This is a modern-English version of Memoirs of the Court of Louis XIV. and of the Regency — Complete, originally written by Orléans, Charlotte-Elisabeth, duchesse d'.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
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MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF LOUIS XIV.
AND OF THE REGENCY
Being the Secret Memoirs of the Mother of the Regent,
MADAME
ELIZABETH-CHARLOTTE OF BAVARIA,
DUCHESSE D’ORLEANS.
Complete
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
BOOK 1.
PREFACE.
The Duchesse d’Orleans, commonly though incorrectly styled the Princess of Bavaria, was known to have maintained a very extensive correspondence with her relations and friends in different parts of Europe. Nearly eight hundred of her letters, written to the Princess Wilhelmina Charlotte of Wales and the Duke Antoine-Ulric of Brunswick, were found amongst the papers left by the Duchess Elizabeth of Brunswick at her death, in 1767. These appeared to be so curious that the Court of Brunswick ordered De Praun, a Privy Councillor, to make extracts of such parts as were most interesting. A copy of his extracts was sent to France, where it remained a long time without being published. In 1788, however, an edition appeared, but so mutilated and disfigured, either through the prudence of the editor or the scissors of the censor, that the more piquant traits of the correspondence had entirely disappeared. The bold, original expressions of the German were modified and enfeebled by the timid translator, and all the names of individuals and families were suppressed, except when they carried with them no sort of responsibility. A great many passages of the original correspondence were omitted, while, to make up for the deficiencies, the editor inserted a quantity of pedantic and useless notes. In spite of all these faults and the existence of more faithful editions, this translation was reprinted in 1807. The existence of any other edition being unknown to its editor, it differed in nothing from the preceding, except that the dates of some of the letters were suppressed, a part of the notes cut out, and some passages added from the Memoirs of Saint-Simon, together with a life, or rather panegyric, of the Princess, which bore no slight resemblance to a village homily.
The Duchesse d’Orleans, often mistakenly called the Princess of Bavaria, was known to have kept a very extensive correspondence with her relatives and friends across Europe. Almost eight hundred of her letters, addressed to Princess Wilhelmina Charlotte of Wales and Duke Antoine-Ulric of Brunswick, were discovered among the papers left by Duchess Elizabeth of Brunswick after her death in 1767. These letters seemed so intriguing that the Court of Brunswick commissioned De Praun, a Privy Councillor, to extract the most interesting parts. A copy of his extracts was sent to France, where it remained unpublished for a long time. However, in 1788, an edition was released, but it was so edited and distorted—either due to the caution of the editor or the censor’s cuts—that the more engaging elements of the correspondence were completely lost. The bold, original wording of the German was toned down and weakened by the timid translator, and all the names of people and families were omitted unless they posed no risk of controversy. Many sections of the original letters were left out, while to compensate for these gaps, the editor included a lot of pedantic and unnecessary notes. Despite all these flaws and the availability of more accurate versions, this translation was reprinted in 1807. The editor was unaware of any other edition, so this one differed only slightly from the previous version, with some letter dates removed, parts of the notes cut out, and some sections added from the Memoirs of Saint-Simon, alongside a life or rather a tribute to the Princess that resembled a village sermon.
A copy of the extracts made by M. de Praun fell by some chance into the hands of Count de Veltheim, under whose direction they were published at Strasburg, in 1789, with no other alterations than the correction of the obsolete and vicious orthography of the Princess.
A copy of the extracts made by M. de Praun somehow came into the hands of Count de Veltheim, who published them in Strasburg in 1789, with no other changes except for correcting the outdated and flawed spelling of the Princess.
In 1789 a work was published at Dantzick, in Germany, entitled, Confessions of the Princess Elizabeth-Charlotte of Orleans, extracted from her letters addressed, between the years 1702 and 1722, to her former governess, Madame de Harling, and her husband. The editor asserts that this correspondence amounted to nearly four hundred letters. A great part of these are only repetitions of what she had before written to the Princess of Wales and the Duke of Brunswick. Since that period no new collections have appeared, although it is sufficiently well known that other manuscripts are in existence.
In 1789, a work was published in Danzig, Germany, called the Confessions of Princess Elizabeth-Charlotte of Orleans, taken from her letters written between 1702 and 1722 to her former governess, Madame de Harling, and her husband. The editor claims that this correspondence included nearly four hundred letters. A large portion of these are just repeats of what she had previously written to the Princess of Wales and the Duke of Brunswick. Since then, no new collections have come out, even though it’s well known that other manuscripts still exist.
In 1820 M. Schutz published at Leipsig the Life and Character of Elizabeth-Charlotte, Duchesse d’Orleans, with an Extract of the more remarkable parts of her Correspondence. This is made up of the two German editions of 1789 and 1791; but the editor adopted a new arrangement, and suppressed such of the dates and facts as he considered useless. His suppressions, however, were not very judicious; without dates one is at a loss to know to what epoch the facts related by the Princess ought to be referred, and the French proper names are as incorrect as in the edition of Strasburg.
In 1820, M. Schutz published "The Life and Character of Elizabeth-Charlotte, Duchesse d’Orleans" in Leipzig, along with some of the most notable parts of her correspondence. This was based on the two German editions from 1789 and 1791, but the editor created a new arrangement and left out dates and facts he deemed unnecessary. However, his omissions weren't very well thought out; without dates, it’s hard to know which period the events mentioned by the Princess relate to, and the French names are just as incorrect as they were in the Strasburg edition.
Feeling much surprise that in France there should have been no more authentic edition of the correspondence of the Regent-mother than the miserable translation of 1788 and 1807, we have set about rendering a service to the history of French manners by a new and more faithful edition. The present is a translation of the Strasburg edition, arranged in a more appropriate order, with the addition of such other passages as were contained in the German collections. The dates have been inserted wherever they appeared necessary, and notes have been added wherever the text required explanation, or where we wished to compare the assertions of the Princess with other testimonies. The Princess, in the salons of the Palais Royal, wrote in a style not very unlike that which might be expected in the present day from the tenants of its garrets. A more complete biography than any which has hitherto been drawn up is likewise added to the present edition. In other respects we have faithfully followed the original Strasburg edition. The style of the Duchess will be sometimes found a little singular, and her chit-chat indiscreet and often audacious; but we cannot refuse our respect to the firmness and propriety with which she conducted herself in the midst of a hypocritical and corrupt Court. The reader, however, must form his own judgment on the correspondence of this extraordinary woman; our business is, not to excite a prejudice in favour of or against her, but merely to present him with a faithful copy of her letters.
Feeling quite surprised that there hasn't been a more authentic edition of the correspondence of the Regent-mother in France than the poor translations from 1788 and 1807, we’ve taken the initiative to provide a new and more accurate edition for the history of French manners. This is a translation of the Strasburg edition, organized in a better way, and includes additional passages found in the German collections. Dates have been inserted wherever necessary, and notes have been added where the text needed clarification or where we wanted to compare the Princess's statements with other evidence. The Princess, in the salons of the Palais Royal, wrote in a style that is somewhat similar to what you might expect today from those living in its garrets. A more complete biography than any that has been previously compiled is also included in this edition. In other respects, we’ve faithfully followed the original Strasburg edition. The Duchess's style may sometimes seem a bit unusual, and her casual remarks might come off as indiscreet and bold; however, we can't deny the respect due to her strength and decorum amid a duplicitous and corrupt court. The reader, however, must form their own opinion on the correspondence of this remarkable woman; our task is not to create bias for or against her, but simply to present a faithful copy of her letters.
Some doubts were expressed about the authenticity of the correspondence when the mutilated edition of 1788 appeared; but these have long since subsided, and its genuineness is no longer questioned.
Some doubts were raised about the authenticity of the correspondence when the edited version from 1788 was released; however, those concerns have long since faded, and its authenticity is no longer disputed.
SECRET COURT MEMOIRS.
MADAME ELIZABETH-CHARLOTTE OF BAVARIA, DUCHESSE D’ ORLEANS.
SECTION I.
If my father had loved me as well as I loved him he would never have sent me into a country so dangerous as this, to which I came through pure obedience and against my own inclination. Here duplicity passes for wit, and frankness is looked upon as folly. I am neither cunning nor mysterious. I am often told I lead too monotonous a life, and am asked why I do not take a part in certain affairs. This is frankly the reason: I am old; I stand more in need of repose than of agitation, and I will begin nothing that I cannot, easily finish. I have never learned to govern; I am not conversant with politics, nor with state affairs, and I am now too far advanced in years to learn things so difficult. My son, I thank God, has sense enough, and can direct these things without me; besides, I should excite too much the jealousy of his wife—[Marie-Francoise de Bourbon, the legitimate daughter of Louis XIV. and of Madame de Montespan, Duchesse d’Orleans.]—and his eldest daughter,—[Marie-Louise-Elizabeth d’Orleans, married on the 17th of July, 1710, to Charles of France, Duc de Berri.]—whom he loves better than me; eternal quarrels would ensue, which would not at all suit my views. I have been tormented enough, but I have always forborne, and have endeavoured to set a proper example to my son’s wife and his daughter; for this kingdom has long had the misfortune to be too much governed by women, young and old. It is high time that men should now assume the sway, and this is the reason which has determined me not to intermeddle. In England, perhaps, women may reign without inconvenience; in France, men alone should do so, in order that things may go on well. Why should I torment myself by day and by night? I seek only peace and repose; all that were mine are dead. For whom should I care? My time is past. I must try to live smoothly that I may die tranquilly; and in great public affairs it is difficult, indeed, to preserve one’s conscience spotless.
If my father had loved me as much as I loved him, he would never have sent me to such a dangerous country, which I came to only out of pure obedience and against my own wishes. Here, deceit is seen as cleverness, and honesty is viewed as foolishness. I am neither sly nor secretive. People often tell me that my life is too dull and ask why I don’t get involved in certain matters. The reason is simple: I’m old; I need peace more than excitement, and I won’t start anything I can’t easily finish. I’ve never learned to govern; I don’t understand politics or state affairs, and I’m too old now to learn such difficult things. My son, thankfully, has enough sense to handle these matters without me; plus, I would stir up too much jealousy from his wife—[Marie-Francoise de Bourbon, the legitimate daughter of Louis XIV and Madame de Montespan, Duchesse d’Orleans.]—and his eldest daughter—[Marie-Louise-Elizabeth d’Orleans, who married Charles of France, Duc de Berri, on July 17, 1710.]—whom he loves more than me; constant arguments would arise, which wouldn’t suit my interests at all. I have suffered enough, but I have always held back and tried to set a good example for my son’s wife and daughter; this kingdom has long been unfortunate in being too much ruled by women, both young and old. It’s about time men took charge now, and that’s why I’ve decided not to get involved. In England, perhaps, women can rule without issue; in France, it should be men, to ensure things go well. Why should I torture myself day and night? I only seek peace and rest; all my loved ones are gone. Why should I care? My time has passed. I need to try to live quietly so I can die in peace, and in major public matters, it’s indeed hard to keep one’s conscience clean.
I was born at Heidelberg (1652), in the seventh month. I am unquestionably very ugly; I have no features; my eyes are small, my nose is short and thick, my lips long and flat. These do not constitute much of a physiognomy. I have great hanging cheeks and a large face; my stature is short and stout; my body and my thighs, too, are short, and, upon the whole, I am truly a very ugly little object. If I had not a good heart, no one could endure me. To know whether my eyes give tokens of my possessing wit, they must be examined with a microscope, or it will be difficult to judge. Hands more ugly than mine are not perhaps to be found on the whole globe. The King has often told me so, and has made me laugh at it heartily; for, not being able to flatter even myself that I possessed any one thing which could be called pretty, I resolved to be the first to laugh at my own ugliness; this has succeeded as well as I could have wished, and I must confess that I have seldom been at a loss for something to laugh at. I am naturally somewhat melancholy; when anything happens to afflict me, my left side swells up as if it were filled with water. I am not good at lying in bed; as soon as I awake I must get up. I seldom breakfast, and then only on bread and butter. I take neither chocolate, nor coffee, nor tea, not being able to endure those foreign drugs. I am German in all my habits, and like nothing in eating or drinking which is not conformable to our old customs. I eat no soup but such as I can take with milk, wine, or beer. I cannot bear broth; whenever I eat anything of which it forms a part, I fall sick instantly, my body swells, and I am tormented with colics. When I take broth alone, I am compelled to vomit, even to blood, and nothing can restore the tone to my stomach but ham and sausages.
I was born in Heidelberg (1652) in the seventh month. I am definitely very ugly; I have no distinct features; my eyes are small, my nose is short and thick, and my lips are long and flat. These don’t add up to much of a face. I have large jowls and a big face; I'm short and stout; my body and thighs are also short, and overall, I’m truly a very ugly little person. If I didn’t have a good heart, no one would want to be around me. To see if my eyes indicate that I have any wit, you’d need a microscope to check, or it’d be hard to tell. You probably won’t find hands uglier than mine anywhere on Earth. The King has often mentioned this to me, and we’ve had a good laugh about it; since I can’t even flatter myself by saying I have anything pretty, I decided to be the first to laugh at my own ugliness. This has gone as well as I could’ve hoped, and I must admit that I’ve rarely been short on things to laugh about. I am naturally a bit melancholic; when something upsets me, my left side swells as if it’s filled with water. I’m not good at lounging in bed; as soon as I wake up, I need to get up. I rarely have breakfast, and when I do, it's just bread and butter. I don’t drink chocolate, coffee, or tea; I can't stand those foreign drinks. I'm German in all my habits and I enjoy nothing to eat or drink that doesn’t align with our old customs. I only eat soup that I can take with milk, wine, or beer. I can't endure broth; whenever I eat food that includes it, I feel sick immediately, my body swells, and I suffer from cramps. When I drink broth alone, I end up vomiting, even to the point of bleeding, and nothing can settle my stomach except for ham and sausages.
I never had anything like French manners, and I never could assume them, because I always considered it an honour to be born a German, and always cherished the maxims of my own country, which are seldom in favor here. In my youth I loved swords and guns much better than toys. I wished to be a boy, and this desire nearly cost me my life; for, having heard that Marie Germain had become a boy by dint of jumping, I took such terrible jumps that it is a miracle I did not, on a hundred occasions, break my neck. I was very gay in my youth, for which reason I was called, in German, Rauschenplatten-gnecht. The Dauphins of Bavaria used to say, “My poor dear mamma” (so she used always to address me), “where do you pick up all the funny things you know?”
I never had French manners, and I could never fake them because I always thought it was an honor to be born German, and I valued the principles of my own country, which are rarely appreciated here. When I was younger, I preferred swords and guns over toys. I wished I could be a boy, and this desire almost cost me my life; because after hearing that Marie Germain had turned into a boy by jumping, I jumped so hard that it's a miracle I didn't break my neck a hundred times. I was very carefree in my youth, and that's why I was called Rauschenplatten-gnecht in German. The Bavarian Dauphins used to say, “My poor dear mama” (that's what she always called me), “where do you find all the funny things you know?”
I remember the birth of the King of England
I remember when the King of England was born.
[George Louis, Duke of Brunswick Hanover, born the 28th of May,
1660; proclaimed King of England the 12th of August, 1714, by the
title of George I.]
[George Louis, Duke of Brunswick Hanover, born on May 28, 1660; proclaimed King of England on August 12, 1714, under the title of George I.]
as well as if it were only yesterday (1720). I was curious and mischievous. They had put a doll in a rosemary bush for the purpose of making me believe it was the child of which my aunt
as well as if it were only yesterday (1720). I was curious and playful. They had placed a doll in a rosemary bush to make me think it was the child of which my aunt
[Sophia of Bavaria, married, in 1658, to the Elector of Hanover, was
the paternal aunt of Madame. She was the granddaughter of James I,
and was thus declared the first in succession to the crown of
England, by Act of Parliament, 23rd March, 1707.]
[Sophia of Bavaria married the Elector of Hanover in 1658 and was the paternal aunt of Madame. She was the granddaughter of James I, which led to her being declared first in line for the crown of England by Act of Parliament on March 23, 1707.]
had just lain in; at the same moment I heard the cries of the Electress, who was then in the pains of childbirth. This did not agree with the story which I had been told of the baby in the rosemary bush; I pretended, however, to believe it, but crept to my aunt’s chamber as if I was playing at hide-and-seek with little Bulau and Haxthausen, and concealed myself behind a screen which was placed before the door and near the chimney. When the newly born infant was brought to the fire I issued from my hiding-place. I deserved to be flogged, but in honour of the happy event I got quit for a scolding.
had just lain in; at the same moment I heard the cries of the Electress, who was then in labor. This didn't match the story I had heard about the baby in the rosemary bush; however, I pretended to believe it and crept to my aunt’s room as if I were playing hide-and-seek with little Bulau and Haxthausen, and I hid behind a screen that was positioned in front of the door and near the chimney. When the newborn was brought to the fire, I came out of my hiding place. I deserved to be punished, but in honor of the happy occasion, I only received a scolding.
The monks of the Convent of Ibourg, to revenge themselves for my having unintentionally betrayed them by telling their Abbot that they had been fishing in a pond under my window, a thing expressly forbidden by the Abbot, once poured out white wine for me instead of water. I said, “I do not know what is the matter with this water; the more of it I put into my wine the stronger it becomes.” The monks replied that it was very good wine. When I got up from the table to go into the garden, I should have fallen into the pond if I had not been held up; I threw myself upon the ground and fell fast asleep immediately. I was then carried into my chamber and put to bed. I did not awake until nine o’clock in the evening, when I remembered all that had passed. It was on a Holy Thursday; I complained to the Abbot of the trick which had been played me by the monks, and they were put into prison. I have often been laughed at about this Holy Thursday.
The monks at the Convent of Ibourg, seeking revenge for my accidental betrayal when I told their Abbot they had been fishing in a pond outside my window—an act strictly forbidden—once served me white wine instead of water. I remarked, “I don’t know what’s wrong with this water; the more I add to my wine, the stronger it gets.” The monks insisted it was excellent wine. When I got up from the table to head to the garden, I almost fell into the pond if I hadn’t been supported; I collapsed on the ground and immediately fell asleep. I was then carried to my room and put to bed. I didn’t wake up until nine o’clock in the evening, when I recalled everything that had happened. It was on Holy Thursday; I complained to the Abbot about the trick the monks had pulled on me, and they were imprisoned. I’ve often been teased about that Holy Thursday.
My aunt, our dear Electress (of Hanover), being at the Hague, did not visit the Princess Royal;
My aunt, our beloved Electress of Hanover, was at The Hague and didn't visit the Princess Royal;
[Maria-Henrietta Stuart, daughter of Charles I. of England, and of
Henriette-Marie of France, married, in 1660, to William of Nassau,
Prince of Orange; she lost her husband in 1660, and was left
pregnant with William-Henry of Nassau, Prince of Orange, and
afterwards, by the Revolution of 1688, King of England. This
Princess was then preceptress of her son, the Stadtholder of
Holland.]
[Maria-Henrietta Stuart, daughter of Charles I of England and Henriette-Marie of France, married William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, in 1660; she lost her husband that same year and was left pregnant with William-Henry of Nassau, who later became King of England after the Revolution of 1688. This princess was then the teacher of her son, the Stadtholder of Holland.]
but the Queen of Bohemia
but the Queen of Bohemia
[Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of James I. of England, widow of
Frederic V., Duke of Bavaria, Count Palatine of the Rhine, King of
Bohemia until the year 1621, mother of the Duchess of Hanover.]
[Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of James I of England, widow of Frederic V, Duke of Bavaria, Count Palatine of the Rhine, and King of Bohemia until 1621, and mother of the Duchess of Hanover.]
did, and took me with her. Before I set out, my aunt said to me, “Lizette, now take care not to behave as you do in general, and do not wander away so that you cannot be found; follow the Queen step by step, so that she may not have to wait for you.”
did, and took me with her. Before I set out, my aunt said to me, “Lizette, now make sure you don’t act like you usually do, and don’t wander off so you can’t be found; follow the Queen closely, so she won’t have to wait for you.”
I replied, “Oh, aunt, you shall hear how well I will behave myself.”
I said, “Oh, aunt, you’ll see how well I behave.”
When we arrived at the Princess Royal’s, whom I did not know, I saw her son, whom I had often played with; after having gazed for a long time at his mother without knowing who she was, I went back to see if I could find any one to tell me what was this lady’s name. Seeing only the Prince of Orange, I accosted him thus,—
When we got to the Princess Royal’s place, who I didn’t know, I noticed her son, who I had played with often; after staring at his mother for a while without realizing who she was, I went back to see if I could find someone to tell me her name. Noticing only the Prince of Orange, I approached him and said,—
“Pray, tell me who is that woman with so tremendous a nose?”
“Please, tell me who that woman is with such a huge nose?”
He laughed and answered, “That is the Princess Royal, my mother.”
He laughed and replied, “That’s the Princess Royal, my mom.”
I was quite stupefied. That I might compose myself, Mademoiselle Heyde took me with the Prince into the Princess’s bedchamber, where we played at all sorts of games. I had told them to call me when the Queen should be ready to go, and we were rolling upon a Turkey carpet when I was summoned; I arose in great haste and ran into the hall; the Queen was already in the antechamber. Without losing a moment, I seized the robe of the Princess Royal, and, making her a low curtsey, at the same moment I placed myself directly before her, and followed the Queen step by step to her carriage; everybody was laughing, but I had no notion of what it was at. When we returned home, the Queen went to find my aunt, and, seating herself upon the bed, burst into a loud laugh.
I was really stunned. To help me gather myself, Mademoiselle Heyde took me and the Prince into the Princess’s bedroom, where we played all sorts of games. I had told them to let me know when the Queen was ready to leave, and we were rolling around on a Turkish carpet when I got called; I jumped up quickly and ran into the hallway; the Queen was already in the antechamber. Without wasting a second, I grabbed the Princess Royal's robe and bowed deeply while positioning myself right in front of her, following the Queen step by step to her carriage; everyone was laughing, but I had no idea why. When we got home, the Queen went to find my aunt, and as she sat on the bed, she burst out laughing.
“Lizette,” said she, “has made a delightful visit.” And then she told all that I had done, which made the Electress laugh even more than the Queen. She called me to her and said,—
“Lizette,” she said, “has had a wonderful visit.” And then she shared everything I had done, which made the Electress laugh even harder than the Queen. She called me over and said,—
“Lizette, you have done right; you have revenged us well for the haughtiness of the Princess.”
“Lizette, you did the right thing; you’ve got us back for the arrogance of the Princess.”
My brother would have had me marry the Margrave of Dourlach, but I had no inclination towards him because he was affected, which I never could bear. He knew very well that I was not compelled to refuse him, for he was married long before they thought of marrying me to Monsieur. Still he thought fit to send to me a Doctor of Dourlach, for the purpose of asking me whether he ought to obey his father and marry the Princess of Holstein. I replied that he could not do better than to obey his father; that he had promised me nothing, nor had I pledged myself to him; but that, nevertheless, I was obliged to him for the conduct he had thought fit to adopt. This is all that passed between us.
My brother wanted me to marry the Margrave of Dourlach, but I wasn’t interested in him because he was too pretentious, which I could never tolerate. He knew full well that I wasn’t forced to turn him down, as he had been married long before anyone considered marrying me to Monsieur. Still, he thought it appropriate to send a doctor from Dourlach to ask me whether he should listen to his father and marry the Princess of Holstein. I replied that he couldn’t do better than to follow his father’s wishes; that he hadn’t made any promises to me, nor had I committed myself to him; but that, still, I appreciated the behavior he chose to adopt. That’s all that happened between us.
Once they wanted to give me to the Duke of Courlande; it was my aunt d’Hervod who wished to make that match. He was in love with Marianne, the daughter of Duke Ulric of Wurtemberg; but his father and mother would not allow him to marry her because they had fixed their eyes on me. When, however, he came back from France on his way home, I made such an impression on him that he would not hear of marriage, and requested permission to join the army.
Once, they considered giving me to the Duke of Courlande; my aunt d’Hervod wanted to make that match. He was in love with Marianne, the daughter of Duke Ulric of Wurtemberg; but his parents wouldn't let him marry her because they had their sights set on me. However, when he returned from France on his way home, I made such an impression on him that he refused to consider marriage and asked for permission to join the army.
I once received a very sharp scolding in a short journey from Mannheim to Heidelberg. I was in the carriage with my late father, who had with him an envoy, from the Emperor, the Count of Konigseck. At this time I was as thin and light as I am now fat and heavy. The jolting of the carriage threw me from my seat, and I fell upon the Count; it was not my fault, but I was nevertheless severely rebuked for it, for my father was not a man to be trifled with, and it was always necessary to be very circumspect in his presence.
I once got a serious scolding during a short trip from Mannheim to Heidelberg. I was in the carriage with my late father, who was joined by an envoy from the Emperor, the Count of Konigseck. Back then, I was as thin and light as I am now heavy and solid. The bumps from the carriage tossed me from my seat, and I landed on the Count; it wasn't my fault, but I was still harshly reprimanded for it because my father was not someone to mess with, and it was always important to be very careful around him.
When I think of conflagrations I am seized with a shivering fit, for I remember how the Palatinate was ravaged for more than three months. Whenever I went to sleep I used to think I saw Heidelberg all in flames; then I used to wake with a start, and I very narrowly escaped an illness in consequence of those outrages.
When I think of fires, I get a chill because I remember how the Palatinate was destroyed for over three months. Whenever I fell asleep, I thought I saw Heidelberg on fire; then I would wake up suddenly, and I almost got sick because of those horrors.
[The burning of the Palatinate in 1674—a horrible devastation
commanded by Louis, and executed by Turenne.]
[The burning of the Palatinate in 1674—a terrible destruction ordered by Louis and carried out by Turenne.]
Upon my arrival in France I was made to hold a conference with three bishops. They all differed in their creeds, and so, taking the quintessence of their opinions, I formed a religion of my own.
Upon my arrival in France, I was asked to hold a meeting with three bishops. They all had different beliefs, so by combining the essence of their views, I created my own religion.
It was purely from the affection I bore to her that I refused to take precedence of our late Electress; but making always a wide distinction between her aid and the Duchess of Mecklenbourg, as well as our Electress of Hanover, I did not hesitate to do so with respect to both the latter. I also would not take precedence of my mother. In my childhood I wished to bear her train, but she would never permit me.
It was only out of the love I had for her that I refused to take priority over our late Electress; however, I always made a clear distinction between her assistance and that of the Duchess of Mecklenburg, as well as our Electress of Hanover, and I didn't hesitate to prioritize the latter. I also wouldn't take priority over my mother. When I was a kid, I wanted to hold her train, but she never allowed me to.
I have been treated ill ever since my marriage this is in some degree the fault of the Princess Palatine,—[Anne de Gonzague, Princess Palatine, who took so active a part in the troubles of the Fronde.]—who prepared my marriage contract; and it is by the contract that the inheritance is governed. All persons bearing the title of Madame have pensions from the King; but as they have been of the same amount for a great many years past they are no longer sufficient.
I have been treated poorly ever since my marriage, which is partly the fault of the Princess Palatine—[Anne de Gonzague, Princess Palatine, who played a significant role in the Fronde troubles.]—who arranged my marriage contract; and it is this contract that governs the inheritance. Everyone with the title of Madame receives pensions from the King, but since these amounts have remained the same for many years, they are no longer adequate.
I would willingly have married the Prince of Orange, for by that union I might have hoped to remain near my dear Electress (of Hanover).
I would have gladly married the Prince of Orange, as that would have given me the chance to stay close to my dear Electress (of Hanover).
Upon my arrival at Saint-Germain I felt as if I had fallen from the clouds. The Princess Palatine went to Paris and there fixed me. I put as good a face upon the affair as was possible; I saw very well that I did not please my husband much, and indeed that could not be wondered at, considering my ugliness; however, I resolved to conduct myself in such a manner towards Monsieur that he should become accustomed to me by my attentions, and eventually should be enabled to endure me. Immediately upon my arrival, the King came to see me at the Chateau Neuf, where Monsieur and I lived; he brought with him the Dauphin, who was then a child of about ten years old. As soon as I had finished my toilette the King returned to the old Chateau, where he received me in the Guards’ hall, and led me to the Queen, whispering at the same time,—“Do not be frightened, Madame; she will be more afraid of you than you of her.” The King felt so much the embarrassment of my situation that he would not quit me; he sat by my side, and whenever it was necessary for me to rise, that is to say, whenever a Duke or a Prince entered the apartment, he gave me a gentle push in the side without being perceived.
When I arrived at Saint-Germain, it felt like I had just fallen from the sky. The Princess Palatine went to Paris and set me up there. I tried to put on a brave face; I could see that my husband didn't really like me, which wasn't surprising given my looks. Still, I decided to act in such a way that Monsieur would get used to me through my attentions and, over time, learn to tolerate me. Right after I arrived, the King came to visit me at the Chateau Neuf, where Monsieur and I were living. He brought along the Dauphin, who was about ten years old at the time. Once I finished getting ready, the King took me to the old Chateau, where he welcomed me in the Guards' hall and introduced me to the Queen, quietly saying, “Don't be scared, Madame; she'll be more scared of you than you are of her.” The King was so aware of how awkward my situation was that he didn’t leave my side; he sat next to me, and whenever I needed to stand up—meaning whenever a Duke or a Prince came into the room—he would give me a gentle nudge in the side without anyone noticing.
According to the custom of Paris, when a marriage is made, all property is in common; but the husband has the entire control over it. That only which has been brought by way of dowry is taken into the account; for this reason I never knew how much my husband received with me. After his death, when I expected to gain my cause at Rome and to receive some money, the disagreeable old Maintenon asked me in the King’s name to promise that if I gained the cause I would immediately cede the half of the property to my son; and in case of refusal I was menaced with the King’s displeasure. I laughed at this, and replied that I did not know why they threatened me, for that my son was in the course of nature my heir, but that it was at least just that he should stay until my death before he took possession of my property, and that I knew the King was too equitable to require of me anything but what was consistent with justice. I soon afterwards received the news of the loss of my cause, and I was not sorry for it, on account of the circumstance I have just related.
According to Parisian customs, when a marriage happens, all property is shared; however, the husband has full control over it. Only the dowry is considered in this arrangement, which is why I never knew how much my husband received when we married. After his death, when I hoped to win my case in Rome and receive some money, the unpleasant old Maintenon asked me, on behalf of the King, to promise that if I won the case, I would immediately give half of the property to my son; and if I refused, I was threatened with the King’s anger. I found this amusing and replied that I didn’t see why they were threatening me since my son would naturally be my heir, but it seemed fair that he should wait until my death before taking possession of my property, and I was sure the King was fair enough to only expect what was just from me. Soon after, I heard that I lost my case, but I wasn't upset about it because of what I'd just mentioned.
When the Abby de Tesse had convinced the Pope that his people had decided without having read our papers, and that they had accepted 50,000 crowns from the Grand Duke to pronounce against me, he began weeping, and said, “Am I not an unhappy man to be obliged to trust such persons?” This will show what sort of a character the Pope was.
When the Abby de Tesse convinced the Pope that his people had made their decision without reading our papers, and that they accepted 50,000 crowns from the Grand Duke to speak out against me, he started crying and said, “Am I not an unfortunate man to have to rely on such people?” This reveals what kind of person the Pope was.
When I arrived in France I had only an allowance of a hundred louis d’or for my pocket-money; and this money was always consumed in advance. After my mother’s death, when my husband received money from the Palatinate, he increased this allowance to two hundred louis; and once, when I was in his good graces, he gave me a thousand louis. Besides this, the King had given me annually one thousand louis up to the year before the marriage of my son. That supported me, but as I would not consent to the marriage I was deprived of this sum, and it has never been restored to me. On my first journey to Fontainebleau, the King would have given me 2,000 pistoles, but that Monsieur begged him to keep half of them for Madame, afterwards the Queen of Spain.—[Marie-Louise d’Orleans, born in 1662, married, in 1679, to Charles IL, King of Spain.]
When I arrived in France, I had only a budget of a hundred louis d’or for spending money, and I quickly burned through it. After my mother passed away, when my husband received funds from the Palatinate, he raised this budget to two hundred louis; and once, when I was on his good side, he gave me a thousand louis. In addition, the King had been giving me a thousand louis every year until the year before my son's marriage. That kept me afloat, but since I refused to agree to the marriage, I lost that income, and it has never been given back to me. On my first trip to Fontainebleau, the King wanted to give me 2,000 pistoles, but Monsieur asked him to hold back half of it for Madame, who would later become the Queen of Spain.—[Marie-Louise d’Orleans, born in 1662, married in 1679 to Charles II, King of Spain.]
I cared very little about it, and, nevertheless, went to Fontainebleau, where I lost all my money at Hoca. Monsieur told me, for the purpose of vexing me, of the good office he had done me with the King; I only laughed at it, and told him that, if Madame had chosen to accept the thousand pistoles from my hands, I would very freely have given them to her. Monsieur was quite confused at this, and, by way of repairing the offence he had committed, he took upon himself the payment of 600 louis d’or, which I had lost over and above the thousand pistoles.
I didn't care much about it, but still went to Fontainebleau, where I lost all my money at Hoca. Monsieur, trying to annoy me, mentioned the favor he had done for me with the King; I just laughed and told him that if Madame had decided to accept the thousand pistoles from me, I would have gladly given them to her. Monsieur looked pretty embarrassed by this, and to make up for his mistake, he agreed to cover the 600 louis d’or I had lost on top of the thousand pistoles.
I receive now only 456,000 francs, which is exactly consumed within the year; if, they could have given me any less they would. I would not be thought to make claims to which I am not entitled, but it should be remembered that Monsieur has had the money of my family.
I now only get 456,000 francs, which gets completely used up within the year; if they could have given me any less, they would. I don’t want to seem like I’m making claims I don’t deserve, but it should be noted that Monsieur has had my family’s money.
I was very glad when, after the birth of my daughter,
I was really happy when, after my daughter was born,
[Elizabeth-Charlotte d’Orleans, born in 1676, married, in 1697, to
the Duc de Lorraine. Philippe d’Orleans, afterwards Regent of
France, was born in 1674; there were no other children by this
marriage.]
[Elizabeth-Charlotte d’Orleans, born in 1676, married the Duc de Lorraine in 1697. Philippe d’Orleans, who later became Regent of France, was born in 1674; there were no other children from this marriage.]
my husband proposed separate beds; for, to tell the truth, I was never very fond of having children. When he proposed it to me, I answered, “Yes, Monsieur, I shall be very well contented with the arrangement, provided you do not hate me, and that you will continue to behave with some kindness to me.” He promised, and we were very well satisfied with each other. It was, besides, very disagreeable to sleep with Monsieur; he could not bear any one to touch him when he was asleep, so that I was obliged to lie on the very edge of the bed; whence it sometimes happened that I fell out like a sack. I was therefore enchanted when Monsieur proposed to me in friendly terms, and without any anger, to lie in separate rooms.
My husband suggested we sleep in separate beds because, honestly, I never really liked the idea of having kids. When he brought it up, I replied, “Sure, I’m totally okay with that, as long as you don’t hate me and you keep being kind to me.” He agreed, and we were both happy with the situation. Besides, it was pretty uncomfortable to sleep with him; he couldn’t stand anyone touching him while he was asleep, so I had to lie right on the edge of the bed, which sometimes led to me falling out like a bag. So I was thrilled when he kindly and calmly suggested we sleep in separate rooms.
I obeyed the late Monsieur by not troubling him with my embraces, and always conducted myself towards him with respect and submission.
I followed the wishes of the late Monsieur by not bothering him with my affection and always treated him with respect and humility.
He was a good sort of man, notwithstanding his weaknesses, which, indeed, oftener excited my pity than my anger. I must confess that I did occasionally express some impatience, but when he begged pardon, it was all forgotten.
He was a good guy, despite his flaws, which usually made me feel more sorry for him than mad. I have to admit that I sometimes showed a bit of impatience, but whenever he apologized, all was forgiven.
Madame de Fiennes had a considerable stock of wit, and was a great joker; her tongue spared no one but me. Perceiving that she treated the King and Monsieur with as little ceremony as any other persons, I took her by the hand one day, and, leading her apart, I said to her, “Madame, you are very agreeable; you have a great deal of wit, and the manner in which you display it is pleasant to the King and Monsieur, because they are accustomed to you; but to me, who am but just arrived, I cannot say that I like it. When any persons entertain themselves at my expense, I cannot help being very angry, and it is for this reason that I am going to give you a little advice. If you spare me we shall be mighty good friends; but if you treat me as I see you treat others, I shall say nothing to you; I shall, nevertheless, complain of you to your husband, and if he does not restrain you I shall dismiss him.”
Madame de Fiennes had a great sense of humor and loved to joke around; her sharp tongue didn’t hold back with anyone except me. Noticing that she treated the King and Monsieur with as little formality as anyone else, I took her aside one day and said to her, “Madame, you’re quite charming; you’re very witty, and the way you express it is enjoyable for the King and Monsieur because they’re used to it. But for me, who has just arrived, I can’t say I appreciate it. When people make jokes at my expense, it really bothers me, so I want to give you a bit of advice. If you spare me, we’ll be great friends; but if you treat me like I see you treat others, I won’t say anything to you. However, I will complain about you to your husband, and if he doesn’t put a stop to it, I’ll have to let him go.”
He was my Equerry-in-Ordinary.
He was my personal aide.
She promised never to speak of me, and she kept her word.
She promised she would never talk about me, and she stuck to her promise.
Monsieur often said to me, “How does it happen that Madame de Fiennes never says anything severe of you?”
Monsieur often said to me, “How come Madame de Fiennes never says anything harsh about you?”
I answered, “Because she loves me.”
I replied, “Because she loves me.”
I would not tell him what I had done, for he would immediately have excited her to attack me.
I wouldn't tell him what I had done, because he would instantly get her to come after me.
I was called sometimes ‘Soeur Pacifique’, because I did all in my power to maintain harmony between Monsieur and his cousins, La Grande Mademoiselle,
I was sometimes called ‘Soeur Pacifique’ because I did everything I could to keep the peace between Monsieur and his cousins, La Grande Mademoiselle,
[Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orleans, Duchesse de Montpensier, and
Marguerite-Louise d’Orleans, Duchess of Tuscany, daughters of
Gaston, Duc d’Orleans, but by different wives.]
[Anne-Marie-Louise d'Orleans, Duchess of Montpensier, and Marguerite-Louise d'Orleans, Duchess of Tuscany, daughters of Gaston, Duke of Orleans, but by different wives.]
and La Grande Duchesse:
and The Great Duchess:
[Charlotte-Eleonore-Maddleine de la Motte Houdancourt, Duchesse de
Ventadour; she was gouvernante to Louis XV.]
