them availed. The people thronged the Place Vendome, and threatened to attack the bank. Law took refuge in the Palais Royal. " Where," says Voltaire, " I had formerly seen him enter the saloon, followed by dukes and peers of the realm; by Marshals of France and high dignitaries of the Church." Now, humiliated and crestfallen, he seeks the protection of the regent, at whose hands the people without are demanding the man who has brought ruin on the nation. The tur- bulence of passion is at its height. But the regent, who is more guilty than Law, favors his escape to Flanders. The Due de Bourbon-Conde lends him his post-chaise for a part of his journey — he could hardly do less for the man who had enriched him by so many millions. For, with the exception of a few obscure persons who made and retained a fortune, it was the regent and the court who were the gainers. The great wealth of several princely and noble houses dates from that time. In being thus, suddenly and wholly unprepared, compelled to quit Paris, Law was unable to realize his colossal fortune, which consisted chiefly in exten- sive landed estates. Two thousand louis, and a few of his wife's jewels, were said to be all he took from France with him. He passed over to England, where, it was asserted, but with little foundation, that he had large sums of money invested. From London he went to Venice, schemed and speculated, but without success, and died there in 1729, in circumstances that did not denote the possession of much wealth. " His ORDER OUT OF DISORDER. 91 widow," writes Voltaire, " I saw while I was in Brus- sels, She was as humble there as she had been haughty and triumphant in Paris." Such was the dinouement of what the French, with their accustomed levity, were pleased to call " La Com6die de Law." The State was more in debt than before. " Some swindlers," writes Duclos, "of the upper and lower classes had grown rich. The bourgeoisie was ruined: every one was dissatisfied with his position, and com- mercial morality was at an end." To add to the gene- ral distress, inundations and extensive fires ravaged several of the French provinces, and Marseilles was nearly depopulated by the excessive virulence of the plague. It was absolutely necessary to devise without delay some means for alleviating the wide-spread misery brought on the country by the exploded " Syst^me Law." This difficult financial operation was under- taken by the Brothers P^ris, bankers, who had been opponents of Law's system from its outset. By their great financial ability and untiring zeal, they at length succeeded in evoking some sort of order out of disorder; and in effecting an arrangement which, if it failed to meet all ills resulting from the Systeme, secured at least the eventual payment of the debts of the State, CHAPTER X. Death of Madame de Maintenon. — The Czar's Visit to St. Cyr. — A Complimentary Salutation. — The Czar Peter in Paris. — Thirst for Useful Knowledge. — Special "Interviewing." — The Invitation to the Ball. — Effect of Peter's Visit to Paris. — Madame de Caylus. — Palais Royal Banquets. — B6chamel, Marin, Soubise. — Supper after the Opera. — Fashions of the Period. — The Ladies' Toilettes. — Les Belles Dames at Sup- per. — An Example to the Czar. While the events just referred to were occurring in France, there died at St. Cyr, in 17 19, the widow of the poor ribald poet, Scarron, and of the great Louis XIV. Madame de Maintenon, then in her eighty- fourth year, passed away calmly and with little bodily suffering. Sight and hearing remained with her to the last, and her mental faculties were wholly unim- paired. To within a few days of her death, she regu- larly corresponded with her nieces, and with many old friends of the old court; and her letters are not only remarkably chatty and cheerful, but often very witty. The supersedure of the will of the late king, and more especially the malignant hate with which the Due du Maine was pursued by the regent and the Due de Bourbon, affected her deeply. Otherwise she might have continued to live on for some years; though she confessed to finding her seclusion a weariness. It would have gratified her, she wrote, could she con- sistently have done so, to have enjoyed more of the THE CZAI^S VISIT TO ST. CYR. 93 society of those wTio understood better than the good sisters who presided at St. Cyr the feelings and ideas of one who had passed so much of her life in the great world. But as time went on she resigned herself to that. Her death-blow, no doubt, was the arrest and imprisonment of the Due du Maine. She was so de- votedly attached to him, that anxiety for his safety made her augur the worst " His goodness and piety, and his having been the favorite son of a great king, were his only crimes," she said; "crimes which his enemies could not forgive him," She did not live to hear of his release, and his acquittal of all complicity in his wife's political intrigues. The Czar Peter the Great visited Paris shortly be- fore Madame de Maintenon's death. He had a desire to see the woman who, in the decline of life, had cap- tivated the Grand Monarque^ and whose secret counsels so largely influenced the affairs of Europe for full thirty years. Madame de Maintenon consented to re- ceive him. An ante-room and two salonSy draped with black, as was customary for royal mourning, led to her chamber, the hangings and furniture of which were of crimson silk damask. She was reclining on her couch, supported by pillows. Two ladies of the establishment were seated near her. Her dress was a Hongreline, or long jacket of gray velvet, and a flat, plaited lace cap, under a black silk coiffe. Over her was spread an ermine coverlet; which may have been intended to indicate royalty, like the ermine mantle thrown over her when her portrait was painted by order of Louis XIV. Describing the interview herself, she says she re- ceived the Czar, after the Marechal de Villeroi, who introduced him, had left the room, vathout any further 94 THE OLD REGIME. ceremony than that of taking off her black silk mit- tens; this being the etiquette of the period, when in the presence of a person of superior rank. The Czar, on entering, paid her a similar compli- ment, in the Russian mode of salutation. He closed his eyes, and, with his arms hanging straight by his side, slowly bent his body until the tips of his fingers touched the floor; then, as slowly, resumed his upright position. He seated himself in the large arm-chair of crimson and gold brocade, arranged for him by the side of the aged invalid's couch, and silently gazed on her so earnestly, that, as she tells Madame de Caylus, she could scarcely forbear a smile. But as in that position he obtained only a side view of her, he wheeled round the massive arm-chair with a noise that was perfectly startling, and looked her straight in the face. He could, had he chosen, have made himself well understood in French. But it was his good pleasure to use the Russian tongue; his ambassador, who ac- companied him, serving as interpreter. He was, how- ever, so ill-qualified for the office, that Madame de Maintenon understood little more than that all the Czar had seen at St. Cyr pleased him well, and that he proposed to found at St. Petersburg a similar establishment. She replied by a flattering eulogy of the late king ; to which the Czar listened with pro- found attention. He then took leave with the same formal salaam; she half raising herself on her couch to acknowledge it. The habits and tastes of the great Peter were but little in accordance with those of the upper classes in France. He was very differently impressed, from what yvas expected, by the fetes prepared for his entertain- THE CZAR PETER IN PARIS. 95 ment. But what he sought out for his own amuse- ment, as well as instruction, and which scarcely any one thought of showing him, interested hinx greatly. He particularly admired the mausoleum of the great cardinal, in the Sorbonne. But it was rather admira- tion of the stern inflexible will of the man whose ashes reposed beneath it than of the skill of the artist in the execution of the monument. The splendors of the Hotel Lesdiguidres were scarcely of a kind to be appreciated by him; though on his return to his own capital he instituted changes in his palace and in the toilet of his beautiful Catherine, which led to the taste for luxury and magnificence, at first rather barbaric, that developed itself at the Russian court so speedily after his death. The Marquis de Tess6 played the host at the Hotel Lesdigui^res. The Marquis de Nesle and Due de Villeroi were appointed to meet the Czar on the fron- tier with a suitable escort. The number of elaborately embroidered coats, and uniforms covered with gold and silver lace, they thought it necessary to take with them to do honor to the Russian despot, excited his ridicule, as by degrees they displayed their ample wardrobe. Each morning, each evening, a new cos- tume, while the Czar keeps to his one plain suit of heavy blue cloth, and laughingly inquires why these French gentlemen employ so bad a tailor, as appar- ently he cannot supply a coat that pleases well enough to be worn a second time. Yet the example of those about him so far influenced the great Peter in the matter of personal adornment, that he provided him- self with a handsomely embroidered blue satin coat. Probably he first appeared in it at some Parisian f^te. History has, however, overlooked that fact, if fact it ^6 THE OLD REGIME. be, or has not thought it worthy of being handed down to posterity. The bump of inquisitiveness, so characteristic, in its largeness of development, of the Anglo-Saxon race of the nineteenth century, could scarcely have had a place at all in the cranium of the folk of the early part of the eighteenth. Had the same thirst for useful knowledge existed then as now, there doubtless would have been the same laudable endeavor to slake it. The most persevering and keen-eyed on the staff of " our own " would have been specially commissioned " to interview," nolens^ volens^ the great Russian bear. Prying eyes would have found out for us, together with a hundred other interesting minutiae, whether Peter took a bath and put on a fine linen chemise be- fore donning his blue satin coat, or whether the rough monster had so little sense of harmony and beauty and the fitness of things as, with unwashed hands, to slip it on over a " false front," hiding a red or blue Jersey shirt. Compared with the seventeenth century, French memoir writers are few in the eighteenth. How inval- uable, then, would the gatherings and scrapings of a special interviewer have proved at this date; one restrained by no feelings of false delicacy from turning his subject inside out, and doing his duty to his pub- lic, by telling us all things. It is comforting to know that the unborn generation will have scant reason to reproach the present one for any reticence of that sort. But to return for a moment to the blue satin coat. We know that it was worn on that grand and memora- ble occasion, which may be termed the virtual emanci- pation of woman in Russia. The issuing of the Ukase, commanding the nobles and court officials, and all who held any appointment, civil or military, to come to a PETER'S VISIT TO PARIS, 97 ball at his palace, and to bring with them their wives and daughters — poor oppressed women, who, hitherto, had lived in seclusion under the iron rule of their mas- ters — was a very happy stroke of despotism. Many among the great army of saints enrolled in the Holy Calendar, have been canonized for far less deserving deeds. To those who did not readily obey the com- mand of the Czar — and some few did venture to evince a reluctance to let loose their womankind — Peter despatched a second command, accompanied by a menace of the knout. This had, of course, its due effect. Above all, the company was bidden to come sober, and if they wore swords to leave them at home, as all would be required to dance. To set a good ex- ample, Peter and Catherine, very praiseworthily, made a point of taking but half their usual quantity of brandy and tokay that day. Good manners and urbanity therefore prevailed; and this first Russian attempt at a court reunion passed off remarkably well. Though Peter's object in visiting foreign countries was chiefly, as we all know, to obtain further insight into whatever was likely to increase the material pros- perity of his own, it seems evident that he was not an unobservant spectator of French society, or of woman's influence in it His visit to Paris led to many social changes in Russia. It was probably the cause of his placing Catherine in a more prominent and influential position than before. It is remarkable what defer- ence this man, so rough in outward demeanor, so innately cruel, paid to the lowly-born woman he made his wife, elevated to a throne and crowned with so much pomp and ceremony. Peter certainly took a lesson in gallantry while in France, and profited by it. He interested himself in many things that were at- 98 THE OLD REGIME. tractive to him from their novelty, which often con- sisted only in a refinement he was wholly unused to. He was obliged to observe some degree of moderation in his habit of excessive drinking, and was probably all the better for it. The little king pleased and amused him, though he was growing up a silent, self- willed child; petted and spoiled by his elderly guar- dians, the Marechal de Villeroi and the Bishop of Frejus. But among ladies who chiefly attracted the Czar, Madame de Caylus obtained his highest admiration. He had heard of the beauty of Madame de Mainte- non's charming niece, and had been very desirous of seeing her. At this time she was no lor^ger young. She had passed the terrible fortieth year,, and had lived in seclusion for some years; but during the re- gency she reappeared in Parisian society — according to Saint-Simon — full of vivacity, and as beautiful and charmingly seductive as ever. She bore away the palm from younger beauties — the frail but lovely Madame de Parabere, and the fair Haidee (Mdlle. Aisse), whose history is so like a romance. Louis XIV. disliked Madame de Caylus. She was too sparkling, too spirituelle to please him. He was shocked at any unexpected sally of wit, as at " an in- decency," and the youthful Marquise (she was married at thirteen) frequently sinned in that way. More than all she inclined towards Jansenism. Even her aunt could not overlook that; she was, therefore, when about nineteen, banished from the court circle, and re- mained fourteen years in disgrace. During that time she turned very seriously to devotion; fasted and prayed, and became gloomy, under the spiritual di- rection of a Jansenist priest. By and by she grew bAchamel, ma kin, soubise. 99 weary of so joy less a life; abjured Jansenism, and took a Jesuit father for her confessor. This restored her to the favor of Madame de Maintenon, who then pleaded for her erring niece with the king. The Grand Mon- arquCy pleased with her repentance, not only vouch- safed his pardon, but also granted an increase of four thousand francs to her pension of six thousand. Madame de Caylus had recently become a widow — a circumstance supposed to have influenced the change in her religious or theological opinions. But whether or not, the prevailing license seems to have had some effect on her, for Saint-Simon, her great admirer, says that both Jansenists and Jesuits were objects of her pleasantries. "The regency approached," he says, "and she struck the key-note." Yet during that bril- liant period when Law's bank-notes were so plentiful, and the Palais Royal entertainments so magnificent, she seems to have been doubtful as to the propriety of joining them. Madame de Maintenon was appealed to. She, of course, did not approve the regent's disso- lute mode of life; but with reference to these public banquets, she replies: " You must go to them, it will not do to condemn those in authority." Thus sanctioned, Madame de Caylus could, without scruple, take her seat with other ladies at these enter- tainments, to which the nobility and the beau monde generally were invited. She even sometimes presided, "like a rather lively grace; like one of Homer's god- desses; charming all hearts, and making them forget everything, even love." The regent certainly set the fashion in France of good cookery and extravagant living. The menus of the celebrated Vicomte have been pronounced by connoisseurs in gastronomy chefs-d'csuvre of their kind; while sauce h la Bechamel, 100 THE OLD REGIME. and champagne h la glace are still as much in favor as when, a century and a half ago, that sublime genius invented them. The Prince de Soubise and his dis- tinguished chef^ Marin, who flourished rather later in the century, originated some very costly dishes; but none of their creations have obtained such general acceptance, and so long retained undiminished popu- larity, as those of the famous Vicomte de Bechamel. It was the fashion at that time at certain hotels of the noblesse to prepare a supper, on opera nights, for ten or twelve friends, who were invited during the performance to return home with the host or hostess. Care was taken to have an equal number of ladies and gentlemen. Returning from the opera or theatre was a miserable affair in those times. The feeble gleam from the lanterns, or the lurid glare of torches, both carried by men — for, as yet, there were no lamps — gave but a very flickering, uncertain light, often treacher- ously leading both horses and men into quagmires of accumulated mud, threatening to life and limb. To enter the hall of some splendid hotel after traversing the gloomy streets, was like passing from Cimmerian darkness into the bright precincts of fairyland. Girandoles of chased silver or Venetian glass, filled with wax-lights, are ranged on the walls. Splendid candelabra on the table, which is covered with finest white linen from Holland, sparkling crystal glass, and Japanese porcelain, or a magnificent table service in silver; vases and epergnes, filled with flowers and fruits, giving color and beauty to the table arrange- ments. The champagne is ready, and the more sub- stantial part of the supper only waits the presence of the guests. And the guests themselves form a brilliant show, THE LADIES TOILETTES: *i6l quite worth bestowing a glance upon. The gentlemen wear fewer superfluous puffings of satin and velvet than in the Louis XIV. time. They have also greatly diminished the height, length, and breadth of their wigs. Some have altogether dispensed with flowing curls at the back, and have adopted powder and the bag-wig. The late king was persuaded to try it, but can hardly be said to have adopted it, and in the size of his peruke he would not abate an inch. Embroid- ered silk or velvet coats are still the fashion; but they sit closer to the figure. The voluminous trunk-hose are entirely abandoned, except on state days, for a tighter-fitting garment, with a long embroidered vest. There is an ample display of fine lace in frills and ruf- fles. Diamonds glitter in buttons, on sword-hilts, and in feather-bordered hats; and the red-heeled shoes, cut in a high flap above the instep, are fastened by elabo- rately chased gold or diamond buckles. The elderly ladies of this period did not follow the changing modes of the younger ones. They continued to wear the plainer and more suitable style of dress introduced by Madame de Maintenon. Like the gentlemen, the young ladies have cut down their head-dresses to a moderate height. All wear powder. It is thought to be advantageous to the complexion, and to impart lustre to the eyes and bril- liancy to the eyelashes. Pearls and diamonds and lace are intertwined with the hair. The blondes are lavish in the use of patches; but it is lamentable to note that snuff-taking is becoming far too general a habit, many pretty noses showing traces of it. There is, you perceive, no diminution in the spread of the panter, and the skirt, long and training at the back, is caught up at the side with bows of riband with long 102 TEE OLD REGIME. floating enJs. The shoes are really artistic produc- tions, and extravagant as they are in price, it is yet impossible to speak of such marvels of workmanship as dear. The cordonnier of that day (to translate him into a shoemaker is to drag him, as it were, from his pedestal) was truly an artist. How gracefully, too, the ruffles of fine point d'Alen- (on wave to and fro, as the ladies flutter their fans. " This is a Lancret," remarks one of the fair dames as she opens her fan for inspection. " Watteau, you know, has grown ambitious since the Academy has re- ceived his pictures." " Yes, he has forsaken his shepherdesses, and has sent a really fine picture to the salon this season — ' In- fantry on the March.' But he is ill, and I fear will paint but few more." " Have you seen the Le Couvreur in Mariamne ?" asks another who has just dropped in after the Thea- tre Frangais. " No ? You must then. She is splen- did in mourning. Made quite an impression. Voltaire does well to pay homage in that quarter. I am told he is constantly on his knees before her. He knows that it is Adrienne more than Mariamne that raises such 2ifureur" Seated round the splendidly appointed table this grand company is really a charming sight. There is more talking than eating, with the ladies, at least; yet the foaming vtn d'Ai seems to meet with their full ap- proval. It is to be feared that it is even growing too much in favor with these fine ladies of the regency. Is it not likely that the great Peter, though fond of going to bed at seven or eight in the evening, may once or twice have been present at a petit-souper after the Opera? He was fond of music, and the ballet AN EXAMPLE TO THE CZAR. 103 pleased him greatly, though he cared little for the per- formances of the Theatre Fran9ais. It may be suspected that it was so; and that the savage breast of the Russian bear was subdued by the fascinations of the ladies at some brilliant reunion of this sort; that he then and there inwardly resolved to give the Muscovite Court an empress, and to raise woman in his wide empire to as lofty a pinnacle as that upon which she was elevated in France. CHAPTER XI. The Turkish Ambassador. — The Turk's Blessing. — The Kings Unwonted Docility. — The Young King's Amusements. — The King's Pastors and Masters. — The King and his Confessor. — Massillon's Petit Careme. — The Preaching of Massillon. — Massillon in Society. — Villeroi's Devotion to his King. — A Youthful Gambler. — Projected Marriages. — The Bulle Uni- genitus. — A Very Vicious Bull. — Taken by the Horns — The Marriages Arranged. " What does your Excellency think of the beauty of my king ? Is not he charming, amiable, graceful — a perfect picture ?" "Allah be praised, and preserve this fair child from all that is evil and ill-omened !" The questioner is the old Marechal, Due de Villeroi, the young king's governor, and now in his seventy- ninth year. He who replies is Mehemet Effendi, Am- bassador Extraordinary from the Sultan, Achmet III. The Turk had expressed a wish to see the youthful Louis XV., and a day had, accordingly, been ap- pointed to receive him at Vincennes. Mehemet was shrewd and observant. He wrote an account of his embassy, and criticised, with much acuteness, those members of the regent's government with whom the object of his mission brought him in contact. He speaks with contempt and disdain of the infamous Dubois, then minister for foreign affairs as well as Archbishop of Cambrai. " He did me the honor," writes Mehemet, " to receive me on a carpet of cloth THE KWG^S UN^OI^TED DOCILITY. 105 of gold, but could not make up his mind to favor me with one word of truth." Of his interview with the youthful sovereign and his governor, he says, " After being introduced by the mar^chal, we entered into a pleasant and friendly conversation on various topics, the little king greatly admiring the Turkish dress, and examining my poig- nard very minutely, as well as that of my secretary, and the interpreter's who accompanied me." Villeroi, after Mehemet's reply to his question re- specting the child-king's beauty, proceeded to inform him that his king was but eleven years and four months old, and that his figure, as he perceived, was already well developed and finely proportioned. " Look well at his hair," he said; "it is all his own — no wig." "And as the mar6chal spoke, he turned the child round," remarks Mehemet, " that I might better ob- serve his hyacinthine locks. I passed my fingers caressingly through them: they were like threads of gold; even in length, and falling in curls over his back and shoulders." " * He can walk well, too,' said his governor. * Now let us see you walk in your very best manner.' And the little king, with the majestic gait of the partridge, walked to the centre of the salon and back again. "'Now, with greater speed,' he added, 'that his Excellency may see how swiftly you can run.' Im- mediately the king began to bound with the fleetness of a young roe up and down the apartment. The marechal then asked me if I did not think he was an amiable child. "I answered," says Mehemet, "fervently, as the child stood beside me, with his hand clasped in mine, 106 THE OLD REG1MJ&. * May the All-powerful Allah, who created this beauti- ful being, bless and preserve him ! ' " The ambassador appears to have witnessed this little farce with the most perfect gravity; and his youthful majesty to have been more docile than usual. All accounts represent him as shy with strangers, and apathetic and obstinate in the extreme. The Turks and their rich Oriental dresses were, however, a novelty to him, which may account for his unwonted docility, and the readiness with which he obeyed his doting old governor, and allowed him to put him through his paces in so undignified a manner. Owing to the king's delicate health in these early years, he had been permitted to run almost wild, with the view of strengthening his constitution by much open-air exercise and amusement. It was then scarce- ly expected that he would live to i ttain his majority — his thirteenth year. But it was his governor's opinion that his life was more in danger from poison than from bodily weakness. Vigilant, therefore, was the watch he kept over those who prepared the child's meals; while his shirts, gloves, handkerchiefs, and bed-linen were under the charge of the anxious mare- chal himself. Hitherto the king had received but little instruc- tion. His preceptor, Fleury, Bishop of Frejus, thought more of gaining his pupil's affection by excessive in- dulgence, than of cultivating his mind and training him in habits of industry. At La Muette — bought for him after the death of the Duchesse de Berri — there was a small plot of ground, named by Villeroi " His Majesty's garden," which was dug and planted wholly by himself. He had also a cow, which he milked and tended. But, more objectionable still, he THE KING'S PASTOHS AND MASTERS, 107 was allowed to mess about with saucepans and kettles, and prepare his ow^n broth and coffee. Like Louis XIII. he was fond of falcons, and was amused to see them pick to pieces the poor little live sparrows that were given them for food. Not that he was absolutely cruel. But he was of a sluggish, apathetic temperament; bored to death, even at this early age. The earnest viciousness of these birds of prey was a spectacle that roused him from his dreamy discontent; captivated his attention; therefore amused him. His natural insensibility pre- ser\'ed him from feelings of pain or pity at witnessing the struggles and sufferings of the poor little birds. Such feelings were reserved for himself when any mis- chance occurred to him. And the boy proved father to the man. It was a misfortune for Louis XV., as Madame de Maintenon observed, " that he should not have learned obedience as a subject before commanding as a king." But the system of education pursued by the govern- ess, governor, and preceptor appointed by Louis XIV., consisted in gratifying his every whim; encouraging every puerile fancy, without any attempt to inculcate moral principles or noble and generous sentiments True, he was taught to say his prayers regularly, and to attend mass daily: but the first was a mere exercise of the memory, and almost the only one imposed on it; the second, simply a matter of habit and routine. One can imagine that he had heard less of the good- ness of God than of the power of the evil one; for, like the two preceding Louis, he stood immensely in fear of his satanic majesty. When he was seven and a half years old the Du- chesse de Ventadour gave up her charge entirely into loS ^-^^ OLD rAgIME. the hands of the Due de Villeroi. The regent then appointed the Abbe Fleury confessor to the king. Though of the same name, the abb6 was not related to the Bishop of Frejus. He had been sous pr^cepteur to the Due de Bourgogne, the king's father, was now near eighty years of age, and for many years had been wholly devoted to literature. His " History of the Church" was long considered the best work that had been written on that subject, and its style, though un- pretending, natural and forcible. According to Vol- taire, the " Preliminary Discourses" were superior to the history, being "almost worthy of a philosopher." The regent said, ''he selected him to take charge of the king's conscience because he was neither Jansenist, Molinist, nor Ultramontain." He, however, lived in the palace secluded in his own apartment, his duties as confessor being too slightly onerous to interrupt his literary pursuits. It was cus- tomary for the little king, with his own royal hand, to scrawl out for himself a confession of the peccadilloes of which he considered he had been guilty. This was submitted, first, to the bishop, who, having revised it, sent it to the abbe. After looking over it, some words of exhortation were addressed to the youthful peni- tent, and absolution was given; it being an understood arrangement that no questions should ever be put to him. At about this time the celebrated preacher Massillon was delivering those eloquent discourses known as the "Petit careme." The young king was supposed to learn from them both his duty towards his people and what his own private conduct should be. The popularity of these discourses was immense. They had a vogue which sermons, as sermons, can scarcely THE PREACHING OF MASSILLON. 109 again hope to attain. " First, because" (says that able writer, M. Bungener) ''they lack almost entirely the Christian flavor, and are sermons as little as it is pos- sible to be. Throughout them there breathes a spirit of morality, pure and pleasing, but of morality only; of faith there is none. Secondly, philosophy abounds in them, and, as far as it goes, it is good and wise philosophy; but it is weak, and may with too much facility be made to adapt itself to the ideas, the inter- ests, the passions of the period." Voltaire is said to have invariably had the " Petit careme" lying beside him when writing. He speaks of its author as " the preacher who best knows the world. A moderate and tolerant philosopher." The philosophers of the new school, with Voltaire at their head, vaunted Fenelon and Massillon as being sharers in their opinions and views. The first for attacking authority, by attacking in Telemachus the vices of Louis XIV.; the second for teaching in the " Petit careme," and in the name of God, that authority emanates from the people. Like his famous predecessor Bourdaloue, Massillon did not excel in funeral orations. His great gift of eloquence seemed to fail him when lauding the imag- inary virtues of the dead. One sentence only became celebrated, "God alone is great, my brethren." They are the opening words of the funeral oration of Louis XIV., and were no doubt effective; those to whom they were addressed having accustomed themselves to be- lieve that the king alone is great. For as Massillon, in the course of his oration, remarked, " His subjects almost raised altars to him." During the last twenty years of his life, in the re- tirement of his diocese of Clermont, Massillon occu- IIO THE OLD REGIME. pied himself in revising his sermons; in improving and polishing their style; and, it is said, bringing them more into harmony with the philosophical ideas then prevalent. But whether or not, as they remain to us, they are models of eloquence. Those on true and false glory contain lessons that Louis XIV. no less than his successor might well indeed have laid to heart. An- other on ennui and its remedy, had its counsels been followed, might have spared Louis XV. many an idle hour of melancholy, and weariness of existence. If, as is sometimes asserted, all that these sermons contain of Christian doctrine is in the text, the rest being mere moral teaching; it must yet be confessed that it is moral teaching of a very high order, and that the world would be none the worse if this mere moral- ity, so ably taught, were more generally put into practice. Massillon was greatly sought after in so- ciety. Like so many of the academic forty, he was a frequenter of the salon of Madame de Lambert. His reputation was great as a man of genius; and, though inclining to the new school of thought, in urbanity and politeness of manner, he was a follower of the old court. He would never be drawn into a theological argument. De Richelieu on one occasion having put some malapropos question of the sort to him, he re- plied, " I am not in the habit of talking theology ex- cept in the pulpit, or in the confessional. You can come there." Massillon once preached in the Royal Chapel, in the presence of the young king, his governor, and the court, on the text, " Blessed art thou, O land, when thy king is the son of nobles." A text which, be it remarked, has little or no philosophy or Christian doctrine in it. However, the Due de Villeroi, who VILLEROrS DEVOTION TO HIS KING, m was not only devoted to his king, but also one of the most obsequious courtiers of the old school, was much affected by the text. Whenever the preacher, in the course of his sermon, repeated it, the old duke wept; his emotion increasing as the discourse proceeded. At last, after gazing on his king with a sort of rap- turous expression, as on some beautiful vision, while the words happy, etc., were pronounced, he, when they were concluded, pressed his aged hands on his eyes, bowed his head and sobbed. His king, mean- while, greatly in the sulks at the length of the ser- mon, and unable also to comprehend the cause of his governor's emotion, looked first at him, then at the preacher, with that air of proud defiance he had from his childhood, and frowned and pouted his disgust with both. Woe to thee, O land, etc., might then have been presaged. Yet one must feel pity for this orphan child — so lonely, silent, and melancholy. It is not surprising that he should have been reserved and shy, accus- tomed as he was from infancy to be hedged about with the same stiff etiquette as had prevailed in the old king's court. Doomed, too, to the companionship and care of those aged persons, with whom he could feel no sympathy, and who had no tie of relationship on him, to call it forth. He was fond of Fleury, who was amiable and gentle, and whose character inspired affection, far more than that of the fussy old Due de Villeroi, though Villeroi's vigilance was believed — and by Fleury himself — to have thwarted the designs that at one time existed against the king's life. He seems to have associated scarcely at all with the youthful nobility; who as court pages, or attend- ants of the Dauphin, were usually brought up with 112 THE OLD REGIME. royal children. The effeminate Due de Gevres, and Marquis de Sauvre were of the number. They were something older than the king, but their influence on him was an evil one, as was also that of the Due de Richelieu, some few years later. Young Louis, how- ever, was already a gambler, and expert at most games of hazard. No check apparently was, in this respect, placed on him, as he frequently staked con- siderable sums. He was also remarkably eager to win money, and very carefully hoarded his gains. But a circumstance occurred at this time, which temporarily occasioned the young monarch much pain and annoyance. There had been a short war wit^i Spain after the discovery and breaking up of the Duchesse du Maine's Spanish plot. The quarrel be- ing settled, the regent became desirous of marrying one of his daughters to the Spanish prince — Don Louis, Prince of the Asturias. To induce the king of Spain to lend a favorable ear to his proposal, the regent also suggested a marriage between the youthful Infanta and Louis XV., not yet twelve years old. Philip gave his consent on certain conditions, of a religious, or ra- ther theological character. Although "very French," and always yearning for his country — his possession of the Spanish crown never reconciling him to exile — Philip V. had, nevertheless, become a perfect Spaniard in bigotry. He was a fu- riously zealous supporter of the presumptuous pre- tensions of the Church of Rome to rule the conscience of mankind; and he could imagine no more pleasing spectacle to present to the foreign visitors at his court, who were of the fold of the faithful, than a brilliant auto-da-fe, for which there was always a supply of poor heretics kept on hand. THE BULLE UNIGENITUS. "3 This he thought infinitely better than the ordinary bull-fights. They are apt to inspire disgust, as well as feelings of pity for the sufferings of the animals engaged in them, when there is wanting in the spec- tator the Spanish enthusiasm that overrules all other feeling. But the burning of heretics had a soothing effect on the agitated mind of Philip. And in those good old times it was to many devout Catholics as the offering up to heaven of a sweet-smelling sacrifice, with the certainty, too, that it was looked upon there with favor. Philip's conditions, then, were — First, that the Bulk Unigenitus, which had for many years been the fertile source of dissension in the Galilean Church, should be unanimously accepted by the French clergy, and registered by the Parliament. Secondly, that the con- science of the young king should be confided to the direction of a Jesuit confessor — the good old easy- going Abb6 Fleury being required to resign. This second condition was easily complied with. The old abb6 was too far advanced on the journey of life to be troubled with worldly ambition. He gath- ered up his papers and parchments, and went his way contentedly enough. But the Bulief* Now, this Bulle Unigenitus had * The BulU Unigenitus, as most persons know, was issued by Pope Clement XI. in 1713. Its object was to condemn a small work, entitled " Reflexions Morales sur I'Evangile," published so long before as 1671. It was written by le P6re Quesnel, of the Oratoire. The work had had great success, had passed through several editions, and even had met with the approval of the great Bossuet. It was popular also with the Jansenists. This being the case, the Jesuits began to suspect, a new edition being called for after the death of Bossuet, that the work must contain some her^t- 114 "^^^ ^^^ REGIME. occasioned Louis XIV. infinite worry of mind during the last years of his life, and the clergy of France, high and low, had been kept in a continual ferment respect- ing it. Many had been the heart-burnings felt by bishops and archbishops, and doctors of the Sorbonne, as on the one side it was decreed to accept it, on the other to firmly oppose it. In short, the proverbial bull in a china shop, however viciously determined on overthrowing and demolishing all the crockery that came in his way, could not have committed more havoc and devastation than did this Papal Bull, in the destruction of harmony and good feeling amongst the clerical party and Catholics, good and bad generally, who composed the Galilean church. However, what Louis XIV., with all his despotic authority, could not accomplish; what the cardinal archbishop of Paris had refused the king on his death- bed — when he sent to request him to accept the Bull, and with the request made an offer of reconciliation — Dubois, influenced solely by ambitious views, under- took to effect. And he succeeded. The cardinal, for the sake of giving peace to the Church, and putting an end to the irritating theologi- ical doctrines. Disputes arose on the subject, which led to a revival of the Jansenist quarrels. Louis XIV. then requested the sovereign pontiff, Clement XL, to give his opinion of the work. After three years' consideration, the result was the famous Bulle Unigenitus, condemning loi of Quesnel's propositions. Among them was the following : " One should not be deterred from doing one's duty by the fear of being unjustly excommunicated." Of course no Pope could tolerate teaching so heretical as that. Le P6re Quesnel died, very poor and in exile, at near ninety years of age, about the time of Philip's demand that the Bull should be accepted in France, if his daughter was to be the queen of Loui? XV. THE MARRIAGE ARRANGED. ng cal quarrels which this abominable Bull had given rise to throughout France, consented to accept it. Yet he did not yield it a hearty consent, but merely allowed conviction to be forced on him sorely against his will. Other recalcitrant prelates, however, thought it right to follow the cardinal archbishop's example. If in the end it proved that the Bull had only been *' scotched," not killed, present purposes yet were served, and, above all, the worthy Dubois received his expected reward from Pope Innocent III. The archbishopric of Rheims was offered at this time to Fleury, with the intention of superseding him as preceptor; his growing influence with the king dis- pleasing Dubois. But Fleury, who had resigned the bishopric of Fr6jus for that appointment, now declined to give it up for the archbishopric. Titles, honors, and large revenues were no temptations to him. He loved power, no doubt; and as he was one of those who believe that to wait and watch for the object de- sired is often the surest way of obtaining it, the power he coveted, in due time, fell into his hands, when he quietly but firmly grasped it. Philip, however, was satisfied, and the regent had now but to announce to the young king the marriage arranged for him, and to obtain his consent to it. CHAPTER XII. The New Cardinal Archbishop. — An Unwilling Bridegroom. — A Sorrowful Fate. — The Chateau de Rambouillet. — The Ram- bouillet Manage. Bishop Fleury, preceptor; the Abbe Fleury, con- fessor; the Marechal Due de Villeroi, governor; and the Due de Bourbon-Conde, nominal superintend- ent of the king's education, were assembled in the great hall at Vincennes, the king being seated in his chair of state, to receive the regent. He entered accompanied by Dubois, whom he for- mally presented to the king. Then informed him that to the zeal of the Archbishop of Cambrai he owed the tranquillity of his kingdom; also the peace of the Church of France — the schism that had so long di- vided it being, by his earnest efforts, happily ended. "An important service indeed," he continued, " for which his holiness had rewarded the archbishop with a cardinal's hat." The king bowed, but made no reply. The old mare- chal stood beside him, as stiff, firm, and upright as the weight of his eighty years allowed. But neither he nor the Bishop of Frejus appeared to notice the inquiring glances directed towards them by the young king, when the regent had concluded his address. Accustomed to read in their countenances what eti- quette prescribed should be done, he supposed, as they AN UNWILLING BRIDEGROOM. ny gave no sign of life, that the right and proper thing was to be silent. The regent then entered on the subject of the mar- riage. Instantly young Louis' attention was roused. As the arrangements respecting it were explained to him, the poor boy's dismay increased. The idea of a wife filled him with terror. The etiquette always so persistingly enforced, he at once cast to the winds; and, jumping down from his chair of state, rushed to his preceptor. Leaning on his shoulder, and throwing his arms around him, he wept bitterly, and loudly complained of the unkindness of the regent. All present endeavored, in turn, to console their young monarch. He was assured that the marriage itself was a far distant event; that his assent to it only was required at that time. "Come now; come now, my master," said the old duke, coaxingly; "give your consent freely. You should do the thing with a good grace, my master." At length, after much expostulation, persuasion, and entreaty, the bishop obtained from him a tearful and unwilling "yes." A short but more gracious reply had been prepared for him, with the view of sending it to Spain, to gratify his uncle, Philip V. But he refused to repeat it, and escaped from his tormentors to indulge his sorrow in solitude. A council of regency was held the next day, for the purpose of receiving the king's announcement of his marriage. But his majesty's repugnance to matri- mony appears even to have increased in the interval. It was with difficulty he was prevailed on to attend the council; and when there, not a word of the mes- sage from the throne would he utter. Silently he sat there, poor child, the tears running down his face. Il8 T^E OLD REGIME. And his lot, no doubt, was then felt by him to be cruel indeed; sorrow of the heart in those early years is often very acute. At last the marechal was compelled to speak for him, and to inform the council of his majesty's intention to unite himself in marriage with the Infanta of Spain, etc., etc. Still it was necessary he should notify that the an- nouncement was made with his approval. He, how- ever, vouchsafed no reply to the question; and the council, like the regent on the previous day, had to be content with a reluctantly whispered utterance, supposed to be " yes." The exchange of the young brides-elect took place some months afterwards at the He des Faisans, where, sixty-two years before, was held the famous confer- ence between Mazarin and Don Haro, which preceded the marriage of Louis XIV. with the Spanish Princess Maria Th6resa. The regent's daughter, Mdlle. de Montpensier, was twelve years of age; the Infanta, Maria Anna Victoria only three. There appears to have been no ceremony of betrothal. The king would probably have stoutly resisted that, as an attempt to actually marry him. The little princess was taken to the Chateau de Rambouillet, about nine leagues from Paris, to be brought up there, under the surveillance of the Com- tesse de Toulouse, a sister of the Due de Noailles. The Comte de Toulouse, brother of the Due du Maine, had but recently declared his marriage with this lady. It seems to have been considered a mesalliance, though the Count was but a legitimated prince. At all events, Rambouillet was rather looked down upon by Sceaux — so far, at least, as the Duchesse du Maine, princess of the blood, was concerned. But the Comtesse was THE RAMBOVtLLET MANAGE. 