[Charlotte-Eleonore-Maddeline de la Motte Houdancourt, Duchess of
Ventadour; she was governess to Louis XV.]they quarrelled very frequently, and always like children, for the slightest trifles.
they argued a lot, and always like kids, over the smallest things.
Madame de Ventadour was my Maid of Honour for at least sixteen years. She did not quit me until two years after the death of my husband, and then it was by a contrivance of old Maintenon; she wished to annoy me because she knew I was attached to this lady, who was good and amiable, but not very cunning. Old Maintenon succeeded in depriving me of her by means of promises and threats, which were conveyed by Soubise, whose son had married Madame de Ventadour’s daughter, and who was an artful woman. By way of recompense she was made gouvernante. They tried, also, to deprive me of Madame de Chateau Thiers; the old woman employed all her power there, too, but Madame de Chateau Thiers remained faithful to me, without telling of these attempts, which I learnt from another source.
Madame de Ventadour was my Maid of Honour for at least sixteen years. She didn’t leave me until two years after my husband died, and that was thanks to an scheme by old Maintenon; she wanted to irritate me because she knew I was fond of this lady, who was kind and pleasant but not very clever. Old Maintenon managed to take her away from me through promises and threats, communicated by Soubise, whose son had married Madame de Ventadour’s daughter, and who was a crafty woman. As compensation, she was made governess. They also tried to take Madame de Chateau Thiers away from me; the old woman used all her influence there too, but Madame de Chateau Thiers stayed loyal to me, keeping quiet about these attempts, which I found out about from another source.
Madame de Monaco might, perhaps, be fond of forming very close attachments of her own sex, and Madame de Maintenon would have put me on the same footing; but she did not succeed, and was so much vexed at her disappointment that she wept. Afterwards she wanted to make me in love with the Chevalier de Vendome, and this project succeeded no better than the other. She often said she could not think of what disposition I must be, since I cared neither for men nor women, and that the German nation must be colder than any other.
Madame de Monaco might, perhaps, have a tendency to form very close relationships with women, and Madame de Maintenon wanted to do the same with me; however, she didn't succeed, and her disappointment made her upset enough to cry. Later, she tried to make me fall in love with the Chevalier de Vendome, but that plan didn't work out any better than the last one. She often remarked that she couldn't understand what kind of person I was since I didn't care for men or women, and she concluded that the German people must be colder than anyone else.
I like persons of that cool temperament. The poor Dauphine of Bavaria used to send all the young coxcombs of the Court to me, knowing that I detested such persons, and would be nearly choked with laughter at seeing the discontented air with which I talked to them.
I like people with that calm demeanor. The poor Dauphine of Bavaria used to send all the young show-offs from the Court to me, knowing that I couldn't stand those types and would nearly burst out laughing at the frustrated look on my face when I talked to them.
Falsehood and superstition were never to my taste.
Falsehood and superstition were never my thing.
The King was in the habit of saying, “Madame cannot endure unequal marriages; she always ridicules them.”
The King often said, “Madame can’t stand unequal marriages; she always makes fun of them.”
Although there are some most delightful walks at Versailles, no one went out either on foot or in carriages but myself; the King observed this, and said, “You are the only one who enjoys the beauties of Versailles.”
Although there are some really lovely walks at Versailles, no one ventured out either on foot or in carriages except for me; the King noticed this and said, “You are the only one who appreciates the beauty of Versailles.”
All my life, even from my earliest years, I thought myself so ugly that I did not like to be looked at. I therefore cared little for dress, because jewels and decoration attract attention. As Monsieur loved to be covered with diamonds, it was fortunate that I did not regard them, for, otherwise, we should have quarrelled about who was to wear them. On grand occasions Monsieur used formerly to make me dress in red; I did so, but much against my inclination, for I always hated whatever was inconvenient to me. He always ordered my dresses, and even used to paint my cheeks himself.
All my life, even from a young age, I thought I was so ugly that I didn’t like being looked at. Because of that, I didn’t care much about how I dressed, since jewelry and decorations draw attention. Since Monsieur loved to be covered in diamonds, it was lucky that I didn’t care about them, or else we would have argued about who got to wear them. On special occasions, Monsieur used to make me wear red; I did it, but I really didn’t want to, since I always hated anything that was inconvenient for me. He always picked out my outfits and even used to put blush on my cheeks himself.
I made the Countess of Soissons laugh very heartily once. She said to me, “How is it, Madame, that you never look in a mirror when you pass it, as everybody else does?”
I made the Countess of Soissons laugh really hard once. She said to me, “How come you never look in a mirror when you walk by one, like everyone else?”
I answered, “Because I have too great a regard for myself to be fond of seeing myself look as ugly as I really am.”
I replied, “Because I value myself too much to want to see how unattractive I actually am.”
I was always attached to the King; and when he did anything disagreeable to me it was generally to please Monsieur, whose favourites and my enemies did all they could to embroil me with him, and through his means with the King, that I might not be able to denounce them. It was natural enough that the King should be more inclined to please his brother than me; but when Monsieur’s conscience reproached him, he repented of having done me ill offices with the King, and he confessed this to the King; His Majesty would then come to us again immediately, notwithstanding the malicious contrivances of old Maintenon.
I was always close to the King, and whenever he did something that upset me, it was usually to make Monsieur happy, whose favorites and my adversaries did everything they could to create tension between me and the King, so that I wouldn't be able to call them out. It was only natural for the King to want to appease his brother more than me, but when Monsieur felt guilty, he regretted how he had wronged me with the King and admitted this to him. The King would then come back to us right away, despite the scheming of old Maintenon.
I have always had my own household, although during Monsieur’s life I was not the mistress of it, because all his favourites derived a share of profit from it. Thus no one could buy any employment in my establishment without a bribe to Grancey, to the Chevalier de Lorraine, to Cocard, or to M. Spied. I troubled myself little about these persons; so long as they continued to behave with proper respect towards me, I let them alone; but when they presumed to ridicule me, or to give me any trouble, I set them to rights without hesitation and as they deserved.
I’ve always had my own household, but when Monsieur was alive, I wasn’t the one in charge because all his favorites profited from it. That meant no one could get a job in my establishment without paying off Grancey, the Chevalier de Lorraine, Cocard, or M. Spied. I didn’t pay much attention to these people; as long as they respected me, I left them alone. But when they crossed the line and made fun of me or caused me trouble, I made sure to put them in their place without hesitation, just as they deserved.
Finding that Madame la Marechale de Clerambault was attached to me, they removed her, and they placed my daughter under the care of Madame la Marechale de Grancey, the creature of my bitterest enemy, the Chevalier de Lorraine, whose mistress was the elder sister of this very Grancei. It may be imagined how fit an example such a woman was for my daughter; but all my prayers, all my remonstrances, were in vain.
Finding out that Madame la Marechale de Clerambault was fond of me, they took her away, and they put my daughter in the care of Madame la Marechale de Grancey, the associate of my worst enemy, the Chevalier de Lorraine, whose lover was the older sister of this very Grancey. It’s easy to see how unsuitable such a woman was for my daughter; but all my pleas and protests were in vain.
Madame de Montespan said to me one day that it was a shame I had no ambition, and would not take part in anything.
Madame de Montespan told me one day that it was a shame I had no ambition and wouldn't get involved in anything.
I replied, “If a person should have intrigued assiduously to become Madame, could not her son permit her to enjoy that rank peaceably? Well, then, fancy that I have become so by such means, and leave me to repose.”
I replied, “If someone worked hard to become Madame, shouldn’t her son allow her to enjoy that status peacefully? Well, then, imagine that I’ve achieved it by such means, and let me rest.”
“You are obstinate,” said she.
“You're stubborn,” she said.
“No, Madame,” I answered; “but I love quiet, and I look upon all your ambition to be pure vanity.”
“No, ma'am,” I replied; “but I love peace, and I see all your ambition as pure vanity.”
I thought she would have burst with spite, so angry was she. She, however, continued,—
I thought she would have exploded with anger, she was so furious. She, however, continued,—
“But make the attempt and we will assist you.”
"But give it a try, and we'll help you."
“No,” I replied, “Madame, when I think that you, who have a hundred times more wit than I, have not been able to maintain your consequence in that Court which you love so much, what hope can I, a poor foreigner, have of succeeding, who know nothing of intrigue, and like it as little?”
“No,” I replied, “Madam, when I think that you, who have a hundred times more cleverness than I, have not been able to hold your ground in that Court which you love so much, what chance do I, a poor foreigner, have of succeeding, who knows nothing of intrigue and cares for it even less?”
She was quite mortified. “Go along,” she said, “you are good for nothing.”
She was really embarrassed. “Go away,” she said, “you’re useless.”
Old Maintenon and her party had instilled into the Dauphine a deep hatred against me; by their direction she often said very impertinent things to me. They hoped that I should resent them to the Dauphine in such manner as to afford her reason to complain to the King of me, and thus draw his displeasure upon me. But as I knew the tricks of the old woman and her coterie, I resolved not to give them that satisfaction; I only laughed at the disobliging manner in which they treated me, and I gave them to understand that I thought the ill behaviour of the Dauphine was but a trick of her childhood, which she would correct as she grew older. When I spoke to her she made me no reply, and laughed at me with the ladies attendant upon her.
Old Maintenon and her group had filled the Dauphine with a strong dislike for me; under their influence, she often said very rude things to me. They hoped I would respond in a way that would give her a reason to complain to the King about me, bringing his wrath down on me. But since I knew the old woman's schemes and her circle, I decided not to give them that satisfaction; I just laughed off the rude way they treated me, and I let them know that I saw the Dauphine's bad behavior as just a childish phase she would outgrow. When I tried to talk to her, she didn't respond and just laughed at me with her ladies-in-waiting.
“Ladies,” she once said to them, “amuse me; I am tired;” and at the same time looked at me disdainfully. I only smiled at her, as if her behaviour had no effect upon me.
“Ladies,” she once said to them, “entertain me; I’m tired;” and at the same time, she looked at me with disdain. I just smiled at her, as if her behavior didn’t affect me at all.
I said, however, to old Maintenon, in a careless tone, “Madame la Dauphine receives me ungraciously; I do not intend to quarrel with her, but if she should become too rude I shall ask the King if he approves of her behaviour.”
I casually said to old Maintenon, “Madame la Dauphine is not welcoming to me; I don’t plan to argue with her, but if she gets too rude, I’ll ask the King if he thinks her behavior is okay.”
The old woman was alarmed, because she knew very well that the King had enjoined the Dauphine always to behave politely to me; she begged me immediately not to say a word to the King, assuring me that I should soon see the Dauphine’s behaviour changed; and indeed, from that time, the Dauphine altered her conduct, and lived upon much better terms with me. If I had complained to the King of the ill treatment I received from the Dauphine he would have been very angry; but she would not have hated me the less, and she and her old aunt would have formed means to repay me double.
The old woman was worried because she knew that the King had instructed the Dauphine to always treat me with respect. She quickly asked me not to say anything to the King, promising that I would soon notice a change in the Dauphine's behavior. And indeed, from that moment on, the Dauphine changed how she interacted with me and got along much better. If I had told the King about the way the Dauphine was treating me, he would have been really angry, but that wouldn’t have made her hate me any less, and she and her elderly aunt would have found a way to get back at me even more.
Ratzenhausen has the good fortune to be sprung from a very good family; the King was always glad to see her, because she made him laugh; she also diverted the Dauphine, and Madame de Berri liked her much, and made her visit her frequently. It is not surprising that we should be good friends; we have been so since our infancy, for I was not nine years old when I first became acquainted with her. Of all the old women I know, there is not one who keeps up her gaiety like Linor.
Ratzenhausen is lucky to come from a really good family. The King was always happy to see her because she made him laugh. She also entertained the Dauphine, and Madame de Berri liked her a lot and invited her over often. It’s no wonder we’re such good friends; we’ve been close since we were kids, and I was only nine when I first met her. Of all the older women I know, none maintain their spirit like Linor.
I often visited Madame de Maintenon, and did all in my power to gain her affections, but could never succeed. The Queen of Sicily asked me one day if I did not go out with the King in his carriage, as when she was with us. I replied to her by some verses (from Racine’s Phedre).
I frequently visited Madame de Maintenon, trying my best to win her affection, but I never succeeded. One day, the Queen of Sicily asked me if I didn't go out with the King in his carriage, like when she was with us. I responded to her with some lines from Racine’s Phedre.
Madame de Torci told this again to old Maintenon, as if it applied to her, which indeed it did, and the King was obliged to look coldly on me for some time.
Madame de Torci repeated this to old Maintenon, as if it was about her, which really it was, and the King had to disregard me for a while.
During the last three years of his life I had entirely gained my husband to myself, so that he laughed at his own weaknesses, and was no longer displeased at being joked with. I had suffered dreadfully before; but from this period he confided in me entirely, and, always took my part. By his death I saw the result of the care and pains of thirty years vanish. After Monsieur’s decease, the King sent to ask me whither I wished to retire, whether to a convent in Paris, or to Maubuisson, or elsewhere. I replied that as I had the honour to be of the royal house I could not live but where the King was, and that I intended to go directly to Versailles. The King was pleased at this, and came to see me. He somewhat mortified me by saying that he sent to ask me whither I wished to go because he had not imagined that I should choose to stay where he was. I replied that I did not know who could have told His Majesty anything so false and injurious, and that I had a much more sincere respect and attachment for His Majesty than those who had thus falsely accused me. The King then dismissed all the persons present, and we had a long explanation, in the course of which the King told me I hated Madame de Maintenon. I confessed that I did hate her, but only through my attachment for him, and because she did me wrong to His Majesty; nevertheless, I added that, if it were agreeable to him that I should be reconciled to her, I was ready to become so. The good lady was not prepared for this, or she would not have suffered the King to come to me; he was, however, so satisfied that he remained favourable to me up to his last hour. He made old Maintenon come, and said to her, “Madame is willing to make friends with you.” He then caused us to embrace, and there the scene ended. He required her also to live upon good terms with me, which she did in appearance, but secretly played me all sorts of tricks. It was at this time a matter of indifference to me whether I went to live at Montargis or not, but I would not have the appearance of doing so in consequence of any disgrace, and as if I had committed some offence for which I was driven from the Court. I had reason to fear, besides, that at the end of two days’ journey I might be left to die of hunger, and to avoid this risk I chose rather to be reconciled to the King. As to going into a convent, I never once thought of it, although it was that which old Maintenon most desired. The Castle of Montargis is my jointure; at Orleans there is no house. St. Cloud is not a part of the hereditary property, but was bought by Monsieur with his own money. Therefore my jointure produces nothing; all that I have to live on comes from the King and my son. At the commencement of my widowhood I was left unpaid, and there was an arrear of 300,000 francs due to me, which were not paid until after the death of Louis XIV. What, then, would have become of me if I had chosen to retire to Montargis? My household expenses amounted annually to 298,758 livres.
During the last three years of his life, I completely had my husband to myself. He laughed at his own flaws and wasn't upset when I joked with him anymore. I had gone through a lot before this; but from this point on, he confided in me fully and always supported me. After his death, I watched all the care and effort of thirty years disappear. Following Monsieur’s passing, the King asked me where I wanted to go—whether to a convent in Paris, to Maubuisson, or somewhere else. I replied that as I had the honor of being part of the royal family, I could only live where the King was, and that I intended to go straight to Versailles. The King was pleased with this and came to see me. He embarrassed me a bit by saying he asked where I wanted to go because he hadn't thought I would choose to stay near him. I answered that I didn’t know who could have told His Majesty anything so false and harmful, and that I had a much more genuine respect and attachment for Him than those who had falsely accused me. The King then dismissed everyone present, and we had a lengthy conversation, during which the King told me I hated Madame de Maintenon. I admitted that I did hate her, but only because of my loyalty to him and because she wronged His Majesty. However, I added that if it pleased him for me to reconcile with her, I was ready to do so. The good lady wasn’t prepared for this, or she wouldn’t have let the King come to me; however, he was so pleased that he remained supportive of me until his last hour. He had old Maintenon come in and said to her, “Madame is willing to be friends with you.” He then made us embrace, and that’s how the scene ended. He also required her to get along with me, which she did on the surface, but secretly schemed against me in various ways. At this time, I didn’t really care whether I moved to Montargis or not, but I didn’t want it to look like I was doing so out of disgrace or for some offense for which I was being pushed away from Court. I was also afraid that after a two-day journey, I might be left to starve, so to avoid that risk, I preferred to reconcile with the King. As for going to a convent, I never even considered it, though that was what old Maintenon wanted most. The Castle of Montargis is my endowment; I have no house in Orleans. St. Cloud isn’t part of the hereditary property, as it was bought by Monsieur with his own money. So, my endowment provides nothing; all I have to live on comes from the King and my son. At the start of my widowhood, I hadn’t been paid, and there was a debt of 300,000 francs owed to me, which wasn’t settled until after Louis XIV’s death. So, what would have happened to me if I had chosen to move to Montargis? My annual household expenses were 298,758 livres.
Although Monsieur received considerable wealth with me, I was obliged, after his death, to give up to my son the jewels, movables, pictures—in short, all that had come from my family; otherwise I should not have had enough to live according to my rank and to keep up my establishment, which is large. In my opinion, to do this is much better than to wear diamonds.
Although Monsieur gained a significant fortune with me, I had to hand over to my son the jewels, possessions, and paintings—in other words, everything that came from my family—after his death; otherwise, I would not have had enough to live according to my status and maintain my large household. In my view, this is far better than wearing diamonds.
My income is not more than 456,000 livres; and yet, if it please God, I will not leave a farthing of debt. My son has just made me more rich by adding 150,000 livres to my pension (1719). The cause of almost all the evil which prevails here is the passion of women for play. I have often been told to my face, “You are good for nothing; you do not like play.”
My income is no more than 456,000 livres; yet, if it pleases God, I won’t leave a single penny of debt. My son has just made me wealthier by adding 150,000 livres to my pension (1719). The main reason for nearly all the problems here is women's obsession with gambling. I've often been told directly, “You're useless; you don’t like to gamble.”
If by my influence I can serve any unfortunate persons with the different branches of the Government, I always do so willingly; in case of success I rejoice; in a less fortunate event I console myself by the belief that it was not the will of God.
If I can help anyone who's struggling with the different branches of the Government through my influence, I always do it gladly; if I'm successful, I feel happy; if things don't go as planned, I comfort myself with the thought that it wasn't meant to be.
After the King’s death I repaired to St. Cyr to pay a visit to Madame de Maintenon. On my entering the room she said to me, “Madame, what do you come here for?”
After the King’s death, I went to St. Cyr to visit Madame de Maintenon. When I entered the room, she said to me, “Madame, what brings you here?”
I replied, “I come to mingle my tears with those of her whom the King I so much deplore loved most.—that is yourself, Madame.”
I said, “I’m here to share my tears with yours, the one whom the King I mourned loved most.—that’s you, Madame.”
“Yes, indeed,” she said, “he loved me well; but he loved you, also.”
“Yes, definitely,” she said, “he loved me a lot; but he loved you too.”
I replied, “He did me the honour to say that, he would always distinguish me by his friendship, although everything was done to make him hate me.”
I replied, “He honored me by saying that he would always consider me a friend, even though everything was done to make him dislike me.”
I wished thus to let her understand that I was, quite aware of her conduct, but that, being a Christian, I could pardon my enemies. If she possessed any sensibility she must have felt some pain at thus. receiving the forgiveness of one whom she had incessantly persecuted.
I wanted her to realize that I was fully aware of her behavior, but as a Christian, I could forgive my enemies. If she had any feelings, she must have felt some pain in receiving forgiveness from someone she had constantly tormented.
The affair of Loube is only a small part of what I have suffered here.
The situation with Loube is just a minor part of what I've been through here.
I have now no circle, for ladies a tabouret—[Ladies having the privilege of seats upon small stools in the presence.]—seldom come to me, not liking to appear but in full dress. I begged them to be present as usual at an audience, which I was to give to the ambassador of Malta, but not one of them came. When the late Monsieur and the King were alive, they were more assiduous; they were not then so much accustomed to full dresses, and when they did not come in sufficient numbers Monsieur threatened to tell the King of it.
I don't have a circle anymore, just a small stool for the ladies—[Ladies have the privilege of sitting on small stools in the presence.]—who rarely visit me because they prefer to arrive in full dress. I asked them to join me, as usual, for an audience I was giving to the ambassador of Malta, but not one of them showed up. When the late Monsieur and the King were alive, they attended more frequently; they weren't as used to dressing up back then, and if they didn't come in sufficient numbers, Monsieur would threaten to inform the King about it.
But this is enough, as M. Biermann said, after having preached four hours together.
But this is enough, as Mr. Biermann said after preaching for four hours straight.
SECTION II.—LOUIS XIV.
When the King pleased he could be one of the most agreeable and amiable men in the world; but it was first necessary that he should be intimately acquainted with persons. He used to joke in a very comical and amusing manner.
When the King wanted to, he could be one of the most pleasant and friendly people in the world; but it was essential for him to know people well first. He liked to joke in a very funny and entertaining way.
The King, though by no means perfect, possessed some great and many fine qualities; and by no means deserved to be defamed and despised by his subjects after his death.
The King, while not perfect, had some great qualities and many good traits; he certainly didn’t deserve to be slandered and hated by his subjects after his death.
While he lived he was flattered, even to idolatry.
While he was alive, he received so much flattery that it bordered on idolization.
He was so much tormented on my account that I could not have wondered if he had hated me most cordially. However, he did not; but, on the contrary, he discovered that all which was said against me sprang from malice and jealousy.
He was so tormented because of me that I wouldn't have been surprised if he had hated me completely. However, he didn't; instead, he realized that everything said against me came from malice and jealousy.
If he had not been so unfortunate as to fall into the hands of two of the worst women in the world Montespan, and that old Maintenon, who was even worse than the other, he would have been one of the best kings that ever lived; for all the evil that he ever did proceeded from those two women, and not from himself.
If he hadn't been unlucky enough to end up in the hands of two of the worst women in the world—Montespan and that old Maintenon, who was even worse than the other—he would have been one of the best kings to ever live. All the bad things he did came from those two women, not from himself.
Although I approved of many things he did, I could not agree with him when he maintained that it was vulgar to love one’s relations. Montespan had instilled this into him, in order that she might get rid of all his legitimate blood connections, and might suffer none about him but her bastards; she had even carried matters so far as to seek to confine the royal favour to her offspring or her creatures.
Although I agreed with him on many things, I couldn't support his claim that it was tacky to love your family. Montespan had convinced him of this so she could distance him from all his legitimate relatives and surround him only with her illegitimate children; she even went so far as to try to limit the king's favor to her own offspring or her allies.
Our King loved the chase passionately; particularly hawking and stag hunting.
Our king was really into hunting, especially falconry and deer hunting.
One day all the world came to Marly to offer their compliments of condolence; Louis XIV., to get rid of the ceremony, ordered that no harangues should be made, but that all the Court should enter without distinction and together at one door, and go out by the other. Among them came the Bishop of Gap, in a sort of dancing step, weeping large, hot tears, and smiling at the same moment, which gave to his face the most grotesque appearance imaginable. Madame, the Dauphine, and I, were the first who could not restrain ourselves; then the Dauphin and the Duc de Berri, and at last the King, and everybody who was in the chamber burst out into loud laughter.
One day, everyone came to Marly to express their condolences. To avoid the formality, Louis XIV ordered that there should be no speeches and that the entire Court should enter together through one door and exit through another. Among them was the Bishop of Gap, moving in a sort of dance step, crying big, hot tears while smiling at the same time, which made his face look incredibly silly. Madame, the Dauphine, and I were the first who couldn't hold back our laughter; then the Dauphin and the Duc de Berri joined in, and finally the King and everyone else in the room burst out laughing.
The King, it must be allowed, gave occasion to great scandal on account of his mistresses; but then he very sincerely repented of these offences.
The King, it should be noted, caused quite a scandal because of his mistresses; however, he truly felt remorse for these wrongdoings.
He had good natural wit, but was extremely ignorant; and was so much ashamed of it that it became the fashion for his courtiers to turn learned men into ridicule. Louis XIV. could not endure to hear politics talked; he was what they call in this country, ‘franc du collier’.
He had a natural sense of humor, but was quite ignorant; and he was so embarrassed by it that his courtiers made it a trend to mock learned men. Louis XIV couldn't stand to hear discussions about politics; he was what people here would call 'straightforward'.
At Marly he did not wish the slightest ceremony to prevail. Neither ambassadors nor other envoys were ever permitted to come here; he never gave audience; there was no etiquette, and the people went about ‘pele-mele’. Out of doors the King made all the men wear their hats; and in the drawing-room, everybody, even to the captains, lieutenants, and sublieutenants of the foot-guards, were permitted to be seated. This custom so disgusted me with the drawing-room that I never went to it.
At Marly, he wanted to avoid any formalities. Neither ambassadors nor other envoys were allowed to come here; he never held audiences; there was no etiquette, and people mixed freely. Outside, the King made all the men keep their hats on; and in the drawing-room, everyone, including captains, lieutenants, and sublieutenants of the foot-guards, could sit down. This custom made me so disenchanted with the drawing-room that I never went there.
The King used to take off his hat to women of all descriptions, even, the common peasants.
The King used to tip his hat to women of all kinds, even the common peasants.
When he liked people he would tell them everything he had heard; and for this reason it was always dangerous to talk to him of that old Maintenon.
When he liked people, he would share everything he had heard; because of this, it was always risky to talk to him about that old Maintenon.
Although he loved flattery, he was very often ready to ridicule it. Montespan and the old woman had spoiled him and hardened his heart against his relations, for he was naturally of a very affectionate disposition.
Although he enjoyed compliments, he often mocked them. Montespan and the old woman had spoiled him and hardened his heart against his family, even though he was naturally a very loving person.
Louis XIV., as well as all the rest of his family, with the exception of my son, hated reading. Neither the King nor Monsieur had been taught anything; they scarcely knew how to read and write. The King was the most polite man in his kingdom, but his son and his grandchildren were the most rude.
Louis XIV, along with everyone else in his family except for my son, hated reading. Neither the King nor Monsieur had been educated; they barely knew how to read and write. The King was the politest man in his kingdom, but his son and his grandchildren were the rudest.
In his youth he had played in the comedy of ‘Les Visionnaires’, which he knew by heart, and in which he acted better than the comedians. He did not know a note of music; but his ear was so correct that he could play in a masterly style on the guitar, and execute whatever he chose.
In his youth, he had performed in the comedy 'Les Visionnaires,' which he knew by heart and in which he acted better than the other comedians. He didn’t know a single note of music, but his ear was so good that he could play masterfully on the guitar and execute whatever he wanted.
It is not astonishing that the King and Monsieur were brought up in ignorance. The Cardinal (Mazarin) wished to reign absolutely; if the princes had been better instructed, he would neither have been trusted nor employed, and this it was his object to prevent, hoping that he should live much longer than he did. The Queen-mother found all that the Cardinal did perfectly right; and, besides, it suited her purpose that he should be indispensable. It is almost a miracle that the King should have become what he afterwards was.
It's not surprising that the King and Monsieur were raised in ignorance. The Cardinal (Mazarin) wanted to rule completely; if the princes had been better educated, he wouldn't have been trusted or used, and that was exactly what he wanted to avoid, hoping to live much longer than he actually did. The Queen-mother thought everything the Cardinal did was perfectly fine; plus, it was in her interest for him to be essential. It's almost a miracle that the King became what he eventually was.
I never saw the King beat but two men, and they both well deserved it. The first was a valet, who would not let him enter the garden during one of his own fetes. The other was a pickpocket, whom the King saw emptying the pocket of M. de Villars. Louis XIV., who was on horseback, rode towards the thief and struck him with his cane; the rascal cried out, “Murder! I shall be killed!” which made us all laugh, and the King laughed, also. He had the thief taken, and made him give up the purse, but he did not have him hanged.
I only saw the King hit two guys, and they both totally deserved it. The first was a valet who wouldn’t let him into the garden during one of his own parties. The other was a pickpocket the King caught emptying M. de Villars’ pocket. Louis XIV, who was on horseback, rode up to the thief and hit him with his cane; the guy shouted, “Help! I’m going to be killed!” which made us all laugh, including the King. He had the thief arrested and made him hand over the purse, but he didn’t have him hanged.
The Duchesse de Schomberg was a good deal laughed at because she asked the King a hundred questions, which is not the fashion here. The King was not well pleased to be talked to; but he never laughed in any one’s face.
The Duchesse de Schomberg was often laughed at because she asked the King a hundred questions, which isn’t the norm here. The King wasn’t very happy to be engaged in conversation; however, he never laughed in anyone's face.
When Louvois proposed to the King for the first time that he should appoint Madame Dufresnoy, his mistress, a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber, His Majesty replied, “Would you, then, have them laugh at both of us?” Louvois, however, persisted so earnestly in his request that the King at length granted it.
When Louvois first suggested to the King that he should appoint Madame Dufresnoy, his mistress, as a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber, His Majesty responded, “Do you really want them to laugh at both of us?” However, Louvois was so persistent with his request that the King eventually agreed.
The Court of France was extremely agreeable until the King had the misfortune to marry that old Maintenon; she withdrew him from company, filled him with ridiculous scruples respecting plays, and told him that he ought not to see excommunicated persons. In consequence of this she had a small theatre erected in her own apartments, where plays were acted twice a week before the King. Instead of the dismissed comedians,
The Court of France was very enjoyable until the King unfortunately married that old Maintenon; she pulled him away from social gatherings, filled his head with silly worries about plays, and told him he shouldn't associate with excommunicated people. As a result, she had a small theater built in her own quarters, where plays were performed twice a week in front of the King. Instead of the dismissed comedians,
[These dismissed comedians had, as appears by the edition of 1788,
renounced their profession, and had been admitted to the communion.
After that, Madame de Maintenon no longer saw any sin in them.]
[These dismissed comedians had, as seen in the 1788 edition, given up their profession and had been accepted into the church. After that, Madame de Maintenon saw no sin in them anymore.]
she had the Dauphine, my son, the Duc de Berri, and her own nieces, to play; in her opinion this was much better than the real comedians. The King, instead of occupying his usual place, was seated behind me in a corner, near Madame de Maintenon. This arrangement spoilt all, for the consequence was that few people saw him, and the Court was almost deserted.
she had the Dauphine, my son, the Duc de Berri, and her own nieces to play with; she thought this was way better than the real actors. The King, instead of sitting in his usual spot, was behind me in a corner, near Madame de Maintenon. This setup ruined everything because hardly anyone could see him, and the Court was almost empty.
Maintenon told me that the King said to her, “Now that I am old my children get tired of me and are delighted to find any opportunity of fixing me here and going elsewhere for their own amusement; Madame alone stays, and I see that she is glad to be with me still.” But she did not tell me that she had done all in her power to persuade him of the contrary, and that the King spoke thus by way of reproaching her for the lies she had invented about me. I learned that afterwards from others. If the King had been my father I could not have loved him more than I did; I was always pleased to be with him.
Maintenon told me that the King said to her, “Now that I'm old, my kids get tired of me and are always looking for a chance to leave me here while they go off to have fun; only Madame stays, and I can see she enjoys being with me still.” But she didn’t mention that she had tried everything to convince him otherwise, and that the King said this to blame her for the stories she made up about me. I found that out later from others. If the King had been my father, I couldn’t have loved him more than I did; I always enjoyed being around him.
He was fond of the German soldiers, and said that the German horsemen displayed more grace in the saddle than those of any other nation.
He liked the German soldiers and said that the German horsemen showed more grace in the saddle than those from any other country.
When the King had a design to punish certain libertines, Fagon—[Guy Crescent Fagon, appointed the King’s chief physician in 1693, died in 1718.]—had an amusing conversation with him. He said,—
When the King planned to punish some libertines, Fagon—[Guy Crescent Fagon, appointed the King’s chief physician in 1693, died in 1718.]—had a funny conversation with him. He said,—
“Folks made love long before you came into the world, and they will always continue to do so. You cannot prevent them; and when I hear preachers talking in the pulpit and railing against such as yield to the influence of passion, I think it is very much as if I should say to my phthisical patients, ‘You must not cough; it is very wrong to spit.’ Young folks are full of humours, which must be dispersed by one way or another.”
“People were making love long before you were born, and they will always keep doing it. You can't stop them; and when I hear preachers in church condemning those who give in to their passions, I think it's a lot like telling my tuberculosis patients, ‘You mustn't cough; it's very wrong to spit.’ Young people are full of desires that need to be released one way or another.”
The King could not refrain from laughing.
The King couldn't help but laugh.
He was only superstitious in religious matters; for example, with respect to the miracles of the Virgin, etc.
He was only superstitious about religious things; for instance, regarding the miracles of the Virgin, etc.
He had been taught to believe that to make friends with his brother was a great political stroke and a fine State device; that it made a part of what is called to reign well.
He had been taught to believe that making friends with his brother was a smart political move and a good strategy for the State; that it was part of what it means to rule effectively.
Since the time of this King it has not been the custom for ladies to talk of the affairs of the State.
Since the time of this King, it hasn't been common for women to discuss state matters.
If the King heard that any one had spoken ill of him, he displayed a proud resentment towards the offender; otherwise it was impossible to be more polite and affable than he was. His conversation was pleasing in a high degree. He had the skill of giving an agreeable turn to everything. His manner of talking was natural, without the least affectation, amiable and obliging. Although he had not so much courage as Monsieur, he was still no coward. His brother said that he had always behaved well in occasions of danger; but his chief fault lay in being soon tired of war, and wishing to return home.
If the King heard that someone had spoken badly of him, he would show a proud anger towards that person; otherwise, he was impossible to be more polite and friendly. His conversations were very enjoyable. He had a knack for making everything sound good. His way of speaking was natural, without any pretense, kind and accommodating. Although he didn't have as much bravery as Monsieur, he wasn't a coward either. His brother said that he had always acted admirably in dangerous situations; however, his main flaw was getting tired of war quickly and wanting to go home.
From the time of his becoming so outrageously devout, all amusements were suspended for three weeks (at Easter); and before, they were only discontinued a fortnight.
From the moment he became extremely devout, all entertainment was put on hold for three weeks (during Easter); before that, it was only paused for two weeks.
The King had a peculiarity of disposition which led him easily to behave harshly to persons who were disagreeable to such as he loved. It was thus that La Valliere was so ill-treated at the instigation of Montespan.
The King had a unique personality that made him quick to treat harshly those who were unpleasant to the people he cared about. That’s how La Valliere ended up being treated so badly at Montespan's urging.
He was much amused with the Comte de Grammont,—[Philibert, Comte de Grammont, St. Evremond’s hero, and so well known by means of the Memoirs of Count Antoine Hamilton, his brother-in-law.]—who was very pleasant. He loaded him with proofs of his kindness, and invited him to join in all the excursions to Marly, a decided mark of great favour.
He found the Comte de Grammont quite entertaining,—[Philibert, Comte de Grammont, St. Evremond’s hero, well-known through the Memoirs of Count Antoine Hamilton, his brother-in-law.]—who was really enjoyable company. He showered him with signs of his affection and invited him to join all the trips to Marly, a clear indication of significant favor.
The King frequently complained that in his youth he had not been allowed to converse with people generally, but it was the fault of his natural temper; for Monsieur, who had been brought up with him, used to talk to everybody.
The King often complained that when he was young, he hadn't been allowed to talk to people in general, but it was because of his natural temperament; Monsieur, who had grown up with him, used to chat with everyone.
Louis XIV. used to say, laughingly, to Monsieur that his eternal chattering had put him out of conceit with talking. “Ah, mon Dieu!” he would say, “must I, to please everybody, say as many silly things as my brother?”
Louis XIV. used to jokingly tell Monsieur that his constant chatter had made him lose interest in talking. “Oh my God!” he would say, “do I have to, to keep everyone happy, say as many ridiculous things as my brother?”
In general, they would not have been taken for brothers. The King was a large man, and my husband a small one: the latter had very effeminate inclinations; he loved dress, was very careful of his complexion, and took great interest in feminine employments and in ceremonies. The King, on the contrary, cared little about dress, loved the chase and shooting, was fond of talking of war, and had all manly tastes and habits. Monsieur behaved well in battle, but never talked of it; he loved women as companions, and was pleased to be with them. The King loved to see them somewhat nearer, and not entirely en honneur, as Monsieur did.
In general, they wouldn’t have been mistaken for brothers. The King was a big man, while my husband was smaller: he had very feminine tendencies; he loved fashion, was very attentive to his skin, and took a strong interest in women’s activities and ceremonies. The King, on the other hand, didn’t care much about clothing, enjoyed hunting and shooting, liked to discuss war, and had all the typical masculine interests and habits. Monsieur fought well in battle, but never spoke of it; he enjoyed the company of women and liked being around them. The King preferred to see them in a more personal way, not just in a platonic manner like Monsieur did.
[Madame is not a good authority on this point. The memoirs of the
time will show either that she cannot have known or must have
wilfully concealed the intrigues of various kinds in which her
husband was engaged.]
[Madame isn't a reliable source on this matter. The memoirs from that time will reveal that she either couldn't have known or must have intentionally hidden the various intrigues her husband was involved in.]
They nevertheless loved one another much, and it was very interesting to see them together. They joked each other sensibly and pleasantly, and without ever quarrelling.
They still loved each other a lot, and it was really interesting to see them together. They teased each other in a smart and fun way, and they never argued.
I was never more amused than in a journey which I took with the King to Flanders. The Queen and the Dauphine were then alive. As soon as we reached a city, each of us retired to our own quarters for a short time, and afterwards we went to the theatre, which was commonly so bad that we were ready to die with laughing. Among others, I remember that at Dunkirk we saw a company playing Mithridates. In speaking to Monimia, Mithridates said something which I forget, but which was very absurd. He turned round immediately to the Dauphine and said, “I very humbly beg pardon, Madame, I assure you it was a slip of the tongue.” The laugh which followed this apology may be imagined, but it became still greater when the Prince of Conti,
I was never more entertained than during a trip I took with the King to Flanders. The Queen and the Dauphine were still alive at that time. As soon as we arrived in a city, each of us retreated to our own rooms for a bit, and then we went to the theater, which was usually so bad that we were ready to burst out laughing. I particularly remember that in Dunkirk, we watched a troupe perform Mithridates. When Mithridates was speaking to Monimia, he said something—I'm not sure what it was— but it was really ridiculous. He immediately turned to the Dauphine and said, “I very humbly beg your pardon, Madame, I assure you it was just a slip of the tongue.” The laughter that followed this apology was something to behold, but it got even louder when the Prince of Conti,
[Louis-Armaud de Bourbon, Prince de Conti, married in 1780 to
Marie-Anne, commonly called Mademoiselle de Blois, one of the
legitimated daughters of Louis XIV. by Madame de la Valliere. She
was called at Court La Grande Princesse, on account of her beauty
and her stature.]