119 younger and prettier, which displeased the duchesse. She was infinitely more charming, too, and without that great lady's pretension to the reputation of a wit and woman of learning. The park and forest of Rambouillet were of great extent; and as the king was already fond of the chase, he was a frequent visitor at the chateau. His youthful fianc/e was, no doubt, placed there on that account, as well as because the home of the Comte de Toulouse and his wife was one of conjugal fidelity and happi- ness, of which instances were rare indeed in the society of that period. CHAPTER XIII. Madame de Tencin. — Gambling at the Hotel Tencin. — A Ter- rible Reputation. — " Le Grand Cyrus," — "Le Comtc de Comminges." — A Delighted Audience. — Voltaire on his Knees. — Destouches and Marivaux. — Veteran Leaders of Society. — The Literary Menagerie. — Madame de Tencin's Suppers. — Up to the Ankles in Mud. — Fontenelle's Mistake. In the midst of fine gardens, adjoining the exten- sive ones of the h6tel of the wealthy financier, Samuel Bernard, in the Place des Victoires, there stood, at the time of the regency, a very handsome residence, known as I'Hotel Tencin. It belonged to Guerin de Tencin, Archbishop d'Embrun, and Charge-d'Affaires of the Church at Rouen. To these high ecclesiastical dig- nities Tencin had been recently raised by the new Cardinal Archbishop Dubois, whom the regent had made first Minister of State. Few are said to have shown less respect for the priestly character than Archbishop Tencin. But he was a man of consider- able talent, and his arguments had gone far to wring from Cardinal de Noailles an unwilling acceptance of the terrible Bull; therefore his election by Dubois. Madame Alexandrine Guerin de Tencin did the honors of her brother's hotel, and her salon was one of the most famous of the regency and early part of the reign of Louis XV. Imitating the great Cardinal de Richelieu in the salon of Marion de I'Orme, the Car- GAMBLWO AT THE HOTEL TENCIN. i^j dinal Dubois established his literary police in the salon of Madame de Tencin. This lady, so witty, so pleasing, receiving her guests so graciously, yet less with the air of the mistress of the house than with a certain graceful diffidence, as of a sister dependent on her brother, the archbishop, was one of the most finished of intrigantes. Destined from childhood for the cloister, she was brought up in the Convent of Grenoble, and entered on her novitiate at the usual age; but her repugnance to monastic life was so intense and persistent that, instead of taking the veil, she was allowed to leave the convent and become chanoinesse of Neuville, near Lyons. Soon after, she appeared in the fashionable world of Paris, and fig- ured very prominently at the Court of the regent, amongst such noted women as the Marquises and Comtesses de Prie, de Parabere, du Deffant, d'An- tragues, and others. As amie intime of Dubois, she had been the means of securing preferment for her brother, who had himself found favor with the regent, in the quality of political spy. Both brother and sis- ter, as well as their patron Dubois, had profited largely by the Systeme Law. There was yet another Hotel Tencin, with fine grounds reaching to the gardens of the Capucine Convent — the space now occupied by the Rue de la Paix. This was the property of Madame de Tencin, and before her brother's elevation her salon was held there. While Law was Comptroller-general, gam- bling went on at this hotel to an immense extent. For- tunes changed hands there more than once in the course of an evening, and in passing from one to an- other, a large share often fell into the lap of the lady who presided. 122 THE OLD JiACIME. She speculated largely, and risked her valuable shares in the Royal Bank, apparently with extraordi- nary recklessness; but her lucky star was always in the ascendant, thanks to the private information she received from headquarters. Montesquieu and Vol- taire were less fortunate when they yielded to the gen- eral allurement. This makes them so bitter when referring, not to Madame de Tencin, in whose salon they were often to be found, but to the famous Sys- teme itself. Madame was desirous of being reputed firm in her friendships, but a terrible enemy. The nickname of " nun unhooded " had been applied to her, and it was said that "were it to her interest to poison a friend, she would do it; but in the politest and gentlest way possible." Strange tales, too, were afloat of dark deeds done in her hotel. But we know that it was the fash- ionable mania of the beau monde of the regency to ex- aggerate its vices; as though the round unvarnished tale of its doings were not vicious enough. So that we are compelled to believe that that libertine circle, like a certain great potentate, was not so black as it was painted; and painted by itself. At all events, Madame Tencin was rich at the time now referred to. That would have absolved her, whatever misdeeds she had been guilty of; though society could in any case hardly cast stones at her — nor did it, for her salon was one of the most brilliant of the period. Like that of Madame de Lambert it was considered a salon of good literature; but more philosophical, more liberal. Montesquieu, Fontenelle, Le Marquis de Pont-de-Veyle, and his brother le Comte d'Argen- tal (the last two her nephews), were of the number of her guests. She had written some three or four short IE COMTE DE COM Af INGE S. 123 tales, or romances of a sentimental kind. All of them at the time of their appearance were favorably re- ceived, both by her own circle and by the fashionable world generally. "Le Comte de Comminges" had the greatest reputation. La Harpe has considered it not inferior to " La Princesse de Cleves" of Madame de La Fayette. Indeed, the writings of those ladies were bound up together in an edition issued in Paris in 1786 or 1787. Those who have dipped into those lackadaisical tales, will surely be of opinion that they are worthily unit- ed. One may be led on, if interested in the period, to wade through the ten portly volumes of Mdlle. de Scud6ry's "Grand Cyrus;" being certain that while accomplishing that feat, a considerable knowledge of the social life of the early half of the seventeenth cen- tury has been acquired, and acquaintance made with most of the celebrities of that epoch. But the sickly sentimentality of La Fayette and Tencin is too over- powering. Should a dose of it ever be taken, another of sal volatile, as a corrective, should always be ready at hand, for of volatility there is less than none in " Les Chagrins d'Amour," " Le Comte de Com- minges," etc. Nevertheless, the last-named story is said to have once had a singular effect on a crowded salon of ladies and philosophers assembled to hear Madame de Ten- cin read it. The lady, herself calm and unmoved, read on to the end of the tale, her well-modulated voice giving due emphasis to its heart-rending love passages; her audience, meanwhile, being profoundly silent. She felt the compliment and exerted herself to deserve it. As, w^ith deep pathos, she pronounced the last words, 124 "THE OLD REGIME. she raised her eyes from her manuscript, with an ex- pression of grateful thanks, expecting to meet those of her friends suffused with tears. What, then, was her astonishment, her indignation, to find that scarcely an eye was open ! The numerous assembly was for the greater part wrapped in peaceful slumber. The few that were not, were feebly struggling to keep open the lids that Somnus was gradually closing; or were endeavoring to hide with their handkerchiefs the shame of their irrepressible yawns. Amusement pre- vailed with Madame de Tencin over her first feeling of indignation; and, meanwhile, the cessation of the dulcet tones that had had so soothing an effect, to- gether with her ringing laugh, aroused the sleepers. "Charming story!" cried one. "Charming! Ma- dame de Tencin, it is truly charming," chimed in another. " Thank you," she said. " I shall re-christen this charming story and call on all present to subscribe to the propriety of its new title — * A Remedy against Sleeplessness.' " " Ah ! Madame de Tencin," replied Montesquieu, " I perceive that you are alluding to me. Allow me to assure you, allow me to persuade you, that if my eyes, as you may have remarked, were momentarily closed, they were not closed in sleep." " Of course not !" cried the rest of the company; " Madame de Tencin cannot think so." " Now, don't look incredulous. Believe me it was merely to allow the mind, by the exclusion of out- ward objects, to dwell upon and enjoy more com- pletely those exquisitely impassioned ideas with which you have endowed your hero, and the beauty of the language in which he expresses them." VOLTAIRE ON HIS KNEES. 125 " Of course !" again echoed the company. " Usbeck," * she replied, laughingly, " shall make it the subject of another Persian letter. He shall de- clare that it would have pleased him much, but for its overpowering effect on his eyelids. And let all here confess the same. Now confess, confess, and I will pardon you all, and the archbishop shall give you absolution. I except Fontenelle, his eyes were open, if his ears were closed. And so were those of my fair Haid^e, t though I imagine the Chevalier J worked that miracle." All the wits and rising literary men of the time were diligent frequenters of the salon of Madame de Tencin. Voltaire, of course, had gone on his knees to her. It was his habit, from youth to old age (Grimm says, "His breeches always bore marks of it"), to cast himself prostrate before beauty and wit, whether combined or separate. If either was wanting, he im- agined it present, as in those strange lines to Mdme. du Chdtelet: *• Ecoutez, respectable Emilie, Vous etes belle ; ains; done la moiti6 Du genre humain sera votre ennemie."§ A pure poetical fiction, and a ludicrous one to those acquainted with this colossal belle. Destouches, the dramatist, who had at least achieved * One of the personages of Montesquieu's "Lettres Persanes" — A satire on the regency. f The beautiful Circassian, Mdlle. Alss6. X Her lover, the Chevalier d'Aidye — Chevalier of the Order of Malta. § Listen, admired Emilie: you are beautiful, half the human race will therefore be your enemies. 126 THE OLD REGIME. one sensational success in his comedy of " Le Glo- rieux," was a constant visitor of this literary saloti. Marivaux also, 2^ protege oi Madame, ever torturing his wits to make a telling epigram of every sentence he uttered. To her efforts, in some degree, was owing a certain short-lived vogue which his pieces occasionally ob- tained. They are bombastic, and affected in style. Nevertheless, Marivaux evidently was an observer of society. His conceit and pretentiousness are scarcely less evident. Yet one may detect in his plays the pre- vailing feeling of the time, in the effort he makes to show that the reputed best sentiments of human nature are but vanity ; that those who put faith in them are the dupes of their own hearts; all that seem- ingly is so estimable in the character, so praiseworthy in the conduct, being a mere mask to conceal selfish ends. Madame de Tencin was particularly zealous in her endeavors to forward the literary and social career of those young men who made their d^but^ as it was termed, in her salon. It was a custom of that time for ladies who, in early years, had filled a distin- guished position in society, to seek to continue their influence beyond that melancholy period (in France the terrible fortieth year) when the last flickering gleams of youth and beauty are fading away. They erected for themselves a new empire, as it were — formed a new and attractive salon^ and as they ad- vanced in years, became the oracles of polite society. The youthful nobility and young men of fortune frequented their circles " to form themselves," as the phrase went; as also to amuse themselves. To succeed in the good graces of one of these veteran THE LITERARY MENAGERIE. \2J leaders of the beau monde, was to secure " a brevet of elegance, and knowledge of the world." Fran9ois Marie Arouet, so annoyed at not being bom a gentleman, as Voltaire* acquired in the salons the manners of one, and very early, "affected the gentleman of letters." There were others — Piron and Crebillon, for instance — to whom the tavern was a more congenial resort. The latter, rough and bear- ish; the former, witty, but of low, convivial tastes, and often launching an epigram at this fashionable world of learning. Equally would they have felt out of place in the elegant salon of Madame de Tencin, who was one of those women who took precedence in literary circles. Notwithstanding her sentimental novelettes, she was "»« bel esprit profond'* — far more vivacious and brilliant than Madame du Deffant, and having none of her real or affected fits of ennui. Singularly enough, however, Madame de Tencin gave her distinguished circle of wits and men of let- ters the name of the menagerie. Stranger still, she put her learned animals into a sort of livery. And they did not regard it, apparently, as infra dig. to accept from her every year, as their New-Year's gifts, three ells of velvet each, for new small-clothes. Be- sides, she gave them, three times a week, and all the year round, a splendid supper — a supper that was renowned, even in those days of recherche's petits-souperSy and pure, sparkling, and iced champagne. * The name of Voltaire is probably derived from a very small property — la ferme de Veautaire — in the district of Asni^res-sur- Oise, about ten leagues from Paris, aud which Voltaire inherited from a cousin ; changing Veautaire into Vokaire, for euphony's sake, when assuming the name. 128 THE OLD REGIME. Montesquieu and Fontenelle she distinguished as her " animals par excellence^ Fontenelle appears to have supped everywhere. He dined every Thursday at Madame de Lambert's, elsewhere probably on other days, and took his " English tea" (then beginning to be fashionable) in any salon where he found it intro- duced. He allowed nothing in the world to ruffle the placidity of his temper, and carefully guarded against any disturbing emotions. Once a friend died suddenly, sitting beside him. He quietly desired his servants to remove him, and there was an end of it. By thus preserving the even tenor of his life, he coaxed on a weak constitution, year after year, until he had eked out a hundred. He was already as deaf as a post, but it amused his mind to see what was going on if he could not hear; so that there was no more constant frequenter of the salons than " le vieux Fontenelle." The one misfortune of his deafness was, that he always fancied he or his works were the subject of conversation, and it was fatiguing to make him hear and believe that he was under a mistake. Mairan, being of the company assembled at Madame de Tencin's one evening, was relating a story of a peasant on a friend's estate who had greatly bewailed the death of a fellow-workman who had fallen into a ditch and was suffocated. " The mud was so deep," he said, " that it reached nearly to his ankles." " Surely, then," answered the master, " he could have stepped out of it, or you might have assisted him to do so." " Surely, as you say, I might," replied the man, " if he had not fallen into it head-foremost." The peasant's naive remark on his companion's mis- fortune raised general laughter. Fontenelle^ however, FONTENELLE'S MISTAKE. 129 very gravely said, " I perceive that M. Mairan is talk- ing of my works." This renewed the laughter. " My * Treatise on the Worlds ' does not please him, I suppose," he said, speaking very sulkily. La Motte undertook the task of explaining to him the subject of conversation; but, after vociferating for some time in his ears, scarcely convinced him that he was in error, and that his well-deserved reputation was by no means being called in question by the friends and the admirers of his genius, who then sur- rounded him. Had it been otherwise, he would not have allowed their censure to fret him, though he thought it right to make known his suspicions. CHAPTER XIV. Exuberant Joy. — Dining in Public. — Public Rejoicings. — Loyalty still Flourishes. — The Mar^chal de Villeroi. — When Louis XIV. was Young. — The Majestic Perruque. — A Grand Seigneur of the Old Regime. — Fireworks of the Eighteenth Century. — The Young King's Greeting. — The Grand Bow Louis XIV. — Villeroi Dismissed. — Un Abbe Elegant. — The Bishop Retires to Issy. — Coronation of Louis XV. — Death of Dubois. — Dubois' Immense Wealth. — Political Lessons. — The Regent First Minister. — Death of the Regent. There are crowds in the Rue St. Honore, in the Rue St. Antoine and the Place du Carrousel One might fancy that the whole population of Paris was massed together in that vast multitude pressing around the Tuileries and filling every open space near it. But the throng — and a joyous throng it seems — still is increasing; every narrow, winding street and crooked, dark alley of this dear, delightful, dirty, old city sending forth its contingent to add to the number. An Englishman well might wonder whence this swarming multitude came; where this vast assemblage of human beings found shelter. For Paris was never allowed to straggle, like London; in all directions, with its one or two-storyed houses. It had to shoot upwards, and as its population increased, to put story upon story to the extent of eight or ten. Some say, even one above that; perched aloft like a sky-raker above the gallant- top-royal sail of a big ship, and forming almost the only breezy dwelling-places old Paris could boast of DINING IN PUBLIC, I3I Evidently the disasters of the bygone year — disasters so great that even Dubois has been compelled to say, " Something must be done for the people" — have hap- pily been followed by an event of unusual interest; some alleviation of the penury that prevails; some promise of returning national prosperity, to call forth such general rejoicing. In the exuberance of their joy, there are some simple folks who warmly embrace any stranger they meet, as though suddenly encoun- tering long-lost friends. Many a pretty girl, too, you observe, as she passes along, is startled by an unexpected embrace from some gay, gallant fellow. Not seldom the pretty girl resents this freedom with a vigor that makes the offender's ears tingle, and deservedly draws upon him the laughter and witty jests of his companions. But it is a good-tempered crowd, brimful of life and spirits. The Caf6 Procope and Caf6 de la R6gence are both full of guests, and here, as elsewhere, all is gaiety and mirth.* But except at these cafes, and among the noisy itinerant vendors of cocoa, pastry, and sweets, little business is doing. Paris has heartily, and with its usual abandon^ given itself up to pleasure. But if the shops, for the most part, are closed, many of the shopkeepers have brought out their tables and chairs, and are taking their dinner al fresco, any friend chanc- ing to pass being pressed to sit down and share the meal with them. This open-air feasting is attended with difficulties, for side-walks exist not; the streets are very narrow, * These caf6s of the regency were the first caf^s established in Paris, and, like the London taverns of that date, were much frequented by literary men. 132 THE OLD REGIME. and slope down on either side towards the gutter in the centre. But the will to dine and be hospitable in public being there, the way to do so is, by some means, found out. '' Liber td, Sgalit^, fratei-nit^,'' generally pre- vail, and, practically, to a much greater extent than probably they will should those words, now flutter- ing on some people's lips, ever become the national motto. Uninterruptedly these public rejoicings have been going on for the last fifteen days. The Church has, of course, borne its part in them; preaching endless thanksgiving sermons, and chanting numberless Te •Deums. However, it is beginning to be the general opinion that there has been rejoicing enough. It is not wise to take an overdose, even of a good thing. So, in the evening, all is to terminate, with illumina- tions and fireworks, and a grand fete at the Tuileries Better than all, the enthusiastic peop'le are in hopes of getting just a glimpse of their king. The old duke — whose attachment to his youthful sovereign has secured for himself the attachment of the people — will no doubt bring him out on the balcony to gladden the eyes of his faithful lieges. As for himself, poor boy, the ceremonial, the etiquette, and the fuss that surround him, weigh like a night- mare on his spirits. He will neither appear in the balcony, nor be present at the fete if he can have his own way. He would rather be milking his cow, or digging his garden. Nature, indeed, seems to have intended that a spade should be put in his hands when Fortune, in her lamentable blindness, made the mis- take of handing him a sceptre. But the people, always so hopeful, are looking forward to the reign of Louis XV. for relief from those burdens which the THE M A RICH A L DE VILLEROL 133 regency was to have removed. His majority is nigh at hand. But a boy of thirteen cannot of course be exf>ected to take sole command of the helm of state; until he can do so, the people have faith in the guidance of Villeroi and Fleury. Philosophy as yet has appeared only in the salonSy where it is expanding under the fostering care of fine ladies. Loyalty still flourishes in France, and has found earnest expression in the enthusiasm with which the nation has celebrated the young king's restoration to health. Equally did it appear in the grief and anxiety generally exhibited while it seemed probable that his illness would terminate fatally. Ardent sup- pliants crowded the churches, and the nation cried to heaven, "Spare our king!" He is spared; and the reaction of boundless joy has followed the anxious fluctuations of hope and fear. As usual, suspicions of poisoning were rife. They rested on the head of Dubois, who had suggested the removal of the royal patient from Vincennes to more airy quarters at Versailles. The suspicion of an evil intention may have been groundless, but as he at- tributed only base motives to others, he could not complain if he himself was misjudged. Had the king died, it is believed that Dubois could not have escaped with life from the vengeance of the infuriated people. It is singular that neither the regent nor any member of the government contributed anything towards the expenses of the public festival. The Due de Villeroi, from his own private purse, shared them with the municipality of the Hotel de Ville, and even defrayed the cost of the oft-repeated prayers of the Church and the Te Deum. The old marechal. Due de Villeroi, un trh grand 134 TitE OLD REGIME, seigneur^ in his day, a very handsome man, and still (remember he has passed his eightieth year) of noble presence, is in manner a perfect specimen of the gal- lant manners of the old court. His father was gover- nor to Louis XIV., which was chiefly that monarch's reason for appointing the son, who was brought up with him, to the same post in the household of his successor. The old duke is not so contemptible a per- sonage as the slanderous pen of Saint-Simon repre- sents him. He is probably somewhat vainglorious, and his heart swells with a pardonable pride when he tells of that brilliant time when he and Louis XIV. were young. He perceives that a great change has taken place, but he perceives no improvement; and his views are, in that respect, shared by many. He, too, comforts himself with the hope that much good is laid up for France in the womb of the future. But his hope differs from that of the nation, in that it is based on his own constant efforts to train up his youthful charge in the traditions of the grand reign of the Grand Monarque, with a view to a return to the " Systeme Antiquaille." How keen was the dear old marechal's anxiety dur- ing the illness of young Louis, who it seems was suf- fering from a bad sore throat. (It would be called diphtheria in more enlightened days.) The marechal undertook the office of head nurse, and had the broths, etc., made only by confidential people of his own. Yet, with all his vigilance, Madame de Parabere con- trived to slip in and give the sick child some marma- lade, which appears to have really done him good. It was in grateful remembrance of this and various other surreptitious little presents of bonbons and cakes, that Louis XV. was always so gracious to Madame de THE MAJESTIC PERRUQUE, 135 Parabere; even when the court circle looked coldly upon her, because, having lost favor, places and pen- sions were no longer obtainable through her influ- ence. But the mardchal is now as jubilant as but a few weeks ago he was despondent; and in doing the honors of this grand fHe in celebration of the king's recovery, acquits himself with admirable grace. His wrinkled brow, erst so careworn, is now smooth, fair, and polished; a full score of years seem to have passed away from it. He would have liked to resume the ** majestic perruque of Louis XIV." — as De Tocque- ville, sighing over its abandonment, regretfully calls it. But he knows that the ladies would laugh at him, and the graceless young wits make epigrams on the majestic wig. So he contents himself with the paltry perruque of diminished proportions now in vogue; thoroughly powdered at the top, and the ends grace- fully tied up in a bag behind. And well it becomes his venerable, yet still handsome face. His velvet coat is elaborately embroidered, and the lappels of his long satin vest, the same. His ruffles and the ends of his cravat are oi point d'Alen^on of the finest texture. A diamond star forms the button in his hat, and his sword has a diamond-set hilt. Dia- monds fasten at the knee his puckered satin breeches; diamond buckles his red-heeled shoes; and the grand crosses of the Orders of the St. Esprit and St. Louis glitter in rubies and diamonds on his breast. Stately and erect stands the old marechal — a per- fect picture of a grand seigneur of the Old Regime. He leads the young king by the hand to look at the illuminated gardens, and the river lighted up by some hundreds of illuminated boats, ranged on either side 136 THE OLD REGIME. of the stream. "Artificial swans and other aquatic birds float on the water." " Several whales, launched from behind screens or sheds on the shore, spout fire as they enter the stream." A grand display of fireworks closes \\iq fHe. From drawings of set pieces used on this and other oc- casions, one must infer that the French pyrotechnists of that day excelled in their art. Yet facilities for doing so were few, compared with those afforded by the chemical discoveries and mechanical improve- ments of recent times. It is probable, however, that transparent paintings were frequently employed to form an effective centre to a border of fire. But what- ever they were, they gave immense satisfaction to the people, who, attracted by the object of the fete in question, came from far and near to see them. Never, perhaps, at any other period of his life, was Louis XV. so truly " the well-beloved " of the nation. How dense the crowd! What an interest the good people of Paris take in their king! Not only in the streets and in the vicinity of the palace; but at every house, heads, two, three, in rows, ranged one above another, peer forth from every window. The top of every wall is taken possession of, and the roofs of the houses are crowded. No slight projection where a foot can be placed, no piece of cornice which a hand can grasp, but finds some foolhardy enthusiast willing to risk life and limb to seize upon it — fortunate, in- deed, if the only result of his scramble be that he sees, what so frequently is seen by scrambling in a crowd — nothing at all of what he looked for. "There's the old marechal!" exclaim several voices; the closely-packed mass of human beings beginning to move excitedly. THE YOUNG KING'S GREETING. 137 "Ah! he's bringing us the little king!" is shrieked in a woman's voice. " Devil take the women! what are they doing here?" says somebody, striving to elbow the woman out of her place, in order to fill it more worthily himself. He sees that the marechal is leading the king into the balcony. Yes, both are there, hand in hand, representing the threshold of life and the brink of the grave. Louis is a handsome boy; rather small for Ills age, as was Louis XIV., who, from about his thirteenth year, sprang up apace — as this boy, probably, will do. He looks well in his white-plumed hat and embroidered blue velvet dress. His beautiful hair flows in its natural curls, unconfined by black riband and bag, and free from the starch-powder with which old and young are now so lavishly dusted. His jewels and grand crosses make a glittering show. He wears, you perceive, the " Sancy" in his hat. Its scintillation is wonderful, as the flickering lights in the balcony and the gleams from the illuminated trees fall upon it. The people greet their young monarch with hearty enthusiasm. The air rings with a cry of delight from thousands of voices. It is, doubtless, a gladdening sound to the heart of the old duke. But its sudden- ness and wildness startle the child. He seems to be appealing to his governor; then, advancing a step, raises his hat with much grace. (Villeroi has taught him the grand bow Louis Quatorze.) Louder, far louder than before, is the people's re- sponsive burst of joy. The duke drops the king's hand. Louis, released, seizes the opportunity of escaping, with a rush, from the terrible din. Though somewhat disconcerted, the duke turns with a benig- I3S TttE OLD REGIME. nant air towards the admiring multitude, and, with a certain dignified condescension, that should surely atone for the want of ceremony in royalty's departure, raises his hat, bends slightly forward, then decamps to discover the hiding-place of his king. The king has taken refuge in the Salle des Gardes, and is reposing in a chair in a quiet corner. The noise and excitement of the almost delirious multi- tude surrounding the Tuileries so agitated him that he was seized with giddiness in the head. He de- clared " That he couldn't stay there." However, he was sufficiently himself again in the course of half an hour to gratify the earnestly-vociferated prayer of the frantic people that the marechal would again gladden their eyes with a sight of their king. Yielding, there- fore, to these coaxing words — " Master, dear master ! come now, show yourself just for a moment, only one moment, to your good people of Paris, who love you so much, and are so longing to see you !" — he gave his hand to his governor, stepped out on the balcony, and received the reward of his condescension in an- other uproarious ovation. Not long after the Marechal de Villeroi had given so signal a proof of his loyalty and attachment to the young king, he was dismissed to his government. His exaggerated fears lest the king should be poisoned, made him unwilling to allow even the regent to see him at any time, unless he were present at the inter- view. The regent, much annoyed, resented this, and insisted on his leaving the apartment. Later in the day, an officer arrived with a lettre-de-cachet, when, to his extreme mortification, the old duke was obliged at once to step into the carriage waiting for him, and pro- ceed to Bayonne — there to remain until further orders. THE BISHOP RETIRES TO ISSV. 139 The Due de Charost was appointed to succeed to the post of governor. But the king took Villeroi's departure greatly to heart. Whatever he felt, he rarely exhibited any violent emotion. On this occa- sion, he laid his face against the back of a chair and silently wept. He would not eat, he would not speak. When entreated to go out, or to amuse himself in some way, he refused, and remained awake, weeping and sobbing, the whole night through. Still further to increase his distress, he learned the next morning that his preceptor also had left. Between the duke and the bishop there existed a friendship of very long standing. It dated indeed from the time when Fleury — a remarkably handsome man, with a fondness, which with excellent taste he ever retained, for ladies' society — was favorably re- ceived as "un add/ /Ugan/" and a desperate flirt, in the boudoir circle of Madame de Villeroi. She was con- siderably younger than the duke. But of course her flirting days were now over. Not exactly (so scandal whispered) were those of Fleury. Yet though he did not now flirt with the duchess, they remained very firm friends. It was probably, therefore, as much for her sake as for the duke's, that, at the time of their ap- pointment as preceptor and governor, he had entered into a mutual promise with the duke that if either was dismissed from his post by the regent, the other should resign. Consequently, as soon as the duke was exiled, the bishop hastened away to his little estate at Issy, thence intending, probably, to send in his resignation. He took no leave of his royal pupil, as he may have fore- seen that the separation would be but a short one. And just so it proved. Louis regretted his fussy, but I40 "m^ OLD REGIME. kind old governor; but Fleury, so amiable and esti- mable, if far too indulgent, had stood towards him in the place of a parent, and had gained his affection as such. His grief, his despair, was so great when in- formed that he was absent, and did not, it was sup- posed, intend to return, that he was pacified only by the immediate despatch of a messenger to Issy, with a letter from himself, requiring the bishop immedi- ately to come back from Vincennes. Of course he did not refuse obedience to the royal command; and friendship — even for an old flame — could not have asked it of him. The preceptor was received by his pupil with open arms, and with signs of joy more evident than had ever been observed in him before. The Due de Charost took the oppor- tunity of making himself agreeable to the young king, by appearing to share in his joy, and the banished duke had the mortification of knowing that he was not so necessary to the happiness of his king as he had fondly supposed. The regent, from his mode of life, had become more and more indisposed to be troubled with cares of state. Therefore, shortly after he had roused himself to resent with so much harshness, though naturally disposed to leniency, the foolish suspicions of the old marechal, he appointed Dubois first minister — in fact, gave up the regency into his hands, that he might be more fully at liberty to devote himself entirely to his pleasures. From the despotic manner in which the cardinal immediately began to exercise his newly- acquired power, it was very soon perceived that his ambitious aims were not yet satisfied; and that he would not scruple, in order successfully to realize them, to sacrifice the regent himself. DEA TH OF DUBOIS, I4I On the 26th of October, 1722, Louis XV. was crowned at Rheims, with much pomp and ceremony. Comte d'Argenson, at this time, compared him, in ap- pearance, to Cupid. Yet Cupid enveloped in a gold- embroidered ermine-lined mantle of state, with the crown of Charlemagne on his head, and bearing a sceptre and "hand of justice," would surely be rather overdressed — his usual costume being so scanty; rarely anything more than a pair of wings, a quiver full of arrows, and his bow. Dubois made a great figure on this occasion; taking his place in the cavalcade amongst the highest nobles in the land. On the 22d of February following, the king, being then thir- teen years and twelve days old, a lit- de-justice was held, and he was publicly declared of age. Dubois, it would seem, needed only opportunity to prove himself capable of greater things than hitherto he had been supposed to be. The regent's power at an end, he gave promise of becoming a most able minister of state, and desirous of adapting his con- duct to the dignity of his position. But a long course of dissipation had undermined his constitution, and he died on the loth of August, 1723, in his sixty-sev- enth year, a few hours after enduring the agony of a painful operation. He either refused the sacraments of the church, or on some frivolous pretext eluded partaking of them. The wealth amassed by Dubois, during his short tenure of power, was enormous. Besides a large sum of money in his strong box, he possessed costly fur- niture, and a quantity of gold and silver plate of the most artistic workmanship; precious stones of rare beauty and value; sumptuous equipages, and (then most envied of all, by the nobility) the largest and 142 THE OLD REGIME. finest Stud in France. Rich abbayes and lucrative ap- pointments and places, both civil and ecclesiastical — lavishly bestowed on himself — brought him an im- mense revenue, in addition to his large pension for promoting the political views of England with refer- ence to France. He had, doubtless, dreamed of living yet many years to enjoy this vast wealth, and of out- vying, in ostentatious splendor and the magnitude of their power, both Richelieu and Mazarin. This was at a time when the State, still suffering from the ruinous results of the " Systeme Law," could neither pay the salaries of its officers, nor the annui- ties of its pensioners. But having provided liberally for himself, Dubois had some project in petto, which was to restore the credit of the government, and grad- ually to refill its coffers. Meanwhile, he had very judiciously arranged, for the instruction of the young king, a series of what may be termed political lessons. They took place at Versailles, three times a week; and, to impress upon him their importance, a certain etiquette was pre- scribed for them. An arm-chair was placed for his majesty at the centre of a table. On his right sat the regent; on his left Monsieur le Due. Opposite, on a folding seat, sat Dubois, the Bishop of Frejus on one side, the Due de Charost on the other, also seated on folding chairs. But it was difficult to awaken an interest in so dry a theme, in the mind of a youth who had not been trained in habits of application, and who was besides indo- lently disposed. He listened to the subject laid before him with an air of lazy resignation to his fate, occa- sionally glancing at Fleury, as though seeking in his benignant face consolation and sympathy, to enable THE REGENT FIRST MINISTER. 143 him to hold out to the end of the session. He asked for no explanation, yet gave no signs of understand- ing, or indeed of heeding the questions discussed. Nevertheless it is probable that the political acumen which he is said to have exhibited in after years, when amusing himself with his secret diplomacy, may have been acquired at this time. The regent, according to some writers, regretted Dubois, others say that he jested when he heard of his death, exclaiming, " So the devil has carried off my jester at last!" But his own health was in a very pre- carious state, his face had become of a purple red, a sort of stupor often overcame him, and his head was bowed forward on his chest. Everything so disgusted him, that he was scarcely capable of either fretting or jesting. He, however, assumed Dubois' post of first minis- ter; made an effort to reform his mode of life; and, in order not to set a bad example to the young king, who now sojourned more frequently at the Tuileries, he even, we learn, went so far in his reform as to con- tent himself with but one maitresse-en-titre, Madame d'Antragues — in the Roman states, Duchesse de Fa- lari. She was the wife of a financier, to whom Cle- ment XI., for some service of a financial nature, had given the title of Duke. But the excesses of the petits-soupers still went on, and the regent drank the usual quantity of his favorite vin d'Ai. His physicians warned him that dropsy or apoplexy would be the result of his intemperance, "Not dropsy," he said, "it is too lingering; death stares one in the face too long, and I had hoped to meet death from a cannon-ball on the battle-field." And a death as sudden was granted him. Sitting be- f44 ^-^^ ^^^ REGIME. side the Duchesse de Falari, he suddenly exclaimed, " Madelon ! Madelon ! — save me !" and fell dead at her feet. No physician was at hand. A lackey in attendance opened a vein with a penknife; but the regent never spoke more. As he had desired, death's shaft had been swift and sure. Thus passed away, in his forty- ninth year, Philippe Due d'Orleans — a man of great abilities, amiable disposition, and much personal fas- cination; but whose shame or misfortune it was to disbelieve in the existence of virtue, and thus to be- come a corrupter of the morals of tne age, by the evil example of a depraved life and the parade of atheistic principles. The young king regretted the regent, and always spoke of him with affection; and many of those who most lamented the criminal weakness of his character were nevertheless his sincerely attached friends. CHAPTER XV. Monsieur le Due— Taking Time by the Forelock.— The New Limits of Paris.— The Street Lamp Invented. — Dark Streets of Old Paris. — Crossing the Gutters. — What became of the Children. — The Liveliest City in Europe. — Shopkeepers' Sign- boards.— The Lieutenant of Police.— The Terrible " Damn6." — Police Espionage. — A Keeper of Secrets. Building in Paris, beyond certain limits, had been rigorously prohibited during the last reign. An incli- nation to expand beyond them had been resolutely checked by the decree of 1672. The old walls were then thrown down, and the space assigned by the great Louis as the extreme fixed boundary of the city and its faubourgs was defined and planted. Thus far, and no farther, should the good people of Paris be allowed to extend their dwellings. Upwards they might rise — as far as Heaven's portal, if they could reach it; but not a foot nearer the sacred precincts of Versailles should they be allowed to approach. During the regency the prohibition was not strictly enforced. Probably it was looked upon as altogether obsolete, when, most unexpectedly, the edict was re- newed at the instance of the Due de Bourbon. M. le Due was now first minister, though possessing no especial capacity for the post. He was without expe- rience, and known only for his rancorous hatred to- wards the Due du Maine, and the deep interest he had taken in the Systeme Law. He had supplanted the duke, and by the Systeme had added to his slender 146 THE OLD REGIME. means some two or three millions of livres; he also raised the amount of a small income to a very hand- some revenue by exchanging Law's paper for fine es- tates. There was a ferocity in his disposition that yielded only to the influence of his mistress, Madame de Prie, who governed him absolutely. Having a fancy to govern France also, she de- spatched her lover, as soon as it was ascertained that the regent was actually dead, to seek the king, in order to request for himself the vacant post of first minister. The young monarch, who was engaged with his pre- ceptor, was greatly embarrassed by the request, and consulted the countenance of Fleury for his answer. But the bishop neither by word nor look expressed approval or disapproval. His face wore its usual calm and benignant expression. His eyes remained half closed, as though but partly awakened from a comfortable snooze, and desiring only to renew it. The king may have understood this as a nodding as- sent, as he at once, without speaking, nodded an affirmative to M. le Due's application. Most conveniently, the commission was ready, merely requiring to be filled up; possibly it had been intended for Fleury himself. However, it was signed on the instant, and the Due took the customary oath; then departed to congratulate his pretty mistress on the triumph of their coup-de-main, and on her wisdom in advising him to take time by the forelock. It had been thought probable that the Due de Char- tres, the regent's son, might, on his father's death, be roused from his devotions by ambition and the desire of succeeding to his post. But the young duke (he was now twenty-four) continued, as Due d'Orleans, to lead the same life of seclusion, Some years before^ THE NEW LIMITS OF PARIS. 147 seduced by the regent's example, he had temporarily shared in his and his roues' excesses. But, disgusted by their extreme licentiousness, he withdrew from the court, and led the life of a penitent, controlled entirely by Jesuit priests. The death of his father produced no change in his conduct or views. He could scarcely, however, be considered sane, being under the influence of some extraordinary delusions. The wits gave him the name of " D'Orleans de Ste. Genevieve." In what way neglect of the restrictions on building beyond the old limits of Paris concerned M. le Due or Madame de Prie does not appear. But as self-interest was the guiding star of both, it may be imagined that the value of property belonging to one or the other was jeopardized by it. That which, owing to laxity during the regency in respect of new buildings, had already been done by those who sought quietude and a breath of fresh air — then only obtainable in Paris in the gardens and grounds of convents and the hotels of the nobility — could not be easily undone. New limits were therefore marked out and planted, soon after Louis XV. was declared of age — and Paris was allowed to spread, some hundred yards or so, in the various directions already built upon. Paris at this time — 1724 — was noisier and dirtier than in the preceding century. The streets had no names affixed to them until 1729. Some unusually conspicuous signboard, a neighboring convent, or the hotel of a grandee, served to distinguish those which were less generally known than the streets specially inhabited by certain trades — such as the Rues de la Tisseranderie, de la Ferronnerie, Quai des Orfevres, etc. Numbering the houses was not attempted for many a long year after; but every house had a sign 148 THE OLD REGIME, of some sort, which answered the purpose of a num- ber. In 1745 the Abbe Matherot de Preguey invented the street-lamp. Until then, an occasional tallow candle, placed in a lantern and suspended aloft some twenty- five feet above the roadway, was the only light the municipality vouchsafed to guide the footsteps of be- lated citizens over the marshes and quagmires of the dusky streets. And even these candles, however far they might throw their feeble beams, and shine, as Portia says, like " a good deed in a naughty world," could not always be depended upon. They were often puffed out when the wind was strong; and sometimes a thief (in the candle) guttered them out. The com- pany of lantern-bearers was not then thought of, much less established; so that, unless the midnight wanderer had his own private lanterns and bearers, as many per- sons had, or carried a lantern himself, what a sad pre- dicament he must have been in ! To heap the agony still higher, imagine the rain coming heavily down. That, of course, would put out the candles. Some one, perhaps, may reply, " No one in his senses would, in that case, go out on foot." True; but rain often comes on unexpectedly. Paris, too, was becoming exceedingly old. Many of its di- lapidated wooden houses with plastered fronts — datmg not less than two hundred years back — appeared to be on the point of falling. With every fall of rain there came crumbling down a portion of this frontage — to the great danger, and frequently great damage, of passers-by. Deaths from street accidents were not un- frequent. But they were little heeded by the police, and rarely was any enquiry made concerning them. The danger was increased when darkness and rain CROSSmc THE GUTTERS. 149 came on; the more so as the only means for carrying ofif the rain from the house was by projecting spouts from the roof and from every story. These numerous cascades formed together a powerful cataract, while the central gutter would often be swollen into a rapid rivulet, or even a river, carrying before it the accumu- lated dirt of months. In the daytime several planks fastened together would be thrown over the stream, forming a sort of rude and ready bridge. Where these were not placed, there was no help for either lady or gentleman indisposed or unable to wade across, but to be carried over the stream on the back or in the arms of some dirty, sturdy fellow, always in waiting, and willing to perform this service for two or three sous, Boileau Despr6aux, in his " Embarras de Paris," had little praise to bestow on the gay city in 1660. Du- fresny and Montesquieu, sixty years later on, in the same satirical vein, make their Siamese and Persian speak no less unfavorably of it. Saint-Foix, Duclos, Mercier, Barbier, and other writers, even to the dawn of the revolutionary times, take up the theme in a similar strain. To be freed from squalor and pestilence — to become, in its outward aspect, a cleanly, healthy city, as well as, socially, a rich, gay, and delightful one — monastery walls had yet to be demolished, and the rule of the Bourbon kings of France to end. Notwithstanding, the population of Paris had in- creased. But, as observed by the Marquis de Mira- beau (father of the great orator, who had so many schemes for regenerating France, but not one for man- aging his household), what became of the children ? — so few of them ever were seen. The mortality 150 THE OLD RAgIME. amongst children was, no doubt, fearful in those pent' up streets, where every noisome trade was carried on with impunity; one of the most thriving, and as offen- sive as any, the tallow-chandler's, being everywhere in full work. Still, few young children were seen, be- cause all who could afford the expense had their infants reared in the country. The necessity for doing so then, if the parents studied their health, originated the cus- tom that yet survives, though the necessity for it has passed away. But the population of Paris was often considerably increased by immigrants. What names, anything but French, are now borne by some of the old families of France ? — Italian, German, Polish, English, Irish, Spanish. There was something attractive in the old city, in spite of its many shortcomings; and those who settled in it speedily became Parisians, both in their habits and feelings. On Sundays and fete days they left the close streets, and took their pleasure in the various gardens and places of amusement beyond the city limits, or barriers. The air is light and stim- ulating there. It has a pleasant effect on the spirits, similar to that of good champagne, only far more abiding. The sight of the offensively dirty streets by day, their gloom and danger at night, might well have deterred intending settlers from taking up their abode in them, and have repelled foreign visitors from Paris. But from the time of the regency foreign visitors flocked to it, and it was reputed the liveliest city in Europe. One must remember that the nights were not always dark; that a torrent was not always rushing down from the tall, dilapidated dwellings, or a gulf stream SffOPXEEPERS' SIGNBOARDS. 151 always rolling through the grand central gutter. The silvery moonbeams sometimes peered down into the ins and outs of the nine hundred mazy streets, invest- ing them with an air of mystery and romance. The numerous signboards had then a singular effect. Many, indeed, were not boards at all; but figures of men and women and animals, or of such objects as- the trader dwelt in. St. Anthony and the pig, at the pork-butcher's, was a frequent and appropriate sign, rudely carved, or brilliantly daubed. But whatever the sign, it was thrust as far as possible from the house, every shopkeeper striving for prominence. In the flickering light of the moon these signs — for instance, some tall, stately "Justice," with scales, denoting that good weight and good measure were dealt out there; some dignified St. Anthony; "the good woman," without her head; or a cavalier with drawn sword — often proved objects of terror to the timid, and to those who were strangers in the land. They were the continual cause of squabbles, though with little or no result, between the tradespeople and the police; their intrusion on the narrow space of the streets often making it difficult for carriages to pass each other. One feels almost surprised to hear that there was a police, the need of reform being so glaring, and the utter neglect of every means for effecting one, equally so. Yet the police was a very respectable force, as far as numbers went; highly trained too, and remark- ably vigilant. The head of it, the Lieutenant of Police, was always a man of distinction. To fill the post with ability, no ordinary qualifications were needed; and generally the right man seems to have been found for it, and to have acquitted himself of 152 THE OLD REGIME. his duties con amore; the changes being fewer in this office than in any other in the government. But of all who filled the post of Lieutenant of Police, the man whom nature seems specially to have destined for it was Marc Rene, Comte d'Argenson. He was appointed to succeed La Reynie, in 1699, by Louis XIV., and held the office until 17 18, when he resigned. The system of secret police organized by him (his thousands of invisible agents being of both sexes, and of every station of life) was considered so perfect by his able successors, Herault, Berryer, Sartines, Le Noir, and De Crome, by whom it was continued until the eve of the Revolution, that they could find nothing to add to or take from it, that did not in some way mar its perfection — so cleverly, wheel within wheel, was it regulated, like a wonderful piece of mechan- ism. Saint-Simon asserts that there was not a resident in Paris, of whose habits and most private affairs d'Ar- genson could not obtain the fullest information at a few minutes' notice. His face was so repulsively ugly that it might with propriety " have belonged to one of the judges of the infernal regions." It made him a terror not only to evil doers, but by the sobriquet it obtained for him " Le Damne," served also the nurses for frightening fractious, naughty children into being quiet and good. It was that fearful scourge of humanity, the small- pox, which had made such havoc of d'Argenson's face. One would not be surprised to learn that he was ty- rannical. For to become so disfigured as to be an object of disgust or terror to one's fellow creatures, is enough to turn sour every drop of the milk of human kindness, however abundantly it flow in th;2 breast. POLICE ESPIONAGE, 1 53 But this model Lieutenant of Police was one of the kindest, most considerate and humane of men; ex- tremely witty and amusing also, and much sought after in society. One can imagine, however, that he was more feared in the salom than loved. He had numerous anecdotes generally to relate, always of nameless persons. And it is said, that he sometimes chose this way of putting people who were present, and who would understand his allusions, on their gfuard against an injudicious freedom of speech. There was no functionary of the State who possessed so much real power as the Lieutenant of Police; and it does not appear that it was ever materially abused by any one of the six men to whom it was successively confided from 1699 to 1789. Yet, at the best, this wonderfully organized system of police was but an elaborate political and social espionage which could be tolerated only under a des- potism. It was a prying into family concerns; a peer- ing into private letters, even tracing the mysterious course of amorous intrigues, rather than the seeking out of crime and the adopting the readiest means for preventing or punishing it. It is true that while diving into the concerns of per- sons who were accused of no crime, or gathering up in caf/s and private salons stray words indiscreetly uttered (of no import probably at the time, but which were docketed and stowed away for use, if wanted) the secret agents sometimes stumbled on other mat- ters, of which it might be desirable their chief should be informed. But on the whole, the working of Comte d'Argenson's vast and intricate system, served less to further the ends of justice, to maintain good order in the city, and to afford protection to the in- 154 ^-^-^ ^LD REGIME. habitants, than to furnish a pleasant dish of scandal for the amusement of his majesty every morning. Louis XIV. delighted in it. The regent cared not for it; he gave too much cause for scandal himself. But young Louis XV., whom it was of course neces- sary to initiate in the mysteries of the secret police, was beginning to show a taste for reading other peo- ple's letters, and learning, thus surreptitiously, the private sayings and doings of the court and society. Yet there were secrets that both d'Argenson and his successors kept religiously, as it is termed, that is, locked up in their own heart of hearts. For they were merciful men; their large experience having taught them the weakness of human nature, and especially the weakness to which poor woman is prone. So, as long as she did not interfere in politics, ai.y other secrets a fair lady might have were safe in the keep- ing of the Lieutenant of Police. CHAPTER XVI. The Palais Royal Gardens. — Married, but Unattached, Couples. — Que voulez-vous ? C'est la Mode. — Le Haute Bourgeoisie. — Ennobled Bourgeoises. — Summer Evening Strolls. — The Chestnut Avenue. — Expulsion of the Infanta. — Supplanting the Bishop. — The Regent's Daughters. — Mdlle. de Verman- dois. — Portrait of Louis XV. — The Infanta. — The Rambouillet Circle. — Marie Leczinska. — The Bishop of Fr6jus. — The King's Preceptor. — The Royal Bride. — The Young Bride- groom. — The Queen's Dowry. How poor, how tawdry, the most brilliant illumina- tion of the trees of the Tuileries and Palais Royal, compared with the silvery lustre of the moonlit gar- dens, on a soft summer night ! How delightful to saunter in that avenue of grand old chestnuts. The sky so intensely blue, the air so clear, that every glit- tering star seems to hang by an invisible thread from the vault of heaven. It was on nights like this, and in these same gar- dens that, eighty years ago, Anne of Austria (who with the child Louis XIV. and Cardinal Mazarin, then lived in the Palais Royal) used to promenade from midnight till two in the morning, chatting and laughing with the ladies and gentlemen of her house- hold. Some alterations have been made in the interval, both in the palace and gardens. The regent who, notwithstanding his lamentable excesses, was a man of much taste and culture, has left a very fine collec- 156 THE OLD REGIME. tion of pictures and objets d'art, as well as a museum of natural history. His pious successor, whose ele- vated notions of religion lead him to set a good ex- ample to his household, and to seek the favor of heaven for himself, by crawling from his rooms to his chapel, on his knees, is scarcely capable of appreciat- ing the treasures of art he has inherited. The regent also enlarged and replanted the gardens, and built that fine conduit house which supplies the fountains both here and at the Tuileries. How the falling drops and the feathery spray spar- kle in the moonlight ! One might fancy them a shower of diamonds, outvying those that glitter and flash in the ladies' dresses, and in the gentlemen's too — for there is a very grand company here. For- saking the theatres and the salons, the ladies order their carriages, and, escorted by their amis intif?ies, drive hither in the calm summer twilight, to gossip and flirt under the broad spreading trees. But when the moonbeams light up the scene, the fashionable promenade is thronged, and often the evening saunter is extended far into the night. No lady has the bad taste to appear here with her husband. What would the world say to so bourgeois- like a proceeding? The gentleman himself would be highly amused at the idea of dancing attendance on his wife. He has, of course, other engagements; just as she has — metal more attractive elsewhere. Should one of these fashionable, married, but unat- tached, couples meet, perchance, in the course of the evening, it will appear that they are on excellent terms. Note the ceremonious politeness with which they exchange smiles and bows; surely it leaves noth- ing to desire. Even should it happen that the hus- QUE VOULEZ-VOUS? C EST LA MODE. 157 band of the lady is escorting the wife of her own ami intimcy the spectacle only becomes more interesting. From the formal courtesies of the ladies, and pro- foundly low bows of the gentlemen, they seem to say, " I wish you much joy of so pleasant a companion," and, pleased with the thought, pass smilingly on, each couple exchanging significant glances when it turns its back on the other. " Can such things be and over- come us," etc., somebody exclaims. Mais! Que vou- Itz-vous t Cest la mode. Fashion, as all the world knows, is a tyrannical sov- , ereign who has dethroned good taste without secur- ing a firm grasp of its sceptre. But for good or for . evil, in manners or dress, or whatever pertains to ' social life, the decrees of fashion, cost what it may, ' must be obeyed. In the matter of dress, what sacri- \ fices are not the slaves of fashion willing to make to \ their deity! If a decree go forth that the fair sex, fat and thin, put themselves into paniers^ or gigantic bakers'-baskets, whose modern equivalent was the recently-discarded balloon-like crinoline— how readily do old and young, rich and poor, hasten to obey. If again, as in the present day, a kind of amphibious party-colored garment, or ^^ detni - culotte with a mer- maid tail," be the costume prescribed for general wear, immediately the requisite amount of immoral courage is mustered up, and both the obese and the scraggy, the tall and the short, appear in our streets thus — to say the least — unbecomingly arrayed. At one time it was the fashion to be timid and nervous, and to have fits of the vapors; to cultivate a fastidious and over-strained refinement of speech, amounting to affectation. At another, the younger ladies are dauntless, daring, and afraid of nothing, and 158 THE OLD REGIME. affect the slang of the stable. However, let it pass, c'est la mode; a change will occur by and by, and, it may be hoped, for the better. But a truce to these sage reflections. Ere we grow melancholy, we will return to the company in the gardens. A decree of 1720 forbade the bourgeoisie to wear diamonds, pearls, or other jewels, or to use either gold or silver plate; it was hoped that they would exchange these superfluities for shares in the Royal Bank. The decree has been but little regarded, you will observe. There are ladies here of the haute bourgeoisie who, not only in refinement of manners, but in elegance and richness of toilet, might well be ranked with the most distinguished of the nobility. Indeed, several have lately been promoted to the honor — if honor it may be termed — of marrying into noble houses. For the Systeme Law, without having actually ruined them, left many old French families in circumstances 80 extremely embarrassed, that, as it was customary to say, " They were compelled to fatten their estates" —in other words, retrieve their losses by marrying the heir of the encumbered estates to the richly en- dowed heiress of a wealthy bourgeois. There was nothing that derogated from the dignity of the noble in such an alliance — the high descent of the family shedding its lus|;re on the bride, effacing the stigma of her plebeian birth, and conferring nobility on her children. The ennobled dames bourgeoises, of course, are en- titled to avail themselves of the privileges of the ele- vated class into which they have been so graciousl)'" received; and very readily they do so. Instances have been known of their having gambled away, in a very SUMMER EVENING STROLLS. 159 short time, all the wealth brought by marriage into the husband's noble family — the " ami intime' securing a very fair share of it. But when bourgeoise marries bourgeois you will rarely fail to meet her enjoying a quiet walk, or a country ramble, with no other " inti- mate friends" than her husband and children. On calm summer evenings, all who are not too weary and toilworn — for it is a hard-working city no less than a gay one — leave their close, noisome dwell- ings, and come to these gardens — or to those of the Tuileries; to the Place Royale; the boulevards (the Champs Elys6eswere not then planted), and wherever any open space occurs, to refresh themselves with a stroll in the cool evening air. The French look so much at home when sitting out-of-doors, in their pub- lic gardens, or outside their ca//s. One can scarcely wonder that casual visitors from a country whose peo- ple are of a less expansive nature, and in whom the social instinct is much less developed, were long under the delusion that the French had no idea of a home, and of that mythical thing the English call comfort. The close quarters in which, by royal edict, a cen- tury and a half ago it was enacted that the inhabitants of Paris should dwell, no doubt induced the habit of congregating on every opportunity wherever a breath of the fresh air of heaven could be had. It led also to the rapid increase in the number of caf/s which took place at that time, and superseded the taverns, formerly the resort of literary men. Now, with the exception of a few, who, like Piron and Crebillon, prefer wine and beer to coffee and cocoa, they are frequented only by a noisy company of a very inferior grade. l6o THE OLD REGIME. At the period now in question the garden of the Palais Royal is an exceedingly attractive one, well laid out and planted, the trees generally fine, and the chestnut avenue in full beauty. It is the promenade especially favored by the beau monde. There are seats here and there, and all fully occupied. A numerous company saunters up and down, and there is an im- mense deal of talking and laughing. Conversation is carried on in no very low key, though all are aware that the watchful eyes and the listening ears of the Lieutenant of Police and his myrmidons are always and everywhere open. " Remember, that wherever you are, there am I !" said Herault, d'Argenson's suc- cessor, to one whom he warned in private of the danger of being indiscreetly communicative in public. But when and where since that remote time when Eve, our first mother, flourished, was it ever known that restraint could be imposed on the tongue of any one of her daughters inclined to prattle ? The theme now on every lady's lips is the expulsion, as they term it, of the young Infanta and the king's possibly ap- proaching marriage. It is discussed, too, with won- derful freedom, as are its originators, M. le Due and Madame de Prie. We learn from these ladies, so in- dignant, apparently, and all so eager at once to ex- press an opinion on the subject, that the young Infanta, now in her seventh year, has been sent back to Spain. This step has been taken suddenly and abruptly. But by way of soothing the wounded feelings of her pa- rents, orders were given that the discarded little prin- cess should receive on her journey home the honors due to a queen of France. The reason alleged for her return is similar to that conveyed to the Emperor Maximilian in the message SUPPLANTING THE BISHOP. i6l of Charles VIII., when he sent back to Vienna the little Austrian princess to whom he had been be- trothed in his childhood, and who also had been brought up in France. He was twenty-two, he said, and desirous of marrying, but thought a bride in her twelfth year too young for him. (His choice had fallen on a princess of sixteen, Anne, reigning Duchess of Brittany, the duchy by this marriage becoming annexed to the French monarchy.) This probably is the precedent of which M. le Due and his mistress availed themselves when, with the view of displacing Bishop Fleury, his influence being paramount with the young king — now in his fifteenth year — it occurred to them that by marrying this youth to a princess of their own selection, they would be able to supplant the bishop and rule the king through her. The Infanta had nearly reached the Spanish capital before the king and queen were aware of her departure from France. Letters announcing it were forwarded to the Abbe de Liviy-Sang^in, French Ambassador at Lisbon, with orders to pass over to Spain and deliver them to Philip V. The Abb6 is now returned to Paris, to make report of the kind of reception he met with at Madrid. Secrets will ooze out, and the Abba's story, which M, le Due would fain have suppressed, is the principal theme of conversation this fine June even- ing with every sauntering group in the gardens. *• The Abbe wept," says one. " He threw himself at the king's feet when he made known the object of his mission." "Of course he did," is the reply; "it is but the or- dinary etiquette." " Yes, but weeping is not. And the king, when he knew how great an affront had been put on him and 1 62 THE OLD REGIME. the Infanta, wept himself. He has but lately left the monastery, as you are aware, to resume the crown of Spain, the Pope, on the death of his son from small- pox, having absolved him from his vow of abdication. He was so deeply moved that he refused to receive the letters from the Abbe. The queen was sent for. The letters were delivered to her, and she read them with much emotion. The Abbe declares — I had it from himself — that he was heartily ashamed of his mission, and surprised that the bishop did not prevent it." " Chut, chut r exclaim the more discreet listeners. But the well-informed oracle continues: " De Livry was ordered to leave the king's presence, and to quit the country without delay. All Frenchmen in Spain have had orders to do the same." "And where is Mdlle. Beaujolais, the betrothed of Don Carlos ?" " She is coming back; the marriage is broken off. Her sister, the young widowed queen, is with her. They have proved themselves worthy daughters of the regent. Philip sends them both out of Spain in the same carriages and with the same escort that served for the ignominious expulsion of the Infanta from France." " Have you seen or heard of the Marquise lately ?'* enquires one lady of another, in an undertone. " Ma chere, she is scouring the country in search of a queen of France." " I heard that she had been to Fontevraud, and was very haughtily received there." " Yes, she fancied that Mademoiselle de Vermandois, though five years older than the king, might answer her purpose as queen. But the marquise met with ?. rebuff that not only upset her plans, but disconcerted PORTRAIT OF LOUIS XV, 163 her greatly. The princess expressed much surprise that her brother's mistress should presume to visit her. When M. le Due heard of it, he got into one of his amiable tempers. * Let her then,' he said, * remain where she is, and rule the nuns of Fontevraud.' " "But Fleury?" " Fleury declines to interfere in any project of mar- riage; but it is certain that no marriage will take place of which he disapproves." "And the king?" The reply is a general laugh. Somebody has even the hardihood to whisper — "Timide, imbecile, farouche. Jamais Louis n'avait dit mot; Pour tonner il ouvre la bouche. Est-ce un tyran ? Non, c'est un sot."* The ladies are indignant. The young king is de- clared to be the handsomest youth in France. He has grown wonderfully during the last two years. His health is more robust, and he gives promise of being the handsomest man in his kingdom. " Losil du rot" — a deep sapphire blue — is beginning to be a favorite color with the ladies, outrivaUing bleu de del. The portrait of Louis XV. by J. B. Vanloo, who painted Louis XIV. in his old age, is that of a noble- looking youth. The artist would willingly have painted a flattering picture, but found that the nearest approach he could make to a faithful copy of his model would be the nearest approach to physical beauty and *Timid, imbecile, and sullen, Louis has not spoken once. Now he lifts his voice in thunder. Is he a tyrant ? No, a dunce. 164 THE OLD REGIME. the best proof of his skill. There is grace in the atti- tude of the youthful king, and an air of command. It is a well composed and very pleasant picture. Though still diffident and silent among persons with whom he is little acquainted, the king's manners at this period are much improved. He is far less brusque; but, owing to his natural shyness, appears most to ad- vantage in the small social circle of the Comtesse de Toulouse, where his extreme reserve disappears. It is at Rambouillet that he has acquired a certain courtly ease and chivalric bearing, which may well entitle him to the appellation " perfect gentleman," while they induce many sanguine persons to expect great things from him when a few more years shall have passed over his head. What a pity that the bishop, who at any moment could dismiss M. le Due from his post, should have allowed him and his mistress to send away the In- fanta. She was a wonderfully observant little maiden, and her remarks were astonishingly shrewd for so young a child. She quite understood that she was to be a queen, and seemed sensible of the dignity of her position. Her fiancS very seldom took notice of her. Excessive timidity restrained him from evincing any great empressemenf, either towards her or ladies gen- erally. He is, indeed, as yet, so little gallant, that he usually avoids le beau sexe. But when he becomes the object of attentions which fair dames already are anxious to pay him, he is remarkably polite and def- erential. Fleury's own indolence and love of ease have en- couraged the similar tendencies of his pupil. It is to be feared, that until actually compelled by force of circumstances to use the great power he holds in his MARIE LECZmSKA. 165 hands, he will make no attempt to put it in action, either for his pupil's or the country's benefit. He is as fond of the Rambouiilet circle as is the young king himself, whom he usually accompanies on his weekly visits to the chateau. The bishop is very socially in- clined, and very witty, and the tone of the society he meets in the salon of the comtesse greatly pleases him. The Comte de Toulouse, who has seen some naval service, is of less studious habits, perhaps somewhat less pious, but decidedly of more genial temperament than his brother Du Maine. The count has an only son, the Due de Penthi^vre, some years younger than the king. The domesticated, bourgeois-like life of the count and countess, and their attachment to each other, provoke the mirth and ridi- cule of society. Nevertheless, they are greatly and generally esteemed. Fleury may have hoped that in their society the king would fall into similar tastes and habits. To a certain extent he has done so, and the dissolute young nobles now lying in wait in the hope of leading him into libertine courses, will probably find considerable diflSculty in goading him into vice. But, meanwhile, what has become of the marquise? She is a wonderful woman of business, the daughter of a financier, and on very intimate terms with one of the brothers Paris-Duvernay, who assists her in gov- erning the State. There are rumors that she has at last found a queen who has been accepted at a "privy council;" that Fleury has not objected, and that the king, finding he cannot escape matrimony, has quietly submitted to his fate. The rumor proves to be fact. M. le Due summons the Grand' chambre, and Louis XV. announces his I66 THE OLD RMIME. marriage with Marie Leczinska, daughter of Stanis- laus Leczinski, ex-king of Poland. What an outcry! what a general disappointment! " The daughter of a poor fugitive Polish noble, living in obscurity on a small pension from France, to be preferred to an Infanta of Spain !" Had she been of a more suitable age, it would have been some consola- tion. Surely, say the ladies, there are young prin- cesses in Europe, of fifteen or sixteen, from amongst whom a more appropriate choice might have been made, than of this Polish lady in her twenty-third year, to share the throne of a boy-monarch not yet sixteen! "Madame de Prie never did look to con- sequences," it was remarked. But why should the king accept a bride of her selection ? Is it really true then, as whispered about, " That this handsome boy is little better than a fool " ? And is Fleury also a fool? He had, it was sup- posed, but little ambition. He was seventy-two years of age, and not particularly active, though by .no means infirm. But so far from being a fool, he was a man of talent and considerable culture, unless he may have been considered one for his persistent refusal of high ecclesiastical dignities, because of his unwilling- ness to take upon himself any fatiguing or responsible functions. His bishopric of Frejus he resigned with as little delay as possible; much to the regret of his clergy. For by his economy, and conciliatory spirit, which — as remarked by Voltaire — were the predomi- nant parts of his character, he had done much good in his diocese. He gave, as a reason for resigning, that the s^tate of his health (which was generally good) did not permit him to discharge satisfactorily the duties of his office. THE KlNG^S PRECEPTOR. 167 The real motive appears to have been the distance of Fr6jus (near Cannes) from the capital, and its un- attractiveness, at that period, as a residence. "As soon as he saw his wife," he said, " he was disgusted with his marriage." In a letter to Cardinal Quirini, he signed himself, " Fleury, Bishop of Fr^jus, by the wrath of God." His friend, Villeroi, suggested to Louis XIV. his appointment as preceptor to his youthful heir. Fleury, however, would have willingly declined it, but was not permitted. The bishop seems to have been in some degree im- bued with the pleasure-loving spirit of the age; though far too courtly to accept the philosophical ideas that were slowly gaining ground in society. His delight was in witty conversation, and piquant badinage with the ladies in the salons; but like Massillon, he declined discussion on theology. He was very fond of children; and at Rambouillet the little Infanta, who was much attached to him, used to sit on his knees while he told her fairy tales. Such was the man who for ten years had been preceptor to the king, who, on his part, con- fided in, and loved him both as a parent and a friend. Fleury had, doubtless, his reasons for consenting to, or, rather, not opposing, the marriage of his royal pu- pil; therefore, the Polish princess became Queen of France, notwithstanding the generally expressed dis- approval of the nation. Perhaps no one was surprised at this unlooked-for elevation so much as poor Stanis- laus, her father. More than one version has been given of the manner in which he received the news of this freak of fortune in his favor — for Marie Leczinska was scarcely asked in marriage; Stanislaus was informed merely that she was accepted. He is said to have kept this fine piece of news a secret for some days; to have 1 6^ THE OLD rAgIME. revealed it cautiously, fearing its effect on his wife and daughter. Another, and more probable story, is that he no sooner knew it than he rushed into the room, and, with true Polish impetuousness, exclaimed, " On your knees ! on your knees, and thank God" — himself setting the example. " Recalled to Poland ?" they cried, excitedly. " No, no ! far better — far better ! Marie is to be Queen of France !" She was married by proxy at Strasburg Cathedral on the 15th of August, 1725. The king's miniature, set in diamonds, had been presented to her; his beauty and manly appearance highly extolled, and a glowing account set before her of the pleasures awaiting her in France. But the intense misery she witnessed on her journey — petitions and appeals meeting her at every town and village, an inconceivable amount of wretchedness being then general in the provinces — so deeply affected her that she prayed on her arrival that, instead of expending money on fetes, relief might be sent to the suffering people. The public purse was very empty just then, and lit- tle money to be had for either fetes or charity. The royal marriage took place on the 4th of September, and there was but scant rejoicing of any sort. The young bridegroom was immensely bored, and annoyed at the part assigned to him — so greatly did he dislike appearing prominently in public. The bride was far from being beautiful, but she was fresh and fair, and looked younger than she was. Her figure was grace- ful, and she was gentle and amiable. The bishop was kind, and appeared well satisfied (he was already aware that he had no feminine rival to fear), and Louis was therefore resigned. The ladies, of course, found much to criticise in their new queen, and laughed exceed- THE QUEEirs DOIV/^Y, 169 ingly at her bourgeois French, which she had acquired from an illiterate waiting maid. Madame de Prie became Dame du Palais de la Reine, and having succeeded in placing Marie Leczinska on the throne, was now looking forward to the speedy expulsion of the bishop and a long usurpation of power for herself and M. le Due. This marriage, at the time so generally disapproved, eventually added a fine province to the kingdom — the Duchy of Lorraine. Since the marriage of Anne of Brittany with Charles VIII., no previous queen had brought a dowry of equal value. A stipulated sum of money, only partly paid, or not paid at all, had been the usual marriage portion of the foreign prin- cesses who became queens of France. CHAPTER XVII. Sledging at Versailles. — La Dame du Palais. — The Queen's Se- cluded Life. — Piety of the Queen and King. — The Sound of the Hunting Horn. — The Good Old Days. — The Rain and the Sunshine. — Intrigues of Mdme. de Prie. — The Bishop Re- tires to Issy. — A Domestic Tempest.— A Scene at the Theatre. — Two Lettres-de-Cachet. — Paris-Duvernay. — Fortune's Wheel Moves Round. — An Old Normandy Chateau. — Death of Ma- dame de Prie. The winter of 1725-1726 was of extreme severity in France, and distress and suffering were frightful in the provinces. Many of the lesser nobility worked as hired laborers on lands they had once owned, and starvation and disease prevailed amongst the peasan- try. The financial difficulties of the State were in- creasing, and the pressure of taxation was so great that murmuring was rife throughout the country, and it was found difficult to collect the imposts. But neither the rigor of the season nor the penury of the exchequer was an evil that seemed to be felt at Versailles. There, the clear crisp air rang with merry laughter; with the jingling music of silver bells; with the sound of the swift pattering feet of small fleet horses, that appeared almost to fly with joyous parties of sledgers, over the ice-bound earth, the frozen lakes, and ornamental waters of the park. Polish fashions had become the rage; and the weather was well suited for the warmly-lined polonaise of vel- vet and fur, the furred casquette, and furred Polish LA DAME DU PALAIS. ljr| boots, which the queen had brought into vogue with the sledges. Every courtier had his richly ornamented sledge. The king and queen, with the ladies and gentlemen of the court, amused themselves greatly, while the novelty of this exciting sport lasted. The queen first appeared in a sledge formed like a sea-shell. It was supported by Tritons, and rose-crowned cupids were grouped around it. Two fiery little steeds were at- tached by embroidered crimson leather harness, from which hung innumerable tinkling silver bells. The shell was lined with crimson velvet, and had cushions of the same. The king and queen, enveloped in rich sables, passed thus equipped through the park of Ver- sailles and over its frozen waters. The courtiers were not slow to follow their example; but sledging did not survive its first season. Among this gay throng, none was more brilliant than Madame de Prie, none more triumphant than M. le Due; for on none did the queen smile more gra- ciously. She regarded them as her own and her father's benefactors, as entitled to her warmest gratitude, and to such favor as her influence with the king might be able to obtain for them. The dame du palais^ mean- while, sought to strengthen this feeling, by her con- stant endeavor to please the royal lady she had raised to the throne; and, thus, insinuated herself into her confidence and secured her affection. The king had now entered his seventeenth year, and had been six months married. Though evinc- ing none of the enthusiasm of boyish love, he ap- peared, in his apathetic way, to be pleased with his pleasant- tempered, gentle, and unassuming bride. Intellectually, Marie Leczinska was not highly 1^2 THE OLD REGIME. gifted, and her education had been but a scanty one; she spoke French fluentl)/ enough, but as an unedu- cated person. It was the despair of the academician, Moncrif, a great purist, who was her reader and in- structor in the French language. She did her best to overcome the faults which, uncorrected, had grown into habits, but never quite succeeded. The king, who spoke, when he made up his mind to speak, with perfect correctness, and with a certain elegance of dic- tion derived from his preceptor, was often amused by the expressions used by the queen, and the singular and unusual sense in which she employed many words. He, however, found her society sufficiently interesting to induce him to saunter away in her apartments a few of the many idle hours that hung so heavily on his hands. His visits to Rambouillet continued as usual, but it would seem that the queen did not ac- company him thither. She lived in nearly as much seclusion as when dwelling in her obscure home at Weissenburg. No grand public /^/^^, no court revels, had celebrated the marriage of Louis XV. Not many persons could then remember the public entry into Paris of Louis XIV. and his Spanish bride, and the festivities that followed. But tradition told of their splendor and exaggerated it; and the pleasure-loving Parisians, comparing the imaginary past with the reality of the present, believed that the old state of things must have been better than the new. The queen had been reared in the most superstitious observance of the outward ceremonies of religion. Her great kindness of heart prompted her to indul- gence and forbearance towards the fair but frail ladies of the French court. But had she possessed judgment and sufficient strength of mind to suppress the devotee THE SOUND OF THE HUNTING HORN. 173 and, while conforming in some measure to circumstan- ces, to play more conspicuously, and with some spirit, the part of queen ; her influence would probably have effected a reform in the manners of the court — when, as a penitent constantly on htr prie-dieu, or shut up in her oratory, she inspired only sneering pity, or the profane laugh. The king never omitted morning prayer, mass, and confession. There his religion ended. These duties performed he went to his gardening, or his turning. The latter was a new accomplishment, and he had succeeded in it remarkably well — making very present- able snuff-boxes from pieces of the roots of trees. But nowhere was he so free from ennui as at Ram- bouillet. A lively and youthful company was usually assembled there. Politics and affairs of State were subjects prohibited in the salon of the Countess. A word or look from the Count at once put an end to them, if, perchance, either designedly or otherwise, such topics seemed likely to be brought, or to cjlide, on the carpet. But the chase in the forests of Rambouillet was Louis' favorite diversion. The sound of the hunting horn, the baying of the dogs, the impatience of his steed for the sport, all delighted him. They dispelled the languor and inertness that usually oppressed him, and which arose from a singularly indolent state of mind rendering him wholly incapable of sustaining an interest in any pursuit or amusement, unless ex- citement were kept up by continual movement and change. When weather permitted, the ladies joined these hunting parties, arrayed in blue and green riding-dresses, with lace cravats and ruffles, and hats ^ la mousquetaire or a la Garde Fran^aise. 174 THE OLD REGIME. At a certain shady spot in the forest, a substantial luncheon was always laid out, servants having been sent on before, with hampers of wine and provisions, to prepare this feast of all the good things in season. They were pleasant repasts. The exhilaration of the chase, the fresh, bracing air, the champagne, the ban- ter, jokes, and gay talk, moved even the moody young king to brightness and laughter. Usually there was a dance on his return to the chateau; then thd it t Anglaise ; followed, by and by, by supper; for this was especially an eating and drinking age, as well as a singing and dancing one. Sometimes, after the dancing, just a little gambling took place; for Louis liked, and ex- celled in, both. And if it was a moonlight night, there was often a riding party home — well armed, of course; for there was a chance of encountering the famous highwayman Cartouche and his brigand-band; just as in the good old days in merry England. But while young Louis XV. and his court were amusing themselves, distress in the country was in- creasing. The populace of Paris and its faubourgs were crying for bread, and every necessary of life had become scarcer and dearer. Prayers were daily offered up in the churches, and priestly processions paraded the streets. The silver shrine of Ste. Gene- vieve was, by order of the Parliament, carried through the city by barefooted priests intoning prayers, and followed by a bareheaded multitude, who invoked the intercession of the saints. Alas! neither prayers nor processions availed. No manna descended from heaven. "What fools they are with their shrine!" exclaimed Madame de Prie. " They know not that it is I who make both the rain and the sunshine." Forthwith the INTRIGUES OF MDME. DE PRIE. 175 order is issued to bring into the market the grain (obtained chiefly by exaction) which had been hoarded up from the moment that the probability of a scarcity was foreseen. It is offered now to the hungry people, at prices that put money into the purses of the minis- ter and his mistress. This is the sunshine she sheds on the starving populace. Murmurs loud and deep reach the ears of Fleury, and petitions are addressed to the king through his hands. Madame de Prie, the bishop informs M. le Due, must be dismissed from the court; her influence and interference in public affairs being prejudicial to the interests of the State. The lady is highly incensed. " It is not she who will leave the court, but the bishop who shall receive his cong/.** The partisans of each do their best to eject the other. Madame de Prie and M. le Due feel sure of the victory. Have they not the wealthy finan- cier, Paris-Duvernay, to support them; also the queen among their partisans? But Fleury is not to be drawn into a struggle for power with the mistress of M. le Due, whom he has suffered for a time to be his locum tenens. He allows them to work out their own down- fall; and it is not long delayed. Yielding to the wishes of his preceptor that he would give some attention to the affairs of govern- ment, the king was accustomed to spend a short time in his apartment daily, engaged there with his first minister; the bishop being always present. When the public business was disposed of, M. le Due withdrew, much to his annoyance; for the king remained to write, or to sign, under the bishop's direction, any documents relating to ecclesiastical affairs — the bishop having the independent charge of Church matters. It occurred to the duke and his mistress, that as the 176 THE OLD Rj&GIME, king was more bored by these morning sittings than interested in them, he might be enticed to hold his conference with his minister in the apartment of the queen. Her majesty and her dame du palais could then amuse him; while the minister, occupying himself with the State's concerns, would make no demand on his sovereign's attention — the bishop, of course, being presumed to be absent. The queen consented; her friends assuring her that it was a most necessary and advisable course. The king was indifferent to this change in the council chamber. But the bishop though neither in- formed of it nor invited to attend, yet did not fail to appear as usual, to assist his pupil with his advice. It was determined to exclude him. The duke's opin- ion was not asked on ecclesiastical affairs; the bish- op's should not be accepted on secular ones. Ac- cordingly, when next he presented himself, entrance to the queen's apartments was refused him. He with- drew, but said naught. His royal pupil noticed his absence, and, like the bishop, uttered no remark. He was always sparing of his words, and very rarely in- deed carried away by feeling to forget the lessons of dissimulation which, as a necessary part of the educa- tion of kings, he had thoroughly mastered. The sitting ended, the king seeks his preceptor. He is not to be found. He has left Versailles. " Finding that his majesty has no further occasion for his services or his advice, he has retired to Issy" — to that little country house that may be called the bishop's boudoir J for thither he always betakes him- self when, not choosing to complain in words, it pleases him to assume the boudeur. Now is Louis XV. roused, for the first time in his A DOMESTIC TEMPEST. 