[Louis-Armaud de Bourbon, Prince de Conti, married in 1780 to
Marie-Anne, known as Mademoiselle de Blois, one of the legitimated daughters of Louis XIV by Madame de la Valliere. She was referred to at Court as La Grande Princesse because of her beauty and height.]the husband of La Grande Princesse, who was sitting above the orchestra, in a fit of laughing, fell into it. He tried to save himself by the cord, and, in doing so, pulled down the curtain over the lamps, set it on fire, and burnt a great hole in it. The flames were soon extinguished, and the actors, as if they were perfectly indifferent, or unconscious of the accident, continued to play on, although we could only see them through the hole. When there was no play, we took airings and had collations; in short, every day brought something new. After the King’s supper we went to see magnificent artificial fireworks given by the cities of Flanders. Everybody was gay; the Court was in perfect unanimity, and no one thought of anything but to laugh and seek amusement.
the husband of La Grande Princesse, who was sitting above the orchestra, in a fit of laughter, fell into it. He tried to save himself using the cord and, in the process, pulled down the curtain over the lights, setting it on fire and burning a big hole in it. The flames were quickly put out, and the actors, as if they were completely unfazed or unaware of the incident, carried on with their performance, even though we could only see them through the hole. When there was no show, we took strolls and had snacks; in short, every day brought something different. After the King’s dinner, we went to see spectacular fireworks put on by the cities of Flanders. Everyone was cheerful; the Court was in perfect harmony, and nobody was focused on anything but laughing and having a good time.
If the King had known the Duchess of Hanover, he would not have been displeased at her calling him “Monsieur.” As she was a Sovereign Princess, he thought it was through pride that she would not call him “Sire,” and this mortified him excessively, for he was very sensitive on such subjects.
If the King had known the Duchess of Hanover, he wouldn't have minded her calling him "Monsieur." Since she was a Sovereign Princess, he assumed it was out of pride that she wouldn’t address him as "Sire," and this really upset him, as he was quite sensitive about such things.
One day, before Roquelaure was made a Duke, he was out when it rained violently, and he ordered his coachman to drive to the Louvre, where the entrance was permitted to none but Ambassadors, Princes and Dukes. When his carriage arrived at the gate they asked who it was.
One day, before Roquelaure became a Duke, he was out when it started raining heavily, and he told his chauffeur to drive to the Louvre, where entry was only allowed for Ambassadors, Princes, and Dukes. When his carriage got to the gate, they asked who it was.
“A Duke,” replied he.
"A Duke," he replied.
“What Duke?” repeated the sentinel.
"What Duke?" the guard echoed.
“The Duc d’Epernon,” said he.
“The Duke of Epernon,” he said.
“Which of them?”
“Which one?”
“The one who died last.” And upon this they let him enter. Fearing afterwards that he might get into a scrape about it, he went directly to the King. “Sire,” said he, “it rains so hard that I came in my coach even to the foot of your staircase.”
“The one who died last.” And because of that, they let him in. Worried later that he might get into trouble for it, he went straight to the King. “Your Majesty,” he said, “it’s raining so hard that I took my coach all the way to the bottom of your staircase.”
The King was displeased. “What fool let you enter?” he asked.
The King was not happy. “Who let you in?” he asked.
“A greater fool than your Majesty can imagine,” replied Roquelaure, “for he admitted me in the name of the Duc d’Epernon who died last.”
“A bigger fool than you can imagine, Your Majesty,” replied Roquelaure, “because he let me in claiming to be the Duc d’Epernon who died last.”
This ended the King’s anger and made him laugh very heartily.
This took away the King’s anger and made him laugh out loud.
So great a fear of hell had been instilled into the King that he not only thought everybody who did not profess the faith of the Jesuits would be damned, but he even thought he was in some danger himself by speaking to such persons. If any one was to be ruined with the King, it was only necessary to say, “He is a Huguenot or a Jansenist,” and his business was immediately settled. My son was about to take into his service a gentleman whose mother was a professed Jansenist. The Jesuits, by way of embroiling my son with the King, represented that he was about to engage a Jansenist on his establishment.
The King was so terrified of hell that he believed anyone who didn’t follow the Jesuit faith would be damned, and he even felt he could be in danger just by talking to them. If someone wanted to get on the King's bad side, all they had to do was say, “He’s a Huguenot or a Jansenist,” and that would seal their fate. My son was about to hire a gentleman whose mother was an outspoken Jansenist. The Jesuits, trying to turn my son against the King, claimed he was about to bring a Jansenist into his service.
The King immediately sent for him and said “How is this, nephew? I understand you think of employing a Jansenist in your service.”
The King quickly summoned him and said, “What’s going on, nephew? I hear you’re considering hiring a Jansenist for your team.”
“Oh, no!” replied my son, laughing, “I can assure your Majesty that he is not a Jansenist, and I even doubt whether he believes in the existence of a God.”
“Oh, no!” replied my son, laughing, “I can assure you, Your Majesty, that he is not a Jansenist, and I even doubt if he believes in the existence of God.”
“Oh, well, then!” said the King, “if that be the case, and you are sure that he is no Jansenist, you may take him.”
“Oh, well, then!” said the King, “if that's the case, and you’re sure he’s not a Jansenist, you can take him.”
It is impossible for a man to be more ignorant of religion than the King was. I cannot understand how his mother, the Queen, could have brought him up with so little knowledge on this subject. He believed all that the priests said to him, as if it came from God Himself. That old Maintenon and Pere la Chaise had persuaded him that all the sins he had committed with Madame de Montespan would be pardoned if he persecuted and extirpated the professors of the reformed religion, and that this was the only path to heaven. The poor King believed it fervently, for he had never seen a Bible in his life; and immediately after this the persecution commenced. He knew no more of religion than what his confessors chose to tell him, and they had made him believe that it was not lawful to investigate in matters of religion, but that the reason should be prostrated in order to gain heaven. He was, however, earnest enough himself, and it was not his fault that hypocrisy reigned at Court. The old Maintenon had forced people to assume it.
It’s impossible for anyone to be more ignorant of religion than the King was. I can't grasp how his mother, the Queen, could have raised him with so little understanding of this subject. He took everything the priests told him as if it was from God Himself. That old Maintenon and Père la Chaise convinced him that all the sins he’d committed with Madame de Montespan would be forgiven if he persecuted and eliminated the followers of the reformed religion, and that this was the only way to get to heaven. The poor King believed it wholeheartedly, as he had never seen a Bible in his life; and right after this, the persecution began. He knew no more about religion than what his confessors chose to share with him, and they made him believe that it was wrong to question religious matters, insisting that reason should be set aside to reach heaven. However, he was genuinely devout, and it wasn't his fault that hypocrisy thrived at Court. The old Maintenon had forced people to adopt it.
It was formerly the custom to swear horridly on all occasions; the King detested this practice, and soon abolished it.
It used to be common to swear a lot on every occasion; the King hated this habit and quickly put an end to it.
He was very capable of gratitude, but neither his children nor his grandchildren were. He could not bear to be made to wait for anything.
He was very capable of gratitude, but neither his children nor his grandchildren were. He couldn't stand waiting for anything.
He said that by means of chains of gold he could obtain anything he wished from the ministers at Vienna.
He said that with chains of gold, he could get anything he wanted from the ministers in Vienna.
He could not forgive the French ladies for affecting English fashions. He used often to joke about it, and particularly in the conversation which he addressed to me, expecting that I would take it up and tease the Princesses. To amuse him, I sometimes said whatever came into my head, without the least ceremony, and often made him laugh heartily.
He couldn't forgive the French ladies for adopting English fashion. He often joked about it, especially in conversations with me, hoping I'd join in and tease the Princesses. To entertain him, I sometimes said whatever popped into my head, without any formality, and often made him laugh really hard.
Reversi was the only game at which the King played, and which he liked.
Reversi was the only game the King played and enjoyed.
When he did not like openly to reprove any person, he would address himself to me; for he knew that I never restrained myself in conversation, and that amused him infinitely. At table, he was almost obliged to talk to me, for the others scarcely said a word. In the cabinet, after supper, there were none but the Duchess—[Anne of Bavaria, wife of Henri-Jules, Duc de Bourbon, son of the great Conde; she bore the title of Madame la Princesse after his death.]—and I who spoke to him. I do not know whether the Dauphine used to converse with the King in the cabinets, for while she was alive I was never permitted to enter them, thanks to Madame de Maintenon’s interference; the Dauphine objected to it; the King would willingly have had it so; but he dare not assert his will for fear of displeasing the Dauphine and the old woman. I was not therefore suffered to enter until after the death of the Dauphine, and then only because the King wished to have some one who would talk to him in the evening, to dissipate his melancholy thoughts, in which I did my best. He was dissatisfied with his daughters on both sides, who, instead of trying to console him in his grief, thought only of amusing themselves, and the good King might often have remained alone the whole evening if I had not visited his cabinet. He was very sensible of this, and said to Maintenon, “Madame is the only one who does not abandon me.”
When he didn't want to openly criticize someone, he would talk to me instead, knowing that I never held back in conversation, which he found incredibly entertaining. At the dinner table, he almost had to engage with me since the others barely spoke. In the study after dinner, it was just the Duchess—[Anne of Bavaria, wife of Henri-Jules, Duc de Bourbon, son of the great Conde; she held the title of Madame la Princesse after his death.]—and me who conversed with him. I don’t know if the Dauphine ever talked with the King in the study because, while she was alive, I wasn’t allowed to enter, thanks to Madame de Maintenon’s interference; the Dauphine didn’t want me there; the King would have preferred it that way, but he didn’t dare assert himself for fear of upsetting the Dauphine and the old woman. Therefore, I wasn’t allowed to go in until after the Dauphine passed away, and even then, it was only because the King wanted someone to talk to in the evenings to distract him from his gloomy thoughts, which I tried my best to do. He was unhappy with both of his daughters, who, instead of trying to comfort him in his sorrow, only thought about having fun, and the poor King might have spent many evenings alone if I hadn’t dropped by his study. He was quite aware of this and said to Maintenon, “Madame is the only one who doesn’t abandon me.”
Louis XIV. spoiled the Jesuits; he thought whatever came from them must be admirable, whether it was right or wrong.
Louis XIV spoiled the Jesuits; he believed anything that came from them had to be impressive, regardless of whether it was right or wrong.
The King did not like living in town; he was convinced that the people did not love him, and that there was no security for him among them. Maintenon had him, besides, more under her sway at Versailles than at Paris, where there was certainly no security for her. She was universally detested there; and whenever she went out in a carriage the populace shouted loud threats against her, so that at last she dared not appear in public.
The King didn't enjoy living in the city; he believed the people didn’t care for him and that he wasn’t safe there. Maintenon had more control over him at Versailles than in Paris, where she definitely wasn’t safe either. She was widely disliked there, and whenever she rode out in a carriage, the crowd shouted threats at her, so eventually, she was afraid to go out in public.
At first the King was in the habit of dining with Madame de Montespan and his children, and then no person went to visit him but the Dauphin and Monsieur. When Montespan was dismissed, the King had all his illegitimate children in his cabinet: this continued until the arrival of the last Dauphine; she intruded herself among the bastards to their great affliction. When the Duchess—
At first, the King used to have dinner with Madame de Montespan and his children, and the only visitors he received were the Dauphin and Monsieur. After Montespan was let go, the King had all his illegitimate children in his private quarters; this lasted until the arrival of the new Dauphine, who intruded among the bastards, much to their dismay. When the Duchess—
[Louise-Francoise, commonly called Mademoiselle de Nantes, the
legitimated daughter of Madame de Montespan and the King, was
married to the Duc de Bourbon in 1685.]
[Louise-Francoise, known as Mademoiselle de Nantes, the legitimated daughter of Madame de Montespan and the King, married Duc de Bourbon in 1685.]
became the favourite of the Dauphin, she begged that no other persons of the royal house might have access to the cabinet; and therefore my request for admission, although not refused, was never granted until after the death of the Dauphin and Dauphine. The latter accompanied the King to places where I did not, and could not go, for she even, went with him upon occasions when decency ought to have forbidden her presence. Maintenon did the same thing, for the purpose of having an opportunity of talking to the King in secret.
became the favorite of the Dauphin, she asked that no other members of the royal family be allowed into the cabinet; therefore, my request for admission, while not denied, was never granted until after the death of the Dauphin and Dauphine. The latter accompanied the King to places where I could not go, and she even joined him on occasions when it would have been proper for her not to be there. Maintenon did the same thing, in order to have a chance to speak to the King privately.
Louis XIV. loved the young Dauphine so well that he dared refuse her nothing; and Maintenon had so violent a hatred against me that she was ready to do me all the mischief in her power. What could the King do against the inclinations of his son and his granddaughter? They would have looked cross, and that would have grieved him. I had no inclination to cause him any vexation, and therefore preferred exercising my own patience. When I had anything to say to the King, I requested a private audience, which threw them all into despair, and furnished me with a good laugh in my sleeve.
Louis XIV loved the young Dauphine so much that he couldn’t say no to her; and Maintenon had such a deep hatred for me that she was ready to cause me all the trouble she could. What could the King do against the wishes of his son and granddaughter? They would have looked unhappy, and that would have upset him. I didn’t want to cause him any distress, so I chose to be patient. Whenever I needed to talk to the King, I asked for a private meeting, which threw them all into a panic and gave me a good laugh inside.
The King was so much devoted to the old usages of the Royal Palace that he would not for the world have departed from them. Madame de Fiennes was in the habit of saying that the Royal Family adhered so strictly to their habits and customs that the Queen of England died with a toguet on her head; that is, a little cap which is put upon children when they go to bed.
The King was so devoted to the traditions of the Royal Palace that he would never dream of straying from them. Madame de Fiennes often remarked that the Royal Family stuck to their routines so rigidly that the Queen of England passed away wearing a toguet on her head; that is, a small cap that children wear to bed.
When the King denied anything it was not permitted to argue with him; what he commanded must be done quickly and without reply. He was too much accustomed to “such is our good pleasure,” to endure any contradiction.
When the King denied something, it was not allowed to argue with him; his commands had to be carried out quickly and without response. He was so used to "this is our good pleasure" that he couldn't handle any disagreement.
He was always kind and generous when he acted from his own impulses. He never thought that his last will would be observed; and he said to several people, “They have made me sign a will and some other papers; I have done it for the sake of being quiet, but I know very well that it will not stand good.”
He was always kind and generous when he acted on his own instincts. He never believed that his last will would be respected; he told several people, “They made me sign a will and some other documents; I did it just to keep the peace, but I know it won’t hold up.”
The good King was old; he stood in need of repose, and he could not enjoy it by any other means than by doing whatever that old Maintenon wished; thus it was that this artful hussy always accomplished her ends.
The good King was old; he needed rest, and he could only find it by doing whatever that old Maintenon wanted; this was how this crafty woman always got what she wanted.
The King used always to call the Duc de Verneuil his uncle.
The King always referred to the Duc de Verneuil as his uncle.
It has been said and believed that Louis XIV. retired from the war against Holland through pure generosity; but I know, as well as I know my own name that he came back solely for the purpose of seeing Madame de Montespan, and to stay with her. I know also many examples of great events, which in history have been attributed to policy or ambition, but which have originated from the most insignificant trifles. It has been said it was our King’s ambition that made him resolve to become the master of the world, and that it was for this he commenced the Dutch war; but I know from an indisputable source that it was entered upon only because M. de Lionne, then Minister of State, was jealous of Prince William of Furstenberg, who had an intrigue with his wife, of which he had been apprised. It was this that caused him to engage in those quarrels which afterwards produced the war.
It’s often said that Louis XIV stepped back from the war against Holland out of sheer generosity; however, I know, just like I know my own name, that he returned only to see Madame de Montespan and spend time with her. I also recognize many significant events in history that have been credited to politics or ambition but actually started from the most trivial matters. It’s claimed that our King’s ambition drove him to seek global dominance and that this was the reason for starting the Dutch war; but I know from a reliable source that it all began because M. de Lionne, the Minister of State at the time, was jealous of Prince William of Furstenberg, who was involved with his wife and of which he was aware. This jealousy triggered the conflicts that later led to the war.
It was not surprising that the King was insensible to the scarcity which prevailed, for in the first place he had seen nothing of it, and, in the second, he had been told that all the reports which had reached him were falsehoods, and that they were in no respect true. Old Maintenon invented this plan for getting money, for she had bought up all the corn, for the purpose of retailing it at a high price. [This does not sound like M. Maintenon. D.W.] Everybody had been requested to say nothing about it to the King, lest it should kill him with vexation.
It wasn't surprising that the King was oblivious to the shortage that was happening because, first, he hadn’t seen any evidence of it, and second, he had been told that all the reports reaching him were lies and not true at all. Old Maintenon came up with this scheme to make money, as she had bought up all the grain with the intention of selling it at a high price. [This doesn’t seem like M. Maintenon. D.W.] Everyone was asked to keep quiet about it to the King, so it wouldn’t upset him.
The King loved my son as well as his own, but he cared little for the girls. He was very fond of Monsieur, and he had reason to be so; never did a child pay a more implicit obedience to its parents than did Monsieur to the King; it was a real veneration; and the Dauphin, too, had for him a veneration, affection and submission such as never son had for a father. The King was inconsolable for his death. He never had much regard for the Duke of Burgundy; the old sorceress (Maintenon) had slandered him to the King, and made the latter believe that he was of an ambitious temper, and was impatient at the King’s living so long. She did this in order that if the Prince should one day open his eyes, and perceive the manner in which his wife had been educated, his complaints might have no effect with the King, which really took place. Louis XIV. at last thought everything that the Dauphine of Burgundy did was quite charming; old Maintenon made him believe that her only aim was to divert him. This old woman was to him both the law and the prophets; all that she approved was good, and what she condemned was bad, no matter how estimable it really was. The most innocent actions of the first Dauphine were represented as crimes, and all the impertinences of the second were admired.
The King loved my son just as much as his own, but he didn't care much for the girls. He was very fond of Monsieur, and he had good reason to be; never did a child show more complete obedience to their parents than Monsieur did to the King; it was a genuine reverence. The Dauphin also held him in a reverence, affection, and submission that no son had ever shown to a father. The King was inconsolable after his death. He never had much regard for the Duke of Burgundy; the old schemer (Maintenon) had badmouthed him to the King, convincing him that the Duke was ambitious and impatient for the King to live longer. She did this so that if the Prince ever realized how his wife had been raised, he wouldn't have any influence on the King, which indeed happened. Louis XIV eventually thought that everything the Dauphine of Burgundy did was delightful; old Maintenon made him believe that her only goal was to entertain him. This old woman was to him both the law and the prophets; everything she approved was good, and everything she condemned was bad, no matter how worthy it really was. Even the most innocent actions of the first Dauphine were portrayed as crimes, while all the misbehavior of the second was celebrated.