177 life, to play the absolute monarch and the indignant husband. His deepest feelings are his great rever- ence and almost filial affection for bishop Fleury. He learns, on further enquiry, that his preceptor has been treated with disrespect; the attendants in* the ante-room of the queen's apartments having denied him entrance. His anger is extreme. M. le Due, whom he already disliked, strives vainly by excuses and apologies to appease him. With his own hand he has at once to sit down and write the king's com- mands to the bishop to return to Versailles; adding pressing entreaties from himself (for he foresees a storm gathering over his head) that he will make no delay. The queen is reproached with a vivacity that none hitherto had thought the king capable of, while she replies only by tears to her incensed young hus- band, whose displeasure is by no means subdued by her weeping. This domestic tempest, originating in a palace intrigue, was discussed with much interest in courtly salons. It raised the vain hopes of would-be candi- dates for the post of mattresse-en-titre. It was the sub- ject of conversation with all who dwelt at Versailles. "I remarked," says Voltaire, "that this domestic difference made a deeper impression on people's minds than the news of the war, which was afterwards so calamitous to France and to Europe. There was much agitation and questioning; vague and mistrust- ful replies. Some desired a revolution; others feared it; but all were alarmed." Baron was to play Britannicus that same evening at the Palace Theatre. Voltaire was there when the king and queen arrived — an hour later, he says, than usual; the queen's eyes showing evident traces of re- 178 THE OLD REGIME. cent weeping. The popular repugnance to the king's marriage was not yet overcome, and when, in the course of the play, the words — *' Que tardez-vous, seigneur, ^ la r6pudier ?" * were pronounced by Narcissus, almost all who were present, we are told, turned their eyes on the queen, to observe the effect on her — a curiosity more indis- creet than malicious. On the following day, Fleury returned to Versailles. He took no advantage of this opportunity of reveng- ing himself on his opponent, and uttered no com- plaint whatever. He was, in fact, the head of the State, and with that he was content. Very soon after, however, the king when setting out for Ram- bouillet, where he had bought a small chateau or hunting seat, invited M. le Due to pass the night there, and to hunt with him in the morning. He desired him to follow without delay, that he might not be kept waiting for supper. But no sooner had the king left Versailles than the Due de Charost, ex- governor, and now Capitaine des Gardes, entered the apartment of M. le Due, and, delivering a letter from the king, arrested him. Having received his sword, an officer of the guards was summoned to convey him to his place of exile, which in this case, was a very pleasant one — his father's residence, the Chateau de Chantilly — there to remain during his majesty's pleas- ure. An order to retire to her estate of Courbe-Epine in Normandy, was at the same time delivered to Madame de Prie. Regarding this merely as a temporary * Why do you hesitate, my lord, to discard her? PARIS-DUVERNA Y. 1 79 eclipse, she took her departure from Versailles in very good spirits. To bear her company during the sup- posed temporary retirement, Madame du Deffant ac- companied her. Having quarrelled with both her husband and her ami intime^ she chose to share her friend's exile until she could make up her mind to which of them she would be reconciled. The wealthy Paris-Duvernay, who had assisted the State in the arrangements consequent on the failure of the Systeme Law, was lodged in the Bastille for a time. The king also summoned a " Conseil extraor- dinaire," to inform his ministers that he, and not the financiers, would henceforth be the head of the State, and that business would be transacted in the apart- ments of M. de Fleury. That he, in fact, now sixteen- and-a-half years old, was about to reign, and his pre- ceptor, at seventy-three, to govern. The Duchesse d'Alincourt succeeded to the vacant post of dame du Palais de la Reine. The beautiful, and lately married, Duchesse de Boufflers, grand-daughter of Mar6chal de Villeroi, and afterwards Duchesse de Luxembourg, was another of her ladies. The queen was informed of these changes, in a letter from the king, also that the orders of M. de Fleury were to be obeyed by her as implicitly as his own. She sub- mitted, of course, and with good grace; abstaining en- tirely for the future from any attempt to interfere in affairs of State. Yet she appears to have been really displeased with a change which the nation, generally, greatly approved. Fleury would not accept the title of first minister. All power was, however, in his hands. After the disgraceful administration of such men as the infamous Dubois; the incompetent M. le Due, ruled by Madame de Prie and Duvernay, the French l8o THE OLD REGIME. people hailed with delight the accession to power of one in whose wisdom and justice they had confidence; and under whose auspices they looked for the return of order in the government and some respect for mo- rality and decency of manners. A cardinal's hat, which, owing to the intrigues of M. le Due, had been for some time withheld, soon after made its appearance, and Fleury received it from the hands of the king. When the cardinal, wearing the insignia of his newly-conferred dignity, presented himself for the ceremony of thanking the king, the young monarch affectionately embraced him in the presence of the court, and, as Duclos remarks, openly expressed as much pleasure as the new cardinal probably inwardly felt. And thus the tables were turned, and fortune's wheel moved round. A few persons went into exile, and many were recalled from it. The old Marechal de Villeroi again visited Paris, to die in peace there in his eighty-eighth year. The legitimated princes were reinstated in all the privileges of which they had been deprived, except the right of succeeding to the throne, and the little Duchesse du Maine was made happy again by this triumph. When Madame de Prie heard of these changes, and — which affected her most — that she was dame du palais no longer, she comprehended that henceforth the favor of the queen could avail her nothing, and that she would be received at Versailles no more. Intense grief, the madness of despair, took possession of her mind. Pilon, M. le Due's physician, was sent for. He supposed her to be suffering from the com- plaint then in fashion with fine ladies — a nervous attack, vapors being superseded by nerves. He treated DEATH OF MADAME DE PRlE. \%\ her as a malade inuiginaire; of disappointed ambition he knew naught. Nor could he have ministered to a mind diseased, had he even had the discernment to suspect the existence of that malady. And so the once brilliant Madame de Prie — "a heavenly creature," according to d'Argenson; "wily as a serpent, beautiful, but not so harmless, as the dove," say others — pined away in her old Normandy chateau. And a living tomb, indeed, it must have been in those days — especially to one fond of splendor and power; one from whom France had accepted a queen of her choosing, and who for nearly three years had ruled the court of Versailles. After fifteen months of exile she died, at the age of twenty-nine. D'Argen- son says, she announced, as a sort of prophecy, that her death would take place on a certain day, and very nearly at a certain hour named by her. Two days before the time stated, she secretly sent away her dia- monds — which were of immense value — to some per- son at Rouen. When her confidential messenger re- turned, Madame de Prie was no more. She had taken poison of a violent kind, and her sufferings before death were excessive. It is mentioned, as a reproach to her, that she left by will to M. le Due nothing but a mediocre diamond, of about the value of five thousand icus. The valuable casket of diamonds and jewels she secretly disposed of, was believed to have been destined for Paris-Duvernay. CHAPTER XVIII. Fleury's Economy. — Mimi and Titite. — "Notre Toulouse." — Mdlle. de Vichy-Chamroud. — A Singular Caprice. — The Epidemic — Ennui. — An Interesting Couple. — A Desolate Normandy Chateau. — The Menagerie in Eclipse. — Emerging from the Cloud. — " Le Poeme de la Ligue," — A Pious Theft. — A Noble Chevalier. — " Rohan je suis." — Homage to Madame du Def- fant. — "Adieu, la belle France." No festivities; no amusements. Dulness as depress- ing as in the gloomiest days of Louis XIV. has suc- ceeded the dissipations of the regency. Those who shared in the pleasures of that corrupt society are in despair. They looked for gaiety, and a perpetual round oi fetes and diversions, on the young monarch's emancipation from the control of tutors and governors. But, from the time when roused, by M. le Due's con- duct, to that temporary display of energy and author- ity which led to so entire a change in the personnel of the government, he had fallen back to the monotonous and secluded mode of life most congenial to his apa- thetic temperament. Fleury, secure against court intrigues, passed much of his time at Issy, cogitating in retirement on the best means of maintaining peace with neighboring kingdoms, and in devising schemes for economizing the revenue. Like the great Sully, whom in this he resembled, he was willing to put money into the treasury, but grumbled exceedingly at any undue demands on it. But while he reduced the customary MIAfI AND TITITE. 183 lavish expenditure of the king's household, and gained his docile pupil's willing assent to it, he also abolished the most oppressive of the taxes laid upon the people by his predecessor. This, on the one hand, displeased the courtiers; they would not recognize a necessary or wise economy, but parsimony only, in the dimin- ished pomp and parade of the court. But, on the other, the timely relief afforded a suffering people by the removal of a portion of its burden of imposts, gained the confidence and goodwill of the nation. It gave renewed buoyancy to long-cherished hopes that with the reign of Louis XV. the despotism which marked the rule of the Grand Monarque^ and the flagrant depravity that disgraced the regency, would give place to a more beneficent administration of public affairs, and a better example of social life. The prudent, moderate, and upright minister, on whom the young king's free choice had first fallen, was a guarantee of the monarch's desire for the welfare and prosperity of his people. The pleasure he evidently took in the society of his pious and amiable queen, surely also boded that the reign of domestic virtue in France had begun at Versailles, and in the palace where it had hitherto been a stranger. But such expectations were then the jest of the salons. " We are to have a Mimi and Titite at Versailles, I hear." The lady who speaks, laughs in that sneer- ing, cynical way so characteristic of the Marquise du Deffant. It is she who throws out this remark for the amuse- ment of the company assembled in the salon of her apartment in the Rue St. Dominique. And very amusing they find it; for Mimi and Titite are names which, in derision, the beau monde has given to the 184 ^^^ OLD RJ^GIME. Comte and Comtesse de Toulouse. They actually so far forget what is due to society as to appear in public together, unaccompanied by intimate friend of either sex. Often they may be met sauntering in the grounds of their chateau, just like any poor peasant couple on their estate; or, again, taking a quiet canter in the forest, with no other companion than the young Due de Penthievre. This son society has christened " notre Toulouse" — it .being a bourgeois habit to speak of the heir of the house by the father's surname. M. et Mdme. Toitot-Leblond would call their eldest or only son "notre Toitot" — reversing the English mode, "our Jack" or "our Dick," instead of "our Jackson, or Dickson." But as many laughs are raised just now, at the ex- pense of the marquise, in other salons^ as by the wit and the cynicism with which she attacks, in her own, the follies of others. She knows it, however, and is unaffected by it; for she knows that the dear friends who compose her society are as little inclined to spare her as she to spare them, when it is a question between a reputation and an epigram. Were it otherwise, what would become of wit ? and hers is, par excellence^ the salon of the wits, and of the new school of philoso- phism — though not arrived at the period of its great- est celebrity and influence. The marquise has scarce- ly yet taken up the sceptre of a queen of society, and constituted herself the protectress of philosophy and the philosophers. At this time she is about thirty-one or thirty-two years of age, and, professedly, " the most ennuyee woman in France." A sceptic and cynic she has been from her childhood. She is of a noble but impoverished Burgundian family — De Vichy-Chamroud. Having A SINGULAk CAPktCE. 185 no fortune, her parents were glad to marry her to the Marquis du Defifant, many years her senior, and far from wealthy, but who is said to have been an estima- ble and honorable man, of whom there were few in those days. He was sincerely in love with her also, and possessed at least a position in society and a home to offer, such as a girl without a dowry could hardly hope for in France. Emancipated by marriage from all inconvenient re- straints, the marquise arrived in Paris, and figured prominently amongst the fair ladies of the regent's court. She was less remarkable for beauty than caus- tic wit — a quality which first attracted the regent, but, eventually, an injudicious application of it was the means of her losing his favor. The poor marquis, who appears to have been as humble and obedient a husband as any lady could desire, was the passive vic- tim of his young wife's caprice, and, even worse than caprice, bad temper and discontent. She entirely dis- carded him at last — preferring the exclusive society of her ami intime. She had already begun to play the part of an ennuy/g^ therefore could not long support the society of her friend: and as she at that time succeeded to an annuity of four thousand /cus^ she sought a reconciliation with the marquis, and proposed, as advantageous to both, that they should unite their incomes, and, giving up friendship, live together in bourgeois fashion. The mar- quis was delighted with the idea, and acceded without hesitation to her proposal. Her friends, Mdmes. de Parabere, Aisse, de Prie, de Tencin, and their circle generally, were much amused at the singularity of this caprice. Their laughter changed not her purpose; nor was she moved from it by a torrent of reproaches from lg6 'THk OLD REGIME. her forsaken cicisbeo. This innovation — the ami intime^ or domestic lover, being a recognized institution — was a really bold step, which might have brought about the abolition of the nuisance of intimate friends gener- ally, but for that terrible malady — ennui. For the space of two months all went on smoothly, even happily, as far as the marquis was concerned. Her family was also much pleased with the change. But, alas! "All that is bright must fade." The lady's resolve to share her husband's home faded away under the influence of a returning fit of entiui. She declared she could endure his presence no longer, and hastened away, lest ennui ^\\o\i\A give place to dis- gust. Ennui was an epidemic as prevalent then, it would seem, as vapors or nerves. The king was affected by it, and, more or less, society generally. The remedy, with the king, was alternate seclusion and the Rambouillet chase; with society, it was the salon, though not always an effective one. The separate income of the marquise was hardly equal to the expense of setting up a salon — a salon that should compete with that of Madame de Tencin or of Madame de Lambert — who, in spite of her eighty- two years, still received weekly, and gave her famous Thursday dinners. Literature and philosophy scarcely cared to show themselves where there was no prospect of dinner or supper. But where the good things of life were liber- ally provided, it mattered not at all to which section of society the lady who did the honors belonged. What suppers and dinners were given by the popular singers and actresses ! Mdlle. Le Couvreur, for in- stance; the singers Mdlle. Lemaure and Madame Pel- Ussier — between whom great rivalry existed, the world A DESOLATE NORMANDY CHATEAU. 187 being undecided to which lady to award the palm of prima donna. Again, Mdlle. Antier, who, as Ceres, had won, by the charm of her singing, the heart, as it was called, of the Vicomte Lamothe-Houdancourt, not only gave suppers herself, but, with her lover, was invited to those of ladies of high rank. Society, we learn, was greatly edified by the " mutual passion" of this interesting couple. The enthusiasm of the gen- tleman, the smiling tenderness of the lady — "AA/ it was really delightful to see." "Alas ! the pity on't" — it did not last long. If society smiled on this interesting pair of lovers, it looked severely on Madame du Deffant. The out- raged feelings of the intimate friend she had forsaken for her husband, commanded, as naturally they would, general sympathy. Now, indeed, he had his revenge, and laughed as heartily at the marquis as at the friend- less marquise. It was then that the order to retire to her estates was received by Madame de Prie. The marquise, availing herself of this circumstance, thought it would be well, until society had had its laugh out, to go into exile also. Ennuyie in Paris, she yet failed to reflect what she would be at Courbe-Epine — her sole companion a disappointed, desponding intri- gante. Naturally, she found life intolerable in that desolate Normandy chateau. Her fit of ennui was more real than any she had known before. She there- fore determined to return; leaving her dear friend to loneliness, grief and despair, which, as we know, death by her own hand, soon after put an end to. On returning to Paris, the marquise, to her surprise, received a visit from the Bishop of Clermont. Her relative, the Duchesse de Charost, believing that scep- ticism and irreligion, more than ennui^ were the cause igg TtlE OLD REGIME. of her unsettled frame of mind and general discontent, fancied that Massillon might be able to reason her into a better state of feeling. Madame du Deffant, speak- ing of their interview, says, '* My understanding was abashed before the greatness of his intellect; yet I submitted not to the force of his reasoning, but to the importance of the reasoner." The salon of Madame de Tencin was at that time suf- fering a partial eclipse; it might have proved a total one, but for the money expended in bribes, and the influence of the archbishop, her brother. The numer- ous "animals" who composed her menagerie, also ex- erted themselves to help her out of her trouble, being unwilling to lose their mistress and the good cheer with which she provided them. Yet her position, for awhile, was regarded as a perilous one. M. La Fresnaye, Conseiller au Grand Conseil, after heavy losses at the gambling table, shot himself in the boudoir of Madame de Tencin. The ball passed through his heart, and he died on the instant. The President and Procureur were sent for, and the Con- seiller was buried, at Madame de Tencin's request, secretly, and in the night. This strange story was told about Paris the next day, and with many partic- ulars so unfavorable to the Canoness that she was arrested, and conveyed to the Chatelet, and thence to the Bastille. A paper was found in the desk of La Fresnaye, "to be opened only after his death, and in the presence of his creditors." Instead of an arrange- ment respecting his affairs, which it was supposed to contain, it was a statement that he was ruined by the arts and deceptions of Madame de Tencin, and that if he died a violent death it was she who should be accused of it. She was one of those monsters, he EMERGING FROM THE CLOUD, 189 said, who ought to be expelled the kingdom; being capable of the vilest deeds. Much more followed, but the paper was condemned as malicious and untrue, and after two months' deten- tion she was released from confinement, secure from any renewal of the accusations against her. Anxiety had told on her health. She was advised, therefore, on her liberation immediately to set out for her estates in Dauphin6, to recruit both health and spirits, before reappearing to shine once more as a bright particular star amongst her coterie of wits and philosophic ani- mals. La belle marquise, meanwhile, established herself in more unpretending style than formerly, in her h6tel in the Rue Ste. Anne. She gave her circle of learned wits and celebrities " M/ ti VAnglaise'' Her suppers or dinners were never far-famed, but she was recog- nized as "a prodigy of wit," whose sentiments favored the advance of the " great cause." Montesquieu, when in Paris during the vacation of the parliament of Bor- deaux, of which he was president, was one of the most constant frequenters of her salon. The first success of his " Esprit des Lois" was due to her exertions in distributing copies, and to her professed admiration of the work as a most brilliant and remarkable pro- duction of a man of genius. Such, indeed, was the usual mode of launching abook. The Parisian book- sellers' trade was not then a flourishing one, so diffi- cult was it to obtain permission to publish " Avec privilege du roi." The books most in request were not those openly exposed for sale on the steps of the Sainte Chapelle, but those which glided furtively into France from the presses of Amsterdam or Brussels. Voltaire was re- 19^ THE OLD REGIME. fused permission to print his " Henriade." He had de- sired to dedicate it to the king, and it was presented by Richelieu. Fleury declined to receive it; yet it was not condemned. A few copies, however, printed elsewhere, were distributed in Paris amongst private friends. This coming to the knowledge of some of the clergy, application was made for authority to seize them, with a view of suppressing the work en- tirely by means of ecclesiastical censure. It was then entitled " Le Poeme de la Ligue," and was said to con- tain passages favoring the errors of the " semi-Pela- gians." But it was its advocacy of toleration, and especially the appreciative lines on Coligny,* that of- fended the clergy; in whom, with some honorable exceptions, a persecuting spirit seemed to be thought an atonement for their generally dissolute lives. The " Henriade" was published by subscription in London, and dedicated to the Queen. Voltaire's friend, Thiriot, received subscriptions for the work in Paris, and payment for between twenty and thirty copies having been made, he put the amount aside for transmission to England. Some thief, however, en- tered his apartment while he was absent at high mass on Whit-Sunday morning, and stole the money. (The clergy should have caught this thief and have canon- ized him.) The loss fell wholly on Voltaire; the copies subscribed for being delivered, though the subscrip- * To speak approvingly of Coligny, Du Plessis Mornay, and other Protestant leaders, was, in the estimation of the court, to disseminate sedition ; in that of the clergy, to propagate heresy. "What noble citizens Coligny, La Noue, Du Plessis-Mornay, D'Aubigne even, if they had not been heretics !" exclaims a recent bigoted French writer, in a sort of apology for the persecuting spirit of the sixteenth century. ''ROHAN JE SUISr I9I tion had vanished. Yet the London edition of the " Henriade" was a most successful and profitable one. Montesquieu visited England at about the same time as Voltaire. The latter had left France on being released from the Bastille, where he had been impris- oned for six months for sending a challenge to the Chevalier de Rohan. This magnificent personage, possessing no merit of his own, plumed himself greatly on his noble birth, and the merits of his ancestors. He disapproved, it appears, of the distinction with which Voltaire was received in the society of the men of rank. He took, therefore, the first opportunity that offered (it was at a reunion at the hotel of the Due de Richelieu) of showing his contempt for the plebeian poet, by addressing him in a manner his lackey would almost have resented. Voltaire replied in a politely veiled sarcasm which amused all present, except the Chevalier. He was highly incensed, but not being so spirituel as the poet he despised, the witty sally was received with disdainful silence. The noble Cheva- lier, however, revenged himself by ordering his ser- vants, a day or two after, to insult Voltaire when leaving the hotel of the Due de Sully, with whom he had been dining. The two lackeys thrust themselves against him, elbowed him roughly, and nearly threw him down stairs; at the same time greatly enjoying his discom- fiture, and treating it as an excellent joke. The Duke, his host, expressed his regret, but took no further notice of the matter. The Chevalier was a scion of the great Rohan family. He bore on his shield, '•' Rohan je suis'' That repelled all who would dare to attack him. The tribunals, too, were not for such as he. No magistrate would presume to listen to an ac- 192 THE OLD RAGIME. cusation against him, much less to punish so high and mighty a delinquent. But Voltaire, stung to the quick by the unprovoked insult he had received, after tak- ing some lessons in the use of the sword, challenged the Chevalier. The reply was a lettre-de-cachet, and an apartment in the Bastille. The Due de Richelieu, some few months after, was about to leave Paris in very grand state, as Ambas- sador Extraordinary to the Court of Vienna. He and Voltaire were on intimate terms; and as the Duke was at that time in favor at Versailles, and had obtained in his appointment to this embassy the wish of his heart, and facility for equipping himself with due splendor — by means of un arret de surseance to shield him from his creditors, he resolved, before leaving, to do his poet friend a good turn, if possible, by securing his speedy release. He spoke to the king; also to the queen, who had but recently granted a pension of fifteen hundred francs to Voltaire from her own pri- vate purse. They referred him to Fleury, who, the affair being explained to him, granted the duke's re- quest immediately. Naturally Voltaire's six months' incarceration had given added keenness to his cynicism, rather than blunted its sting. His admiration of French institu- tions had at the same time diminished. He deter- mined therefore to bid adieu for a time to his friends of the salons^ to the budding philosophers, and to the many fair dames he adored. To none did he pay greater homage than to Madame du Deffant. The reign of the "sublime Emilie" had not then begun, and the free-thinking marquise commanded his high- est admiration. He took every opportunity of speak- ing of her, of vaunting her understanding, of flatter- ''ADIEU, LA BELLE FRANCE T 193 ing her imagination, and of placing her on the very best terms with herself — though her excessive egoism had already rendered any efforts of that sort super- fluous. He praised her wit, and exaggerated exces- sively the merits of those bagatelles, vers de socUt^^ of which so plentiful a crop was then produced — not only in the salon of the marquise, but in every other salon of that day. Of the poetic trifles of Madame du Deffant, Voltaire wrote: — ** De qui soni ils ces vers heureux, L6gers, faciles, gracieux? lis ont, comme vous, I'art de plaire; Du Deffant, vous gtes la mftre De ces enfants ing6nieux." * But Voltaire did not linger long in Paris. Having bent the knee before the brilliant marquise and the fair Adrienne Le Couvreur, and embraced those friends he called his "dear angels" — the d'Argental family — he left la belle France, crossed the Channel, and for the next three years took up his abode in England. * Whose are these easy, g^raceful lines ? They have, like you, the art of pleasing. You, Du Deffant, are the happy mother Of these brilliant children. CHAPTER XIX. Prayers for a Dauphin. — The Prayer is granted. — Louis XV. a Model Husband. — Baron's Final Retirement, — Death of Adri- enne Le Couvreur. — Jealous Rivals. — Generosity of Adrienne. — Burial of Mdlle. Le Couvreur. — Voltaire's Lines on Adri- enne. — Zaire, ou Les Enfants Trouv6s. — Grandval the Actor. — The Prime Donne.— Rameau. — The Abb6 Pelligem. — A Musical Cabal. — Voltaire et les Danseuses. — The Apotheosis of Hercules. — Boucher's Painting Room. Great was the disappointment of the French peo- ple when, in August, 1727, it was announced that twin daughters were born at Versailles — Madame premiere^ et Madame deuxieme. Greater still was the outcry in the following year, when Madajne troisilme made her appearance. The queen grieved and wept. She felt that she had not done her duty to the nation. But the king consoled her, and received the third little pnncess, we are told, " with a good grace, and coura- geously;" yet he, too, would have given a much warm- er welcome to a son. However, it was thought advisable to petition heaven for a dauphin; and, accordingly, the Arch- bishop of Paris ordered public prayer to be made throughout the kingdom for an heir to the throne. The king and queen also went in state to Paris to ask the intercession of Ste. Genevieve. Marie Leczinska had been three years married, but this was her first visit to the capital. The Parisian world was therefore anxious to see its queen, and though not too well THE PRAYER IS GRANTED. 195 satisfied with her, gave her a cordial reception that proved cheering to her spirits. Barbier describes her ^s petite, slight in figure, and rather thin. Other ac- counts speak of her as above the middle height, and of graceful and dignified carriage; while one of her ladies of the palace says, rather contemptuously, " She is a good enough sort of a Pole, but a little bourgeoise and very devout." All, however, are agreed that she had no claim to beauty, though her face was not un- pleasing, owing to its amiable and gentle expression. She wore, we learn, on this occasion, a pale pink robe of state, with scalloped trimmings, but without ornament of gold or silver. The " Sancy" glittered in her hair; the twelve Mazarin diamonds, on her arm, set as a bracelet, and, besides, the whole of the crown jewels apparently — with the exception of the " Re- gent," which the king wore in his hat — were arranged as stomacher, necklace, or other ornament for her dress or hair. Thus brilliantly arrayed, and accompanied by the ladies and gentlemen of their household in full court dress and in the royal state carriages, their majesties traversed Paris. The glittering show delighted the people, who rarely witnessed the pomp and display of the court — royal visits to Paris being few and far between. Ste. Genevieve would seem to have lent a favorable ear to the prayers of the royal suppliants and their faithful lieges; for on the 4th of September — their majesties' wedding day — 1729, the nation was gladdened by the news of the birth of a dauphin. Few public rejoicings, however, took place. The king gave no signal, and the nation was as indolent and inert on the subject as their sovereign himself. It was desirable that there should be an heir to the 196 THE OLD REGIME. throne. He was born. King and people were satis- fied; there was an end of it; and the cardinal was far too anxious to restore order in the financial system to countenance, much less to propose, expenditure on fetes. Unlike Louis XIV. in his youth, Louis XV. shunned gaiety, and communicated his own gloomy apathy to the court. Nothing annoyed or bored him so much as having to take any part in a public cere- mony or fete. He would scarcely look at a lady, and at that time was quite a model husband. " The queen," he said, " was prettier than the handsomest ladies at court." But his constancy to the wife who had been chosen for him was owing more to indiffer- ence than admiration. With idleness and quietude he was then perfectly content, and, had he not been interfered with by the more actively evil-minded young men of his court, he would have gone on to the end of his career, simply, un rot faineant, instead of being that and much more. But, while the news from Versailles was received with a languid satisfaction by the world of Paris, an- other and widely different announcement excited veiy lively regret among the society of the capital. It was that of the final performances of Michel Baron, and his retirement from the stage. Owing to the greater popularity of operatic per- formances, both at the Academy of Music and Opera Comique, the Theatre Frangais had received but in- different support until the reappearance of Baron. His and Mdlle. Le Couvreur's interpretation of the principal rSles in the plays of Corneille and Racine, and the tragedies of Voltaire and La Motte, had re- vived the vogue of the Theatre; which was now a well-frequented and flourishing establishment. As DEATH OF ADRIENNE LE COUVREUR, 197 Baron still trod the stage with a firm, elastic step, his form erect, his bearing noble, the fire of his eye un- dimmed, and his finely-modulated voice yet sonorous, flexible, and unfaltering, his intention to retire caused as much surprise as when, ten years before, his reap- pearance was announced. Strength of will, a resolve not to succumb to the infirmities of age, bore him up through his part — " and," says an eye-witness, " it was difficult not to yield to the illusion that he was actually the person he represented." But, the play ended, it was evident that, if he had succeeded for awhile in oTercoming physical weakness, he had suffered much in the strug- gle. He accepted, therefore, the warnings of na- ture, and retired with his great reputation undimin- ished. His acting gave a temporary revival of public favor even to the plays of Pradon. In " Regulus," a very poor tragedy, he made a deep impression on his audience. One of his last appearances was as Ladis- laus, in Rotrou's play of " Vencislaus." Though un- accustomed to betray any emotion, save that which the character he represented required, on that occa- sion, he is said to have hesitated for a moment, as if to overcome personal feeling — after repeating the words, " So near the grave, whither I am going." The farewell to Baron was an ovation on the part of the public. He died in the following year; sup- posed to be not less than seventy-seven or eight. Under his portrait J. B. Rousseau wrote: — " Du vrai, du path6tique, il a fix6 le ton, De son art enchanteur I'illusion divine Pretait un nouveau lustre aux beaut6s de Racine Un voile aux d^fauts de Pradon. " * * He struck the key-note of pathos and truth. The divine il- 198 f^^ OLD rAgIME. In the same year that the death of Baron occurred, the Comedie Frangaise lost another of its popular favorites — Adrienne Le Couvreur. It was then cus- tomary to attribute all deaths of which the exact cause was not known, to poison. The jealousy of the Duchesse de Bouillon was said to have occasioned Adrienne's, by means of poisoned pastilles, adminis- tered to her by a young abbe. It is a story un- worthy of credit; though probably Scribe's play may have contributed to gain credence for it. The Comte Maurice de Saxe was the fickle lover of both those ladies. But it does not appear that the duchess — who, like the actress, had a large circle of amis intimes ■ — was so jealous of wholly monopolizing the atten- tions of that butterfly personage as to poison a former mistress: or, that the actress was so piqued by their transfer to another, that, forgetting what was due to the audience, she addressed, from the stage, the pointed speeches of Phedre — a part she was playing — to the duchess in her box, and was rewarded for this impertinence and bad taste by the plaudits of the whole house. Mdlle. Sauvre, on some other occasion, is said to have addressed a favored rival from the stage; but the fickle lover was not Maurice de Saxe, and the audience was the reverse of sympathetic. Voltaire, one of the most enthusiastic of Mdlle. Le Couvreur's host of admirers, repudiated the idea of poison, and attributed her death to a violent attack of dysentery. She took no care of her health, was near forty years of age, and had led a life in accordance with the licentiousness of the period; which was not lusion of his enchanting art gave new lustre to the beauties of Racine, and veiled the faults of Pradon. GENEROSITY OF ADRIENNE. 199 only little severe towards an actress, necessarily ex- posed to very g^eat temptations ; but could also regard with complacency the open depravity of such great ladies as the Duchesse deBouffleurs, granddaughter of the Mar^chal de Villeroi. Voltaire himself introduced to Adrienne a friend who became a rival — his dear angel, the Comte d'Argental — who would have mar- ried the fascinating actress; but she declined his suit, to the great relief of his family. She doubtless felt more than a passing regard for the faithless Maurice de Saxe. To enable him to equip his soldiers when he proposed to recover the principality of Courland — to the sovereignty of which he had been elected, but was excluded from it by Russia, — Adrienne, who was generous to prodigality, supplied him with the sum of forty thousand francs, the product of the sale of her jewels. Very sincere, too, was her regret when, not long before her death, she heard that he had gone to a ruinous expense and incurred debts in the construction of a ^^gai^rgy" which, propelled by mechanism, and probably steam, was to make the voyage up the Seine, from' Rouen to Paris, in twenty-four hours. He had obtained, on the cer- tificates of two men of science, testifying to the utility of this project, a privilege or patent from the king. But in spite of the efforts of the best scientific skill and labor then obtainable, he never succeeded in get- ting the apparatus into working order. "J/a/V, que diable allait-il-faire dans cette gallreV* exclaimed Ad- rienne when she heard of his scheme and its failure. Priestly aid was not sought for Mdlle. Le Couvreur until it was too late to confess; to declare that she renounced her profession, and to receive absolution. Christian burial was therefore refused, though the 200 "THE OLD REGIME. large sum of a hundred thousand francs, which she charitably left to the poor, was not rejected by the Church; as consistently it should have been, as the gift of one excommunicated. Two street porters were employed to carry her body, in the night, to the cor- ner of the Rue de Bourgogne, and to bury her there. Baron had dreaded a like indignity, but provided against it by timely arrangements with the Church. Yet he invariably asserted that he had never felt the smallest scruple to declaiming before the public the chefs-d'ceuvreoi the genius of the great French authors; and that nothing, he conceived, could be more irrele- vant than to attach shame and disgrace to the reciting of a work which it was deemed glorious to have com- posed. " I have seen," says Colle, in his memoirs, " Baron, Le Couvreur, and Les Quinault, and they gave me the idea of perfection — and especially Baron; though, when I saw him, he could not have been less than seventy-three or seventy-five years of age." Thus passed away, almost at the same time, these two great stars of the Theatre Frangais. The indig- nant lines written by Voltaire on the ignominy cast on the great French actress by the countenance of the priesthood to such a burial as hers, were the cause of his again being obliged to leave Paris. He retired to Normandy where he wrote "Zaire." The perform- ance of the graceful Mdlle. Gaussin in the principal part quickly consoled him for the loss of Adrienne, who, as some persons thought, was excelled by her successor; art — as was the case with Baron — intelli- gently subdued, aiding and heightening the effect of her natural gifts. Of Adrienne, Voltaire wrote, "Nature had taught her, and Cupid finished her edu- GRANDVAL, THE ACTOR. iOt cation." Voltaire's play of "Zaire," achieved an im- mense success, and many were the heart-burnings it caused amongst would-be rivals. To cast ridicule upon it in the salons^ they gave it a new title, " La piece des enfants trouv^s." This raised many a laugh, but did not diminish the success of the play. Writing tragedies and comedies — which sometimes were read in the salons^ but rarely produced on the stage — was as much a mania at that period, as the writing of novels in the present day. After the retirement of Baron and the death of Mdlle. Le Couvreur, the popularity of the Com6die Frangaise seems to have declined for awhile. Yet it maintained, undiminished, its reputation as the first theatre in Europe; the dramatic ability of the several members of its company forming, as was generally acknowledged, an assemblage of talent unrivalled elsewhere. Yearly, the old repertoire was gone through, Rotrou, Corneille, Moliere, Racine, Pradon, and Cr6billon*s early tragedies. New productions were less generally approved by the constant habituh of the theatre. The success of a new play might be great, yet it would be allowed only a limited number of representations. There were, it appears, fewer successful comedies than tragedies, yet Grandval, who contributed so much to make the fame of " Le Glorieux" was then in high repute both as an actor and as " the glass of fashion." Great nobles studied his looks, his gestures, his manner of carrying his cane, of presenting his snuff-box, of taking off his hat; his grandly deferen- tial air when conversing with ladies; his entries and exits, and the graceful tournure of the whaleboned skirts of his coat. Happy, indeed, were many of the 20i ^-^^ OLD REGIME. jeunesse doree if, after diligent practice, they went forth from their cabinets Grandvals; but in their own opinion, Grandvals improved: so far surpassing their model, that they who studied most to catch the airs and graces of the actor, were fond of jesting in the salons on Grandval's amusing assumption of the man- ners of the fashionable world. But the most powerful counter-attraction to the Theatre Fran9ais was at all times the opera. At this period disputes ran so high respecting the pre-emi- nence in talent and beauty of the three prime donne, that swords were drawn and blood was shed. Hap- pily it flowed not from fatal wounds, but from slight scratches and gashes, which the ladies' admirers re- spectively felt compelled, in honor, to give and re- ceive whenever a word in disparagement of the object of his adoration was uttered in his presence. It was often elegantly said of Mdlle. Lemaure, that she was "as stupid as a post." She had a fine voice, but no musical culture, and little natural intelligence. But she had a pretty face, and was always splendidly dressed. They were advantages that counted for much, for musical taste was but little developed; Lulli most frequently occupied the scene, and the audience was familiar to weariness with the chief of his produc- tions. Madame Pellissier was an artiste of greater pretensions, whose merits were recognized by the more critical part of her hearers. Little Mdlle. Antier was both clever and pretty, and sang, it was said, with the tenderness of the dove; which, reminding one of a monotonous cooing, does not seem very high praise. Of the male singers, Thevenard, Chasse, and Murane were most in favor. Murane was subject to RAMEA O. i03 frequent fits of religious melancholy, and inclined to migrate from the operatic stage to the cloister. It is probable that Francine, Lulli's son-in-law, who so long had the direction of the opera of the Academy, may have been the cause of Lulli's music being for so many years almost exclusively given there. When Destouches, the musician, in 1724 succeeded Francine in the management of the opera, he brought forward his own musical compositions, which were rather below than above mediocrity. Compra, a better musician but inferior composer, was not more successful. Yet the talented Rameau, whose musical gifts had been evident from childhood; who had studied his art in Italy, had published a treatise on harmony, studies in counterpoint, and other theoreti- cal works, with some successful sonatas for the harp- sichord, on which he was a skilful performer, could scarcely obtain by teaching, in Paris, the bare means of subsistence. He had sought the appointment of organist at one of the churches of Paris, but had failed to obtain it, owing to the opposition he had met with from the paltry intrigues of jealous mediocrity. Disgusted and disheartened, and suffering from distress, he was glad to accept the place of organist of the Cathedral of Clermont, in Auvergne; his hopes of rising to distinction in the musical world being thus long- deferred, and, at first, apparently at an end. In 1723, Michel Monteclair, first contrebasse of the Orchestra of the Academy of Music, produced an opera, "Jephth^," which the director accepted, and which was well received by the public. Rameau, who was present at its first representation, was moved by the applause bestowed on it, to abandon his theo- 204 ^^^ ^^^ REGIME, retical writings for the composition of operatic music. Yet there seems to have existed somewhere a per- sistent determination to thwart his hopes. To get a hearing, he wrote the music for Piron's piece, " La Rose," which was produced at the Theatre de la Foire of St. Germain, the composer's name being withheld. It was, however, very successful, and the airs became popular. The Abbe Pelligem, a writer of canticles — which it was his singular custom to adapt to airs of the Pont- Neuf, or tunes of the satirical, often ribald, songs of the people — had written a dramatic poem entitled " Hippolyte et Anne." Persuaded by Mdme. de la Popliniere, — wife of the wealthy fermier-general, and daughter of Daucour, of the Theatre Frangais — who had been a pupil of Rameau, the Abbe entrusted his poem to the poor organist to set to music. This was quickly done, and the piece produced. A cabal, mean- while, was got up. Enthusiastic Lullists were joined by some of the singers, and it was determined that Rameau's music should not be heard, but be put down at once. The house was well filled; all, however, were not op- ponents. Those who went, intending to hear, appear to have been as numerous as those who had determined that nothing should be heard. Numerous interrup- tions occurred. A large number of the rioters were ejected, and notwithstanding the great disadvantages of so tumultuous a first representation, enough was heard by competent connoisseurs to convince them that France possessed a musician of genius. That, in fact, a greater than Lulli was there. Laborde, writing of him says, "Music owes to Rameau as much as sci- ence does to Newton." But Rameau was fifty years VOLTAIRE ET LES DANSEUSES. 205 of age before his talent obtained recognition, and even then it was but grudgingly granted — the Lullist and Ramist contest being kept up for some time. His opera of Castor and Pollux completed his triumph. The world then ran after him, lauded him as before it had dispraised him, and librettists innumerable be- sieged him with offers of collaboration. Another great attraction at the opera was the ballet. Nicolet, and Mdlles. Sall6 and Camargo were the principal dancers, and the corps-de-ballet, generally, was very efficient. "Oh! Camargo, que vous gtes brilliante! Mais, que Sall6 est beaucoup plus ravissante,"* wrote Voltaire, uncertain to which of these divinities, ** filles de Terpsichore et I'Amour," the greater homage was due. There is a very graceful picture by Lancret, the pupil and imitator of Watteau, of Mdlle. Sall6 as a wood nymph. " Ses pas sont mesur^s par les grftces, Et composes par les amours," f again writes the enraptured Voltaire. But when Mdlle. Camargo, whose dancing is described as hav- ing the appearance of flying, once more, fluttering her gauzy wings, dazzles him by her rapid flight across the stage, he writes — "Camargo vole en ces beaux lieux On voit sans toi languir nos yeux, * Oh! Camargo, how brilliant you are! But how much more charming Sall^. f Her steps were devised by Cupid, and measured by the graces. 206 THE OLD REGIME. De tes pas la vivacit6, Est Timage de la volupt6; Pour te suivre les jeux, les ris, Ont quitt6 la cour de Cypris. '' * The scenery, dresses, and decorations were splendid. The opera, indeed, never succeeded in paying its ex- penses, so costly were its scenic effects and general arrangements. The State had continually to release the directors from debt. Yet the opera was greatly patronized, and the salaries of the principal singers and dancers were small, compared with those received by the great artistes of the present day. The great outlay was in stage decorations and dress. The famous Boucher now painted the scenery. He was a pupil of Lemoine, the painter of the " Apotheo- sis of Hercules," on the ceiling of the grand salon of Versailles. The work occupied him four years, but, as he fancied that it did not meet with due apprecia- tion from the king and the cardinal, the disappoint- ment preyed on his mind, and in a moment of despair he committed suicide. Boucher did not equal his master, and was inferior to Watteau, whom he imi- tated. He had but lately returned from Italy, where he had joined Carle Vanloo. Italy, however, was not to his taste. He loved Paris and the libertine life he led there. He cared not for the old masters, and pre- ferred to paint figurantes to saints. Yet, in purely decorative art, Boucher was unrivalled. Soon after his return to France, he fell in love at * All eyes follow thy rapid flight 'Tis the image of delight. Leaving Cypria, all press after Thy delicious jests and laughter. BOUCHER'S PAINTING ROOM. 207 first sight with a young girl, who, with her beauty and a large basket of cherries, made a very pretty picture, as she sat selling her fruit at the corner of a street in Paris. This young girl became his mistress, but soon after died, when Boucher, to dispel his deep grief, plunged into a course of reckless dissipation. The grief was quickly dispelled, it appears, as he shortly after married, but the dissipation continued. In spite of his meretricious style, and the adverse criti- cism he met with, Boucher became the fashion, and painted fair dames of every degree, and every shade of philosophy. His painting room was a perfumed boudoir, draped with plaited pink silk and curtained and festooned with pale blue satin. CHAPTER XX. A Drawing-Room Picture, — The Young Comte de Mirabeau.— Rival Gambling Salons. — The Foundling, d'Alembert. — The Irrepressible Bull. — Mdlle. Daucour. — The Rich Fermier- G6n6ral. — The Hotel La Poplini^re. — A Scene of Enchant- ment. — A French Mephistopheles. — The Banished Wife. — The Infamous de Richelieu. " What a commotion at the Frangais last night i" murmurs a lady, as with an indolent air she reclines on the cushions of a crimson brocaded and gold-laced sofa in the salo7i of Mdme. de Tencin. She has scarcely the air of a Frenchwoman. Her eyes are large, dark, and lustrous. She wears no rouge, and the clear, pale bistre tint of her complexion, the strongly marked eye- brows, and masses of dark hair coiled round her head, in a coronet, and guiltless of powder, seem to denote an Oriental origin. Her dress is of rich material, and, on the whole, is of the fashion of the day. Yet it so far differs in many of its details from the prevailing taste, as to appear an adaptation of la mode to the style and fancy of the wearer, more than a full concession to fashion's decrees. A little negro, fancifully attired, stands near the end of the sofa, fluttering a large bunch of marabout plumes. Most ladies at this period had an attendant negro boy, but rarely did he appear so harmonious an accessory as in the very pretty picture formed by this lady and her slave. "And what was the cause of the commotion, ma THE YOUNG COMTE DE M IRA BEAU. 209 chireV inquires Madame de Tencin, as she glances at two young men in earnest conversation at the further end of the salon^ and who both are h^r protege's — one, indeed, is her reputed son — they are the younger Helvetius and d'Alerabert. " All the news and on-dits of the day," she continues, "reach you, ma belle Haid/e^ sooner even than Madame du Deffant, though Pont de Veyle carries his daily budget to her. But then you see him first, and you have d'Argental's report besides." " I heard this from the Chevalier," replies the lady. " He was at the Fran9ais when a party of young offi- cers entered and called loudly for one of Moliere's plays, *Le Tartuffe,' I think, instead of * Britannicus,' the piece announced. To not a word of the latter would they listen; the actors were hissed whenever they attempted to speak. The disturbance at last be- came so general, that the police with difficulty ejected the rioters and some of the audience who had joined them. Foremost among them was the dissipated young Comte de Mirabeau,* who has fallen despe- rately in love with Mdlle. d'Angeville, and vows he will marry her in spite of his family." "Young Mirabeau marry d'Angeville!" exclaimed Helvetius, advancing towards the ladies. " He could as easily persuade the old Marquis himself to consent, as prevail on her to do so. She read his tender billets- doux last night for the amusement of the company at supper at La Quinault's. Mirabeau will be on his way to Besangon to-morrow. Duras' regiment is there, and he joins it." * Father of the great orator. 