A person who had been for many years in immediate attendance upon the King, who had been engaged with him every evening at Maintenon’s, and who must consequently have heard everything that was said, is one of my very good friends, and he has told me that although while the old lady was living he dare not say a word, yet, she being dead, he was at liberty to tell me that the King had always professed a real friendship for me. This person has often heard with his own ears Maintenon teasing the King, and speaking ill of me for the purpose of rendering me hateful in his eyes, but the King always took my part. It was in reference to this, I have no doubt, that the King said to me on his death-bed:
A person who had been closely connected to the King for many years, who spent every evening with him at Maintenon’s, and therefore must have heard everything that was said, is a good friend of mine. He told me that while the old lady was alive, he didn’t dare to say anything, but since her death, he felt free to share that the King had always claimed to truly care about me. This friend has often heard Maintenon teasing the King and badmouthing me to make me seem unlikable in his eyes, but the King always defended me. I have no doubt that this was what the King meant when he spoke to me on his deathbed:
“They have done all they could to make me hate you, Madame, but they have not succeeded.” He added that he had always known me too well to believe their calumnies. While he spoke thus, the old woman stood by with so guilty an air that I could not doubt they had proceeded from her.
“They have done everything they can to make me hate you, Madame, but they have failed.” He added that he had always known me too well to believe their lies. As he spoke, the old woman stood nearby with such a guilty look that I couldn’t doubt she was behind it all.
Monsieur often took a pleasure in diminishing or depriving me of the King’s favour, and the King was not sorry for some little occasions to blame Monsieur. He told me once that he had embroiled me with Monsieur by policy.
Monsieur often took pleasure in reducing or denying me the King’s favor, and the King wasn't upset about some small moments to criticize Monsieur. He once told me that he had complicated my relationship with Monsieur on purpose.
I was alarmed, and said immediately, “Perhaps your Majesty may do the same thing again.”
I was worried and said right away, “Maybe Your Majesty will do the same thing again.”
The King laughed, and said, “No, if I had intended to do so I should not have told you of it; and, to say the truth, I had some scruples about it, and have resolved never to do so again.”
The King laughed and said, “No, if I had planned to do that, I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you; and honestly, I had some doubts about it and have decided never to do it again.”
Upon the death of one of his children, the King asked of his old medical attendant, M. Gueneau: “Pray, how does it happen that my illegitimate children are healthy and live, while all the Queen’s children are so delicate and always die?” “Sire,” replied Gueneau, “it is because the Queen has only the rinsings of the glass.”
Upon the death of one of his children, the King asked his longtime doctor, M. Gueneau, “Why is it that my illegitimate children are healthy and survive, while all of the Queen’s children are so fragile and always die?” “Your Majesty,” Gueneau replied, “it’s because the Queen only gets the dregs.”
He always slept in the Queen’s bed, but did not always accommodate himself to the Spanish temperament of that Princess; so that the Queen knew he had been elsewhere. The King, nevertheless, had always great consideration for her, and made his mistresses treat her with all becoming respect. He loved her for her virtue, and for the sincere affection she bore to him, notwithstanding his infidelity. He was much affected at her death; but four days afterwards, by the chattering of old Maintenon, he was consoled. A few days afterwards we went to Fontainebleau, and expected to find the King in an ill-humour, and that we should be scolded; but, on the contrary, he was very gay.
He always slept in the Queen’s bed, but didn’t always adjust to the Spanish temperament of that Princess, so the Queen knew he had been with someone else. Nevertheless, the King always showed great consideration for her and made sure his mistresses treated her with the respect she deserved. He loved her for her virtue and the sincere affection she had for him, despite his infidelities. He was quite affected by her death, but four days later, thanks to the gossip of old Maintenon, he found some comfort. A few days later, we went to Fontainebleau and expected to find the King in a bad mood and thought we would get scolded; but instead, he was very cheerful.
When the King returned from a journey we were all obliged to be at the carriage as he got out, for the purpose of accompanying him to his apartments.
When the King came back from a trip, we all had to be at the carriage when he got out to escort him to his rooms.
While Louis XIV. was young all the women were running after him; but he renounced this sort of life when he flattered himself that he had grown devout. His motive was, Madame de Maintenon watched him so narrowly that he could not, dare not, look at any one. She disgusted him with everybody else that she might have him to herself; and this, too, under the pretext of taking care of his soul.
While Louis XIV was young, all the women were chasing after him; but he gave up that kind of life when he convinced himself he had become devout. His reason was that Madame de Maintenon watched him so closely that he couldn’t, and didn’t dare to, look at anyone else. She made him feel repulsed by everyone else so she could have him to herself; and she did this under the guise of caring for his soul.
Madame de Colonne had a great share of wit, and our King was so much in love with her, that, if her uncle, the Cardinal, had consented, he would certainly have married her. Cardinal Mazarin, although in every other respect a worthless person, deserved to be praised for having opposed this marriage. He sent his niece into Italy. When she was setting out, the King wept violently. Madame de Colonne said to him, “You are a King; you weep, and yet I go.” This was saying a great deal in a few words. As to the Comtesse de Soissons, the King had always more of friendship than of love for her. He made her very considerable presents, the least of which was to the amount of 2,000 louis.
Madame de Colonne was incredibly witty, and our King was so in love with her that, if her uncle, the Cardinal, had agreed, he would have definitely married her. Cardinal Mazarin, despite being lacking in many other ways, deserves credit for standing against this marriage. He sent his niece to Italy. As she was leaving, the King cried bitterly. Madame de Colonne told him, “You’re a King; you cry, and yet I’m leaving.” That was a powerful statement in just a few words. As for the Comtesse de Soissons, the King always felt more friendship than love for her. He gave her very generous gifts, with the smallest being worth 2,000 louis.
Madame de Ludres, the King’s mistress, was an agreeable person; she had been Maid of Honour to Monsieur’s first wife,—[Henrietta of England.]—and after her death she entered the Queen’s service, but when these places were afterwards abolished, Monsieur took back Ludres and Dampierre, the two Ladies of Honour he had given to the Queen. The former was called Madame, because she was canoness of a chapter at Lorraine.
Madame de Ludres, the King’s mistress, was a pleasant person; she had been Maid of Honour to Monsieur’s first wife, Henrietta of England. After her death, she joined the Queen’s service, but when these positions were later eliminated, Monsieur brought back Ludres and Dampierre, the two Ladies of Honour he had given to the Queen. The former was addressed as Madame because she was a canoness of a chapter in Lorraine.
It is said that the King never observed her beauty while she was with the Queen, and that it was not until she was with me that he fell in love with her. Her reign lasted only two years. Montespan told the King that Ludres had certain ringworms upon her body, caused by a poison that had been given her in her youth by Madame de Cantecroix. At twelve or thirteen years of age, she had inspired the old Duc de Lorraine with so violent a passion that he resolved to marry her at all events. The poison caused eruptions, covered her with ringworms from head to foot, and prevented the marriage. She was cured so well as to preserve the beauty of her figure, but she was always subject to occasional eruptions. Although now (1718) more than seventy years old, she is still beautiful; she has as fine features as can be seen, but a very disagreeable manner of speaking; she lisps horribly. She is, however, a good sort of person. Since she has been converted she thinks of nothing but the education of her nieces, and limits her own expenses that she may give the more to her brother’s children. She is in a convent at Nancy, which she is at liberty to quit when she pleases. She, as well as her nieces, enjoy pensions from the King.
It’s said that the King never noticed her beauty while she was with the Queen, and it wasn’t until she was with me that he fell in love with her. Her reign only lasted two years. Montespan informed the King that Ludres had some ringworm on her body, caused by a poison given to her in her youth by Madame de Cantecroix. At around twelve or thirteen, she inspired such intense passion in the old Duc de Lorraine that he was determined to marry her no matter what. The poison caused eruptions, covered her in ringworm from head to toe, and prevented the marriage. She was cured enough to keep the beauty of her figure, but she still occasionally suffers from eruptions. Even now (1718), at over seventy years old, she remains beautiful; she has striking features, but a very unpleasant way of speaking; she lisped terribly. However, she is a decent person. Since her conversion, she focuses solely on the education of her nieces and limits her own expenses to give more to her brother’s kids. She’s in a convent in Nancy, where she can leave whenever she wants. Both she and her nieces receive pensions from the King.
I have seen Beauvais, that femme de chambre of the Queen-mother, a one-eyed creature, who is said to have first taught the King the art of intriguing. She was perfectly acquainted with all its mysteries, and had led a very profligate life; she lived several years after my arrival in France.
I have seen Beauvais, that chambermaid of the Queen Mother, a one-eyed woman, who is said to have first taught the King how to be sneaky. She knew all its secrets and had lived a very scandalous life; she lived several years after I arrived in France.
Louis XIV. carried his gallantries to debauchery. Provided they were women, all were alike to him peasants, gardeners’ girls, femmes de chambre, or ladies of quality. All that they had to do was to seem to be in love with him.
Louis XIV took his flirtations to the extreme. As long as they were women, he treated them all the same—whether they were peasants, garden girls, maids, or ladies of high society. All they had to do was pretend to be in love with him.
For a long time before his death, however, he had ceased to run after women; he even exiled the Duchesse de la Ferte, because she pretended to be dying for him. When she could not see him, she had his portrait in her carriage to contemplate it. The King said that it made him ridiculous, and desired her to retire to her own estate. The Duchesse de Roquelaure, of the house of Laval, was also suspected of wishing to captivate the King; but his Majesty was not so severe with her as with La Ferte. There was great talk in the scandalous circles about this intrigue; but I did not thrust my nose into the affair.
For a long time before his death, he had stopped chasing women; he even kicked the Duchesse de la Ferte to the curb because she pretended to be lovesick for him. When she couldn't see him, she would keep his portrait in her carriage to look at. The King said it made him look foolish, and wanted her to go back to her own estate. The Duchesse de Roquelaure, from the Laval family, was also suspected of trying to win over the King; but he wasn't as hard on her as he was with La Ferte. There was a lot of gossip in scandalous circles about this situation, but I didn't get involved in it.
I am convinced that the Duchesse de la Valliere always loved the King very much. Montespan loved him for ambition, La Soubise for interest, and Maintenon for both. La Fontange loved him also, but only like the heroine of a romance; she was a furiously romantic person. Ludres was also very much attached to him, but the King soon got tired of her. As for Madame de Monaco, I would not take an oath that she never intrigued with the King. While the King was fond of her, Lauzun, who had a regular though a secret arrangement with his cousin, fell into disgrace for the first time. He had forbidden his fair one to see the King; but finding her one day sitting on the ground, and talking with His Majesty, Lauzun, who, in his place as Captain of the guard, was in the chamber, was so transported with jealousy that he could not restrain himself, and, pretending to pass, he trod so violently on the hand which Madame de Monaco had placed upon the ground, that he nearly crushed it. The King, who thus guessed at their intrigue, reprimanded him. Lauzun replied insolently, and was sent for the first time to the Bastille.
I believe that the Duchesse de la Valliere always loved the King a lot. Montespan loved him out of ambition, La Soubise for her own interests, and Maintenon for both reasons. La Fontange loved him too, but only like a character in a romance; she was extremely romantic. Ludres was also very attached to him, but the King soon got bored with her. As for Madame de Monaco, I wouldn't bet that she never had an affair with the King. While the King liked her, Lauzun, who had a regular but secret arrangement with his cousin, fell into disgrace for the first time. He had forbidden his lady from seeing the King; but one day, finding her sitting on the ground and talking to His Majesty, Lauzun, who was in the chamber as Captain of the guard, became so overwhelmed with jealousy that he couldn't hold back. Pretending to walk by, he stepped so hard on the hand that Madame de Monaco had placed on the ground that he nearly crushed it. The King, realizing their affair, reprimanded him. Lauzun responded disrespectfully and was sent to the Bastille for the first time.
Madame de Soubise was cunning, full of dissimulation, and very wicked. She deceived the good Queen cruelly; but the latter rewarded her for this in exposing her falsehood and in unmasking her to the world. As soon as the King had undeceived Her Majesty with respect to this woman, her history became notorious, and the Queen amused herself in relating her triumph, as she called it, to everybody.
Madame de Soubise was sly, manipulative, and quite villainous. She cruelly deceived the kind Queen, but the Queen repaid her by exposing her lies and revealing her true nature to everyone. Once the King had informed Her Majesty about this woman’s deceit, her story became well-known, and the Queen took pleasure in sharing her victory, as she called it, with everyone.
The King and Monsieur had been accustomed from their childhood to great filthiness in the interior of their houses; so much so, that they did not know it ought to be otherwise, and yet, in their persons, they, were particularly neat.
The King and Monsieur had grown up living in very dirty homes; so much so, that they didn’t even realize it could be any different, yet they themselves were always quite tidy.
Madame de la Motte, who had been at Chaillot, preferred the old Marquis de Richelieu to the King. She declared to His Majesty that her heart was no longer disposable, but that it was at length fixed.
Madame de la Motte, who had been at Chaillot, preferred the old Marquis de Richelieu over the King. She told His Majesty that her heart was no longer available, but that it was finally set.
I can never think, without anger, of the evil which has been spoken of the late King, and how little His Majesty has been regretted by those to whom he had done so much good.
I can never think, without anger, about the terrible things that have been said about the late King, and how little he has been missed by those to whom he had done so much good.
I hardly dare repeat what the King said to me on his death-bed. All those who were usually in his cabinet were present, with the exception of the Princess, his daughter, the Princesse de Conti, and Madame de Vendome, who, alone, did not see the King. The whole of the Royal Family was assembled. He recommended his legitimated daughters to live together in concord, and I was the innocent cause of his saying something disagreeable to them. When the King said, “I recommend you all to be united,” I thought he alluded to me and my son’s daughter; and I said, “Yes, Monsieur, you shall be obeyed.” He turned towards me, and said in a stern voice, “Madame, you thought I spoke of you. No, no; you are a sensible person, and I know you; it is to the Princesses, who are not so, that I speak:”
I can hardly bring myself to repeat what the King said to me on his deathbed. Everyone in his cabinet was there, except for the Princess, his daughter, the Princesse de Conti, and Madame de Vendome, who alone did not see the King. The whole Royal Family was gathered. He urged his legitimated daughters to live together in harmony, and I was the innocent reason he said something uncomfortable to them. When the King said, “I recommend you all to be united,” I thought he was referring to me and my son's daughter, so I replied, “Yes, Monsieur, you shall be obeyed.” He turned to me and said in a stern voice, “Madame, you thought I was talking about you. No, no; you are sensible, and I know you; it is to the Princesses, who are not, that I am speaking.”
Louis XIV. proved at his death that he was really a great man, for it would be impossible to die with more courage than he displayed. For eight days he had incessantly the approach of death before his eyes without betraying fear or apprehension; he arranged everything as if he had only been going to make a journey.
Louis XIV proved at his death that he was truly a great man, as it would be impossible to face death with more courage than he showed. For eight days, he confronted the reality of death without revealing any fear or anxiety; he organized everything as if he were just preparing for a trip.
Eight or ten days before his death a disease had appeared in his leg; a gangrene ensued, and it was this which caused his death. But for three months preceding he had been afflicted with a slow fever, which had reduced him so much that he looked like a lath. That old rogue, Fagon, had brought him to this condition, by administering purgatives and sudorifics of the most violent kind. At the instigation of Pere Letellier, he had been tormented to death by the cursed constitution,—[The affair of the Bull Unigenitus]—and had not been allowed to rest day or night. Fagon was a wicked old scoundrel, much more attached to Maintenon than to the King. When I perceived how much it was sought to exault the Duc du Maine, and that the old woman cared so little for the King’s death, I could not help entertaining unfavourable notions of this old rascal.
Eight or ten days before his death, a disease appeared in his leg; gangrene set in, and that’s what caused his death. But for the three months leading up to it, he had been suffering from a slow fever that had left him looking like a stick. That old rascal, Fagon, had brought him to this state by giving him harsh purgatives and sweat-inducing medicines. At the urging of Pere Letellier, he had been driven to the brink by the annoying constitution—[The affair of the Bull Unigenitus]—and hadn’t been allowed to rest day or night. Fagon was a nasty old crook, far more loyal to Maintenon than to the King. When I saw how intent they were on lifting the Duc du Maine and how little the old woman cared about the King’s death, I couldn’t help but have a low opinion of that old scoundrel.
It cannot be denied that Louis XIV. was the finest man in his kingdom. No person had a better appearance than he. His figure was agreeable, his legs well made, his feet small, his voice pleasant; he was lusty in proportion; and, in short, no fault could be found with his person. Some folks thought he was too corpulent for his height, and that Monsieur was too stout; so that it was said, by way of a joke at Court, that there had been a mistake, and that one brother had received what had been intended for the other. The King was in the habit of keeping his mouth open in an awkward way.
It can't be denied that Louis XIV was the most handsome man in his kingdom. No one had a better appearance than he did. His figure was appealing, his legs were well-shaped, his feet were small, and his voice was pleasant; he had a strong build in proportion to his height; and, in short, there was no fault to be found with his looks. Some people thought he was too heavy for his height and that Monsieur was too stout; it was even joked about at Court that there had been a mix-up, and one brother had ended up with what was meant for the other. The King had a habit of keeping his mouth awkwardly open.
An English gentleman, Mr. Hammer, found him an expert fencer.
An English gentleman, Mr. Hammer, identified him as an expert fencer.
He preserved his good looks up to his death, although some of my ladies, who saw him afterwards, told me that he could scarcely be recognized. Before his death, his stature had been diminished by a head, and he perceived this himself.
He kept his good looks until he died, although some of the ladies I know, who saw him later, told me that he was barely recognizable. Before he died, he had lost a lot of height and he was aware of it himself.
His pronunciation was very distinct, but all his children, from the Dauphin to the Comte de Toulouse, lisped. They used to say, Pahi, instead of Paris.
His pronunciation was very clear, but all his kids, from the Dauphin to the Comte de Toulouse, lisped. They used to say, Pahi, instead of Paris.
In general, the King would have no persons at his table but members of the Royal Family. As for the Princesses of the blood, there were so many of them that the ordinary table would not have held them; and, indeed, when we were all there, it was quite full.
In general, the King would only have members of the Royal Family at his table. As for the Princesses related by blood, there were so many of them that the regular table couldn't accommodate everyone; and, in fact, when we were all there, it was completely full.
The King used to sit in the middle, and had the Dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy at his right, and the Dauphine and the Duchesse de Berri on his left; on one of the sides Monsieur and I sat; and on the other, my son and his wife; the other parts of the table were reserved for the noblemen in waiting, who did not take their places behind the King, but opposite to him. When the Princesses of the blood or any other ladies were received at the King’s table, we were waited on, not by noblemen, but by other officers of the King’s household, who stood behind like pages. The King upon such occasions was waited on by his chief Maitre d’Hotel. The pages never waited at the King’s table, but on journeys; and then upon no person but the King. The Royal Family had persons to attend them who were not noble. Formerly all the King’s officers, such as the butler, the cupbearer, etc., etc., were persons of rank; but afterwards, the nobility becoming poor could not afford to buy the high offices; and they fell, of necessity, into the hands of more wealthy citizens who could pay for them.