2IO THE OLD REGIME. " Poor boy," sighs the lady on the sofa, " He is but seventeen." Madame de Tencin replies not; her thoughts have been turned to other objects. "They play at Cav- agnole, and play high at La Quinault's?" she says inquiringly. "Sometimes, Madame," replies Helvetius. " You were there, then, last night ?" "Frankly, yes, Madame." "And d'Alembert?" " D'Alembert also." Helvetius answers for him, and a smile passes over the face of the young man. For nowhere is gambling more reckless, more ruinous, than in the salon of Madame de Tencin. Helvetius is wealthy; he is a protigi she is proud of. He is young, handsome, brilliant; professes atheism, and is approved by Voltaire. She feels that society is greatly indebted to her for discerning the merits of this brilliant young man, and producing him in the salon at so early an age. Yet his superfluous cash, she considers, should not be diverted from her tables to fill the purses of actresses. As for d'Alembert, except for a certain interest she takes in him, it matters not at all. He has nothing to lose. His only assured income is a yearly allow- ance of twelve hundred francs from the Chevalier Destouches, his reputed father. D'Alembert, as an infant of a few days old, was found, abandoned, on the steps of the church of St. Jean-Tourniquet, by a glazier, who took pity on the poor child and carried him home to his wife. These good people brought him up as their own son; his education being provided for by Madame de Tencin. When she perceived that he gave promise of be- THE IRREPRESSIBLE BULL. 2II coming distinguished among scientific and literary men, she was desirous of acknowledging him. Bur d'Alembert declined the honor, saying, "The only mother he knew was the woman who had rescued and nursed him in infancy." On the other hand, it is asserted that he was so mortified at the generally sup- posed obscurity of his birth, that he would have been only too happy to have accepted the recognition of Madame de Tencin or Destouches, had they really offered it. However, he frequents her salon^ and her patronage is useful to him. She has lost none of her prestige by the misadventure that caused her tem- porary eclipse. She has resumed her place, and shines as brilliantly as ever among the stars of the Parisian world. Arrived, too, at that uncertain pe- riod of life called middle age, Madame de Tencin is even more distinguished than before. Forbidden philosophical books are secretly circulated through her influence; young men are formed in manners, initiated in the principles of the new school of thought, and develop their talent for wit in her salon. Her brother, the archbishop, a firm partisan of the Bulle Unigenitus, is at this time engaged in per- secuting the venerable old bishop of Senez, who has opposed the Bull, and is suspected of Jansenism. Fleury, so fond of peace, is much disturbed by this resurrection of the irrepressible Bull, as well as by the scenes of daily occurrence in Paris in the cemetery of St. ;Medard. There, a fanatical Jansenist, known as the Diacre-Paris, has recently been buried, and mira- cles are said to take place at his tomb. The cemetery is thronged. The lame man carried there, at once casts aside all aid and returns home running and leaping. The blind see; the dumb speak; the deaf 212 THE OLD REGIME. hear — so it is affirmed. The people, however, are more inclined to profane jesting than reverence, and the philosophers protest against such scenes, as the work of a knavish priesthood. The cemetery is to be closed, and Tencin, to whom such work is a labor of love, relieves the aged Fleury from much trouble and anxiety by his success in putting down the scandals of Jansenism, and compelling acceptance of the Bull. Madame de Tencin has, therefore, some influence with the cardinal-minister, and, having become de- vout, has exerted it on the side of morality. It was she who induced the cardmal to refuse the wealthy La Popliniere the renewal of his term of fermier- general, unless he made his mistress his wife. He had long promised to do so; but Mdlle. Daucour, the lady in question, complained of the delay in the per- formance of his promise. Madame de Tencin was her friend. Into her sympathetic ear she poured the story of her wrongs. Virtuously indignant, she undertook Mdlle. Daucour's cause, requesting only secrecy on her part. A word to the cardinal, and a hint from the king — who desired that his court and his people should follow his example of conjugal fidelity — very soon after made Mdlle. Daucour, Ma- dame de La Popliniere. M. de La Popliniere was not perhaps the richest ol the financiers of Paris. The famous Samuel Bernard was no doubt a much richer man, and the extreme benevolence of his character led him to make a far nobler use of his wealth than M. de La Popliniere did of his. ThQ latter was chiefly known for his magnifi- cent style of living. His hotel in the Rue St. Antoine was furnished with a splendor that vied with that of the Hotel Lesdigui^res. THE HOTEL LA POPLINIERE, 21 ^ His house at Auteuil, on a smaller scale, was a sort of palace of the genii. Boucher was called from his silk-draped boudoir to paint on the panels of the salons some of those exquisite designs in which he so greatly excelled. There were fine specimens of Na- toire's far-famed decorative work, and portraits of stage beauties by Carle Vanloo and Largilliere, fils (who was called the Vandyke of France, and who con- tinued to paint portraits with undiminished skill until near the age of ninety). M. de La Popliniere was not only a liberal patron of the arts, but a giver of sump- tuous banquets. His hotel was the general resort of the wits, choice spirits, philosophers, stars of the the- atrical and musical world, painters of celebrity, and a fair sprinkling of the nobility. Naturally, the incense of flattery was unsparingly bestowed on him. It is therefore not surprising to find him a little vain of his social achievements. But he was a remarkably genial host, rather distinguished in appearance, and having married Mdlle. Daucour, he presented her to his friends with some pride. For she was a young and charming woman, very musical, witty, and agreeable, and, as he conceived, did honor to his choice. Foreigners of distinction often visited M. de La Popliniere. A portion of his hotel was set apart for the reception of the virtuosi of other nations, who, when sojourning in Paris for awhile, accepted, as his guests, the hospitality of his princely establishment. Italian painters, sculptors, and musicians were sure of a gracious welcome, both from Monsieur and Madame. Rameau, patronized by Madame de La Popliniere, had an apartment assigned him, with the appoint- ment of organist; a chapel, also a small theatre, being attached to the hotel. In the beautiful little theatre 2 14 TH^ OLD rAgIMB. Rameau officiated as chef d'orchestre. On' Sundays, at Mass, he improvised on the organ. The mingled sweetness and sadness of his strains; his. " religious sensibility," as Diderot, then young, was accustomed to say, greatly impressed his hearers; and none more than Diderot himself — the most highly gifted of the philosophic band, though, unhappily, of so ill-organ- ized a mind. The petits-soupers at Auteuil outrivalled all others. Not merely in the repast itself; in the magnificent sil- ver table service, of artistic design and exquisite work- manship; but in the general arrangements. Guests, taken there for the first time, are said to have been as startlingly surprised as though some brilliantly lighted scene of enchantment had suddenly opened before them. Perfumes, flowers, scenic illusions, music, instrumental and vocal, by unseen performers, a perfect intoxication of the senses. No wonder that Mdlle. Daucour should have desired permanently to dwell in this fairy bower; that she should have been grateful to her dear Madame de Tencin for the word in season dropped into the ear of the good cardinal, always so anxious to help society to reform. She was a much envied woman in the fashionable world of Paris, in spite of a singularly laughable crot- chet of M. de La Popliniere, who, while adopting in other respects the manners and customs of aristocratic society, was actually so barbaric in his ideas, that he refused to allow his wife the services of an ami intime. He chose to take the duties of that office on himself, and was so boyishly romantic as to allow it to appear that he had an affectionate regard for his wife. Some sharp-sighted ladies kept a vigilant eye on her; just to see how she bore such tyranny. But all went on A FRENCH MEPHISTOPHELES. 21 5 well, until " this long dream of happiness," as it was jestingly termed, was one evening the subject of con- versation and laughter in a salon where a number of ladies were amusing themselves with their " purfling," and gentlemen with their embroidery. One of them was that Mephistopheles of French society, of whom it was said " that like the serpent he was resolved to conquer the world, through woman " — the infamous Due de Richelieu. Hitherto he had honored La Popliniere with but little of his company. The reunions of artistes pos- sessed small attraction for him, and the host, to his mind, was far too pretentious — putting himself on a level with grands seigneurs such as he; though Riche- lieu, in fact, had but little to plume himself upon in his ancestry. However, he has now a worthy motive for renewing his acquaintance with the magnificent financier, to whom anonymous notes are soon after constantly addressed, attributing disparaging conduct to his wife. He has confidence in her and disregards such insinuations. But during her absence at d^fete^ a more explicit letter reaches him. He is induced to push his inquiries further, and, to his intense dismay, he is compelled to give credence to the accusations against her. He orders that the doors be closed, and admission refused on her return. News of what has occurred is carried to her. Meeting with her hus- band's friend, the Marechal de Saxe, she prays him to take her home in his carriage. He does so, and thrusting aside the servant, who would prevent her from entering, he leads her to her husband. " Lis- ten," he says, " for a moment to your wife, she desires to justify herself in your eyes." He then leaves them together. 2l6 THE OLD rAgIME. La Popliniere is in a distracted state of mind; he turns sadly from his wife, when, throwing herself on her knees, she implores forgiveness for the wrong she has done him. Her confession increases both his anger and his grief. He desires her to leave his house, and she does so on the following day, to take up her abode in a humble cottage at Passy, with a small monthly allowance for her support from her husband. There she pines away; grief, remorse, de- spair, soon do their work, and La Popliniere is re- leased from the fair frail wife who had so bitterly deceived him, but whom, nevertheless, he unceasingly regrets. As, at the marriage of Mdlle. de Valois, Richelieu presented himself to gaze unmoved on the grief of the young girl whose love he had won, and who was sacrificing herself for him, so this insidious seducer had the audacity and barbarity similarly to insult the erring wife who, so weakly yielding to his blandishments, had brought ruin and disgrace on her head. Richelieu had then just married his second wife, Mdlle. de Guise, the heiress of the Due de Lorraine, But he confessed that what pleased him most in this marriage was the right it gave him to add the cross of Lorraine and the golden eaglets of a sovereign house to his family arms. He therefore was not restrained by any feeling for his bride from gratifying his desire to ascertain how the financier's wife was affected by the sudden transition from affluence and happiness to straitened means, neglect, and contempt. CHAPTER XXI. Thfe k I'Anglaise and a Lecture. — The Queen's Privy Purse. — The President H6nault. — Le Marquis d'Argenson. — Defence of the Cardinal. — The Cardinal's Petit Coucher. — Mademoi- selle Alss6.— The Chevalier d'Aidye.— The Sleep of Death.— History of the Fair Haid6e. — Les Devotionnettes. — A Warn- ing Sign from on High. — Miss Black. A LETTER, informing Madame de Tencin of the death of her friend and /r^/<^/if, Madame de la Popli- niere, was put into her hands when her thoughts were occupied, as we have noticed, with the rival gambling tables of the sa/on Quinault. It afforded her a ready theme for moralizing, as well on the sad event itself, as generally, on the manners of the age. Having left off rouge, she could, of course, with much propriety, be severe on that subject. And she was severe, for the especial benefit of the two youths, Helvetius and d'Alembert, respecting whose success in society — not the society of actresses, as she remarked — she might naturally be supposed to feel anxious, as they had made their t//<^«/ under her auspices and in her sa/on. With well simulated reverence they listened to the preaching of the reformed sinner (for such in some sense she was), while sipping their tea, ordered in as a support to her lecture. Th^ aVAtiglaise^ in the more severe salons, such as that of Madame de Tencin, was preferred as an accompaniment to conversation, and "a something to do," to embroidering applique, or cut- ting out pictures, and the working of worsted roses. 2l8 THE OLD REGIME. The tea-table is placed in front of the sofa, where the Circassian lady reclines, though not so much from indolence as because she is ill. Her malady is con- sumption, a very prevalent one at the period in ques- tion. It is a fitful, deceptive disease. She fancies to-day that she really has nothing but a slight feeling of languor to overcome, and she will be perfectly weil. Hence her visit to Madame de Tencin, who, after being her inveterate enemy, is become her very dear friend, but may be her enemy again. It is the way, you know, of womankind to be thus capricious in their so-called friendships. But let us not moralize: it is 'flat, stale, and unprofitable" so to do. The warnings and teachings of the usually brilliant Madame de Tencin had reached the very verge of drowsiness, when two habitues of her salon fortunately dropped in and turned the sluggish current of con- versation into another channel. One of the arrivals was the president, Henault, controller of the queen's household, and keeper of her privy purse — the last an office of no great responsibility, for the cardinal allowed but little to be put into the purse. Its dis- bursements were, therefore, scarcely more important than the distributing of pence to the poor. The queen had, indeed, complained to the king of the cardinal's stinginess; he, however, only recommended her to follow his example, and ask him for nothing; when she would be sure of meeting with no refusal. But Henault has a literary reputation, and it is founded on his chronological histories of France, Spain, and Portugal. His suppers have made him famous in social circles, and his wit has gained him brevet rank in the salon of the vivacious Duchesse du Maine. There are people who consider Henault as, THE PRESIDENT H&NAULT, ^xg before all things, un don vtvant. But his gourmandisey we learn, was the ^^ gourmandise of choice spirits " — an enlightened appreciation of the nuances of flavor in . savory dishes, and the delicate bouquet of choice wines. Madame du Deffant said of the president (he was president of the parliament of Paris) that "supper was one of the essential qualities of the man. Take that away, what remains to him ?" she asked. Vol- taire judged differently, and often addressed flattering lines to his friend, whose talent he could appreciate as well as his suppers: ** H6nault, fameux par vos soupers Et par votre chronologic, Par des vers au bon coin frapp^ Pleins dc douceurs ct d'harmonie. " Les femmes vous ont pris fort souvent Pour un ignorant fort aimable; , Les gens en us, pour un savant, Et le Dieu joufflu de la table Pour un connaisseur fort gourmand."* H^nault has but just left Madame du Deffant, more than usually oppressed by the demon ennui. He has confided her to the tender care of another devoted friend, the Marquis de Pont de Veyle. Often the Marquis spends the live-long day seated at one corner of her fire-place, the Marquise occupying the opposite side — he gazing upon her, as though enjoying the spectacle of a martyr to ennui, she affecting not to be aware of his presence. * '* H6nault, famous for your suppers, your chronology, and your verses with the ring of true metal, full of sweetness and harmonv- Women often take you for an amiable ignoramus, philosophers for a savant, and the jolly God of the table for a most fastidious connoisseur." ±20 "PitE OLD rAgIM^. The other addition to Madame de Tencin's tea-table guests is the Marquis d'Argenson, a severe censurer of the manners and morals of the period. He complains of the low tone that now prevails in circles that once were called good society. Con- versation, he says, is a thing of the past. Philosophy, intent only on breaking down the barriers that should separate classes, fills every salon with a heterogeneous mob, amongst whom he finds himself a stranger, and far more solitary than when alone in his study with no society but that of his books. " If," he continues, " any subject of interest should perchance be intro- duced in these salons^ immediately the frivolous com- pany begin to laugh, to yawn, to talk all at once, to ask questions the most irrelevant; being too idle to listen, too ignorant to reason. He can compare them only to a number of birds twittering in a bush, and all piping at random, each one striving only to be loud- est." The salon in which he has for years been accustomed to lament over the decline of good manners no longer exists. Madame de Lambert has passed away, at the age of eighty-six. "In her circle courtesy was a sentiment of the mind, and humanity dwelt in the heart. The politeness which has taken the place of courtesy consists of an infinity of words without meaning; while humanity, having left the heart for the lips, has no longer any base of esteem or affec- tion." The Marquis is an admirer of the Cardinal-minister. "They who would like to see him superseded," he says, " deny him the genius of a statesman, and con- demn his policy as wanting in breadth and boldness. Yet," urges the Marquis, in the warmth of his attach- THE CARDINAVS PETIT COUCHER. 221 ment to the old cardinal, " he has given proof of the possession of the ministerial qualities of justness and solidity in his views and intentions, and of frankness and good faith in his dealings with foreigners. His policy is sufficiently adroit without being treacherous; he is clear-sighted enough to discern the snares and traps laid for him by courtiers who would displace him, and he cleverly avoids them, or, at times, turns them to account, without resorting to perfidious means or adopting Machiavellian measures." Replying to the questioning of the ladies, d'Argen- son informs them that he was present on the previous evening at that most ridiculous yet amusing spectacle, called by the people "/^tits-af>parUmenis to her. Louis XV. was no stranger, then, to Madame d'Etioles when she met him in the ball-room of the Hotel de Ville, though she did not immediately recog- nize him. But his voice, which he had not the power of disguising, always betrayed him, and few persons were present to whom the jovial miller's identity was a mystery, while he fancied his disguise perfect. The lady, however, was discreet, and after a little lively badinage joined the dancers; dropping her handker- chief, perhaps designedly, as she rose from her seat. The king picked it up, and for awhile appeared unde- cided what to do with it At last, suddenly, as it seemed, a bright thought occurred to him, and, cross- ing the ball-room, he presented the handkerchief to Madame d'Etioles, with a very low bow, and, as re- ported, a very gallant compliment, though it reached only the ears for which it was intended. " He has thrown the handkerchief ! He has thrown the handkerchief !" exclaimed the masks, grouping around him, and taking advantage of their own and the king's disguise to pester him with piquant witti- cisms, and sarcastic remarks on the excellence of his taste. This induced his majesty to beat a retreat, and exchange the dusty miller costume for a Turkish one; which would have been more appropriate had he worn it before the ceremony of throwing the handkerchief. 264 THE OLD rAgIME. What a fine theme for the salons^ this so-called " throwing the handkerchief "! For all Paris and Ver- sailles knew the next day of the king's public "act of graciousness " towards the beautiful Madame d'Etioles. " Handsome if you like, but bourgeoise nevertheless," exclaimed Madame de Tencin, who had been one of the intimates of Madame de Chateauroux, and who, now getting into years, had become very severe in her strictures on " the loose morals of these bourgeoises ladies," who presumed to follow the vicious example of their betters. Perceiving the designs of Madame d'Etioles on the king, Madame de Tencin had for some time made it a point of conscience sedulously to endeavor to thwart them. " She is a presumptuous bourgeoise^'' cries another indignant marquise or comtesse, who cannot, or who will not, believe that the much-coveted distinction of • succeeding Madame de Chateauroux can possibly be conferred on any but a lady of the higher nobility. Yet, on the very evening that the incident of the hand- kerchief took place, there were far-seeing courtiers and court ladies also, at the ball, who bestowed the most gracious of smiles and flattering compliments on the lady whom the king had delighted to honor. A very different view, however, was taken of the honor paid to his wife by M. le Normand d'Etioles. When it came to his ears, "he made," we learn, "a frightful uproar;" threatened to shut up Madame, and to appeal to the Parliament against the tyranny of the king in destroying the peace and happiness of families by his dissolute life. The result of this out- spoken indignation was the rescue of his wife from the seclusion with which he had threatened her, and THE QUEEN'S DAME DU PALAIS. 265 an invitation to himself to travel. He was free to choose in what direction — England, Italy, or elsewhere. He had but to name the country, and the Mousque- taires of M. le Lieutenant would have the honor of escorting him to the frontier. He chose Italy. But exile did not silence his tongue. He continued to in- veigh, in no measured terms, against the character and conduct of the king, until a communication from the Papal government bade him cease, or take the consequences of his folly. Madame d'Etioles, in the mean time, was successfully installed at Versailles. One of the dames du palais having resigned, the king desired that she should suc- ceed to the vacant post Poor Marie Leczinska ven- tured mildly to oppose it, and proposed a candidate of her own. The king replied that the lady was not of the required rank. The queen retorted that she was certainly of much higher birth than Madame d'Etioles. But Louis XV. did not choose to argue the point. He silenced the queen as it was customary with him to silence all opposition to his wishes, "yir U veux" he said with a very determined air; and ac- cordingly the new favorite was presented to the queen, again by the Princesse de Conti, as one of her ladies of the palace, and an apartment assigned her. Ma- dame d'Etioles was on this occasion, as, indeed, she is said always to have been, highly respectful in her manner towards the queen, who, expecting another haughty Madame de Chateauroux,* was surprised at * Full of superstition, and with a great fear of ghosts, Marie Leczinska, when she heard of the death of the Duchesse de Cha- teauroux at Versailles (where it was not etiquette for any but royal personages to die), became timid and alarmed at nightfall, in expectation of a ghostly visit from the deceased. An old 266 ^^-^ OLD kEGtM&. the change, and received La Marquise de Pompadour not only with less repugnance, but, for a time, with some show of favor. The king had raised Madame d'Etioles to the need- ful rank by conferring on her the title of the extinct noble family of De Pompadour, whose arms she also assumed on receiving a considerable portion of the estates. From this time her favor increased; and gradually Madame de Pompadour took upon herself the office of first minister — ruling France as Fleury had done, though with less satisfaction to the nation, by humoring and amusing the king. From her position with reference to Louis XV., she naturally experienced more difficulty than the cardi- nal in maintaining that rule. All on whom places or pensions were not bestowed became her enemies. The aristocratic society of France, of the middle of the eighteenth century, were far too thoroughly corrupt to take any moral objection to the dispensing of court favors being placed in the hands of the king's mis- tress. The only indignity they saw in it was that the lady promoted to that honor was not of noble birth, not one of their noble selves. But the monarch had declared it was his royal will and pleasure that thus it should be, and that "after him might come the deluge;" so the courtiers, for the most part, were con- tent to bow down and lick the dust of the feet of the Marquise de Pompadour. Polish nurse, who had accompanied her to France, and to whom she imparted her fears, bade her be of good comfort. " She will do in the spirit," she said, " what she did in the flesh — prefer the king's apartments to your majesty's. So let her wander at her will." CHAPTER XXVI. "Un D^godt Rhubarbalif.*'— Jeanne Antoinette Poisson. — Eti- quette of the Old Regime. — Jeanne's Father. — Pretty and Beautiful. — Marriage of Mdlle. Poisson. — Mdme. d'^tioles in Society. — Cleopatra and the Asp. — Highly Promoted. — The Bourgeoisie of Paris. — Street Lamps. — Evening Promenading. The history of Madame de Pompadour has been variously related. She has been greatly exalted and greatly debased, the object of extravagant praise and no less extravagant invective. " Educated by a cor- rupt mother to corrupt a king born religious," are the opening words of Soulavie's M^moires; and exceed- ingly ridiculous they are. For if Louis XV. really was "born religious," it is very certain that he had entirely lost this innate gift of religion by the time he attained his thirty-fifth year, when he first became subject to the influence of Madame de Pompadour. The work of corruption was surely well-nigh com- pleted under the reign of the four sisters De Nesle, and "Z^ bien aim/" was now a prey to ennui^ and sometimes to fits of remorse so profound that life seemed a burden to him. His tapestry, his amateur cookery, his turning and delving, and other undig- nified and puerile pursuits, had all lost their charm, while a certain restlessness of spirit gave him**a« de'goUt rhubarbatif for everything and everybody under the sun. He sighed for new amusements, new pleasures; and had Madame de Chateauroux been spared to him, he 26S THR OLD k&GlME, possibly might soon have been sighing for new worlds to conquer. But, as it was, when he met Madame de Pompadour, he was like a fish out of water — if so humble a simile be permitted. From the age of five to thirty-three he had been under the guidance of his preceptor, and for at least eight or nine years had dis- covered no beauty that could compete with that of the queen. His preceptor was dead, and his queen, chiefly by her own fault, was no longer his queen of beauty. She had tamely yielded her legitimate influ- ence to others. Those others having also disappeared from the stage of life, Madame de Pompadour, or rather Madame d'Etioles, then appears prominently on the scene, ambitious of taking the sceptre of France from the feeble hands of the king. At the age of three years and a half, Jeanne Antoi- nette Poisson, it appears, went with her mother and nurse to the house of M. Paris-Duvernay, to see the marriage procession of the king and queen. It was not a very diverting spectacle for so young a child, and little Jeanne having expressed some impatience was quieted by: " Look, my child, see the king, the handsome young king, he is going to be married." This seems to have made an impression on the youth- ful mind of Mdlle. Jeanne; for when her nurse was about to take her in her arms to return home, the child resisted, clung to the window, and cried lustily. "Why, what is the matter, my little Jeanne?" in- quires the nurse. " I want to be married, and I'm waiting for the king," murmurs the child, her eyes streaming with tears. " Oh ! what a pretty little wife for the king," ex- claims her mother, laughingly. ETIQUETTE OF THE OLD REGIME, 26^ Thus is this phrase, apparently a standing joke in the family, accounted for, in letters attributed to Ma- dame de Pompadour. And it is as likely to be true as the disagreeable origin elsewhere given to it, in some few memoirs of the period, not generally trust- worthy. That she was brought up from childhood with the view of her becoming the king's mistress is difficult to believe. For it should be remembered that the rigid class distinctions of the old regime were still in full force at Versailles; and that the halo of divinity which surrounded and hedged in the king was not yet so dimmed that a family of iht petite hour geoisie would presume to bring up a daughter with the view of her filling a post to which only the daughters of nobles could pretend. Besides, the king gave no indications, either then or for many years after, of sinking into a miserable debauchee, as he eventually became. From the letters of Mdlle. Aiss6, which probably are authentic, the writer, after deprecating, with her usual sentimentality, the scandals she so evidently loves to dwell upon, says: "Though these things are done in the face of the sun, yet the court is a pious one; and the manners of the two heads of the state (Fleury and the king) very severe. They are irre- proachable except on the score of morality." Jeanne's father was second-clerk in the com- misssariat department, an appointment he owed to one of the brothers Paris. Like too many others, he was afflicted with the mania for gambling, and as he was more frequently a loser than a gainer, and his means also were small, his family was often reduced to great straits. This led to defalcations, or em- bezzlement of some sort, which compelled him secret- 270 THE OLD R&GIME. ly to leave France. He was tried in his absence, and condemned to be hanged. Not being forthcoming, he was hanged in effigy, and the whole of his goods were seized by his creditors, leaving his wife and young son and daughter destitute. For some time both brother and sister had been educated at the expense of M. le Normand Tourne- hem. By his liberality Jeanne was not only taught engraving, that she might have an occupation that would secure her, if needed, a livelihood, but also in- structed, by the best masters obtainable, in vocal and instrumental music; in the then fashionable accom- plishments of dancing and drawing; in languages, and so forth. Great natural intelligence aiding these educational advantages, Jeanne Antoinette Poisson was a far more highly endowed young lady than most of the daughters of nobles with whom, while pursuing her studies, she sometimes came in contact; though " the difference in rank" forbade any approach to intimacy. Until about her fifteenth year she was so extremely thin that, except in grace of movement, she gave no promise of becoming " the most beautiful woman of the capital." "There was in her countenance," says even one who delights to heap obloquy upon her, " a most attractive blending of vivacity and tenderness. It was a countenance that might be called both pretty and beautiful. To her personal graces was added the charm of her many accomplishments; and the thorough instruction she had received imparted great interest to her conversation." "A certain art of badinage'' which she possessed in perfection, and which, though lively and piquant, was refined in tone, highly delighted and amused the distinguished circle MARRIAGE OF MDLLE, POISSON. 271 of wits, men of letters, and members of the beau monde who filled her salon when she became Madame le Normand d'Etioles. She was then between eighteen and nineteen. M. le Normand Tournehem — a man of good family, and one of the farmers-general, therefore rich — had pro- posed to leave her the half of his property. But his nephew having fallen deeply in love with her, a mar- riage was arranged, by which eventually she was to succeed to the whole of the uncle's fortune. The consent of the young man's father was reluctantly given. The daughter of a man who had been hanged in effigy, and who, until recently (interest having been made to set aside this disgraceful sentence for the lesser one of banishment), dared not return to France lest he should undergo that process in per- son, was not, he considered, a very desirable match. But he yielded to the infatuation of his son and the wishes of his brother, M. le Normand Tournehem. Most unfortunately, tlie young lady had no love for her husband. So far as she was concerned, it was one of those conventional French marriages in which love is not even a secondary consideration, though affec- tion and happiness often result from them; but in this instance the bridegroom was deeply in love. " With ample means at command, and gifts, natural and acquired, such as hers," remarks M. Bungener, " she might have taken a very high place in society, and would have played a brilliant part in the world, had she never approached the steps of the throne." She was of the sect of the philosophers, of course ; being on terms of friendly intimacy with Voltaire, who sometimes sojourned for a week or ten days together at the Chateau d'Etioles, where he wrote 2/2 THE OLD REGIME, some portion of his " Histoire Gen^rale" and his " Charles XII." ; also, as historiographer of France, the account of the king's first campaign in Flanders, from the reports transmitted to him by M. d'Argen- son. With Voltaire she was received at Sceaux, where some dramatic bagatelles he had written for the duchess's theatre were performed. While there they heard of the death of Cardinal Fleury, whom she had once met in the salon of Madame de Carignan, and again at a supper at Madame de Tencin's, where his particular notice of her seems to have been rather displeasing to the hostess. Both before and after her marriage she frequented the best literary salons — the brilliant artistic and phil- osophic receptions of the moralist Vauvenargues, at the Hotel de Tours; and the grave and learned circle of M. de Chenevieres. Crebillon and Voltaire were then not only at peace, but, apparently, there was friendship between them. The next year there was war to the knife. It was at a reception at the house of M. de Che- nevieres that Madame d'Etioles first met Marmontel; then very young, and but recently arrived from Tou- louse with a great provincial literary reputation. With M. d'Etioles she attended the first representation of his tragedy of " Cleopatra." It appears that the theatre was crowded even more than was usual on such occasions, the doors being besieged by an anx- ious crowd long before the time for admission. This intense interest was due less to the new play and the great actress, Mdlle. Clairon, who played the heroine, than to a mechanical asp, made by the mechanician Vaucanson, and which, held in the hand of Cleo- patra, represented all the movements of a live reptile. HIGHLY PROMOTED, 273 The illusion was perfect. But while watching the twisting and turning of the creature, both author and actress were but little attended to. The mechanical triumph of M. Vaucanson proved, indeed, so prejudi- cial to their success that it had to be abandoned. Marmontel was afterwards one of Madame de Pom- padour's protdg/s^ and, generally, rising young artists and literary men found in her an enlightened ap- preciation of their talents and productions. The salon of Madame d'Etioles would doubtless have become the most brilliant and distinguished of the period, as she was, herself, the most remarkably talented, gifted, and beautiful woman of her day, had not want of moral principles, and an intense love of power, led her to seek the gratification of her ambitious views in the much-envied position of the king's recognized mistress. To speak of it as a disreputable position is to judge it by a different standard of morality from that which prevailed at the period. For the elevation, as it was termed, of Madame d'Etioles shocked only because it v;^ the first instance of unt dame bourgeoise^ or lady of the middle class, having been so " highly promoted," and accordingly it was resented as one of the social innovations of that innovating age on the privileges of the nobles, and a breach of the etiquette of the old regime. But when Madame de Pompadour took up the sceptre of France, she was fully impressed by the idea that her reign would be a long one. She had the tact, or the art, to impress the same con- viction on others; and thus secured, as her partisans, all who were ambitious and who sought court favor; without which the road to distinction was then closed to most persons. To assist at the toilet of La Mar- quise de Pompadour was soon, therefore, a favor 2/4 THE OLD REGIME. more eagerly desired than to assist at the petit lever of the king. The court became more brilliant, the salons more animated from the time of her accession to power. The change which French society had for some years been gradually undergoing seemed to have derived from that event a fresh impulse. The middle class rapidly rose in importance, while the prestige of the nobility declined. It was owing, however, rather to the flourishing state of French commerce, which, almost extinct when Louis XV. came of age, had been fostered and renewed under the peaceful policy and economical administration of Fleury. The class in whose hands lay the wealth of the country now claimed consideration where, hitherto, it had, at best, been but tolerated; while the great and increasing spread of the new philosophism tended towards the levelling of social inequalities, and the depriving the gentilhomme of his long-enjoyed privilege of contemn- ing and insulting the bourgeois. Barbier records in his journal (1745-) that "the bourgeoisie of Paris," meaning the trading and shop- keeping section, "are no longer content with their station — that they, in fact, know not their place," since they have been permitted with impunity not only to abandon the characteristic dress prescribed by Richelieu, to mark the line of separation between them and the upper ranks of society, but also to resume the use of gold, silver, and jewels, forbidden under the regency. Another French writer observes that, in a country where wealth, without noble descent, had never yet obtained social consideration, the parvenu millionaire was now courted and honored far more EVENING PROMENADING, 2/5 than the needy gentilhomme^ though he could prove the nobility of his family for seventeen generations. Trade was prosperous; and men engaged in it had been quietly laying by money while the upper hour- geoisie and the nobles had been squandering it. The small dark shops, which hitherto had served for the needs of the Parisians, were abandoned for more com- modious ones, with superior dwelling accommodation. The introduction, at this time, of the street lamps made Paris a brilliantly lighted city, compared with its previous gloom after nightfall. It induced, also, the lighting up of shops, and favored the now gen- eral custom of promenading on the Boulevards in the evening — a recreation to which all classes were de- voted. Ladies, as well as gentlemen, made use of walking-canes — the bourgeoise presuming also to follow this fashion; just as at home she carried her snuff- box or bonbonni^re^ and flaunted in silk attire, with a wide-spreading panier^ and jewels and lace, with as grand an air as any marquise or duchesse. The various trades no longer congregated each in its own distinct street, but were located indiscrimi- nately in different parts of the city. The most thriving of the shopkeepers began to have their country seats in the suburbs, and shopmen were employed where, heretofore, wives and daughters attended in the bus- iness. "Now they have their weekly receptions," says Mercier; "take their tea and coffee; disdain tal- low candles, and, like their betters, burn wax-lights and set out their card-tables for the evening." CHAPTER XXVII. Le Mar^chal de Saxe. — The Dauphin's Baptism of Fire. — Mdme. de Pompadour at the Wars. — Her Heart grew Faint. — A Re- vulsion of Feeling. — "Oh, saddle White Surrey !" — Mars and Venus. — Scenes of the War. — Le Poeme de Fontenoy. — Eve of the Battle of Rocoux. — The Baggage of War. — Living en Bourgeois. — Bravery and its Rewards. — A Soldier of Fortune. Following the example of Madame de Chateau- roux, Madame de Pompadour, with more successful results, had prevailed on the king to rejoin the army in Flanders; to complete, as she flatteringly observed, his series of conquests, interrupted by the contretemps of his illness at Metz. The Marechal de Saxe had already left Paris to resume the chief command of the French armies, though suffering greatly from languor and weakness; his health being seriously undermined by the excesses of a dissolute life. But his great flow of spirits, his courage and martial ardor, sustained him on this trying occasion. To Voltaire's question " what he could do in such a feeble condition," the Marechal replied, "it was not a question of living, but of setting out." Yet he was often compelled to dismount while giv- ing his orders for the disposition of the troops in action, and to repose in a litter of wicker-work, which served him both for a carriage and a bed. He was a very great soldier, undoubtedly, this son of the beau- tiful Aurora von Konigsmark. His qualities, as such, THE DAUPHIN'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 2^^ were generally acknowledged by the officers of the French army, whose most distinguished generals served under him; the more readily, it may be, that he was not a Frenchman. He was novN% with a very numerous force, investing the strong citadel of Tour- nai— considered one of the cfufs-d'auvre of Vauban's system of fortification. A battle seemed imminent, and the king being informed of it, yielded to the sug- gestions of his beautiful mistress, that he should kin- dle fresh valor in his troops by showing himself at the head of his armies. Once more, then, the royal hero dons his plumed helmet, and girds on his valiant sword; and, accom- panied by a numerous retinue and brilliant staff, sets out for Flanders, amidst the enthusiastic acclamations of the Parisian people. On the 6th of May he arrived at Douai, whence, on the following day, he proceeded to Pontachin, to reconnoitre with his generals, the neighborhood of the expected battle-field. The recep- tion of "Z^^/>«/;/" by his troops might have glad- dened the heart of Henri IV.; and \\it^ vivas loud and long, repeated from rank to rank, may momentarily have gratified Louis XV., though these public ovations usually rather annoyed than pleased him. The dauphin on this occasion also visited the armies, to receive his baptism of fire. The relations between Louis and his son were frigid in the extreme. Yet the latter appears to have been most respectful in his be- havior towards the king, never presuming on his rank, but attending the petit lever with the officers of his corps — allowing those of higher grade to enter before him, and mounting guard at the royal head- quarters simply as captain of his regiment of "the dauphin's gendarmes and light-horse." He conducted 27S TtfR OLD REGIME. himself also with as much bravery as could be ex- pected in a youth yet scarcely sixteen, and who, more- over, was restrained from seeking any post of real danger. A little ostentatious piety, in the publicity with which he performed his devotions — at the in- stance indeed of his Jesuit confessor, who was glad to offer, in the face of the armies, this annoyance to the king — was all that could well be complained of. Madame de Pompadour had solicited and obtained permission to join the king at the camp of the Mare- chal de Saxe. She did not, however, like Madame de Chateauroux, take a formal leave of the queen, but decamped without beat of drum with the minister of war, Comte d'Argenson, to whom the king had given leave to offer her a seat in his carriage. Two days before the battle they arrived in the neighborhood of Tournai. D'Argenson immediately proceeded to the king's head-quarters, leaving Madame at a place of safety near Antoin. What anxious fears filled her breast during those forty -eight hours! How, at any moment, some unex- pected turn of fortune might wrest the sceptre of France from her hand ere she had firmly grasped it! And when the day of the contest came, and the roar of the cannon reached her ears, and the din of battle was borne on the breeze in fitful and confused sounds, how she trembled! The star of her fortunes seemed to pale, and her ambitious hopes to be crushed in the bud, as she listened to the thunder of war. " Her heart grew faint, as though 'twould die within her." But her anxiety was not for her hero's life; she knew that he was safe enough out of harm's way. But, ah! should the battle go against him — and Mau- rice de Saxe was more famous for his retreats than A REVULSION OF FEELING. 79 his victories — what might be the consequence to her ? The king had remarked that "since the days of Saint Louis no king of France had gained any signal vic- tory over the English." It is against an English army, led by the impetuous young Duke of Cumberland, that the army of France is now fighting. The victory depends on good generalship — and whatever his suf- ferings, Maurice de Saxe may be depended on for that — not, as in these degenerate days, on the possession of the most murderous weapons, when, after remorse- lessly mowing down thousands with their " monster guns," pious emperors and kings send telegrams to wives and mistresses with the news that " God hath blessed them with victory" — God being in these civi- lized times on the side of the latest diabolical inven- tions, as formerly He was said to favor the biggest battalions. Oh for the days when, as the old song says, " They who make the quarrel may be the only men to fight" ! But we have wandered from the village of Antoin, where we left the beautiful marquise a prey to anxious thought. She looks forth from her chamber window, her face is pale, her eye is haggard ; she wonders why his charger or his chariot is so long in coming. But in the distance she espies a horseman, another, and again another. They ride as only aides-de-camp ride, even at reviews — as if for their very lives. The Mare- chal Comte d'Estr6es brings a message from the king to the Marquise de Pompadour, with the news of the victory of Fontenoy. The marechal tells of the prod- igies of valor performed by the king, of the terrible risks he has run; of his hairbreadth escapes, and the courage, always so conspicuous in the Bourbon race, of which he has given such startling proofs. 28o TffS: OLD rAgtme. What a revulsion of feeling this news occasions ! Despondency had begun to cast its dark shadow o'er the agitated mind of the marquise; now it is dispelled by the bright gleams of triumph, and, in the excess of her joy, she resolves to ride over, personally to con- gratulate her hero, to the village of Fontenoy. There, the marechal informs her, the king may yet be found. " Oh, saddle White Surrey!" She cannot wait until the cumbrous carriage, with all its fine trappings, is got ready. Her horse is brought forth; lightly she mounts it, and outstrips in speed the marechal and his aides-de-camp, stopping once in the forest of Barri to gather a branch of oak. The king — with the dauphin, the Marechal de Saxe, the Due de Richelieu (the king's aide-de-camp), the Due de Penthievre ("notreToulouse"), and the Prince de Soubise (whose tent was a sort of restaurant during the campaign), and other staff officers — was entering the forest of Barri, when the marquise was seen ap- proaching from the opposite side. Louis immediately recognized his ladylove, and, descending as she rode up, assisted her himself to dismount — she taking that opportunity of fastening the branch of oak in his helmet. Following the example of the king, the whole of his brilliant military escort alighted to re- ceive the fair Marquise de Pompadour. The flush of excitement heightened the natural bloom of her cheek, and gratified ambition shone in her lustrous dark eyes, as their proud glance rested on the imposing spectacle before her. The king (whom, if she did not love, she may have admired as she would the Apollo Belvedere) was then in the full vigor of manly beauty. As he stood there, with plumed casque in hand, surrounded by the most distinguished generals of the age, and SCENES OF THE WaH, 28 1 crowned with the laurels of victory, fresh from the battle-field, the overwrought imagination of an ambi- tious-minded woman might regard the gay pageant as typical of France, her ruler, and her armies, bowing before her — a dream that, not long after, was literally fulfilled. This meeting of Mars and Venus in the forest of Barri must have been a very pretty scene, and shed an air of romance on Fontenoy. It served to distract the mind from the horrors of war (for fourteen thou- sand men lay dead on the plain where that desperate battle had been fought), and the king immediately before had been moralizing on the subject for the benefit of his son. The dauphin, in his turn, might afterwards have moralized on the scene in the forest of Barri, for the benefit of his father, as he stood bare- headed before his mistress. Neither in youth nor manhood was the dauphin an attractive personage. He was the slave of Jesuit priests, and displayed but little intelligence and no great amiability. But to witness the deference, the honor, so publicly paid to his mother's rival, and in which he was himself obliged to take part, must have been mortifying and painful indeed. While compliments and felicitations were being ex- changed, two soldiers of the French Guard arrived, bearing a litter, on which was extended the body of the Due de Grammont. Suddenly struck down by a random shot he had begged that he might see, and bid adieu to, the king before he died. But life was found to be extinct when he reached the royal pres- ence. What a sight for the pretty marquise ! Hap- pily, however, her nerves were stronger than was con- sidered quite correct in those days, so that, although 5^2 THE OLD REGIME. anxious eyes were upon her, she felt no inclination to faint. So far from it, that perceiving M. Du Guesclin propped up against a tree, where he was waiting the arrival of a surgeon — his leg having been shattered by a spent ball — she hastened, as a sister of mercy, to afford him, while awaiting a more skilful hand, such relief as she was able — dressing and binding up his wounds with her handkerchief and portions of cam- bric and lace torn from her dress. The king and all present were, naturally, enchanted — even the dauphin smiled kindly upon her. On the following day there was a solemn Te Deum, and a general salvo of the army — all was " Joy, glory, and tenderness," as d'Argenson wrote to Voltaire. Three days after the battle arrived Voltaire's " Poeme de Fontenoy," of which thirty thousand copies were distributed amongst the army. He is said to have written it in a single day; but, doubtless, it was pre- pared beforehand, and awaited only d'Argenson's re- ports of the battle to impart to it certain touches of vraisemblance. Fontenoy was an important victory to France. Ten days after it Tournai surrendered, which led to the conquest of the whole of the Austrian Nether- lands. The king made a triumphal entry into Tournai, and after visiting other places in Flanders, returned with Madame de Pompadour to Paris, early in September, 1745. The battle of Rocoux brought the campaign to an end. It was fought on the nth of October, and was generally considered as a mere wanton destruction of human life. For though victory remained with the French, neither side lost nor gained territory or other advantage by it. The Marechal de Saxe, supposed to EVE OF THE BATTLE OE ROCOUX. ^83 be dying at the opening of the campaign, seemed to revive and to gain renewed strength as victory fol- lowed victory. Yet even he appeared to be by no means elated by the victory of Rocoux, but rather oppressed by so great and unnecessary an effusion of blood. It was his custom to have a company of actors in his suite, to amuse the soldiers, and to keep up their spirits when not in action. On the eve of the battle of Rocoux, the play was thus announced: ** To-morrow there will be no performance, on ac- count of the mar^chal intending to give battle. The day after to-morrow we shall have the honor of play- ing before you • The Village Chanticleer' and * Rhad- amiste.' " Yet the mar^chal, though thus seemingly assured of victory, was not in his usual spirits; for with the presentiment of success, he foresaw also the terrible carnage that would ensue. The Marquis de F6n61on, nephew of the great Archbishop of Cambrai, was among the slain in that sangumary contest. He was shot down in the intrenchments. After the battle the army went into winter quarters, and the Marechal de Saxe returned to Paris, to par- ticipate in ihQ fetes with which the Hotel de Ville and the Parisian people celebrated the return of the king and the successes of the campaign in Flanders. It was scarcely possible to exceed in enthusiasm the demonstrations of joy of the preceding year. Yet the results of the campaign were more important. The monarch then returned to his people raised, as by a miracle, from the bed of death. Now he came back to them as a conqueror, bearing the palm of victory, and with the reputation, more or less merited, of a valiant soldier. 5§4 ^^^ ^^'-^ j^AgimM. There were murmurings, it is true — or, amongst the more lenient of " the well-beloved's " good people of Paris, expressions of regret — that again he should have deemed a mistress a necessary part of the bag- gage of war. The custom was, however, an old one, though it would, of course, have been more honored in the breach than the observance. "The beautiful Gabrielle " graced the guerilla camp of the gallant and brave Henri IV. The tearful La Valliere and the haughty Montespan graced the glass coach of his god- ship, Louis XIV., when he took a trip to the wars, and sought glory within ear-shot of the roar of the cannon. A mattresse-en-titre was, in fact, then regarded as one of the indispensable trappings of royalty, as also, under the less high-sounding appellation of ^' a?me intime" of every great noble and gentleman of for- tune, who rightly considered what was due to his rank and station. If the honest bourgeois but very rarely followed this social custom, it was because, on the one hand, it was looked upon as an especial privilege of his betters; on the other, that few cared to incur so superfluous an expense, entailing also an inconvenient interference with bourgeois habits. Hence the phrase " they live e?t bourgeois " applied to those who lived reputably and happily, and respected the ties of marriage and of family. The murmurings against Louis XV. for doing only as his predecessors, in that respect, had done arose, then, not from considerations of morality, but chiefly out of the financial condition of the country; which, but recently rescued by strict economy from the very verge of bankruptcy, was again menaced with distress — no less by the extravagance of the king's mistresses than by the heavy expenses of the war. BRAVERY AND ITS REWARDS, 285 In addition to the legitimate cost of war, which fell as a burdensome tax on the people, there had arisen the pernicious custom of conferring large pecuniary rewards on all officers, of any rank, who had witnessed or taken part in an action. The nation had degene- rated. The French officer cared so little for his country that nothing spurred him on to be brave in its defence but the expectation of being largely paid for it All came forward at the end of the campaign with complaints of detriment to their fortune by ab- sence at the war, and a claim for compensation. Once upon a time, to be decorated with the* cross of Saint-Louis was the most coveted reward of the brave and gallant soldier — now little was thought of it — " They have fastened to my buttonhole," said a lieu- tenant of grenadiers, " the sign of my courage, but they have forgotten the price of my valor." " Misery, misery," cried the grandees who had held all the chief commands, " misery, misery," while in- dulging in every extravagance and luxury. The rank and file who had done all the fighting were, however, rewarded with their cong/y and permission to seek a subsistence wherever they could find it, or to be con- tent to starve. Fleury might well dread war; he knew that the military chiefs were inexorable creditors, rating their doubtful services exorbitantly high, and demanding prompt payment in ready money, with which the coffers of France were rarely overflowing. The parsimony of Louis XV. was proverbial when his own private purse was concerned; but he did not object to liberality when the nation provided the funds. The successes of the campaign in Flanders were owing chiefly to the Marechal de Saxe; and the king, in acknowledgment of his services, conferred on 286 THE OLD REGIME. him the title of Comte de Saxe, and the post of Mare- chal-General of the armies of France. He presented him also with six of the cannon taken at Rocoux, to place in front of the Chateau de Chambord, which, with its wide domain and dependencies — furnishing a revenue of between seven and eight millions of francs — he presented as a gift to the Saxon hero; adding to this princely donation a pension of forty thousand francs. Maurice de Saxe was indeed a fortunate sol- dier of fortune. CHAPTER XXVIII. "La Reine de Navarre."—" Lc Temple de laGloire."— " Is Trajan satisfied?" — The King's Petits-Soupers. — The King's Morals in Danger. — Horace, Virgil, and Voltaire.— Jealousy of Pi- ron. — The Laurel Crown of Glory. — Les Modes Pompadour. — An Evening with the Queen.— The Queen and the Mar6chal. — •* Ora pro Nobis." — M. de Saxe Caught Napping. — The Illus- trious Mouthier. — La Marquise Bourgeoise. — Stately Polite- ness.— The Old Regime. A VERY brilliant season, both at Paris and Ver- sailles, followed the military successes of France. Re- ligious dissensions, parliamentary quarrels, all were forgotten in the general joy. Even the severity of the Jansenists relaxed, and the scruples of the Jesuits gave way, before a nation's enthusiasm. With all classes, /^/^j and rejoicings formed the chief business of the hour. Had Louis XV. been the god of war in person, greater adulation could not have been paid him. His flatterers found language wanting in words of sufficient force of meaning to convey an idea of the royal warrior's feats of arms, or to express their own great admiration of his prowess. Such incense would have seemed natural, and been acceptable, offered to Louis XIV.; to his successor it gave no satisfaction whatever. The times were changed; already the old regime had begun to totter. This extravagant praise and fulsome flattery had now more the air of mockery than of compliment, and the 288 THE OLD REGIME. excitement of war having passed away, Louis would infallibly have sunk back to the apathy and gloom habitual to him, with intervals of tapestry and cook- ery, had not Madame de Pompadour come to the res- cue. It was at this time that she introduced scenic representations at Versailles, and formed her company of comedians and dancers — all men of rank, and all happy to obey the favorite's slightest behest. Tht petite op&a of " La Reine de Navarre" had been produced by Voltaire for the marriage fetes of the dauphin. At its first representation it had met with the general approval of the court; and great ladies intrigued for the principal rSleSy thinking to fascinate the king. But Madame, with her musical attainments and terpsichorean graces, of course reserved for her- self the parts for prtfua donna and pre77ii}re danseuse. Voltaire, it appears, rather coveted the post of stage- manager, but the lady preferred in this, as in more important affairs, to retain the management in her own hands. It was afterwards remarked that the poet had not been judicious in his choice of a subject, yet the king was so well pleased with the piece that it procured for Voltaire — at the instance, however, of Madame de Pompadour — the appointment of Gentle- man of the Bed-chamber. He was now requested to write a similar piece, the subject having reference to the war, for a proposed fete at Versailles. The result was "Le Temple de la Gloire," with a prologue, after the manner of Metastasio's productions. It was set to music by Rameau, who had composed the dances and songs of the " Reine de Navarre," and was per- formed in the petits appartements. In the opening of the piece, Trajan (Louis XV.) was seen giving peace to Europe, and the Temple of Glory afterwards open- " TRAJAN satisfied:' 289 ing to receive him. Voltaire had obtained permission to be present at its first representation. It was ex- tremely well received. But the vanity of the poet led to a breach of etiquette on his part that gave great offence to Trajan. It was utterly contrary to the usage of the court to address the king. But when he was leaving the thea- tre, Voltaire, throwing himself in his way, exclaimed, " Is Trajan satisfied?" This caused a momentary interruption to the progress of the king and his re- tinue; but a look of astonishment and indignation, that would have fallen as a thunderbolt on a less dauntless intruder, was the only reply vouchsafed. Madame de Pompadour, desirous of soothing the wounded amour-propre of her poet- friend, prevailed on the king to allow the offence to pass unnoticed; assuring him that irrepressible admiration of his majesty's valor, not presumption, had occasioned it. Further to console him for the severity of the rebuke, there was confided to him the drawing up of a mani- festo, which it was intended to publish when the pro- jected descent on England should be made, to assist the vain efforts of the young Pretender, then in Scot- land, to gain possession of the English throne. The defeat at Culloden put an end to this project. But Voltaire was as little disposed to evince grati- tude for such a commission, as to display any mortifi- cation — whatever he might feel — at the rebuff he had received. Louis XV. had made an enemy of one of whom Madame de Pompadour — flattering his weak- nesses — would have made a partisan. For she fully appreciated the talents of Voltaire, and his influence on the opinions of the age. She believed, too, that he might successfully aid her in weaning the king from 290 THE OLD REGIME. the habits he had contracted — but which then, per- haps, were too thoroughly confirmed — of drunkenness and gluttony, varied only by his addiction to the chase. The white cotton cap and apron of a chef were distasteful to her. She would have had him be- come the patron of men of letters; encourage science and art; embellish his capital, and take some pleasure in intellectual conversation and the society of the savants. But it was late in the day for Louis XV. to become thus reformed. It was both his misfortune and his fault to be too thoroughly perverted; and, besides, he disliked Voltaire. Yet, at the solicitation of the favorite, he was on the point of inviting him to the petits-soupers at Versailles. Listening ears, however, had by some means obtained a knowledge of the secret, and before the honor of an invitation was actually conferred, all the illustrious mediocrities of the court were up in arms, to oppose so monstrous an infraction of propriety as that of admitting a poet to sit at the table of a king. The Jesuits were in an extraordinary state of agita- tion, and, by their denunciations of the diabolical project, frightened poor Marie Leczinska and the dauphin out of their senses. " The king," they told them, " ran the risk of becoming a philosopher!" What more terrible fate could befall him? He still said his prayers daily, and went regularly to Mass, though he had given up his Holy Week devotions — not caring humbly to ask of his priest a " ticket of confession," which was absolutely necessary since the Galilean church had received the horrid Bulle Uni- genitus into its bosom, and the pugnacious Christophe de Beaumont reigned as Archbishop of Paris. Pre- HORACE, VIRGIL, AND VOLTAIRE. 29I dictions, presentiments, anticipations, of some na- tional calamity looming in the future, were at that time very general. No one knew exactly the nature of the trouble looked forward to, but each interpreted his fears according to his opinion of the aspect of things then existing in Church and State. The queen and the dauphin, alarmed by the Jesuits — who probably foresaw their own downfall — believed that the universe would be shaken to its centre if Louis XV. — guided by the guiding spirit of the age, the mocking sceptical Voltaire — should profess him- self of the sect of the philosophers. Yet Voltaire and his "beautiful Emilie" had sat at the table of the queen's father — the worthy Stanislaus — at whose little court of Lun6ville the Marquise de Boufflers played the part of the Marquise de Pompadour at Versailles — and no harm had come of it; though the excellent Pole, so much respected by his subjects, was, in fact, very much of a philosopher in his principles. But, as the poet himself remarked to the Due de Richelieu, "Horace and Virgil had dined with Augustus; why, then, should not Voltaire sup with Louis XV.?" Why not, indeed ? except that, as Madame de Pom- padour sarcastically observed, " Dunces do not like to find themselves at the table with a man of genius." So powerful, however, was the influence secretly em- ployed to exclude him from the petits appartements, that he determined to resign the office conferred on him of Gentleman of the King's Bed-chamber — its duties being so little in harmony with his feelings and char- acter. The king gave him permission to dispose of his place (worth from two to three hundred thousand francs) as then was customary, but allowed him to retain all the privileges attached to it. As Voltaire 292 THE OLD RJ^GIME. loved money, that course, naturally, was much more agreeable to him than resigning. Piron — who professed to be a rival of Voltaire — piqued by the favor with which the dramatic trifle of "Le Temple de la Gloire," had been received by the court, vented his spleen in a satire upon it. It was amus- ing and epigrammatic, it must be confessed — far more so than those with which jealousy had inspired him when ridiculing compositions of a more elevated character — Merope and CEdipus, for instance. Piron, though so highly appreciated in his congenial taverns and wine-shops and at the Thedtre de la Foire, could not forgive Voltaire his success in the salons and at the Theatre Frangais. Never since he put into rhyme the false report that Voltaire had fled from Paris to escape incarceration in the Bastille for his play of "Mahomet," when in reality the Cardinal had de- spatched him to Berlin on a secret mission, had Piron omitted any opportunity of disparaging, in scurrilous epigrams, the productions of his rival. Piron was especially a poet of the people. His satire in no way detracted from the success of Vol- taire's little piece when it was produced at the opera. Some complimentary lines to the Marechal de Saxe had been added to the prologue by the author, to be recited on the occasion of his visit to the theatre. His siege operations at Rocoux had delayed his return to Paris until the public festivities were nearly concluded. To do the honors, as it were, of the hero's triumph then devolved, at the king's request, chiefly on Ma- dame de Pompadour, who accompanied him to the opera, and by previous arrangement with Mdlle. Favart, who personated La Gloire^ procured an ova- tion for the marechal. Moved by a sudden impulse, LES MODES POMPADOC/^. 2g$ as it seemed, the actress, while reciting the new lines of the prologue, snatched from her head the laurels she wore in her character of Glory, and advancing towards the front of the royal box, then occupied by De Saxe, laid her leafy crown before him. The whole of the audience, inspired by this act, simultaneously arose, and, with vivas hearty and pro- longed, applauded the great soldier with so much en- thusiasm that with difficulty he repressed his emotion. Voltaire was present, but out of sight. The mar^chal insisted on his coming forward. The applause was then renewed, and taken up again and ag^in, vocifer- ously, in the course of the piece. From the prevalence of /fs modes Pompadour among the more distinguished and courtly part of the audi- ence, it would almost seem that it had been intended to celebrate also the triumph of the marquise. The number of embroidered coats " h la Marquise " worn by the gentlemen was remarkable. They were of the color she favored — a full bright blue, once known as ^tonl du roiy' now as ** bieu Pompadour.** The coiffure and Jichu d la Marquise^ with the panier of diminished proportions, were also general. Even the military paid their court by wearing the " rosette h la Pompadour " — her arrangement of the sword-knot of the Marechal de Saxe, who, not being very attentive to the neatness of his dress, had ap- peared in the presence of the marquise with his sword- knot put on in a rather slovenly fashion. With her own fair hands she arranged it for him, and with so much taste and skill that the officers of his corps generally adopted it, Voltaire also took to a sky-blue coat at this time, and was faithful to it to the end. Although the poet might not sup with the king, he ^94 THE OLD REGIME. was invited to sup with the marechal, whom, with the chief officers of his corps and a number of distin- guished guests, courtiers and ladies, the marquise was to entertain in her apartments the next evening. Af- ter the opera, which began and ended early, the mare- chal was engaged to the queen. Marie Leczinska had taken no part in the fHes^ though more than once re- quested to do so by the king. Naturally she did not wish to assist at the triumph of her rival; yet she was anxious that the marechal should know that she was not insensible to his merits and the services he had rendered to France. The queen's intimate circle included the Due and Duchesse de Luynes; the Cardinal de Luynes, their uncle; M. and Madame de la Vauguyon; the Presi- dent Renault; Madame de Flavacourt, sister of Ma- dame de Chateauroux; the Jesuit Pere Griffet, and others. They were said to pass their evenings in the manner supposed to be customary in England — in reading books of devotion, or in dreary, desultory conversation, with long intervals of silence; often ending in the company generally being caught nap- ping. Sometimes the game of " What do you promise me?" was introduced by way of recreation. Or the dauphin and the young dauphine would sing psalms to the accompaniment of the harpsichord; the evening concluding, when the circle was sufficiently wide awake, with general prayer. The queen read — the company made the responses. The marechal prepared himself to entertain, rather than to be entertained; to tell anecdotes of the war; to laud the courage of the king and the bravery of the dauphin. On arriving, he found the usual circle assembled, and some of them, to his surprise, engaged ''Oi^A pno nobis:* 29S at the card-table — an occupation that appeared to amuse them more than the warrior's tales of the battle- field. The queen lamented with him the miseries occasioned by war; complimented him on his suc- cesses; but mildly reproved him for entertaining his soldiers with plays, when serious thoughts should rather be instilled into their minds, as men about to face death. The mar^chal explained that it was far more desirable to keep them bright and cheerful, whatever might befall them, than to oppress their minds with gloom and the terrors of an approaching end. Opinions differed on the subject, but no one went to sleep. When about to take leave of the queen, the mar^- chal was requested by her, as appropriately conclud- ing their serious discussion, to join with her circle in prayer. Of course he willingly assented. An arm- chair serving as a prie-dieu^ was then placed for each person in front of a large crucifix opposite her majes- ty's bed (she received in her bed-chamber), the whole forming a semicircle. The queen read, as was her custom, and the kneeling company responded. All the saints in the litany were named in their turn, and as each name was pronounced, " Ora pro fiobis'* was duly ejaculated. The list was a long one. The marechal was not in robust health. The ovation at the opera, and his long conversation with the queen, had exhausted him. Sooth to say, or shame to say, he fell asleep as he knelt in his arm-chair; the monotony of the oft-re- peated " Ora pro nobis" overcoming his best efforts to keep his eyes open. The prayers are ended; the company rise from their knees — all except the marechal. He seems to be 29^ 'I'HE OLD rAgIME. buried in profound meditation, and is allowed for a few minutes to remain undisturbed. The pious Marie Leczinska knows that the life of this gallant soldier is not free from blame, and she hopes that, suddenly conscience-stricken, a conversion may, through her, have taken place. But he stirs not. The company, in a circle, stand gazing upon him At last the queen approaches him. *' Come, Monsieur de Saxe,'' she says softly, " that's enough for the first time." There is no response. Presently, a little louder, she speaks, now somewhat doubtingly: "Do not fatigue yourself. Monsieur de Saxey The sleeper is partly aroused, and in a loud voice, to make up for long silence, begins, " Ora pro nobis, Ora pro nobis y Even the queen and the pious dauphin cannot resist laughing, and the marechal, now fully aware of what has happened, rises from his knees, and, with much confusion of face, apologizes to the queen for his misdemeanor. She readily takes into consideration his fatiguing campaign, his enfee- bled state of health, and willingly pardons; believing that the spirit was willing, though the flesh was weak. How different the scene on the following evening, when the marechal was received by the brilliant mar- quise! Her guests are all of high rank, or of distin- guished attainments. The supper prepared for them is the production of Mouthier, the famous chef of the pehts appartements, and a man more considered and val- ued by Louis XV. than the most enlightened of his ministers or the most skilful of his generals. Mou- thier prides himself on his ancestry. He is a descend- ant of a long line of famous cooks, an illustrious culi- nary family. His art, he firmly believes, is the first in the world — one that, rightly regarded, would have more real influence on the fate of nations than the wiliest policy of all the most able diplomatists of Eu- rope combined. His grandfather was chef to Louis XIV., and deep in the confidence of Madame de Maintenon, "a very great lady," he says, who, following the gastronomic counsels of Mouthier, managed the Grand Afonarquc and his ministers as she willed. Faithful to the traditions of his family, the younger Mouthier may have imparted these culinary secrets to Madame de Pompadour, and her twenty years of omnipotence in France thus be accounted for. At all events, the appointments of her supper-table are splendid, the arrangements artistic, and M. Mou- thier's repast no less so. It gives evident satisfaction to all who partake of it; it is mirth-inspiring, as the great tfr/iV/^ probably intended; for the dullest brain is quickened, and some sparkle added to the liveliest. Piquant bon-mots are plentiful, and flashes of wit fol- low each other in quick succession, in brilliant rep- artee. The toilets of the ladies, and their gracefully ar- ranged coiffures of flowers and lace, are charming; while the perfect taste of the marquise — who has brought this fashion into vogue — is seen in the ex- treme elegance of her own dress, and the artistic re- finement exhibited in the furniture and embellish- ments of her apartment. She is decidedly the star of the court, this ''^Jolie marquise bourgeoise^'' who, unfor- tunately, loving power, to obtain it, " had been so weak," Marmontel regretfully observes, *'as to wish to please the king, and so unfortunate as to succeed.'* Her conversation fascinates even more than her beauty attracts. Her vivacity sets the bright thoughts in 598 ^-^-^ OLD rAgIME. motion that might have lain dormant in other minds, but for contact with her own. Her suppers were not Bacchanalian feasts, like those at which, in their youth, Madame de Tencin, Madame du Deffant, Madame de Caylus, and other esprits forts of easy manners, assisted under the regency. The moral tone of society was certainly but very slightly improved. But the habits of the king's earlier years, and the grave ministry of Fleury, had compelled profligacy to veil itself; and if the men and women who sat at the table of the Marquise de Pompadour — Madame du Chatelet was one of them — were not free from vice, they at least did not, as formerly, boast of it as meritorious. Society was probably never more frivolous and cor- rupt than from about the middle of the eighteenth century to the dawn of the Revolution. Its occupa- tions were puerile; the conversation of the fashionable salons — as distinguished from the three or four philo- sophical and literary reunions — had degenerated into idle gossip, or the discussion of a budget of scandalous reports. Yet at no time did the society so pique itself on its politeness — which was displayed in an over- strained empressement, that gave the idea of friends and acquaintances being intensely interested in each other; so long, of course, as they remained together. Society, with its falseness, its hollowness, its affected geniality, and deceptive mask of politeness, is de- scribed with much force and piquancy in Madame de Graffigny's " Lettres d'une Peruvienne." The age of grand manners was especially that of Louis XIV. All the formal etiquette which then kept ordinary mortals at a distance from the sacred person of the king was yet rigidly observed at Versailles, and STATELY POLITENESS, ^99 continued to be, far into the reign of the unfortunate Louis XVI. But ih^ grands seigneurs of the middle of the eighteenth century were far less grands than those of the preceding one. The poets and literati now held up their heads in the society of princes. In the Louis XIV. period they hardly dared hold up their eyes; and before the magnificent Bashaw, himself, would have felt honored to be permitted to grovel on their knees — as some of the household still did when they drank the health of the " well-beloved." But the old res, and varnished. Even her favorite pug dog's house was cushioned, curtained, painted and varnished, light yellow and blue. Bathing-rooms the same. Voltaire seemed especially to admire the wonderfully numerous collection of '* knick-knackery** his Emilie had amassed, and drew his visitor's atten- tion to it. Every available corner and recess was filled with the then so much prized Chinese porcelain — Chinese monsters, vases, etc. The marquise had several cases of finely engraved gems and precious stones; some Paul Veroneses and other good pictures; beautiful wood-carvings and statuary. The library was extensive. But geometry, astronomy, and mathe- matics generally, being the beautiful Emilie's favorite studies, books on those subjects predominated. With her admiration of a quantity of rich furniture, and a rather pell-mell arrangement of a large and varied collection of objets (Tart, Madame de Graffigny ends her praises of that home of poetry and science, the Chateau de Cirey; every part of which, except the new suite of rooms, she found dirty and uncomfort- able in the extreme. But in all the palaces and hotels of the nobles at that period, the splendor of the re- ception-rooms was more than counterbalanced by 326 ^^^ OLD RMitME. the dirt and discomfort of the private apartments. What miserable holes were the courtiers on service at Versailles content, or compelled to be content, to sleep in and inhabit! Madame de Graffigny's first published work was a tale, entitled " Le Mauvais Exemple produit autant de Vertus que de Vices," " Nouvelle Espagnole." It was written at the request of a literary coterie she had joined, each member of which undertook to write a short tale or romance. They were published col- lectively in 1754, the longest being Madame de Graf- figny's. It was considered satirical; the title being a maxim only vaguely developed, it was said, but seemingly pointed at one or two persons, who felt themselves rather offended by it. Withdrawing from this testy coterie, she wrote and published her " Lettres d'une Peruvienne." The suc- cess of this work was immense It went through many editions, and at once established Madame de Graf- figny's fame as the most elegant and eloquent prose writer of the female authors of France. It was soon after translated into several languages, and the Italians so greatly admired it that Madame de Graffigny was elected a member of the Academy of Florence. Mon- tesquieu's " Lettres Persanes" was the first example of this kind of satirical writing, and had numerous imitators. But the celebrated " Lettres d'une Peru- vienne" is a work in a far more pure and harmonious style. A delicate vein of irony runs through it. The thoughts are original, clearly and gracefully expressed, and the character of the French and the manners of the period well defined. It is, indeed, a very charm- ing romance, slightly sentimental, of course. As a story, only, it is interesting, and not too long. M. DE LA MARCHE-COUkMONT. ^2f With the " Lettres d'une P^ruvienne" there is some- times bound up another and shorter work, entitled " Lettres d'Aza ou d'un Peruvien, pour servir de suite 'X celles d'une P6ruvienne." It was written, after Madame de Grafhgny's death, by M. de La Marche- Courmont. He seems not to have been satisfied with the conclusion of the story, which leaves the reader to imagine the fair Zilia forgetting, probably, in time, her faithless lover, Aza, and rewarding with her hand and heart the devoted Captain Deterville, notwith- standing her vow to be eternally constant to the former. M. de Courmont makes Aza repent and Zilia for- give. He reunites the lovers, and sends them back to Peru in a French man-of-war, ordered by the king for their conveyance. There is no charm of style in these letters. That of Madame de Graffigny is imitated; but Aza has not the fluent pen, the graceful diction, and playful irony of Zilia. One feels a sort of resent- ment towards this M. de La Marche-Courmont — who was chamberlain to the Margrave of Barelth — for his presumption in detracting from the charm of a pretty romance, by attempting to decide what the author had chosen to leave doubtful. The success of the '* Lettres Peruviennes" was shortly followed by that of a five-act play, entitled " Cenie." It is in prose, and after its first run of sev- eral nights at the Theatre Frangais, retained favor for a number of years as one of the stock pieces of that establishment. " Ziman et Zenise" and '* Phaza," one-act dramas, were written for and performed by the juvenile members of the court of Vienna. Unfor- tunately, Madame de Graffigny was so extremely sensi- tive that an unkind criticism or epigram — and the age was prolific of both — wounded her deeply Her play, 32^ THE OLD REGIME. "La Fille d'Aristide," which was not so successful as " Cenie," gave rise to one or two of those silly jests that so often did duty for bon-mots. The amour propre of the authoress suffered so much that she became seriously ill, and was compelled to lay aside her pen — then employed on another work — and it does not appear that she ever resumed it, except for the benefit of private friends. It is surprising to meet with so extreme an instance of sensitiveness in one — herself a critic — who so thor- oughly comprehended the vivacity and levity of the French character,* and knew that the age, with all its boasted learning and philosophy, was but the " golden age of commonplace writers" — as Villemain describes it — and that though satire, as a contem- porary authority (D'Argenson) remarks, marchait tou- jour s^ il marchait h vide. Philosophers of the most advanced opinions met in Madame de Graffigny's salon. Such men, for instance, as the Baron d'Holbach and the younger Helvetius. Both wealthy, of epicurean tastes (the former es- pecially professing atheistical opinions), and whose works, " Le Systeme de Nature" and " De I'Esprit," produced some few years later on, were denounced as diabolical productions, and burnt by the public execu- tioner. Yet both these so-called philosophers were amiable, kind-hearted, and benevolent men. If they spent much in luxurious living, they expended almost as much in kind and generous acts towards the needy. None sought a service from d'Holbach, or claimed aid * Zilia, in the " Lettres P6ruviennes," characterizes the French as composed only of fire and air — having escaped unfinished from the hands of the Creator, she imagines, while the more solid in- gredients for the organization of the human mind were preparing. MDLLE. DE LICNEVILLE, 329 from him, in vain. If, in his dinners and suppers, he strove to vie in costliness and elaboration with the banquets of LucuUus, none the less did he vie with that noble Roman in the humane and compassionate feeling he exhibited. It is not recorded that he took him for his model, though possibly he may have done so. There resided at this time with Madame de Graf- figny a very attractive young lady, Mdlle. de Ligne- ville, who, with a fair share of beauty, possessed also the advantages of a cultivated mind, an amiable tem- per, and much liveliness and wit. She was Madame de Graffigny's niece, and what in modern phrase is termed "highly connected;" numerously also, being one of a family of twenty-two children. Many adorers would willingly have sought her in marriage* but when her legion of brothers and sisters was men- tioned, also the hopelessness of any expectation of a dowry, candidates for the honor of her hand shrank back, and Mdlle. de Ligneville seemed likely to re- main Mademoiselle to the end of her days. It, how- ever, began to be remarked that M. d'Helvetius, no longer satisfied with unfailingly visiting Madame de Grafiigny on her usual days of reception, was falling into the habit of looking in on other occasions, to make polite inquiries concerning her health. Frenchwomen do not like these unexpected calls — it upsets all their plans. Be they whom they may, they prefer to know when to expect their friends; and to a literary woman like Madame de Graffigny the intrusion was especially annoying. But Helvetius was perfectly content to pass an hour or two tete-a-tett with Mdlle. de Ligneville in the salon^ insisting that Madame, her aunt, should not on his account be re- 33(5 THE OLD MgIME. quired to leave her study. Soon it appeared that this dangerous young philosopher (Helvetius had fasci- nating manners, and was remarkably handsome) came not to philosophize, but to seek healing balm for a wounded heart. The philosopher was in love; and being utterly in- different to the number of brothers and sisters the fair Mdlle. de Ligneville might bring him, as well as equally indifferent to her want of a dowry, he, at one morning tete-a-tete, asked her to be his wife. She did not refuse, and her family, of course, rejoiced greatly; while many an anxious mother, with daughters wait- ing for a husband to unbar the convent gates, turned pallid with envy — happily concealed by the fashion- able thick coating of rouge — when they heard at what shrine the wealthy and fastidious Helvetius had been worshipping. Hitherto so singularly prosperous in his worldly career, he was no less fortunate in his choice of a wife. Voltaire, with whom philosophers were all " great men," or addressed by him as such, wrote to the great man Helvetius some poetic lines of con- gratulation, and begged to be laid at the lady's feet; where he would certainly have fallen had he been present. To the philosophical reunions and splendid ban- quets, at which the most distinguished men of the time assembled, was now added the attractive salon of the charming Madame Helvetius. There, during the four months she and her husband were accustomed to spend every year at their magnificent hotel in Paris, women of high birth and beauty, of literary and artistic tastes, or remarkable in the social circle for their brilliancy, loved to congregate. THE PHYSICIAN HELVETWS. 331 It is singular that one who professed, and so fully- carried out, the epicurean doctrine that the happiness of mankind consists in pleasure should have owed to the favor of the pious, self-denying Marie Leczinska the opportunity of accumulating the immense wealth which enabled him to scatter his benefactions with so unsparing a hand, and to enjoy life so luxuriously. He was the son of the physician Helvetius, who rec- ommended bleeding in the foot as a probable means of saving the life of Louis XV. when, during an ill- ness which attacked him at the age of nine years, his death was hourly expected. Other physicians in attendance were strongly opposed to it; but Helve- tius persisted in his opinion that it would have a favorable result, and explained his reasons for doing so. This converted two of his medical confreres, and his advice was followed. The king experienced relief from the operation, as Helvetius had foreseen, and speedily recovered. The service rendered the king does not appear to have had other reward than the grant of an apart- ment at Versailles — that he might be near at hand to watch over the royal patient's health. His circum- stances continued as before, very far from affluent. He was a kindly- natured man, and gave much time to visiting the poor in their sickness, and those fre- quently recurring calamities — pestilence and famine — which so thinned the population of France. When, six or seven years after, the king married Marie Leczinska, and her household was formed, Helvetius was appointed physician to the queen. Hearing of his former services to the king, she procured him a pension of 10 poo francs. The younger Helvetius, as he grew up, rejecting his 33^ THE OLD REGIME. father's profession, was desirous of emulating Vol- taire, He began very early to write poetry, or rather short pieces that passed current as such, in that rhyming age. Subsequently he brought out a tra- gedy, *' Le Comte de Fiesque;" then took to the study of Locke, whose ardent disciple he professed himself. So highly did he appreciate his own pro- ductions that he expected their merit would insure his reception as a member of the Academy of Caen — having been educated in the college of that city. Being but a mere youth, his pretensions were laughed at; but a year or two later influence was made for him, and, though still under the required age, the ob- ject of his ambition was attained. On returning to Paris, Fontenelle became his idol. Madame de Tencin then bestowed her patronage on him, and in her salon he made the acquaintance and secured the friendship of Montesquieu and Voltaire, as well as the good graces of Madame du Deffant and other philosophical ladies. There was an elevation in his sentiments, a refinement in his manners, that pleased these leaders of society, and gained him favor also with his father's friends, who were of the court circle of the queen. He already acted on his epicu- rean principle, in the pleasant fashion of making him- self agreeable to others in order to secure happiness for himself. And the principle was successful in its results. The queen became interested in the fascina- ting son of her worthy physician, and obtained for him the place of farmer-general, which gave him at once, at the age of twenty-three, an income of 100,000 ^cus and the opportunity of accumulating millions. But Helvetius did not follow the exacting, grind- ing system of most of the farmers-general. Often he A GRATEFUL ANNUITANT, 333 is said to have defended the cause of the oppressed people against the exactions of the Compagnie des Fermes. His office necessitating frequent journeys to the provinces, he was always accompanied by some needy friends, to whom it might be agreeable as a pleasurable excursion — as he travelled en grand seig- neur^ and fared sumptuously every day. He was fond, too, of giving pensions to those who would do him the pleasure of accepting them. Marivaux, the dramatist, received one of 2000 francs. In return, he often behaved with the utmost incivility towards his benefactor — his generally unrestrained ill-temper and discontent arising from his setting a higher value on his plays than the fashionable world, whose favor he anxiously sought, seemed inclined to award them. His excessive rudeness to Helvetius being, on one occasion, particularly remarked, the latter replied, "Oh! I overlook that, for the sake of the pleasure he gives me by accepting a small annuity." Helvetius had held his place thirteen years, when it occurred to him that marriage would contribute to his happiness. He was aiso delighted to find that he would have the further pleasure of making the young lady very happy on whom his choice had fallen, quite independently of his riches, though, to use Dr. John- son's expression, he was " rich beyond the dreams of avarice." Strange to say, he thought himself rich enough, and before he married resigned his '"'' charge.'