The King used to sit in the center, with the Dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy to his right, and the Dauphine and the Duchesse de Berri to his left; on one side sat Monsieur and me, and on the other, my son and his wife. The rest of the table was reserved for the noblemen in waiting, who didn't sit behind the King but across from him. When the Princesses of the blood or any other ladies dined at the King’s table, we were served not by noblemen, but by other officers from the King’s household, who stood behind like pages. During these occasions, the King was attended to by his chief Maitre d’Hotel. The pages didn't serve at the King’s table, only during travels, and then only for the King. The Royal Family had attendants who weren't noble. In the past, all of the King’s officers, like the butler and cupbearer, were nobles. However, as the nobility became poorer, they couldn't afford to buy these high positions, which eventually went to wealthier citizens who could pay for them.
The King, the late Monsieur, the Dauphin, and the Duc de Berri were great eaters. I have often seen the King eat four platefuls of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a plateful of salad, mutton hashed with garlic, two good-sized slices of ham, a dish of pastry, and afterwards fruit and sweetmeats. The King and Monsieur were very fond of hard eggs.
The King, the late Monsieur, the Dauphin, and the Duc de Berri were all big eaters. I've often seen the King enjoy four servings of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a plate of salad, mutton mixed with garlic, two generous slices of ham, a pastry dish, and then fruit and sweets. The King and Monsieur really liked hard-boiled eggs.
Louis XIV. understood perfectly the art of satisfying people even while he reproved their requests. His manners were most affable, and he spoke with so much politeness as to win all hearts.
Louis XIV understood the art of satisfying people even while turning down their requests. He was very charming, and he spoke so politely that he won everyone over.
SECTION III.—MADEMOISELLE DE FONTANGE.
I had a Maid of Honour whose name was Beauvais; she was a very well-disposed person: the King fell in love with her, but she remained firm against all his attempts. He then turned his attention to her companion, Fontange, who was also very pretty, but not very sensible. When he first saw her he said, “There is a wolf that will not eat me;” and yet he became very fond of her soon afterwards. Before she came to me she had dreamt all that was to befall her, and a pious Capuchin explained her dream to her. She told me of it herself long before she became the King’s mistress. She dreamt that she had ascended a high mountain, and, having reached the summit, she was dazzled by an exceedingly bright cloud; then on a sudden she found herself in such profound darkness that her terror at this accident awoke her. When she told her confessor he said to her: “Take care of yourself; that mountain is the Court, where some distinction awaits you; it will, however, be but of short duration; if you abandon your God He will forsake you and you will fall into eternal darkness.”
I had a Maid of Honour named Beauvais; she was a really nice person: the King fell in love with her, but she stood her ground against all his advances. He then turned his attention to her friend, Fontange, who was also very pretty, but not very bright. When he first saw her, he said, “There’s a wolf that won’t eat me;” yet he soon became very fond of her. Before she came to me, she had a dream about everything that was going to happen to her, and a pious Capuchin interpreted her dream for her. She shared it with me long before she became the King’s mistress. She dreamed that she had climbed a high mountain, and when she reached the top, she was dazzled by an extremely bright cloud; then suddenly she found herself in complete darkness, which scared her and woke her up. When she told her confessor, he said to her: “Be careful; that mountain is the Court, where some recognition awaits you; however, it will only last a short time; if you turn away from God, He will abandon you and you will fall into eternal darkness.”
There is no doubt that Fontange died by poison; she accused Montespan of being the cause of her death. A servant who had been bribed by that favourite destroyed her and some of her people by means of poison mixed with milk. Two of them died with her, and said publicly that they had been poisoned.
There’s no doubt that Fontange was poisoned; she blamed Montespan for her death. A servant who had been paid off by that favorite killed her and some of her people with poison mixed in with milk. Two of them died alongside her and openly stated that they had been poisoned.
Fontange was a stupid little creature, but she had a very good heart. She was very red-haired, but, beautiful as an angel from head to foot.
Fontange was a silly little thing, but she had a really good heart. She was very red-haired, yet beautiful like an angel from head to toe.
SECTION IV.-MADAME DE LA VALLIERE.
When one of Madame de Montespan’s children died, the King was deeply affected; but he was not so at the death of the poor Comte de Vermandois (the son of La Valliere). He could not bear him, because Montespan and that old Maintenon had made him believe the youth was not his but the Duc de Lauzun’s child. It had been well if all the King’s reputed children had been as surely his as this was. Madame de La Valliere was no light mistress, as her unwavering penitence sufficiently proved. She was an amiable, gentle, kind and tender woman. Ambition formed no part of her love for the King; she had a real passion for him, and never loved any other person. It was at Montespan’s instigation that the King behaved so ill to her. The poor creature’s heart was broken, but she imagined that she could not make a sacrifice more agreeable to God than that which had been the cause of her errors; and thought that her repentance ought to proceed from the same source as her crime. She therefore remained, by way of self-mortification, with Montespan, who, having a great portion of wit, did not scruple to ridicule her publicly, behaved extremely ill to her, and obliged the King to do the same.
When one of Madame de Montespan’s children passed away, the King was profoundly moved; however, he didn’t feel the same way about the death of the unfortunate Comte de Vermandois (the son of La Valliere). He couldn't stand him because Montespan and that old Maintenon had convinced him that the young man was not his but the Duc de Lauzun’s child. It would have been better if all the King’s acknowledged children were as certainly his as this one was. Madame de La Valliere was no shallow mistress, as her steadfast remorse clearly showed. She was a charming, gentle, kind, and loving woman. Ambition played no role in her love for the King; she truly adored him and never loved anyone else. It was at Montespan’s urging that the King treated her so poorly. The poor woman was heartbroken, but she believed she couldn’t make a sacrifice more pleasing to God than the one that had led to her mistakes; she thought her repentance should stem from the same source as her wrongdoing. So, she chose, as a form of self-punishment, to stay with Montespan, who, being quite witty, felt no hesitation in publicly mocking her, treated her very badly, and compelled the King to do the same.
He used to pass through La Valliere’s chamber to go to Montespan’s; and one day, at the instigation of the latter, he threw a little spaniel, which he had called Malice, at the Duchesse de La Valliere, saying: “There, Madam, is your companion; that’s all.”
He would walk through La Valliere’s room to get to Montespan’s; and one day, spurred on by Montespan, he tossed a small spaniel he named Malice at the Duchesse de La Valliere, saying: “Here you go, Madam, that’s your companion; that’s it.”
This was the more cruel, as he was then going direct to Montespan’s chamber. And yet La Valliere bore everything patiently; she was as virtuous as Montespan was vicious. Her connection with the King might be pardoned, when it was remembered that everybody had not only advised her to it, but had even assisted to bring it about. The King was young, handsome and gallant; she was, besides, very young; she was naturally modest, and had a very good heart. She was very much grieved when she was made a Duchess, and her children legitimated; before that she thought no one knew she had had children. There was an inexpressible charm in her countenance, her figure was elegant, her eyes were always in my opinion much finer than Montespan’s, and her whole deportment was unassuming. She was slightly lame, but not so much as to impair her appearance.
This was even more cruel since he was heading straight to Montespan’s room. Yet La Valliere handled everything with patience; she was as virtuous as Montespan was wicked. Her relationship with the King could be excused when you consider that everyone not only encouraged it but even helped it happen. The King was young, handsome, and charming; she, on the other hand, was very young as well. She was naturally modest and had a genuinely good heart. She was deeply upset when she was made a Duchess and her children legitimized; before that, she believed no one knew about her children. There was an indescribable charm in her face, her figure was elegant, her eyes, in my opinion, were much nicer than Montespan’s, and her entire demeanor was humble. She had a slight limp, but it didn’t detract from her appearance.
When I first arrived in France she had not retired to the convent, but was still in the Court. We became and continued very intimate until she took the veil. I was deeply affected when this charming person took that resolution; and, at the moment when the funeral pall was thrown over her, I shed so many tears that I could see no more. She visited me after the ceremony, and told me that I should rather congratulate than weep for her, for that from that moment her happiness was to begin: she added that she should never forget the kindness and friendship I had displayed towards her, and which was so much more than she deserved. A short time afterwards I went to see her. I was curious to know why she had remained so long in the character of an attendant to Montespan. She told me that God had touched her heart, and made her sensible of her crimes; that she felt she ought to perform a penitence, and suffer that which would be most painful to her, which was to love the King, and to be despised by him; that for the three years after the King had ceased to love her she had suffered the torments of the damned, and that she offered her sorrows to Heaven as the expiation of her sins; and as her sins had been public, so should be her repentance. She said she knew very well that she had been taken for a fool, who was not sensible of anything; but that at the very period she alluded to she suffered most, and continued to do so until God inspired her with the resolution to abandon everything, and to serve Him alone, which she had since put into execution; but that now she considered herself unworthy, on account of her past life, to live in the society of persons as pure and pious as the Carmelite Sisters. All this evidently came from the heart.
When I first arrived in France, she hadn’t retired to the convent yet and was still part of the Court. We became really close and stayed that way until she took her vows. I was deeply moved when this lovely person made that decision; at the moment the funeral cloth was placed over her, I cried so much I couldn’t see anymore. After the ceremony, she visited me and told me that I should congratulate her instead of crying, because from then on, her happiness was supposed to begin. She added that she would never forget the kindness and friendship I had shown her, which was more than she felt she deserved. A little while later, I went to see her because I was curious as to why she had stayed so long as an attendant to Montespan. She told me that God had touched her heart and made her aware of her sins; she felt she needed to do penance and endure what would be most painful for her, which was to love the King and be rejected by him. For the three years after the King stopped loving her, she had suffered endlessly and offered her pain to Heaven as atonement for her sins. Since her sins had been public, her repentance should be public too. She said she knew very well that people thought she was a fool, not aware of anything, but at that very time she suffered the most and continued to do so until God inspired her to give up everything and serve Him alone, which she had since done. However, she now felt unworthy, because of her past life, to live among people as pure and devout as the Carmelite Sisters. All of this clearly came straight from her heart.
From the time she became professed, she was entirely devoted to Heaven. I often told her that she had only transposed her love, and had given to God that which had formerly been the King’s. She has said frequently that if the King should come into the convent she would refuse to see him, and would hide herself so that he could not find her. She was, however, spared this pain, for the King not only never went, but seemed to have forgotten her, as if he had never known her.
From the moment she took her vows, she was completely devoted to God. I often told her that she had just shifted her love, giving to God what she had previously given to the King. She often said that if the King ever came to the convent, she would refuse to see him and would hide so he couldn't find her. However, she was spared this difficulty, as the King not only never came but seemed to have forgotten her, as if he had never known her.
To accuse La Valliere of loving any one besides the King was wicked to the last degree, but falsehoods cost Montespan but little. The Comte de Vermandois was a good sort of young man, and loved me as if I had been his mother. When his irregularities were first discovered,—[A more particular account of these will be found hereafter.]—I was very angry with him; and I had caused him to be told very seriously that if he had behaved ill I should cease to have any regard for him. This grieved him to the heart; he sent to me daily, and begged permission to say only a few words to me. I was firm during four weeks; at length I permitted him to come, when he threw himself at my feet, begged my pardon, promising to amend his conduct, and beseeching me to restore him my friendship (without which he said he could not exist), and to assist him again with my advice. He told me the whole history of his follies, and convinced me that he had been most grossly deluded.
Accusing La Vallière of loving anyone other than the King was incredibly cruel, but Montespan didn’t care about falsehoods. The Comte de Vermandois was a decent young man who loved me as if I were his mother. When his misbehavior was first discovered,—[A more particular account of these will be found hereafter.]—I was very upset with him; I had made it clear that if he misbehaved, I would stop caring for him. This really hurt him; he sent me messages every day, asking for a chance to speak with me, even just for a moment. I was resolute for four weeks; finally, I allowed him to come over. He threw himself at my feet, begged for my forgiveness, promised to change his ways, and pleaded for me to restore our friendship (which he claimed he couldn’t live without) and to help him again with my advice. He shared the whole story of his mistakes and convinced me that he had been greatly misled.
When the Dauphine lay in of the Duke of Burgundy, I said to the King, “I hope your Majesty will not upon this occasion refuse a humble request I have to make to you.”
When the Dauphine was with the Duke of Burgundy, I said to the King, “I hope your Majesty will not refuse a humble request I have to make to you.”
He smiled and said, “What have you to ask, then?”
He smiled and said, “What do you want to ask, then?”
I replied, “The pardon, Monsieur, of the poor Comte de Vermandois.”
I replied, “The pardon, sir, for the poor Count de Vermandois.”
He smiled once more, and said, “You are a very good friend; but as for M. Vermandois, he has not been sufficiently punished for his crimes.”
He smiled again and said, “You’re a really good friend; but as for M. Vermandois, he hasn’t been punished enough for his crimes.”
“The poor lad,” I rejoined, “is so very penitent for his offence.”
“The poor guy,” I replied, “is really sorry for what he did.”
The King replied, “I do not yet feel myself inclined to see him; I am too angry with him still.”
The King replied, “I still don't feel ready to see him; I'm still too angry with him.”
Several months elapsed before the King would see him; but the young man was very grateful to me for having spoken in his behalf; and my own children could not be more attached to me than he was. He was well made, but his appearance, though not disagreeable, was not remarkably good; he squinted a little.
Several months passed before the King would see him; but the young man was very grateful to me for having spoken up for him; and my own children couldn't be more attached to me than he was. He was well-built, but his appearance, while not unpleasant, wasn't particularly striking; he had a slight squint.
SECTION V.—MADAME DE MONTESPAN
The King at first could not bear Madame de Montespan,—[Daughter of Gabriel de Roche Chouart, first Duc de Mortemart.]—and blamed Monsieur and even the Queen for associating with her; yet, eventually, he fell deeply in love with her himself.
The King initially couldn’t stand Madame de Montespan,—[Daughter of Gabriel de Roche Chouart, first Duc de Mortemart.]—and criticized Monsieur and even the Queen for spending time with her; however, over time, he fell deeply in love with her himself.
She was more of an ambitious than a libertine woman, but as wicked as the devil himself. Nothing could stand between her and the gratification of her ambition, to which she would have made any sacrifice. Her figure was ugly and clumsy, but her eyes bespoke great intelligence, though they were somewhat too bright. Her mouth was very pretty and her smile uncommonly agreeable. Her complexion was fairer than La Valliere’s, her look was more bold, and her general appearance denoted her intriguing temper. She had very beautiful light hair, fine arms, and pretty hands, which La Valliere had not. But the latter was always very neat, and Montespan was filthy to the last degree. She was very amusing in conversation, and it was impossible to be tired in talking with her.
She was more of an ambitious woman than a free spirit, but just as wicked as the devil himself. Nothing could get in the way of her ambition, to which she would have made any sacrifice. Her figure was awkward and unattractive, but her eyes showed great intelligence, even if they were a bit too bright. Her mouth was quite pretty, and her smile was exceptionally charming. Her complexion was fairer than La Valliere’s, her gaze was bolder, and her overall appearance hinted at her intriguing personality. She had beautiful light hair, slender arms, and nice hands, which La Valliere did not have. However, La Valliere was always very neat, while Montespan was messy to the extreme. She was very entertaining in conversation, and it was impossible to get bored talking to her.
The King did not regret Montespan more than he did La Fontange. The Duc d’Antin, her only legitimate child, was also the only one who wept at her death. When the King had the others legitimated, the mother’s name was not mentioned, so that it might appear Madame de Montespan was not their mother.
The King didn’t mourn Montespan more than he did La Fontange. The Duc d'Antin, her only legitimate child, was the only one who cried at her death. When the King had the others legitimized, they didn’t mention their mother’s name so it seemed like Madame de Montespan wasn’t their mother.
[Madame de Montespan had eight children by Louis XIV. The Duc du
Maine; Comte Vegin; Mademoiselle de Nantes, married to the Duc de
Bourbon; Mademoiselle de Tours, married to the Regent Duc d’Orleans;
the Comte de Toulouse, and two other sons who died young.]
[Madame de Montespan had eight children with Louis XIV. The Duke of Maine; Count Vegin; Mademoiselle de Nantes, who married the Duke of Bourbon; Mademoiselle de Tours, who married the Regent Duke of Orleans; Count de Toulouse, and two other sons who died young.]
She was once present at a review, and as she passed before the German soldiers they called out:
She was once at a review, and as she walked past the German soldiers, they shouted:
“Konigs Hure! Hure!” When the King asked her in the evening how she liked the review, she said: “Very well, but only those German soldiers are so simple as not to call things by their proper names, for I had their shouts explained to me.”
“King's whore! Whore!” When the King asked her in the evening how she liked the review, she said: “Very well, but those German soldiers are so simple-minded that they don’t call things by their proper names, because I had their shouts explained to me.”
Madame de Montespan and her eldest daughter could drink a large quantity of wine without being affected by it. I have seen them drink six bumpers of the strong Turin Rosa Solis, besides the wine which they had taken before. I expected to see them fall under the table, but, on the contrary, it affected them no more than a draught of water.
Madame de Montespan and her oldest daughter could drink a lot of wine without it impacting them. I've seen them down six glasses of the strong Turin Rosa Solis, on top of the wine they had already consumed. I expected to see them collapse under the table, but instead, it affected them no more than a sip of water.
It was Madame de Montespan who invented the ‘robes battantes’ for the purpose of concealing her pregnancy, because it was impossible to discover the shape in those robes. But when she wore them, it was precisely as if she had publicly announced that which she affected to conceal, for everybody at the Court used to say, “Madame de Montespan has put on her robe battante, therefore she must be pregnant.” I believe she did it on purpose, hoping that it commanded more attention for her at Court, as it really did.
It was Madame de Montespan who created the 'robes battantes' to hide her pregnancy, since it was impossible to see her shape in those dresses. However, when she wore them, it was as if she had publicly announced what she was trying to hide, because everyone at the Court would say, "Madame de Montespan is wearing her battante dress, so she must be pregnant." I think she did it intentionally, hoping it would draw more attention to her at Court, which it definitely did.
It is quite true that she always had a Royal bodyguard, and it was fit that she should, because the King was always in her apartments by day and night. He transacted business there with his Ministers, but, as there were several chambers, the lady was, nevertheless, quite at liberty to do as she pleased, and the Marshal de Noailles, though a devout person, was still a man. When she went out in a carriage, she had guards, lest her husband should, as he had threatened, offer her some insult.
It’s true that she always had a royal bodyguard, and it made sense because the King was constantly in her rooms, day and night. He conducted business there with his ministers, but since there were several rooms, she was still free to do what she wanted. The Marshal de Noailles, despite being a devout person, was still a man. When she went out in a carriage, she had guards to protect her in case her husband made good on his threats to insult her.
She caused the Queen great vexation, and it is quite true that she used to ridicule her; but then she did the same to everybody besides. She, however, never ventured upon any direct or remarkable impertinence to Her Majesty, for the King would not have suffered it.
She caused the Queen a lot of frustration, and it's true that she used to mock her; but she did the same to everyone else too. However, she never dared to show any outright disrespect to Her Majesty, as the King wouldn't have allowed it.
She had married one of her cousins, M. de Montpipeau, to Mademoiselle Aubry, the daughter of a private citizen who was exceedingly rich. To convince her that she had made a good match, Madame de Montespan had her brought into her own small private room. The young lady was not accustomed to very refined society, and the first time she went she seated herself upon the table, and, crossing her legs, sat swinging there as if she had been in her own chamber. The laugh which this excited cannot be conceived, nor the comical manner in which Madame de Montespan turned it to the King’s amusement. The young lady thought that her new relation was inclined to be favourable to her, and loaded her with compliments. In general, Montespan had the skill of representing things so humourously that it was impossible not to laugh at her.