* His wonderful moderation astonished M. Machault, Controleur des Finances. "So you are not insati- able ?" he said. Most of the farmers -general were insatiable, and Helvetius's resignation of so extremely lucrative a post was probably a solitary instance of the kind. 334 ^-^^ OLD REGIME. It must be left to the imagination to picture to it- self all the splendors of the wedding of Mdlle. de Ligneville and the wealthy epicurean philosopher. After receiving the felicitations of his friends and entertaining them in princely style, he and his bride left Paris for his favorite estate and chateau of Vore, in La Perche. There he hunted the wild boar and followed the roe, for he was fond of the chase, and made everybody happy around him. Or he passed his mornings, as we are told, in meditating and writ- ing; preparing, in fact, the work that, inspired by Montesquieu's " Esprit des Lois" — of which Helvetius desired to express his opinion — was afterwards to cause so great a sensation in literary society, and to give such a shock to his royal patroness. That work Madame de Graffigny pronounced " made up of the sweepings of her salon^ and a dozen or two of her people's bons-mots," but the philosophical world at- tributed it, in great part, to the caustic and atheistic pen of Diderot. CHAPTER XXXII. L'Hosplce Pompadour. — A Royal Visit to the Hospice. — Charles Parrocel. — The Flemish Campaigns. — Abel Franjois Poisson. — The Marquis d'Avant-Hier. — The Little Brother. — Le Comte de Maurepas. — The French Navy. — The King be- comes Sallow. — Le Comte d'Argcnson. — Madame de Pom- padour, as Minister. — Brother and Sister. — Le Docteur Quesnay. — A Remedy for Low Spirits. — Lessons in Political Economy. To celebrate the military prowess of Louis XV., Madame de Pompadour, after the battle of Fontenoy, founded at Cr^cy an hospital — or, rather, an alms- house, with infirmary attached to it — for the reception of sixty poor aged invalid men and women, whose needs were attended to by twelve of the Sisters of Mercy of St. Vincent de Paul. The chateau and do- main of Cr^cy, near Abbeville, were a recent present from the king; but to obtain the necessary funds for the establishment of her hospital, the marquise had privately sold a part of her diamonds to Rambaud, the court jeweller, for near 900,000 francs. When all its arrangements were complete, the hos- pital was intended to come as a surprise on the king; and it was expected that it would be interesting enough to dispel his ennui for awhile. Already, how- ever, he noticed the unusually long and frequent absence of Madame de Pompadour from Versailles; and the oppressiveness of ennui would probably have soon yielded to a twinge or two of jealousy. But it chanced that the Comte de Vauguyon, who, it should 336 THE OLD REGIME. be remarked, was one of the queen's intimate circle, had been paying a friendly visit to the fair Chatelaine of Crecy. On returning to Versailles, court etiquette required that he should make his bow to the king. Always more anxious to peer into the private concerns of his courtiers, than to give any attention to business of State, Louis' persistent questioning — for he saw there was a secret of some sort — led to the " Hospice Pom- padour" being made known to him rather earlier than its foundress had proposed. Yet it may have been a mere ruse^ to which the pious M. de La Vau- guyon had seen fit to lend his countenance. Whether or not, this charming piece of intelligence served its purpose, as a new sensation for the king. For, some two or three days after, as the marquise, among her workpeople, was giving her final direc- tions, and, like an able woman of business, examining with her builder the construction of the dormitories, and seeing everything put into the very best order, the cracking of postilions' whips was heard. Soon there followed the sound of a bugle; then the roll of heavy carriages; the trampling of horses, coming nearer and nearer, until the royal retinue stopped before the Hospice Pompadour, and Louis XV. alighted. He was in hunting dress, for there was good sport to be had in the wide domain of Crecy; and the king proposed sojourning there for two or three days, as the guest of the beautiful chdtelaine. Besides his usual travelling attendants, he was accompanied by M. Philibert d'Orry, Comptroller of the Treasury;* * M. d'Orry, who had held his office fourteen years, was imme- diately afterwards superseded — M. Machault, an able minister, CHARLES PARROCEL. 337 rAbb6 de Bernis, the prot^g^ of Madame de Pompa- dour; and M. de Berryer, Lieutenant of Police. Never, perhaps, did the king more truly express satisfaction with any of Madame de Pompadour's numerous acts of kindness and benevolence, than with this asylum for the aged and afflicted poor. She had proposed to dedicate it to him, designated as "L'Hospice Louis XV.;" and not the least of its merits, in his eyes, was that his private purse had contributed nothing towards it. M. de La Vauguyon had announced it as L'Hospice Pompadour, and that name, by Louis' particular desire, it retained. Having completed her thank-offering for the victory of Fontenoy, the indefatigable marquise, as a lover and a patroness of the arts, determined to celebrate the valor of the king in a series of battle-pieces. He had been present, in the next campaign, at the victory of Laufeld, where, as before, the Mar6chal de Saxe had commanded in chief. Signal successes at Bergen- op-Zoom had followed, and the siege of Maestricht had opened the way for peace. Charles Parrocel was therefore summoned to attend the marquise. He was the son of the famous Joseph Parrocel, who painted the battle-pieces, representing the so-called conquests of the Grand Monarque, Charles had studied his art under his father, and painted well, in the same style; but with the disadvantage of never having been asked to perpetuate on canvas the deeds of arms of any royal hero. Within only two or three years of his death, for- tune favored him with the opportunity of transmit- but a friend of the favorite, and more complaisant, taking his place. 338 THE OLD REGIME. ting his name to posterity, as the worthy pupil of the elder Parrocel. For it was then he was commissioned by Madame de Pompadour to compose a series of scenes from the Flemish campaigns, in which, as a victor, the figure of the king should be prominent. She was probably influenced in her choice of a painter by her brother, though her own drawings and engravings evince the possession both of skill and judgment. He, however, was but lately returned from Italy, where, accompanied by Custrin, the en- graver, and Le Blanc, the antiquary, he had been travelling with that able architect, Soufflot, for the completion of his artistic studies. Abel Frangois Poisson was a young man of re- markable abilities. He was four or five years younger than Madame de Pompadour, and extremely modest and retiring. Of principles of rectitude rare in those days, he was painfully sensitive to the dishonor at- taching to what most persons thought the brilliant position of his sister. On the other hand, her favor with the king had procured his nomination to a post of influence, which, as he knew, would equally have been conferred on him had he possessed none of those qualifications that so eminently fitted him for it; or the tastes which made its duties so congenial to him. It was a post that brought him into official relations with the first artists of the day — painters, architects, sculptors, and most men of any artistic or literary eminence in France. Consequently, he had in his hands the bestowal of much patronage, and as the king also personally esteemed him, adulation beset him on every side. In vain, however, were the solicitations of the courtiers or of Madame de Pompadour in favor of LE MARQUIS D'AVANTHIRR. 339 their prot/g/s. He refused to ask anything of the king that did not concern his own department. The scruples of conscience from which he so often suf- fered, he quieted by a determination to merit the office he held, faithfully discharging its duties, and never employing, or recommending for employment, any one of whose merit and ability he was not first fully assured. He was created, at the age of nineteen, Marquis de Vandieres. On his return from Italy, the appoint- ment of Surveyor of Buildings to his Majesty was conferred on him. He was then but twenty-three, and both the friends and the enemies of Madame de Pom- padour subsequently acknowledged that by the ability and aptitude he displayed, and the manner in which the functions of his office generally were performed, he had proved that no worthier choice could have been made. His title of De Vandieres somewhat annoyed him; though with others he made a jest of it, as Le Marquis cTAvant-hier. It was changed by the king to De Marigny, or another title was conferred. Of this latter he said, " The fishwomen will now call me Mar- quis des Mariniers, and rightly so. Am not I a fish by birth ?" Madame la Marquise was not always quite pleased with "the little brother," as she called her tall, handsome young brother. *' He wanted tact," she said; so much so, that at times she almost regretted she had been the means of placing him in connection with the court. He would withdraw if he saw her at the theatre or the opera, to avoid hearing unpleasant remarks. This annoyed her. He passed his time, however, chiefly with artists, musicians, and men of letters. But some- times he attended amongst the throng who paid 340 THE OLD REGIME. homage to her at her toilet. Her keen eye then often detected the subdued displeasure, and extreme dis- dain, with which he listened to the fulsome compli- ments of the servile herd of flatterers cringing around her. The king had adopted Madame de Pompadour's epithet of "little brother," when speaking familiarly of De Marigny. From that time, whenever he was seen in the galleries of Versailles, immediately a crowd of courtiers surrounded him; so eager to claim his friend- ship; so interested in all his projects, and in whatever works of his own he had in hand. Referring to these troublesome attentions, and the unwelcome homage paid him, "If I chance," he would say, " to drop my pocket-handkerchief, twenty cordons bleus will immediately contend for the honor of pick- ing it up." Millionaires of La Ferme generale of- fered their daughters in marriage; yN\v\t.\.o\\\s parvenu escutcheon of De Marigny he might have added the thirty-two quarterings of an ancient house, had he chosen to cast his eyes on the daughter of a noble for a wife. Despising this adulation, cringing, and fawning, he retained his simplicity of character unper- verted ; appearing at court with a sort of " proud em- barrassment," and remaining honest and honorable in the midst of corruption. His susceptibility was often wounded by the scur- rilous epigrams levelled at him by the Comte de Mau- repas. Minister of the Navy ; the Navy being almost non-existent. Maurepas' relative, M. de Saint-Flor- entin, had held, with little credit to himself, the office of Surveyor of Buildings, now so satisfactorily filled by De Marigny ; hence De Maurepas' vexation. His levity and indiscretion were proverbial ; but when, turning from the brother, Maurepas attacked the The PkENCH NAVY, 34t sister, with equal scurrility and with epithets far more offensive, she, who professed to contemn these licen- tious doggerel sallies — which passed for wit in the tavern circles where the sottish Piron and Panard pre- sided — at once put an end to them. M. de Maurepas was required to resign his important appointment as the head of an imaginary navy, and to retire to his chateau, if he had one, there to repent of his folly. At that time the office of Minister of the Navy was hereditary in the Phelippeaux family, and Jean Phelip- peaux, Comte de Maurepas, had succeeded to it at the age of fourteen. The youth of the minister was of little consequence; his post had become a sinecure. Neglect had almost annihilated the French navy. During the administration of Cardinal Fleury, the ships of war were left uncared for, to rot and perish in the ports. "Sire," said the Mar^chal de Belle Isle to Louis XV., when an invasion of England was projected, " I could immediately raise an army of five hundred thousand men to defend France against the nations of Europe combined; but where to find five thousand seamen to man the few ships that are left us to con- tend with an English fleet, I know not." For twenty-seven years Maurepas had been at the head of thfs flourishing department of State. His frivolity had often amused the king, and in the course of these years of leisure he had written songs of the Pont-Neuf without number; scandalous histories; epigrams in rhyme, which, for vulgarity and ob- scenity, might vie with the platitudes of Piron (now so admired by our great English wits of the nineteenth century). The buffooneries of Maurepas had, how- 542 THE OLD rAgiME, ever, ceased to raise even a languid smile on the still handsome face of the royal ennuy/. A rival had crossed the path of the Ministre de la Marine, and Louis soon began actually to yawn at the very sight of Maurepas. Perceiving that his favor was on the decline, he tortured his flighty brain to give animation to the desultory talk called transacting business with the king. Yet he was not a little sur- prised when he received his co7tg^. Probably he would have been even more so, had he known that the dete- rioration of the king's fine complexion was one among the many private reasons that induced his dismissal. Day after day the marquise exclaimed that " his maj- esty was losing his fine complexion and getting sal- low." Maurepas' inaptitude for business produced the weariness, she thought, that occasioned those jaundice tints. No improvement, however, took place until the Pompadour ministry was formed. One obnoxious member only of the old cabinet yet remained, the Comte d'Argenson. His influence, though far less than that of the marquise, was still powerful with the king. He had become accustomed to the count, and Louis' indolence, and a certain timidity that accompanied it, made him ill at ease with new people. The Duchesse de Chdteauroux had demanded his dismissal, as a condition of her return to Versailles. The king promised compliance. But her illness ensuing in death, d'Argenson retained his office; the king not sharing the duchess's resentment. So unwilling was Louis to part with his minister, that although there were few requests he would have de- nied his present beautiful mistress, he prayed her to do him the favor not to urge him again on that point. D'Argenson made himself very agreeable to the king, MADAME DE POMPADOUR AS MINISTER. 343 though he was the declared enemy of his mistress, and a favorite of the Jesuit party of which the dauphin was the head. The result of the king's unwonted firmness was a truce between the mistress and the minister. In her private study the affairs of the nation were fully discussed, and intricate business of State ex- plained to her. Her great intelligence, and ready and acute perception of the difficulties, or varying as- pects, of a question in the course of its discussion, and their bearing on the political situation of France, as concerned both her domestic policy and relations with foreign countries, were remarkable. They won for her many friends, and as many admirers of her mental gifts, among the men of ability, the aid of whose counsels she sought, as they raised up enemies among those who had not expected to find an able minister of State in an accomplished, fascinating woman — am- bitious only of homage, as they imagined, and of enjoying the pomps and vanities of a court. It was the duty of the king to work with his minis- ters, and he possessed sufficient ability and judgment to have been something more than the mere cipher he was in the council chamber. But mental indolence made him averse to trouble himself with the affairs of his kingdom. Madame de Pompadour sought to coun- teract this by taking advantage of any opportunity, as regarded either time or a favorable mood of mind, of placing before him a digest — clear, precise, succinct — of every important question in State affairs. She was careful before all things not to weary him; and she had the talent of rendering her conversation with him on the business of the nation interesting, easy and pleasant. 344 ^-^^ OLD R&GiMS:. "Women, only," remarks Capefigue, "are quick to discern the joys and the weaknesses of the human spirit, and the shades which escape serious minds." The life of Madame de Pompadour was a life of labor, thought, and care, eventually undermining her health and bringing her to a premature grave. We know, of course, that the real object of her unceasing exertions was the retention of political power, the keeping of the sceptre of France firmly in her grasp. This only could be done by retaining undiminished her immense influence over the w^eak mind of the king, who was surrounded by flatterers of both sexes, all eagerly watching for her downfall. But he had al- lowed her to place her yoke on him, and seemed well content to wear it, for he appreciated her great talents for governing, and the industry which he himself had not. The business of her life was therefore to make her yoke so easy, so pleasant, and, from habit, so necessary to him, that an effort to shake it off should be an effort that would give him real pain. The young Marquis de Marigny interfered not at all with what may be termed the political life of Madame de Pompadour. There was in that respect a wide gulf between them; but in their talents and accomplishments, and their love of the arts, their tastes were in harmony, and the private circle of the brother was, with few exceptions, that of the sister. Her hap- piest hours were probably those they spent together in her private apartments with artists, musicians, and men of letters. Sometimes with only the friends of their earliest years — Paris-Duvernay and the Abbe de Bernis, or with le Docteur Quesnay; the founder and patriarch of the philosophical sect, the " Econo- mists" — whose doctrines, as applied to the adminis- A REMEDY FOR LOlV SPIRITS. 345 tration of government, were professed and advocated by the elder Mirabeau, in his " L'Ami des Hommes," and afterwards by Turgot and Malesherbes. Quesnay was Madame de Pompadour's physician, and had an entresol apartment assigned him in the palace as a residence. Though inhabiting Versailles or, when in Paris, the splendid Hotel d'Evreux (now Elys6e Bourbon — so interesting in its historical asso- ciations, and which the marquise had lately bought of the Comte d'Evreux for 650,000 frarus) Quesnay meddled with no court intrigues. He paid his daily visit to his patient, whose then languid spirits were but the forerunners of the gloom and sadness of a mind diseased. Though brilliant in society, when alone with her thoughts she was oppressed with mel- ancholy deeper than the king's. She had fully awakened from her dream of finding happiness in the splendors of a court, and as the favorite of the king. " The spell has lost its power," she writes to the Comtesse de Noailles, " Now I find in my heart only a great void that nothing can fill." Quesnay, who was eloquent on no other subject than rural economy, did his best to cheer the spirits of his fair patient by explaining to her the advantages to be derived from free trade in grain, and the impe- tus commerce would receive when his system should be practically adopted. Turgot, Diderot, Helvetius, d'Alembert, and Marigny, would often discuss the theories of Quesnay for hours together, in his entresol^ and, when in Paris, far into the night. Some three or four years later, the Marquis de Mirabeau became one of Quesnay's most zealous disciples. The economistic theory of Quesnay was a singular remedy for low spirits, but appears to have been gen- 346 TM£ OLD rAgIMR. erally successful with Madame de Pompadour. She confessed that, although willing to respond to his anxious wish that she should become a proselyte to his views, yet she could never comprehend what he called his " chain of axioms," so irresistible, as he told her, in their evidence. The *• net products" also — the result of his own and d'Alembert's careful calculations — remained an un- solved mystery to her. But the eagerness and warmth of the philosophic doctor, when he got well into his subject, greatly amused his patient, and the conclusion of her lesson in political economy was usually a hearty laugh. As a physician, this may have pleased him; though, as an enthusiastic "Economist" he was probably disappointed. CHAPTER XXXIIL Rousseau's Prize E^say. — Rousseau, un Vrai Genevois. — Rous- seau's Theories Refuted. — Voltaire ct L'Homme Sauvage. — A Morbid State of Feeling. — Thferise Levasseur. — Jean- Jacques* Second Essay. — Diderot and Jean- Jacques. — The Trowel versus the Pen. — " Le Diable k Quatre." — L'Homme Sauvage in Society. — " Jean- Jacques, Love your Country." — An Abjuration. Diderot had published, in 1746, his "Pens^es Philo- sophiques," an atheistical work, for which he was shortly after arrested and conveyed to Vincennes. Confinement had so irritating an effect on the violent temperament and ill-regulated mind of this great gen- ius, that there were symptoms of the probability of his imprisonment ending in madness. To avert so great a catastrophe, the Lieutenant of Police sug- gested his discharge, and after some little hesitation in high quarters, Diderot was set at liberty. His " Letters on the Blind, for the Use of Those who See," then promptly appeared, and procured him a lodging in the Bastille ; where the philosophic brotherhood vis- ited him, apparently without restraint. Among them, in 1749, Jean-Jacques Rousseau daily presented himself — his sympathy for the captive phil- osopher, inducing him to make an application in his favor to Madame de Pompadour. No notice was taken of it. Indeed, the writings of Diderot, except perhaps his notes and criticisms on the pictures and 348 ^-^^ OLD kAGIMk. painLcrs of his day, are as repelling as he was himself, personally, coarse and repulsive. It was on one of his daily visits to the prisoner of the Bastille, that Jean-Jacques, chancing to take up the "Mercure de France," saw an announcement, of the Academy of Dijon, proposing as the subject of a prize essay, for open competition, " What is the Influence of the Sciences and Arts on Morality ?" Rousseau de- termined to compete for this prize ; but was undecided whether to depreciate the sciences, or to exalt them ; to denounce the arts as fatal to virtue, or to maintain that their influence was beneficial to mankind. On his way back to Paris he sat down under a tree to re- flect on the subject. The result was the sophistical essay which gained the prize of the Dijon Academy and brought him prominently into notice in Paris. That Rousseau wrote from conviction, of course, no one be- lieved. Yet it was necessary that arguments in sup- port of such sophisms, as the delights of savage life, and the blissfulness of ignorance, should be, or appear to be, forcible — commending themselves to the imagi- nation, at all events, if not to the understanding. Be- ing drawn from the imagination, they imparted a sort of fervor and eloquence to the advocacy of his novel views of happiness. Yet it is probable that the essay would have passed altogether unnoticed, had he treated his subject more rationally. His style was not like that of Voltaire, in itself attractive ; for, as recently observed,* no Swiss writer of eminence is so little French in his style as Jean-Jacques. " He was a true Genevese." When his essay appeared, the French philosophers * In the Revue Suisse. ROUSSEAWS THEORIES REFUTED. 349 and society generally, believed that they had attained the highest point of civilization and social refinement ; and that it was attributable to the immense develop- ment and progress of the sciences and arts. Rous- seau's affectation of seeing in them only the source of every ill, amused that novelty-loving age, as a pleasant jest ; none the less pleasant because disguised by an air of seriousness.* Judging from his subsequent conduct, and from much that he afterwards wrote (for previously he had professed to love Italy, " Europe owes to her," he said, "all the arts "), Rousseau's one great object was to draw attention to himself, and, before all things, to be talked about. And he suc- ceeded. Henceforth, or at least for a time, until he became too savage, he was to be met at the sumptuous din- ners and suppers of Baron d'Holbach, and Helvetius. Also, at the reunions and bachelor dinners, given week- ly by the young Comte de Frise — a nephew of the Mar6- chal de Saxe — to whom Baron Grimm was then sec- retary. (De Frise had inherited a princely fortune while yet a mere youth, and dissipated nearly the whole of it in gambling and riotous living ; small-pox soon put an end to his libertine career.) It was then ihat Jean- Jacques became so intimate with Grimm, who was musical and accomplished, and, being much sought after in the society of the court, often procured tor his friend employment as a copier of music. For Rousseau had given up a situation of cashier, obtained * King Stanislaus, however, amongst his poets, and surrounded by painters and sculptors, whom he had invited to his court to em- bellish the palaces and public buildings of Nancy and Luneville, was indignant with Rousseau, and took up his pen to reply to his arguments and to refute them. 350 THE OLD REGIME, for him by the nephew of Madame Dupin, and adopted this precarious method of gaining a living. To Voltaire — of whom little was seen in Paris after the death of Madame du Chatelet, and the still more afflicting circumstance of Crebillon being received with favor by Madame de Pompadour — Rousseau sent a copy of his essay. In a letter of thanks con- taining many flattering expressions, he jestingly re- marked, that while reading it, he had felt the strong- est inclination to walk on all fours. " No one ever tried so hard," he says, " to make beasts of us." Rousseau took great offence at this. He had before been an admirer of Voltaire; henceforth he became his enemy. Though everywhere welcomed with much cordiality, he was far from being at ease in the society he now frequented. Under a modest and reserved exterior, and timidly polite manners, there lurked pride, dis- trust, envy, and resentment. The luxurious banquets of d'Holbach; the elegancies that surrounded the witty and refined Helvetius, displeased Jean-Jacques. There was no geniality in him. Unaccustomed to any society but that of the vulgar and illiterate Therese Levasseur and her mother, he felt conscious that he was out of his place, and sat moodily silent in those animated circles; glancing around him furtively and askance, yet keenly observant of all that took place. "No one," says Marmontel, "ever more persistently put into practice the miserable maxim, ' One should live with one's friends as if they were some day to become one's enemies,' than did Rousseau." The indigence into which he had fallen on his re- turn from Venice in 1745, may have greatly contrib- uted to deepen his naturally morbid state of feeling, THlRESE LEVASSEUR. 3JI which with increasing years seemed to grow deeper still; embittered his life; alienated his friends, and deprived him of much of the legitimate reward of his literary labors. Whether owing to his business occupations, or that he had not been able to obtain for it an advantageous hearing, " Le Devin du Village," if finished, had not yet been produced. Some of its songs and airs he was accustomed to sing and play, wherever he found a harpsichord to accompany him. Generally they were thought pleasing and pretty, though Rousseau's voice was thin and harsh, and little calculated to add any charm to his music. Duclos, however, spoke of it favorably to Madame de Pompadour, and, soon after Rousseau's Dijon success, his operetta was performed at Versailles, and again at Fontainebleau. All who were present, amongst whom were the queen and the princesses, were charmed with it. The marquise sang the airs, which became popular; and the king was so well pleased with them that he desired to see the composer. But the composer, though puffed up with vanity at the success of his musical trifle, shrank from an interview with the king, notwithstand- ing the sharp goadings of Th^rese. Her displeasure with "her man" was expressed with an eloquence that a fish-woman might have envied. She, poor woman, saw a pension looming in the distance, and perhaps her children reclaimed from among " the foundlings." And a pension, at the instance of the marquise, might have been granted, had Rousseau but temporarily dis- pelled Louis' ennui by appearing before him in his Ar- menian caftan and robes — a not undignified costume, when appropriately worn, though it transformed poor Jean-Jacques into an eccentric figure of fun. 352 THE OLD REGIME. The Academy of Dijon again, in the following year, proposing a subject for a prize essay, " The Origin of the Inequality among Mankind," Rousseau once more took up his pen. The prize was not on this occasion decreed to him. But his generally perverted views, and the plausibility with which he sometimes pre- sented them, together with the singularities of his conduct, sufficed to fix attention upon him. Curiosity was therefore sure to be raised by whatever he wrote. He became the fashion in the salons. Society, desirous of taking a near view of the gentle savage, made a lion of him, sought after and courted him. His head was nearly turned by his imaginary social success. He gave himself extraordinary airs, and sulked and pouted when he thought he was not made enough of. The ladies coaxed and petted him, but laughed at him behind his back; as men might do when flattering a vain, capricious, pretty woman, whose excessive amour-propre was ever in danger of being disquieted by any fancied lack of attention and admiration. He suffered far less in the more congenial society of Therese. She recalled him to his senses, when he returned home in a fashionable fit of the vapors. His wounded feelings received but rough treatment from his wife, " in the sight of heaven and by the law of nature," but whom the salons refused to acknowledge, Therese had feelings also, and was not sparing of Strong epithets when she thought of the wrongs he had done her. Since Jean-Jacques had frequented the salons of the great world, he had often chanced to meet the young Marquis de Marigny, who, like himself, though from different motives, and in a different manner, main- THE TROWEL VERSUS THE PEN. 353 tained a certain degree of reserve in society. Rous- seau seems to have felt attracted towards him, and, in his awkward, shy way, inclined to a more intimate acquaintance. Diderot, his former bosom-friend, since his release from durance vile, had evinced strong symptoms of jealousy of Rousseau's notoriety. Cold, caustic, also ready to take offence **at trifles," as Mar- montel says, Jean-Jacques had become incomprehen- sible to Diderot. When, too, he considered the strange doctrines he now put forth, his desire, as it seemed, to found a sect whose aim should be to arrest the progress of civili- zation; to turn its course backward, as it were — preaching as happiness to men gifted with intellect, a state of nature, what could he think, but that Jean- Jacques was a madman ? " That man is a lunatic," he exclaimed. One or other of these men must have been very much changed to have made intimacy, much less friendship, possible between them. But Diderot was now fully engaged with d'Alem- bert in preparing for the first issue of the Encyclo- paedia; while Rousseau, influenced probably by a musical reputation, and a preference expressed for Italian music, had made the acquaintance of Marigny. The young marquis, as Jean-Jacques, doubtless, was aware, was the first to patronize Sedaine, " Le resto- rateur de I'Opera Comique." Sedaine was a stone- mason, and a skilful workman, probably; being en- trusted with the reparation of the marble fountains of the gardens of Versailles. While thus occupied, he one day contrived to enter into conversation with Marigny, in the course of which he informed him that he purposed shortly to give up the stonemason's tools and take to the pen. Marigny smiled. 354 ^-^^ 0^^ REGIME. " Better keep to the trade you are master of," he said, " than leave it for one you have to learn." "It is for the Opera Comique I propose to write," he replied. " Allow me to read to you the play I have written." Permission was readily given. Sedaine read his piece, afterwards so popular — " Le Diable a Quatre," and Marigny no longer doubted, as he said, the stone- mason's ability to use the pen as skilfully as the trowel. The music of his next piece, " Le Roi et le Fermier," was composed by Marigny, and proved a great success. Marigny was an accomplished amateur, and Sedaine, it is scarcely necessary to say, became the most popular of the writers of vaudeville and operetta; far surpassing Panard, sometimes called the " La Fontaine of vaudeville," Sedaine's pieces possess an interest quite independent of the music, though he was usually fortunate in his musical fellow-laborers. Marigny's receptions were especially artistic and lit- erary, without any pretension to philosophism, and were occasionally attended by Jean-Jacques. It was, however, scarcely consistent with his professed opin- ions on the subject of the sciences and arts, to fre- quent a reunion composed almost entirely of persons who made them their principal study. It was evi- dent, notwithstanding, that he had a predilection for their society. Madame de Pompadour was anxious to see this ad- vocate of the life of the backwoods. A special invita- tion was therefore sent to him, for a reception at which ladies would be present; and Jean-Jacques duly made his appearance. He wore a cloth coat, hazel color, and of the cut then in fashion; linen, fine and white, cambric cravat, without lace, but nicely plaited and "JEAN-JACQUES, LOVE YOUR COUNTRY:' 355 got up by Th^r^se; no ruffles; small round wig, no powder; silk breeches, maroon-colored stockings, sil- ver shoe and knee buckles, and cane in his hand — un vrai petit-mattre. Though supposed to be always out of health, his complexion is described as ruddy; his features peculiarly Swiss. On his introduction to Madame de Pompadour, his manner was flurried and nervous. Desirous of play- ing the bear, he was yet restrained by a wish to be- have with politeness to this fascinating and all-power- ful lady — the more so, perhaps, that he was conscious of being decked out as if for making conquests that evening. Indeed, some ladies were heard to declare that ^* rhomme sauvage" was really "quite a handsome fellow." " Le Devin du Village" was of course the first subject of conversation. Madame la Marquise so much admired "that charming little opera," that Jean-Jacques was delighted. Vanity tore off his bear- skin, and compelled him to behave far more like a civilized creature than was his wont — singing and playing, first at his own suggestion, then at the re- quest of the marquise, several pleasing songs and pieces of his own composing. It is probable that Rousseau might have acquired a fair reputation as a composer, had he applied himself more steadily to the scientific study of music while in Italy. But he seems to have remained satisfied with the reputation of a clever amateur ^ which his " Muses Galantes," and " Le Devin du Village," with some few chansonnettes and short pieces for the harpsichord had gained him. His introduction to Madame de Pompadour led to no results, as regarded his future career, and shortly after it he left Paris for Switzerland. "Jean Jacques, love your country," had been his 356 THE OLD REGIME. father's oft-iterated counsel to him in boyhood; and it may have recurred to him when, after an absence of many years, he determined to revisit the land of his birth. The " Citoyen de Geneve," as it was his cus- tom to sign himself, was well received by his fellow- citizens. The fame of his pamphlets and music had preceded him. But his public renunciation of the Roman Catholic faith, and return to Protestantism, was more particularly gratifying to them, than those first literary efforts — soon to be succeeded by others that eventually raised a tempest of ill-feeling against him, and caused his ejection from the land that now welcomed his return. CHAPTER XXXIV. Anglo-mania. — A New Source of Favor. — The Wines of Bordeaux. — A Present from Richelieu. — Chateau-Lafitte promoted. — A Challenge to Burgundy. — The 6cole Militaire.— Its Real Projector. — L'Hotel des Invalides. — The Academy of Archi- tecture. — The Rubens Gallery. — Vernet's French Seaports. — Jean Honor6 Fragonard. — The Painter Chardin. — The Queen's Oratoire. — The Winner of the Grand Prix. — Advice to a Young Artist. — An Admirable Plan. — Funds not Forth- coming. Generally, it may be said, that, throughout the long reign of Louis XV., industry and commerce were slumbering. Yet there were intervals of partial awakening from this state of inactivity, of which the most notable was from 1748 to 1756 — the period that elapsed between the signing of the peace of Aix-la- Chapelle and the beginning of the Seven Years' War. Considerable progress was then made, as well in the arts and sciences as in the manufactures of the coun- try. In its social aspects, it was also a brilliant period — a bright gleam from the fast-setting sun of the old regime — luxury in dress, in furniture, in equi- pages, everywhere meeting the eye. In certain circles, inoculated by Montesquieu, Vol- taire, and others, with what was termed Anglo-mania, many took the opportunity afforded by the Peace of visiting England. Fine ladies and gentlemen set out for " the tight little island, the land of freedom," and 358 I'HE OLD REGIME, the refined court of George II., with very high expec- tations. They returned, alas ! with the enthusiasm of their feelings somewhat chilled. In return, foreigners of distinction, and especially Englishmen, thronged to Paris. Young noblemen frequented its salons^ " to form themselves" in these schools of fin- ished courtesy and perfection of taste. The Due de Richelieu, now well on the road from iifty to sixty, and, as some assert, with a deep tinge of red in his nose that annoyed him exceedingly, was still held up as the model of a fascinating libertine. One may learn from Lord Chesterfield's letters how this worthless old rake — for it is he who is alluded to, as achieving so much social success with no higher claims than his fine manners, and his affectation of homage to women — was still courted in the salons. Every post he had held throughout his career, whether military or diplomatic, had been conferred for no merit; but was obtained through the intrigues and persistent support of his phalanx of female parti- sans. But the wars were over, at least for a time, and the worthy duke was now at full leisure to slay ladies* hearts, and to pursue his drawing-room con- quests. At this opportune moment of fetes and banquets, a lucky chance presented itself of increasing his favor with, the king. It won him also the thanks of the court, and even of the philosophic band of diners- out. The king, who unfortunately could not be pre- vailed on to stint his libations to the rosy god of wine, was at this time supplied by the duke with a new sensation of that kind, which also very shortly after became the means of imparting new zest to the Apician repasts of the rich Baron d'Holbach, of He- THE WINES OF BORDEAUX. 559 nault and Helvetius, and the tables of the wealthy generally. A sudden thought one day struck the languid, melancholy Louis, when Richelieu, after a short, dreary, and almost silent interview, was taking his leave of the king. " Do your Bordelais vineyards, Richelieu," he said, *' produce any drinkable wine?" and " Le Bien aim6" raised himself from his reclining position, as though reanimated by the mere sound of the word wine. The duke, recalled, as it were, to the presence of his august sovereign, replied: " Sire, there are growths of the country which yield wine not exactly bad. There is what they call in those parts * Blanc de Sauterne,* a very palatable wine; by no means to be despised. Then they have a certain 'Vin Grave,' which has a strong odor of flint-stone, and resembles Moselle, but keeps better. Also, they have 'Medoc ' and le ' Bizadois.' But there is especially one kind of red wine, which the Bor- deaux people boast of and praise so extravagantly, that your Majesty would be much amused to hear them. Were one to give heed to their gasconades, one must suppose that the earth produces no wine that equals it; that it is, as they say, * Nectar for the table of the gods.' Yet this much-lauded wine is neither a very potent nor generous one; though its bouquet is not bad. In its flavor there is a sort of indescribable, dull, subdued sting or mordant; and it is not at all disagreeable. For the rest, you may drink as much as you please of it. It sends you to sleep, that's all ; and, to my mind, that's its chief merit." The description of the wines of Bordeaux seemed to satisfy his majesty, but created no desire to taste 360 ^tiE OLD REGIME, them. His favorite sparkling vin d'Ai was still, to his fancy, the royal wine, fit for kings and princes, and the fine ladies of his court. Richelieu therefore went his way without any order for claret. Two or three weeks after, however, there arrived at Versailles a messenger of the duke's, from his chdteau near Bor- deaux, bringing with him some dozens of the famous red wine so vaunted by the Bordelais. The messen- ger had been despatched post haste to fetch it from the duke's cellars, that the king's curiosity concern- ing Bordeaux wine might be better gratified by tast- ing it. A cork was drawn His majesty tasted, and tasted again, after the manner of connoisseurs. He then drank a glass; hesitated for awhile, but pronounced it "a passable wine," and the ^^ bouquet " slS Richelieu had said, "not bad," Half-an-hour's reflection pro- duced a desire to taste again — the king wished to be just. He liked theyV ne sais quot, in its flavor, better, and ended the process of doing it justice by liking it remarkably well. After a second bottle, he unhesi- tatingly agreed with the Bordelais that their Chateau- Lafitte was fit for the table of the gods; and, higher honor still, fit to grace the table of the petits-apparte- ments of the King of France and Navarre. Hence- forth to that honor it was promoted. Its fame soon spread. For it had not been tam- pered with; not prepared (you understand) by skilful hands, as for the present educated taste of the con- noisseurs of the English market. The wines of Bor- deaux now took their place on the tables of the wealthy. But until thus brought into favor, through this present to the king of Chateau-Lafitte from the Due de Richelieu's cellars, no one would have thought A CHALLENGE TO BURGUNDY, 361 of offering his guests the wine of Bordeaux — so little was it known or esteemed beyond the district of its growth. It was doubtless brought forward to play its part at the banquets, public, private, and royal, which in 1 75 1 were given in celebration of the birth of a son to the dauphin. Then Chateau-Lafitte, publicly repre- senting the vineyards of Bordeaux, was as a herald throwing down the gauntlet of defiance to a rival, maintaining, in the face of all who dared dispute the fact, the pre-eminence of their produce, as bumpers were filled, and the guests, with three times three, drank to the health of Young Burgundy. The eldest son of the dauphin received at this time the title of Due de Bourgogne. Louis XV., though disliking his son, was really well pleased at the birth of this child. It seemed to ensure the direct succes- sion to the throne. The enthusiasm of the Parisians also raised his spirits wonderfully. For he was re- markably sensitive to any perceptible loss of popu- larity, little as he did to deserve the affection of his people. Foreign ministers hastened to Versailles to congratulate the king, and were agreeably surprised at the cordial reception he gave them. The listless- ness with which they were usually received, and which was the reason that an audience was so rarely sought of the king, had wholly disappeared. Without throwing aside any of his wonted dignity of manner, his majesty almost condescended to gaiety, and old courtiers declared they had never before seen him so apparently happy. A series of grand christening /«f/ TRIUMPHAL AIR. 37^ du Village,* or other musical piece." Two or three persons of the queen's intimate circle are with her in her chamber. They smile, as if anticipating some amusement. Madame de Pompadour prays to be excused. She discerns an intention to disparage her; to show her off as a silly, vain woman, eager for admiration, and at whose expense the queen may afford her friends a little diversion. Marie Leczinska persists in her re- quest. Again she is entreated not to urge it — for etiquette forbids a positive refusal to comply with the royal command. But the queen is bent on making her rival act and sing — on making her ridiculous, in fact. And Madame de Pompadour, compelled to sing against her will, is bent on having her revenge. She perceives there is a harpsichord in the room.* Placinjr her basket of flowers on the table, before the queen can prevent her, Madame de Pompadour sits down to the instrument, and, instead of the chanson- netie she has been asked for, favors the queen and her friends with her grand triumphal air, "At last 'tis in my power," from Lulli's " Armida," allowing them to make whatever application of the words they pleased; and it appears they made the right one. Her musical education had been perfect, and her singing of this grand air was a tour de force^ of which very few who were not professional singers were capable. The queen had heard her sing it before — never, perhaps, with the same apparent exultant joy as on the oc- casion referred to. Poor Marie Leczinska! * Young Beaumarchais — then only twenty, gigantic in stature, and remarkably handsome — had just been appointed by the king to teach music to the three princesses — of course, in the queen's apartments. 3^0 THE OLD REGIME. All the prerogatives of a princess of a sovereign house were at this time conferred by the king on Ma- dame de Pompadour, and all the pomp and parade then deemed indispensable to rank so exalted were fully assumed by her. Except on those occasions when it was her own good pleasure to seek relief in the society of a few chosen friends from the weari- some etiquette with which she was surrounded, she was approached with as much ceremony as the king, even by the members of his family; sharing with him the homage — and probably receiving the larger share — paid by courtiers and foreign ministers to royalty. The first woman of her bed-chamber was "a young lady of rank." Her chamberlain and first equerry were men of rank. A Chevalier of the Order of Le St. Esprit bore her train. Collin, one of the pro- cureurs or attorneys of the Chatelet, was her steward, and was decorated expressly for that office, when placed over her household at the Hotel d'Evreux (Elysee Bourbon). The Marquis de Marigny was appointed secretary of the Order of Le St. Esprit, which conferred on him an exceptional cordon bleu^ without proofs of nobility. A handsome pension was given to her father; but he was required to reside at not less than forty leagues' distance from Paris, as his presence at court would have been rather embarrassing. He took up his abode in a pleasant part of Champagne, where he seems to have enjoyed life exceedingly, after the ups and downs of his earlier days, and his narrow escape from being hanged. Her mother had died in 1749, at about the same time as the "sublime Emilie," when condolences were exchanged between Madame de Pompadour and Voltaire — Voltaire, of course, pouring forth his sor- DEATH OF ALEXANDRINE. 38 1 row and sympathy in rhymes. Her daughter yet re- mained to her. Alexandrine d'Etioles was then be- tween nine and ten years of age; a remarkably in- telligent child; carefully educated, and giving promise of great musical talent. Marmontel said of the young daughter of his pa- troness, "That she was the most spirituelU child in France." He was accustomed to read his famous tales, "Contes de Marmontel," to the mother and daughter. While doing so, he assumed, it appears, a certain air of effeminate affectation — perhaps thinking to impart further interest to them. The young lady observed this, and remarked, sententiously, that " M. Marmontel, when he was reading, had too much the air of a marquise." This was repeated to Marmontel, and longer than usual he absented himself from the toilette of the duchesse. When she inquired the rea- son — for she was much interested in her protig^^ who, but for her encouragement, would have given up literature — he replied, " That really he was as much afraid of Mdlle. Alexandrine's epigrams as of Piron's." This was, of course, said jestingly, but it shows that there was piquancy enough in the child's remark to annoy him. Madame de Pompadour had already cast her eyes on the young Due de Fronsac, De Richelieu's only son, as a suitable parti for her daughter. The king approved, and mentioned it to De Richelieu, who re- plied, " Sire, it would be necessary first to obtain the consent of the family of Lorraine." However, the poor child died in her twelfth year, in the convent of the Assumption, in the Rue St. Honore. Her death was probably the greatest blow Madame de Pom- padour ever experienced in her affections. For one 382 THE OLD REGIME, may believe that she loved power, and loved it to ex- cess, yet decline to give entire credence to such a writer as Soulavie, who, in his untrustworthy " Me- moirs," represents her as bereft of all feeling, and a callous, hard-hearted monster. Her ambitious views had included, no doubt, an advantageous marriage for her daughter. Most mothers have similar aspira- tions. A project is said to have been on the carpet, at the time of the child's death, for a marriage with a scion of the house of Nassau. And it is not unlikely. Al- ready the wily, Jesuitical empress, Marie Therese, who, through her effeminate ambassador. Count Ven- ceslaus de Kaunitz, was kept well informed of all that took place at the court of Versailles, had saluted Ma- dame de Pompadour as "my good cousin." Kaunitz prepared the way for Stahremberg. He had signed for Austria the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, and after- wards remained as ambassador to play the agreeable, when at Versailles, both to the king and Madame de Pompadour. In Paris he resided at the Palais Bour- bon, and frequented assiduously the receptions of the Marquis de Marigny, and of the Due de Choiseul, then appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs. M. de Kaunitz, notwithstanding his reputation as an able diplomatist, was as much occupied with the cares of the toilette, with the preservation of the smoothness of his complexion, and the delicate white- ness of his hands, as any effeminate petit-maitre of the salons^ or even as the rose-leaf-tinted beauties of the court. The count was, as the French say, "still young;" or, more poetically, " the last rays of youth" still lingered about him. He had reached his fortieth year — a period of life less terrible to men than to wo- DlSAGREMENTS OF THE CHASE. 383 men. His manners were courtly, and he had, there- fore, found favor with the king, who was extremely sensitive on that point. Roughness of character was far more offensive to him than were vicious principles, — he shrank from those in whose demeanor he seemed to detect it. So devoted to the chase himself, Louis XV. im- agined that no one could be otherwise than delighted by an invitation to join the royal hunt. But alas for poor Kaunitz! while striving to appear enraptured with the sport, he was suffering agonies. Too much wind, too much sun — either would be fatal to his complexion, and often there was too much of both. Fastidious ladies might have screened themselves with mask or veil from the attacks of bright Phoebus or rude Boreas. But in presence of a bevy of beau- ties — amongst whom were the dauphine (a famous huntress), Madame Adelaide (the king's eldest daugh- ter), and Madame de Pompadour; all in hunting dress, and, regardless of their complexions, wearing little feather- trimmed chapeauxd. tricornes — the count was compelled to appear as reckless of exposure as they were, lest, in screening himself from the weather, he should expose himself to ridicule. It would have been like falling into Charybdis in attempting to avoid Scylla. He had invented a sort of paste which, put, soft, on the hands at night, adhered as it hardened, and re- mained firm till the morning. When removed, the fairest lady in the land might have envied the lily whiteness of the count's beautiful hands. He had as many rules for the preservation of his health as his beauty ; and greatly it grieved his righteous spirit to depart from them. So that, what with his decorative 384 ^-^^ ^^^ REGIME. art and his hygienic system, he may be said to have been a martyr to duty — his duty, as a diplomatist, to his sovereign and his country. Duty alone would have drawn him from his cosey apartment in the Palais Bourbon, and his luxurious private boudoir; where, at his ease, in an elegant robe de chambre that the Due de Gevres might have envied, he penned long despatches, minutely descriptive of all that was passing around him, whether political or social. Kaunitz was a keen observer. Grimm charged him with extreme frivolity; and the effeminacy he affected justified the charge. But Marie Therese put much confidence in him for the carrying out of her views. He had been intended for the Church, but preferred diplomacy to fasting and praying. His advancement had been rapid; for at the age of forty he was at the head of one of the most important of European embassies. The ambassadors' quarters at Versailles did not quite suit his habits; but he was not averse to the dinners and amusements of the petits-appartements. Attending the toilette of Madame de Pompadour was a far more interesting pastime to him than that of witnessing the mysteries of the petti lever of Louis XV. He, however, contrived to per- form both those duties with, as was said, "infinite grace." He kept the devout Marie Therese au coiirant of all that was said, done, and suspected at that favorite abode of royalty; for she liked a dish of court scan- dal no less than did Louis XV. himself. The count was fond of Parisian life, and was supposed to be deeply tinged with the prevailing philosophism. He was a frequenter of the salons, and especially of that favorite resort of the ambassadors, where the whole AN ALLY OF VOLTAIRE. 385 of Europe was often represented — the salon of Ma- dame Gcoffrin. When Madame de Pompadour sojourned for awhile at her Hotel d'Evreux, the Comte de Kaunitz was inva- riably present at her private receptions. While play- ing the part of a frivolous man of pleasure, he learned to estimate fully the energetic character, great attain- ments, and natural abilities of the mistress of the weak and incompetent Louis XV. In sharing the Due de Choiseul's opinion, that Madame de Pompa- dour possessed many of the essential qualities of an able minister of State, as well as great aptitude for diplomatic negotiation, the count impressed the same view of her character and abilities on the mind of his sovereign. Taking advantage of this, in a way that the empress well knew would prove most flattering to the amour-propre of such a woman, she began the famous correspondence which won over to her cause the great influence of la maitresse-en-titre ; made France the ally of Austria, and paved the way to the Seven Years' War. But diplomacy and the cares of the toilette did not wholly engross the time and thoughts of the ambas- sador. He was a frequenter of the theatres ; was intimate with Voltaire, and a great admirer of his genius. To Madame de Pompadour he significantly expressed his regret that prejudice on one side and fanaticism on the other should at that critical mo- ment deprive the court of France of the aid of Vol- taire's powerful pen. CHAPTER XXXVI. Cr6billon and Voltaire. — Voltaire and the Court. — Cr6billon at the Toilette. — Rising and Setting Stars. — Adieu, La Belle France. — Clerical and other Cabals. — Lekain's D6but. — Voltaire's Pupil, at Sceaux. — " Heavens! how Ugly he is !" — A Stage-struck Painter. — An Unfortunate Debutant. — Belcourt invited to Paris. — Advice to a Young Actor. — Lekain in De- spair. — Lekain at Versailles. — A Discourteous Greeting. — A Triumph for Lekain. — A Reform in Costume. — Clairon's Grande R6v6rence. — Clairon and Marmontel. — A Vexatious Contretemps. The fast-waning popularity of Crebillon experienced a temporary revival through the success of his tragedy of "Catalina." It was, however, a success more forced than real; got up by his friends, with Piron and other enemies of Voltaire at their head, and rather for the sake of annoying the latter than serving the former. For Voltaire, though so immensely superior in talent, and his fame European, was not proof against the shafts of envious mediocrity. He was easily roused to jealousy of even so poor a rival as the aged Cre- billon. Crebillon, it is true, had, on this occasion, succeeded where Voltaire, with all his advantages, and his audacity to boot, had failed. Notwithstanding that he was no frequenter of the salons^ but a lounger of the taverns, a dweller among the poor, in a humble house in the Marais — with his pipe and his dogs for companions — Crebillon had been well received by the VOLTAIRE AND THE COURT, 387 king. Louis had even condescended to ask him to read a scene of his " Catalina," and declared himself edified by it. " Cr^billon," he said, *' b.as far more genius than Voltaire. He is a second Racine." The courtiers echoed these words, and the echo reached the ears of Voltaire. Momentarily Cr6billon became the fashion, and, better still for the needy poet, the king gave him a pension. Permission to print his works at the Louvre — " With the approval and per- mission of the king" — was also conceded to him. In conversation with Madame de Pompadour, Vol- taire appealed, as it were, against this concession. He thought it an injustice while a similar privilege was denied to his own works. And she agreed with the poet. For though fully aware of his vanity, she ap- preciated his talent, and was amused by his mocking spirit. She had been present at the private represen- tation of "Rome Sauv6e" — "Catalina" under another name, and a rival production. It was performed at Voltaire's private theatre in the Rue Traversiere — the Due de Villars playing Catalina, and Voltaire Cicero. She had also heard Crebillon declaim before the king. The old poet was then in his seventy-sixth year. His hair was white as snow, but abundant; his features large, and the expression of his countenance sombre — at times, while reciting, almost menacing. He had a deep sepulchral voice, and much abruptness in his gestures; while his rugged verse became harsher to the ear by his harshness of accentuation. Louis XV. personally disliked Voltaire, and this feeling was nourished by the clamor of the court. He was bored, too, by the agitated entreaties of poor Marie Leczinska, to whom the very name of Voltaire was a bugbear. Urged on by the dauphin and his 388 THE OLD REGIME. Jesuit surroundings, she came as a martyr to implore, on her knees, that the king would uphold the religion of the State — menaced, as she was told, by Voltaire's return to the court. Madame de Pompadour could not, then, under such circumstances, plead very warmly for her friend Voltaire, or suggest very earnestly that the honors of the Louvre should be conceded to his works. Her object was to keep her august sovereign amused and in good humor; not to thwart him in matters comparatively indifferent. When Crebillon, therefore, made his appearance at her toilette, to offer his thanks for the favors he had received from the king, she received him very graciously, and with many kind words. The old poet prayed to be allowed the honor of kissing her hand. The honor was granted, and Voltaire's jealousy and disgust knew no bounds. It was wonderful that the strong opposition of the priestly element to his reception by the Academy had been overcome. But, in return, it was resolutely de- termined to exclude him from the court altogether. He had no longer a Chateau de Cirey to flee to for rest and consolation; nor did a cordial welcome await him at the Hotel in the He St. Louis — for the sublime Emilie was dead. But he, at least, was now free to wander whither he would; so he turned his thoughts towards Prussia. .Frederick's invitations to Potsdam had for some time past been pressing. The circle of philosophers assembled there was incomplete without the brilliant writer, the patriarch of the sect. " Let him come to Potsdam; let him make that home of free-thinkers his abode," and enliven by his presence the suppers of Sans-Souci — that Frederick, by the grace of God, King of Prussia and Elector of Bran- ADIEU. LA BELLE FRANCE. 389 denburg, may add to these titles the far prouder one — " Possessor of Voltaire." Yet Voltaire showed no great eagerness to accept this flattering invitation, and had he been more gra- ciously treated at Versailles might, perhaps, have de- clined it. But while wounded amour-propre was still smarting from the preference expressed by Louis XV. for the plays of Cr^billon, it received a further stab from some flattering expressions of the great Fred- erick addressed to the young poet Baculard d'Ar- naud, who was then at Berlin. "Arnaud," wrote the king, in doggerel verse — " Arnaud is a rising, Voltaire a setting sun." Of course this was soon on its road from Berlin to Paris, and tarried not by the way. It was duly laid before Voltaire, who, having glanced at it, went off into a terrible rage. "I will go!" he ex- claimed, " I will go and teach this king that Voltaire's sun is not yet set." He had already bargained with Frederick for the advance of the sum of 16,000 francs, to defray his own expenses on the journey and those of Madame Denis, his niece. Louis XV. was then at Compiegne, where a camp was forming, and where the general officers were amusing their sovereign and themselves with military manoeuvres, fites^ and grand banquets. For Com- piegne Voltaire set out without loss of time. He had no thought of casting off his allegiance to his rightful monarch; therefore, though nominally only a Gentle- man of the Bed-chamber, he solicited and received per- mission to visit the court of Berlin, and to accept any dignity the King of Prussia might confer on him. At Compiegne he found also M. von Raesfeld — an officer in the service of Frederick — who, acting on orders received from Potsdam, had made arrangements for 390 THE OLD REGIME. facilitating the journey of the poet and his niece to the Prussian capital. Thus did Voltaire bid an adieu, a long adieu, to la belle France. But though person- ally absent, the spirit of the mocking philosopher still hovered over her, and his influence was, perhaps, the more deeply felt. Louis XV. returned to Versailles. The busy life of the camp had amused him, and relieved him from the worry of domestic dissensions, refractory parliaments, squabbles and differences in the Church, which, no foreign war being now on hand, were, as usual, brought forward to disturb the peace of the kingdom. They were principally fomented by the Archbishop of Paris — Christophe de Beaumont, a man of uncon- ciliating spirit, and an ardent supporter of the Bulle Unigenitus — once more thrust into prominence, but now unanimously rejected by the Parliament. The king interfered — the Pope, Benedict XIV., was ap- pealed to. The undignified contention continued yet for some years; in the course of which Louis was pre- vailed on by Madame de Pompadour to take the bold Step of exiling the Archbishop with two or three of the most troublesome bishops, supporters of his arbi- trary views. Cabals prevailed also both in the theatrical and mu- sical world. Disputes ran high between the partisans of Rameau and French music and those of Pergolese and Italian music. Also between those who discerned an actor of merit in the dibutant Lekain and the sup- porters of Belcourt, who had been brought from a provincial company to oppose him. Belcourt had a handsome person and agreeable manners, and these were, at that time — for he had but little experience — his chief recommendations. They were sufficient, VOLTAIRE'S PUPIL AT SCEAUX. 391 however, to place Lekain at an immense disadvantage — his personal appearance being not only unprepos- sessing, but repulsive. A contemporary writer, who thought favorably of Lekain's abilities, describes him as of low stature; his legs thick, short, and rather bowed. His complexion red and spotted; mouth large, with thick lips — the tout-ensemble of his countenance disagreeable, and his figure ungainly. His voice was hard, grating to the ear, and without modulation; and his action was un- couth. His eyes were his only redeeming feature. They were large, full of fire, and most expressive. He, indeed, seems to have been a striking instance of the great power of the eye's eloquence. His d^but at the Th^Stre Frangais took place on the 14th Sep- tember, 1750, as Titus in Voltaire's tragedy of " Bru- tus." Lekain was then in his twenty-first year, and fully conscious of his want of every personal advan- tage. The ordeal of his first appearance may have been to his imagination partly divested of its terrors by the success he had achieved but ten days before at the Duchesse du Maine's Theatre at Sceaux. He had played there Lentulus in Voltaire's rival play of " Rome Sauvee." The duchess, who in her earlier days had been considered a good actress, and whose chateau continued to resemble a theatre more than a royal lady's private residence, was most favorably im- pressed by the young man's acting. He was a stran- ger to her; introduced at her theatre by Voltaire, to take a part on that occasion in his tragedy. " Who is that young actor ?" she inquired of the poet. " Madame," he replied, " he is the first of all actors — Lekain." 39:2 "i^HE OLD REGIME. She had heard before of Voltaire's talented protdgS anci pupil. Having seen him act, she agreed with the poet that " Lekain is to play" would one day be an announcement that should fill any theatre, whether in or out of France, and, she added, "in spite of his ugliness." But Voltaire could not, or would not, see that. " The tragic soul " and the latent talent which exfperience was to develop were alone visible to him. Lekain had gained a warm partisan in the energetic and still romantic old duchess. But her partisanship availed him little. He had to conquer his position by courage and patience. His d^but was the occasion of a tumultuous scene. The theatre, the balcony, and the boxes rejected him ; " the men of rank and women of fashion" would not look at him, or rather, having looked, turned away their heads, exclaiming, "Heavens, how ugly he is!" and would look no more. But the critics of the pit were more merciful and far more just. Scrambling with all their might to get nearer the stage (the pit at that period was with- out seats), and vociferating that they " wanted to hear" — when the laughter and hisses and exclamations of the boxes made the actor inaudible — they cheered him on by their plaudits. One far-seeing individual, bolder than the rest, exclaimed, " This man will be the greatest of the royal comedians!" — a prediction re- ceived with peals of laughter by the party of the up- per regions, and with noisy demonstrations of ap- proval by the pit. It needed, indeed, a degree of con- fidence and perseverance possessed by few to face the determined opposition the young actor met with for near a year and a half before he was received as socie- taire. Belcourt, at this time, was performing at Bordeaux. A STAGE-STRVCK PAINTER. 393 He had no idea of so soon venturing an appearance in Paris, when he was called upon by the cabal of the beau mondc to make his debut at the Theatre Fran^ais, as a rival to Lekain. Both these actors — they were about the same age — had taken to the stage contrary to the wishes of their families and the earnest advice of friends. Both were well educated. Lekain was the son of a jeweller in good circumstances, and Bel- court's father was the portrait-painter Gilles Colson. On leaving the college of Toulouse he was placed, as pupil, with Carle Vanloo, and it was after the frequent performance of a part in the little comedies with which the fashionable painter sometimes amused his friends that young Colson discovered, as he believed, that his vocation was acting, not painting. Nothing could turn him from this fancy. He neg- lected the lessons of his master, and got many a scolding for doing ill, or not doing at all, the work assigned him in the studio. But Colson was study- ing a part, Neristan, in which he expected, at one bound, to reach the Temple of Fame. Being reproved by his father, he decamped. By some means he reached Besangon, where he met Preville, afterwards so famous. Under the name of Belcourt, which he retained as a nom de th^dtre^ Colson made his dibut. His theatrical wardrobe consisted of a black coat, for grand court mourning; a pair of velvet breeches, that had had the honor of being worn by Mdlle. Clairon in a part in which she had assumed male attire; a bag wig, trimmed with black lace; and a pair of shoes with red heels and paste buckles. Neristan was to take Besangon by storm. But, alas for his high aspirations! when the debutant ap- peared before the audience his confidence entirely m THE OLD RtGIMB. forsook him. He became paralyzed with fear. He was a wel! -grown, handsome youth of eighteen. His appearance pleased, and he was encouraged by ap- plause. At last he began his part, speaking scarcely above a whisper; but recovered his voice a little as he went on. In the scene where Neristan throws himself at the feet of his lady-love, Belcourt had regained in some degree his composure. Gracefully and ener- getically he fell on his knees, but, as ill-luck would have it, an accident occurred, at that precise moment, to the velvet garment that had belonged to Mdlle. Clairon, who was less robust than its present wearer. The consequence was an effect on the audience wholly different from that he had intended. The house rang with shouts of laughter, and the sadly humbled dSutant^ overwhelmed with shame and confusion, beat a hasty retreat. Three years had elapsed. Belcourt was at Bor- deaux, where he ^\3.yQd ^Wes j'eunes premiers " much to the satisfaction of the citizens, and was highly es- teemed for the excellence of his private character. The Due de Richelieu had seen him perform at Bor- deaux. To please the ladies who exclaimed against the ugliness of Lekain, he succeeded in getting to- gether a powerful party to induce the handsome Belcourt to visit Paris, and, as a rival to Lekain, to make his dSut at the Frangais. The rage not only for the theatre, but for acting, was then so general that, following the example of Versailles, almost every hotel of any pretensions gave private theatricals. It was at the theatre of M. de Clermont-Tonnerre that Lekain's talent was first noticed, and in a play called " Le Mauvais Riche," written by that same Baculard d'Arnaud who, complimented by Frederick, was the ADVICE TO A YOUNG ACTOR, 395 immediate cause of Voltaire's hasty journey to Prussia. Lekain had played the principal part, and, as repre- sented by him, the author was astonished at his own creation. He mentioned the youthful actor to Vol- taire, speaking of him as a prodigy. Voltaire's curi- osity was roused, and, after seeing him in Arnaud's play, he sent for Lekain. As was his custom, he received him with extended arms, and, embracing him with enthusiasm, exclaimed, " Thank Heaven for creating a being capable of exciting in me the deep and tender emotions I experienced while listening to such miserable trash as Arnaud's verses !" He advised the young man to cultivate his talent for his own pleasure and recreation, but to avoid the stage as a profession. " It is a noble one," he said; "but here, in France, hypocrites have branded it with disgrace." But Lekain heeded not this advice; like Belcourt, he was convinced that his vocation was acting. Voltaire probably had the same conviction, for forthwith he took Lekain under his protection, and instructed him at his private theatre in the principal roles of his own tragedies. Voltaire was not present at the ddbuts. The strong feeling of the court against him may have increased the opposition to his portegi. Belcourt appeared first as Achille in " Iphig6nie en Aulide," and as Leandre in " Le Babillard." Notwithstanding the admiration of the ladies for " such a handsome man," the critics of the pit pronounced him inferior to Lekain in trag- edy. The adverse cabal alone supported Belcourt, while the people crowded in to see Lekain. His superiority was frankly acknowledged by his rival, who desired to return the next day to Bordeaux. 396 THJE OLr) MGIM£. Those who had brought him thence would not hear of it, and the debuts went on. Lekain played CEdipus with great applause, and was received "on trial," at a yearly salary of 1 200 frs. Belcourt, who it was thought might, perhaps, succeed Grandval, was received for " high comedy ;" but poor Lekain, with only his tragic soul and his fine eyes, continued to meet with so much opposition that, despairing to overcome it, he thought of leaving France and accepting an engagement offered him in Prussia. The Princess Robecq, conjointly with Voltaire, dis- suaded him from leaving. He had studied diligently during the sixteen months he was kept, on trial, on his forty pounds a year. With experience, the faults that the critics at first had noticed disappeared, and his great talent became very strikingly developed. His pronunciation was perfect, which was not always the case with many of the best actors and actresses of that day. But the more his merits became evident, the more did envy and jealousy strive to disparage him. Yet even among the actors there was one (Bel- court) who, weary of the intrigues and cabals carried on both in and out of the theatre, called out ener- getically, " If you are not willing to receive him as your equal, you may certainly receive him as your master." Opposition, at last, came unexpectedly to an end. The actors were commanded to play at Versailles be- fore the king and the court, and Lekain asked permis- sion of Grandval to take the part of Orosmane. " My friend, you would ruin your prospects entire- ly," said Grandval. " I am willing to risk that," replied Lekain. "Well, in that case I consent; but bear in mind I A DISCOURTEOUS GREETING. 397 warned you," said Grandval, perhaps thinking he was acting as a friend. The day so anxiously looked forward to by Lekain is arrived. King, queen, princesses, Madame de Pom- padour, courtiers, and ladies-in-waiting are assembled in the royal theatre of Versailles. Many of this goodly company have not seen the new actor, against whom so pitiless a storm has been raging. This has raised curiosity, and Orosmane's entrance is eagerly awaited. He appears. There is a general movement of sur- prise. " Ah ! how ugly he is !" meets his ear (one would have expected more courtesy from great ladies of the court). But he had foreseen this ; he is accus- tomed to be thus greeted. If he feels it more than at other times, it is only in increased determination to conquer. As the play proceeds, and the interest of the scene is unfolded, the audience becomes silent and attentive. Soon the actor is forgotten. Whether he is ugly or handsome no one then knows. It is in Orosmane and his sorrows they are interested, and for whom the tears are flowing from the eyes of beautiful women. Lekain has triumphed over prejudice ; and many of those subdued fair ones who had exclaimed so eager- ly, "Ah ! how ugly he is !" are now fam to say, as on several occasions was afterwards said, " Ah ! how handsome he is !" Lekain was received as associate of the Comedie Franyaise as no other actor, before or since, ever was — by the king's command. " He has made me weep," said Louis XV., " who scarcely know what it is to weep. I receive him." It was vexatious to detractors, no doubt ; but submission was imperative, for his majesty added, ^' Je le veux' — a short and ready way 398 THE OLD REGIME. he had of settling vexed questions, of cutting, as it were, the Gordian knots of discussion : perhaps not always with general satisfaction ; but in the present instance there were few who did not mentally re- spond "Amen" to his dictum. None perhaps rejoiced more in the success of Lekain than the man who had been set up by his opponents as his rival. Belcourt and Lekain were firm and attached friends to the end of their career. They began it together, and like their lives it had a similar ending. The French stage owed much to Lekain. He has been called " the restorer of costumes," and has not less deserved that of " benefactor of comedy and comedians." He succeeded in putting an end to the custom — so unfavorable to the actor, so destructive of scenic effect — of allowing a portion of the audience to appear on the stage. A row of seats was taken from the pit to accommodate those who had patronized the scenic benches. It was a great gain to the actors gen- erally — an immense one to Lekain; and it was only fair that he, to whom no favor at all had been shown, should succeed in securing for himself a clear stage. By degrees — being seconded in all his reforms by Mdlle. Clairon, Belcourt, and one or two others — the actors were prevailed on to discard their red heels, paste diamonds, and court dress generally, for the proper costume of the character represented. Lekain is said to have been absolutely hideous in the dress and turban of Genghis Khan. But that signified not. By his immense talent he soon over- came the first impression. Had he played it as a cavalier of the Henry IV. period, or in the grand cos- tume of the court of Louis XV., the absurdity and his ugliness would have been uppermost in the mind; but CLAIRON'S GRANDE RAVERENCE, 399 in turban and oriental dress Genghis Khan alone was thought of. To sink his own personality was his con- stant aim. That made him so great an actor. He loved his art, and wished Lekain to be forgotten in the person he represented. Is anybody old enough in these days to recollect Madame Rachel ? If so, he recollects Ph^dre. Her dress, in this character, was a reproduction of the classic robes in which Mdlle. Clairon — discarding the panier, the plumes, spangles, and frippery that Phedre had before appeared in — made, it may be said, a second dSut, and received an ovation surpassmg any triumph she had hitherto known.- Mdlle. Clairon was then about thirty, when a hand- some woman is as a rose in its fullest beauty. She was eminently the tragic muse — not tender and pathetic like Mdlle. Dumesnil — but grand, sublime. The grace and dignity with which she entered and re- tired, when on the stage, made her sought after by the great ladies of the court; who took lessons of her in ^Ua gr a nde reverence y The most apt of her pupils is said to have been the young Comtesse d'Egmont, Richelieu's only daughter, married to an old man, rich and with numerous quarterings, very gratifying to her father; but she, poor girl, found an early grave, the victim of an absorbing, romantic passion for a younger and less richly endowed suitor. Mdlle. Clairon was also accustomed to read with Mdlle. de Richelieu — receiving for each visit twenty- five louis a'or. The duke's carriage was always in waiting to convey her home; the duke's coachman as regularly receiving from the magnificent actress ten louis dor as a pourboire. Marmontel was at that time the very humble slave 400 THE OLD REGIME. of Mdlle. Clairon's caprices. He had lately been seri- ously ill, and the great actress — imitating Adrienne Le Couvreur's attentions to Voltaire — had beguiled the weary hours of his convalescence by reading to him the "Arabian Nights." She had given him, also, a room in her hotel; Madame Geoff rin, whom he had displeased, having withdrawn from him the privilege of occupying a small apartment in her residence; though her salon was still open to him. Marmontel was much indebted to the talent of Mdlle. Clairon for the success of his plays, in which the fire of genius burns but dimly; for, as observed by a French writer, though Marmontel may be considered a distinguished writer, his place is among those of the second rank. Caprice might sometimes prevent his fair friend from doing her utmost with a part that did not greatly take her fancy. But at no time did she need the stimulating beverage whence Mdlle. Dumesnil seemed to derive the pathos and tenderness that created so much emotion in her audience. The chance of an over- dose was, however, more fatal to an anxious author's hopes than the caprices of the actress's dignified rival. The due proportion of water omitted from her draught, the gentle Dumesnil had, on more than one occasion, become extravagantly energetic, ludicrously lachry- mose, and, instead of the tears she was accustomed to draw from a sympathetic audience, was saluted with derisive shouts of laughter. An accident of this kind occurred on the first representation of one of Marmon- tel's plays. The poor author was in despair on wit- nessing her eccentricities and the noisy mirth they oc- casioned. But Mdlle. Dumesnil being a favorite actress, her patrons pardoned her; and at the next represen- tation she made the amende honorable to Marmontel — A VEXATIOUS CONTRETEMPS. 401 securing, by her fine acting, a favorable reception for his play. For his obligations to Mdlle. Clairon he was made to pay largely. Her carriages and horses, her hotel in Paris, her chateau in the country, and general extravagance made large supplies of cash needful. Funds sometimes failed. Then Marmontel's friend- ship was put to the test, and a severe one too; for his own resources were small, and he was compelled to accept favors from friends to enable him to supply the temporary needs of a lady who probably never dreamed of repaying the sums he had borrowed for her use. (o: CHAPTER XXXVII. A Musical Squabble. — A Latter-day Blessing. — ^Jean- Jacques on French Music. — Rameau Converted. — Tweedledum and Tweedledee. — A Question of State. — The Grand 'chambre Banished. — " Dieu Protege la France." — Birth of the Due de Berri. — The Harbinger of Peace. "The queen's corner" and "the king's corner" were two hostile camps, defiantly facing each other from opposite sides of the stage of the Opera de Paris — the battle-ground on which they nightly contended for victory. Those who ranged themselves under the standard of the queen were the allies of the Italian composer, Pergolese, and his " Bouffons," or company of Italian singers. The combatants who supported the king for the honor of France (and, indeed, the contention was carried on so rancorously that it threatened literally to end in a combat) were for up- holding the supremacy of French music and the su- periority of native singers. LuUists and Ramists, who some years before had engaged in a similar struggle for pre-eminence, now formed but one camp. For Lulli, though by birth an Italian, had lived in France from boyhood to old age, and acquired there his first notions of music. France had always claimed him as her own, and in his feelings and habits he was essen- tially a Frenchman. The bitterness of spirit evinced on both sides, in this Franco-Italian musical squabble, is really difficult A LA TTER'DA Y BLESSING, 403 to realize. The cause seems so insignificant, in com- parison with the energy so perseveringly expended upon it. It, however, helps to an understanding of the utter frivolity and idleness of the society of the period, and the dearth there must have been of ex- citement, when every tea-cup storm caused so great a commotion in the world of fashion. It was not only the belles of the salons — pardonably weary of knitting and knotting and embroidery, and of the same dull round of chit-chat, th^ h C Anglaise^ and scandal — who welcomed any little breezy diversion of this kind. The philosophers also, the regenerators of mankind, actual- ly put aside for awhile their encyclopzedical labors,and entered heart and soul into the musical quarrel. Every one had in his pocket his treatise on music, or a letter of advice or remonstrance to Rameau or Pergolese, for which he vainly endeavored to get a hearing in the salons. What if he knew nothing of music ? had never given it ten minutes' thought in his life ? He, nevertheless, might gratify himself by writing an essay upon it, though no one was likely to read it, and express his opinion on the subject, though no one might care to hear it. Unfortunately there existed not then that latter-day blessing, a legion of newspapers, so obligingly " opening their columns to the thorough ventilation" (if that be the proper nine- teenth-century phrase) of any subject of general inter est, or even of no interest at all. This " institution ot our times" was then but meagrely developed. Other- wise every one might have said his say in his " Jupi- ter," " Pallas," " Saturn," or other favorite luminary; and with the proud consciousness, too, of a world- wide circulation being given to his utterances. Whe- ther he could reckon on being as widely read might 404 ^^-^ o^^ rMime. have been as problematical as in these days, or as get- ting a hearing then in the salons; where everybody was willing to talk, but no one to listen. Jean-Jacques, who had some musical ideas, though he was not the great maestro he thought himself, of course wrote a letter on the subject. It was ludi- crously violent, and its logical conclusion was as fol- lows: "The French have no music, and cannot have any; or should they ever have any, it will be so much the worse for them." Rameau's partisans were violent also. He himself was far more moderate. His idea was not so much that Italian music was less scientific than the French, as that the French language did not readily lend itself to the vocal expression of florid Italian music — a succession of rapid roulades and an overwhelming torrent of notes. Others — among them Madame de Pompadour, one of the few qualified to give an opinion — while acknowledging that much of the singing was very agreeable, yet detected a great want of harmony. The Italian music was considered to fail also when attempting concerted effects, which, from being overwhelmed by a multiplicity of notes, the ear could not seize, the effect produced being merely a great noise. Yet the Op6ra Bouffe gained ground rapidly. " La Serva Padrona," the music by Pergolese, the libretto by Goldoni, became an established favorite; the melodies were so lively and natural, while the sing- ers, though comic, were graceful, easy, and elegant. Louis XV. adopted the opinions, musical as well as political, of Madame de Pompadour. But as she often visited the Opera Bouffe, and greatly patron- ized the Italian, Petrini^ who had invented the pedal harp (which entirely superseded the guitar, and was TWEEDLEDUM AND TWEEDLEDEB. 405 also for several years a formidable rival to the harpsi- chord — then waiting for the improvements that were to give it the name of forte-piano), it was inferred that she was not insensible to the charm which Ra- meau himself confessed he found in Italian music. Opposition to the Op^ra Bouffe gradually subsided. Either the contending parties were weary of the strife, or it had lost its zest when the two great au- thorities, Rameau and Madame de Pompadour, be- came more than reconciled, as it appeared, to the innovation. The latter sang the airs and made them popular among the ladies, now so devoted to their harps. Rameau, whose well-earned fame suf- fered no diminution from the favor shown to Pergo- lese, was then seventy-one. He was accustomed to say that, if he were thirty years younger, he would go to Italy and study the new school of music, and that Pergolese should be his model; but that at threescore and ten it was too late to strike out new paths. He, however, continued to plod on in the old one, and lived to the age of eighty-three. His theoretical works were highly valued, and contributed greatly towards the advancement of musical science in France. But while this furious musical hubbub was at its height, the wrathful contest at the Theatre Fran9ais had risen to a white heat. From Paris to Versailles no subject was discussed with so much interest and vivacity as the rival claims of musicians and actors. Suddenly the dancers bounded into the fray; and it was on this wise. Many persons, who, like Dean Swift on a similar occasion in England, thought it " strange that such difference there should be 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee," had forsaken the Opera for the Fran9ais. There, indeed, silence was often 406 THE OLD kAGIM&. obtained by the sheer force of Lekain's great tragic acting; the opposition of his enemies fading away before it. Or if the tumult exceeded the limits which the file of soldiers with fixed bayonets, that invariably surrounded the pit at that period, thought allowable, the police stepped in, and, under the protection of the military, arrested the offenders. The play ended, the ballet began, and, pleasing all parties, had become exceedingly popular. The re- ceipts of the opera-house, never a thriving establish- ment, though subsidized by the government, began to fall off. The directors thought to remedy this by prohibiting the representation of ballet at the Theatre Frangais, and accusing the managers of an infringe- ment of their privileges. The "comediens du roi" regarded this grievance as a question of State, and remonstrated against the pretensions of the Academie de Musique, in a memorial addressed to the council of government. Not meeting with the ready inter- ference in their favor they had expected, they closed their theatre. " If they were not to dance, they would not act." This step is said to have added greatly to the arduous duties of the Lieutenant of Police. Crowds assembled, clamoring for admission, demand- ing the play, but especially calling for the ballet. As the doors continued closed, the military dis- persed the people; the rougher portion of whom ram- bled about Paris or filled the taverns. M. de Sartines, then Lieutenant of Police, was a great advocate for establishing new theatres; a proposal that met with immense opposition from the three already authorized by the State. He was accustomed to double the watch throughout the city during the three weeks of the theatrical vacation. Misdemeanors, he said, THE GRAND'CHAMBRE BANISHED. 407 and even serious crimes, were so much more frequent when the theatres were closed. He considered that they kept the idle and ill-disposed out of mischief, and that it was better for the honest artisan to go to the play than the tavern. His manners and morals, he fancied, were likely to be improved there. Others, however, were of opinion that, although lessons of virtue might be received at the theatre, impressions of vice only were carried away. In this dilemma, two or three of the principal comedians were deputed to wait on Madame de Pompadour, requesting her influ- ence to obtain from the Grand 'chambre an edict au- thorizing the Th^dtre Fran9ais to represent ballet without let or hindrance from the Academic de Mu- sique. But the Grand'chambre itself was in a state of re- bellion, and was banished to Pontoise, then to Sois- sons, and public business was at a standstill. Com- manded by the king to return to the capital and resume its functions, the Grand'chambre declined to obey. The kingdom was, in fact, in a state of anarchy; yet singularly enough it was rich and flour- ishing. " If France is prosperous under the rule of such a sovereign as Louis XV.," said Benedict XIV., " there can be no stronger proof of the watchful care of Providence over his people." Benedict, who was more sensible and rational than most of the popes, and who disliked the Jesuits, had been applied to by the king to settle the distracting differences in the Church. He had striven to conciliate opposing par- ties; to explain away, though not very successfully, some objections of the Parliament on the subject of the still troublesome Bull. But the Bull continued for some time as lively and prankish as ever, until, 408 THE OLD REGIME. happily, a matador wsiS found to give him his quietus; and, when finally disposed of, a song of triumph was chanted over him, and it was not exactly a eulogy. Gayety and thoughtlessness aie so characteristic of the French that trifles light as air will often suffice to arouse them from any temporary depression. The king was, perhaps, as striking an exception to the common rule as could have been found in his king- dom. At this time the feeling between him and his people had become reciprocally so adverse that the general situation of affairs — aggravated by the arro- gance of the exiled Archbishop of Paris, who played the martyr — began to wear a menacing aspect. Louis' fits of melancholy and remorse grew deeper; and all the efforts of Madame de Pompadour to chase away his despondency fell short of their usual effect. He began to perceive that even she had lost something of her accustomed gayety. "Madame," he said, "if you do not recover your spirits, I shall have to dance and sing snatches of song to make you merry." Fortunately, at this crisis, the dauphine gave birth to a son — the Due de Berri — afterwards the unfor- tunate Louis XVI. He was born on the 23d of August, 1754. Fetes and rejoicings banished the pre- vailing gloom and discontent. The Opera and the Theatre Fran9ais found it convenient to forget their disputes, and to open their doors to crowded audi- ences. The king took advantage of the birth of this child to put an end to all rigorous proceedings against his rebellious parliaments and refractory clergy. A sort of general amnesty was proclaimed; celebrated by balls, illuminations, and fireworks; grand ban- quets at Paris and Versailles; operas, French and Italian, and grand ballets, in which the future career THE HARBINGER OF PEACE. 4O9 of the infant duke was shadowed forth, by entrechats and pirouettes^ as one of happiness and glory. His nativity was cast, and, alas for the credit of the prophets! no cloud, even so big as a man's hand, could be discerned on the peaceful horizon, to indicate that the deluge — which even Louis XV. foresaw looming in the murky future — should descend on the head of this poor child and engulf him in its desolating tor- rent. Never was so grand a christening: in splendor the festivities, public and private, far surpassed those that took place at the christening of the first-born. This child seemed to come into the world as the har- binger of peace to France, and to be received by both king and people as a pledge of their reconciliation, and the cessation of the domestic troubles that had recently so agitated the kingdom. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Diplomatists in Conference. — An Old Custom Revived. — A Pro- jected Dethronement. — Les Abb6s Sans Fonction. — Babet, the Flower-girl. — Drawing-room Priestlings. — A Pertinent Quotation. — " Le Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis. " — La Duchesse de Choiseul. — The Abbe Barth61emy. — Marmontel's Plays. — "Les Fun6railles de S6sostris." — The Shadow of Favor. — Marmontel Consoled. — The Comte and the Mar6chal. — Frozen-out of Versailles. Count Stahremberg had succeeded M. de Kaunitz as minister plenipotentiary from the empress-queen to Madame de Pompadour. His conferences with the all-powerful lady and her prof/g/, the Abbe de Bernis, ended in an alliance between Austria and France, and a determination to declare war against England, who had agreed to aid Prussia by the payment of a con- siderable subsidy. The king gave up entirely to his mistress the negotiation of the preparatory treaty; afterwards to be submitted to the Council of State, and approved and signed by himself. It is not here that its stipulations need be enlarged upon. It suf- fices to mention that the agents of the " high contract- ing parties," for the better concealment of their ob- jects from those members of the government who were opposed to an Austrian alliance, met at Babiole — the btjou country-seat of Madame de Pompadour — and there, in her boudoir, mutually made known and dis- cussed the views and pretensions of their respective sovereigns. AN OLD CUSTOM REVIVED. 4I1 The jests and gibes of Frederick of Prussia con- tributed no doubt to the readiness with which both Louis XV. and Madame de Pompadour entered into the views of Marie Th6rese, and determined also the Empress Elizabeth of Russia to assist in the attempt to dispossess him of Silesia. France was to be re- warded for her contingent of 24,000 men, with " Bel- gium as far as Antwerp," and the extension of her frontiers to the Rhine. Austrians and French, united, were to take possession of Hanover; the electorate re- maining in the hands of the French. But while Ma- dame de Pompadour was engaged in diplomacy, the king at Choisy was besieged by the great ladies of the court; waylaid at every turn; beset wherever it was possible to meet him. The ^Uongue a?mti