She had married one of her cousins, M. de Montpipeau, to Mademoiselle Aubry, the daughter of a very wealthy private citizen. To convince her that she had made a good match, Madame de Montespan invited her into her small private room. The young lady wasn't used to high society, and the first time she came over, she sat on the table, crossed her legs, and swung there as if she were in her own room. The laughter this caused was beyond imagination, as was the hilarious way Madame de Montespan turned it into a joke for the King’s amusement. The young lady thought that her new relative was being supportive and showered her with compliments. Overall, Montespan had a knack for presenting things so humorously that it was impossible not to laugh at her.
According to the law of the land, all her children were supposed to be Monsieur de Montespan’s. When her husband was dangerously ill, Madame de Montespan, who in some degree affected devotion, sent to ask him if he would allow her to nurse him in his sickness. He replied that he would very willingly, provided she would bring all his children home with her, but if she left one behind he would not receive her. After this answer, she took care not to go, for her husband was a great brute, and would have said whatever he pleased as soon as she presented herself to him.
According to the law of the land, all her children were supposed to belong to Monsieur de Montespan. When her husband was seriously ill, Madame de Montespan, who somewhat pretended to be devoted, asked if she could take care of him during his sickness. He replied that he would gladly accept, as long as she brought all his children back with her, but if she left even one behind, he wouldn't accept her. After hearing this, she made sure not to go, because her husband was a real jerk and would have said whatever he wanted as soon as she showed up.
With the exception of the Comte de Toulouse, all the children she had by the King are marked. The Duc du Maine is paralytic, Madame d’Orleans is crooked, and Madame la Duchesse is lame.
With the exception of the Comte de Toulouse, all the children she had with the King have disabilities. The Duc du Maine is paralyzed, Madame d’Orleans has a curved spine, and Madame la Duchesse has a limp.
M. de Montespan was not a very estimable person; he did nothing but play. He was a very sordid man, and I believe if the King had chosen to give him a good round sum he would have been very quiet. It was amusing enough to see him and his son, d’Antin, playing with Madame d’Orleans and Madame la Duchesse, and presenting the cards very politely, and kissing his hand to the Princesses, who were called his own daughters. He thought it a joke himself, and always turned aside a little to laugh in his sleeve.
M. de Montespan wasn't a very respectable guy; he only seemed to want to play. He was quite a greedy man, and I believe if the King had decided to give him a good amount of money, he would have kept quiet. It was rather entertaining to watch him and his son, d’Antin, playing with Madame d’Orleans and Madame la Duchesse, as they presented the cards very politely and kissed their hands to the Princesses, who he referred to as his own daughters. He found it funny himself and would often turn aside just to laugh to himself.
SECTION VI.—MADAME DE MAINTENON.
The marriage of Louis XIV. with old Maintenon proves how impossible it is to escape one’s fate. The King said one day to the Duc de Crequi and to M. de La Rochefoucauld, long before he knew Mistress Scarron, “I am convinced that astrology is false. I had my nativity cast in Italy, and I was told that, after living to an advanced age, I should be in love with an old ——- to the last moment of my existence. I do not think there is any great likelihood of that.” He laughed most heartily as he said this; and yet the thing has taken place.
The marriage of Louis XIV to the older Maintenon shows how impossible it is to escape one’s fate. One day, the King told Duc de Crequi and M. de La Rochefoucauld, long before he knew Mistress Scarron, “I’m convinced that astrology is false. I had my natal chart done in Italy, and I was told that after living to an old age, I would be in love with an older woman until the very end of my life. I really don’t think that’s very likely.” He laughed heartily when he said this; and yet, it turned out to be true.
The history of Theodora, in Procopius, bears a singular resemblance to that of Maintenon. In the history of Sweden, too, there is a similar character in the person of Sigbritta, a Dutch woman, who lived during the reign of Christian IL, King of Denmark, Sweden and Norway, who bears so great a likeness to Maintenon that I was struck with it as soon as I read it. I cannot imagine how they came to permit its publication. It is fortunate for the Abbe Vertot, who is the author, that the King does not love reading, otherwise he would certainly have been sent to the Bastille. Several persons thought that the Abbe had invented it by way of a joke, but he swears by all that is good that he found it in the annals of Sweden. The old woman cannot have read it either, for she is too much occupied in reading the letters written to her from Paris, relating all that is going on there and at the Court. Sometimes the packets have consisted of twenty or thirty sheets; she kept them or showed them to the King, according as she liked or disliked the persons.
The story of Theodora in Procopius is strikingly similar to that of Maintenon. In the history of Sweden, there's also a comparable figure in Sigbritta, a Dutch woman who lived during the reign of Christian II, King of Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. She resembles Maintenon so closely that I was taken aback when I read about her. I can’t understand how they allowed it to be published. The Abbe Vertot, the author, is lucky the King isn’t fond of reading; otherwise, he would have definitely been sent to the Bastille. Some people thought the Abbe made it up as a joke, but he insists on all that is good that he found it in Sweden’s records. The old woman probably hasn’t read it either, as she is too busy going through letters from Paris, detailing everything happening there and at the Court. Sometimes these letters consist of twenty or thirty sheets; she either keeps them or shows them to the King, depending on her feelings about the senders.
She was not deficient in wit, and could talk very well whenever she chose. She did not like to be called La Marquise, but preferred the simpler and shorter title of Madame de Maintenon.
She was smart and could talk quite well whenever she wanted. She didn't like being called La Marquise, preferring the simpler and shorter title of Madame de Maintenon.
She did not scruple to display openly the hatred she had for me. For example, when the Queen of England came to Marly, and went out on foot or in the carriage with the King, on their return the Queen, the Dauphine, the Princess of England, and all the Princesses, went into the King’s room; I alone was excluded.
She had no hesitation in openly showing the hatred she felt for me. For instance, when the Queen of England visited Marly and went out walking or riding in a carriage with the King, upon their return, the Queen, the Dauphine, the Princess of England, and all the other Princesses went into the King’s room; I alone was left out.
It was with great regret that I gave up my Maids of Honour. I had four, sometimes five of them, with their governess and sub-governess; they amused me very much, for they were all very gay. The old woman feared there might be some among them to whom the King might take a fancy, as he had done to Ludre and Fontange. I only kept my Maids of Honour a year after the death of Monsieur. The King was always fond of the sex, and if the old woman had not watched him very narrowly he would have slipped through her fingers in spite of all his devotion.
I was really sad to let go of my Maids of Honour. I had four, sometimes five, along with their governess and sub-governess; they amused me a lot since they were all very cheerful. The old woman was worried that some of them might catch the King’s eye, just like Ludre and Fontange had. I only kept my Maids of Honour for a year after Monsieur passed away. The King always had a liking for women, and if the old woman hadn't kept such a close eye on him, he would have gotten away with it despite all his loyalty.
She hated the Dauphine because the latter would not let her treat her like a child, but wished to keep a Court and live as became her rank. This the old woman could not and would not endure. She loved to set all things in confusion, as she did afterwards with the second Dauphine, in the hope of compelling the King to recognize and proclaim her as Queen; but this the King never would do, notwithstanding all her artifices.—
She hated the Dauphine because she wouldn't let her treat her like a child and wanted to maintain a court and live according to her status. The old woman couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate this. She loved to stir up chaos, as she later did with the second Dauphine, hoping to force the King to acknowledge and declare her as Queen; but the King never did, despite all her manipulations.
[Other writers including Madame de Montespan put it just the opposite way that the King wished to proclaim Maintenon Queen and she refused. D.W.]
[Other writers, including Madame de Montespan, said the exact opposite; that the King wanted to make Maintenon Queen, and she turned him down. D.W.]
Nobody at Court used perfumery except that old woman; her gloves were always scented with jessamine. The King could not bear scent on any other person, and only endured it in her because she made him believe that it was somebody else who was perfumed.
Nobody at Court used perfume except that old woman; her gloves were always scented with jasmine. The King couldn't stand perfume on anyone else, and only tolerated it on her because she convinced him that it was someone else who was wearing the scent.
If Madame des Ursins had not been protected by Madame de Maintenon, she would have been ruined at Court long before the Queen of Spain dismissed her, for in his heart the King disliked her excessively; but all those who were supported by Madame de Maintenon were sure to triumph.
If Madame des Ursins hadn't had Madame de Maintenon's protection, she would have been finished at Court long before the Queen of Spain let her go, because deep down, the King really didn't like her; but everyone backed by Madame de Maintenon was guaranteed to succeed.
The old woman took great pains to conceal from the King all that could give him pain; but she did not scruple to torment him incessantly about the Constitution and those illegitimate children, whom she wished to raise higher than the King desired. She teased him also with her hatred of my son and myself, for he had no dislike to us.
The old woman went to great lengths to hide anything that might hurt the King, but she didn't hesitate to constantly nag him about the Constitution and those illegitimate children, whom she wanted to elevate more than the King did. She also bothered him with her resentment towards my son and me, even though he didn't have any issue with us.
Neither the Queen nor the first Dauphine nor myself ever received a farthing; but this old Maintenon took money on all sides, and taught the second Dauphine to do the same. Her example was followed by all the others.
Neither the Queen nor the first Dauphine nor I ever received a penny; but this old Maintenon took money from all directions and taught the second Dauphine to do the same. Her example was followed by everyone else.
In the time of the Queen and the first Dauphine, everything at Court was conducted with modesty and dignity. Those persons who indulged in secret debaucheries at least kept up a respect for appearances; but from the time that Maintenon’s reign began, and the King’s illegitimate children were made a part of the Royal Family, all was turned topsy-turvy.
In the era of the Queen and the first Dauphine, everything at Court was handled with humility and respect. Even those who engaged in secret indulgences maintained a semblance of decorum; however, once Maintenon's reign started, and the King’s illegitimate children were included in the Royal Family, chaos ensued.
When she once conceived a hatred against any person it was for life, and she never ceased secretly to persecute them, as I have personally experienced. She has laid many snares for me, which by the help of Providence I have always avoided. She was terribly annoyed by her first husband, who kept her always shut up in his chamber. Many people say, too, that she hastened the passage of poor Mansart into the other world. It is quite certain that he was poisoned by means of green peas, and that he died within three hours of eating them. She had learnt that on the same day M. de Torcy was going to show the King certain papers containing an account of the money which she had received from the post unknown to His Majesty. The King never knew anything of this adventure nor of that of Louvois, because, as people had no fancy for being poisoned, they held their tongues.
When she once developed a hatred for someone, it was lifelong, and she never stopped secretly trying to ruin them, as I've personally seen. She's set many traps for me, which, thanks to Providence, I've always managed to escape. She was extremely frustrated with her first husband, who kept her confined to his chamber. Many people also say that she expedited poor Mansart's passing into the afterlife. It's quite clear that he was poisoned with green peas and died within three hours of eating them. She had found out that on the same day, M. de Torcy was going to present the King with some papers detailing the money she had received from the post without His Majesty's knowledge. The King was never made aware of this incident or the one involving Louvois, because people weren't keen on being poisoned and chose to stay quiet.
Before she got into power, the Church of France was very reasonable; but she spoiled everything by encouraging such follies and superstitions as the rosaries and other things. When any reasonable men appeared, the old woman and the Confessor had them banished or imprisoned. These two persons were the causes of all the persecutions which the Lutherans and those of the reformed religion underwent in France. Pere La Chaise, with his long ears, began this worthy enterprise, and Pere Letellier completed it; France was thus ruined in every way.
Before she came to power, the Church of France was quite reasonable; but she messed everything up by promoting ridiculous ideas and superstitions like rosaries and other things. Whenever rational people tried to speak up, the old woman and the Confessor had them exiled or locked up. These two were responsible for all the persecutions that the Lutherans and those of the reformed faith faced in France. Pere La Chaise, with his long ears, started this noble endeavor, and Pere Letellier finished it; as a result, France was completely ruined.
The Duchesse de Bourbon was taught by her mother and her aunt, Mesdames de Montespan and De Thiange, to ridicule everybody, under the pretext of diverting the King. The children, who were always present, learnt nothing else; and this practice was the universal dread of all persons in the Court; but not more so than that of the gouvernante of the children (Madame de Maintenon). Her habit was to treat things very seriously, and without the least appearance of jesting. She used to speak ill of persons to the King through charity and piety, for the sole purpose of correcting the faults of her neighbours; and under this pretext she filled the King with a bad opinion of the whole Court, solely that he might have no desire for any other company than that of herself and her creatures, who were alone perfect and without the slightest defect. What rendered her disclosures the more dangerous was that they were frequently followed by banishment, by ‘lettres-de-cachet’, and by imprisonment. When Montespan was in power, at least there was nothing of this sort. Provided she could amuse herself at the expense of all around her, she was content.
The Duchesse de Bourbon was taught by her mother and her aunt, Mesdames de Montespan and De Thiange, to make fun of everyone, claiming it was for the King’s entertainment. The children, who were always around, learned nothing else; this habit became the source of universal fear for everyone at the Court, but even more so than the governess of the children (Madame de Maintenon). She had a serious approach, treating matters gravely without any hint of humor. She would talk negatively about people to the King out of supposed charity and piety, aiming to correct the faults of others; under this guise, she instilled a negative view of the whole Court in him, ensuring he only desired the company of herself and her favorites, who were supposedly perfect and without any flaws. What made her disclosures even more dangerous was that they often led to banishment, 'lettres-de-cachet', and imprisonment. When Montespan held power, at least things were not like this. As long as she could have fun at the expense of those around her, she was satisfied.
I have often heard Madame de Maintenon say, jestingly, “I have always been either too far from, or too near to, greatness, to know exactly what it is.”
I have often heard Madame de Maintenon jokingly say, “I have always been either too far from or too close to greatness to know exactly what it is.”
She could not forgive the King for not having proclaimed her Queen. She put on such an appearance of humility and piety to the Queen of England that she passed for a saint with her. The old woman knew very well that I was a right German, and that I never could endure unequal alliances. She fancied, therefore, that it was on my account the King was reluctant to acknowledge his marriage with her, and this it was that made her hate me so profoundly. From the time of the King’s death and our departure from Versailles my son has never once seen her.
She couldn't forgive the King for not naming her Queen. She acted so humble and devout to the Queen of England that she appeared to be a saint in her eyes. The old woman knew very well that I was a true German and that I could never accept unequal marriages. She believed, therefore, that it was because of me that the King was hesitant to acknowledge his marriage to her, and that's what made her hate me so deeply. Since the King's death and our departure from Versailles, my son has never seen her again.
She would never allow me to meddle with anything, because she feared it would give me an opportunity of talking to the King. It was not that she was jealous lest he should be fond of me, but she feared that, in speaking according to my usual custom, freely and without restraint, I should open the King’s eyes and point out to him the folly of the life he was leading. I had, however, no such intention.
She would never let me get involved with anything because she was worried it would give me a chance to talk to the King. It wasn't that she was jealous he might like me; she was afraid that if I spoke as I usually did—freely and without holding back—I would make the King realize the foolishness of his lifestyle. However, I had no such intention.
All the mistresses the King had did not tarnish his reputation so much as the old woman he married; from her proceeded all the calamities which have since befallen France. It was she who excited the persecution against the Protestants, invented the heavy taxes which raised the price of grain so high, and caused the scarcity. She helped the Ministers to rob the King; by means of the Constitution she hastened his death; she brought about my son’s marriage; she wanted to place bastards upon the throne; in short, she ruined and confused everything.
All the mistresses the King had didn’t damage his reputation nearly as much as the old woman he married; from her came all the disasters that have since hit France. She was the one who stirred up the persecution against the Protestants, created the heavy taxes that drove up grain prices, and caused the shortages. She helped the Ministers take advantage of the King; through the Constitution, she rushed his death; she arranged my son’s marriage; she wanted to put illegitimate children on the throne; in short, she messed everything up.
Formerly the Court never went into mourning for children younger than six years of age; but the Duc du Maine having lost a daughter only one year old, the old woman persuaded the King to order a mourning, and since that time it has been always worn for children of a year old.
Previously, the Court never wore mourning for children under six years old; however, after the Duc du Maine lost his one-year-old daughter, the old woman convinced the King to mandate mourning, and since then, it has always been observed for children who are one year old.
The King always hated or loved as she chose to direct; it was not, therefore, surprising that he could not bear Montespan, for all her failings were displayed to him by the old woman, who was materially assisted in this office by Montespan’s eldest son, the Duc du Maine. In her latter years she enjoyed a splendour which she could never have dreamed of before; the Court looked upon her as a sort of divinity.
The King always either loved or hated, depending on her whims; so it wasn't surprising that he couldn't stand Montespan, especially since all her faults were pointed out to him by the old woman, who was helped in this by Montespan's eldest son, the Duc du Maine. In her later years, she enjoyed a level of luxury she could never have imagined before; the Court regarded her as something like a goddess.
The old lady never failed to manifest her hatred of my son on all occasions. She liked my husband no better than myself; and my son and my daughter and her husband were equally objects of her detestation. She told a lady once that her greatest fault was that of being attached to me. Neither my son nor I had ever done her any injury. If Monsieur thought fit to tell his niece, the Duchess of Burgundy, a part of Maintenon’s history, in the vexation he felt at her having estranged the Princess from him, and not choosing that she should behave affectionately to her great-uncle, that was not our fault. She was as jealous of the Dauphine as a lover is of his mistress.
The old lady never missed a chance to show her dislike for my son. She wasn't any fonder of my husband than she was of me; my son, daughter, and her husband were all targets of her contempt. She once told another woman that her biggest flaw was being connected to me. Neither my son nor I had ever done anything to hurt her. If Monsieur decided to share part of Maintenon’s story with his niece, the Duchess of Burgundy, out of frustration that she had turned the Princess against him and didn’t want her to be affectionate towards her great-uncle, that wasn’t our problem. She was as jealous of the Dauphine as a lover is of his girlfriend.
She was in the habit of saying, “I perceive there is a sort of vertigo at present affecting the whole world.” When she perceived that the harvest had failed, she bought up all the corn she could get in the markets, and gained by this means an enormous sum of money, while the poor people were dying of famine. Not having a sufficient number of granaries, a large quantity of this corn became rotten in the boats loaded with it, and it was necessary to throw it into the river. The people said this was a just judgment from Heaven.
She often said, “I can see that there’s a kind of dizziness right now affecting the whole world.” When she noticed that the harvest had failed, she bought up all the corn she could find in the markets, making a huge profit while the poor were starving. Not having enough storage, a lot of this corn went rotten in the boats carrying it, and they had to dump it into the river. People called this a fair judgment from Heaven.
My son made me laugh the other day. I asked him how Madame de Maintenon was.
My son made me laugh the other day. I asked him how Madame de Maintenon was doing.
“Wonderfully well,” he replied.
“Really well,” he replied.
“That is surprising at her age,” I said.
"That's surprising at her age," I said.
“Yes,” he rejoined, “but do you not know that God has, by way, of punishing the devil, doomed him to exist a certain number of years in that ugly body?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but don’t you know that God has, as a punishment for the devil, sentenced him to live a certain number of years in that ugly body?”
Montespan was the cause of the King’s love for old Maintenon. In the first place, when she wished to have her near her children, she shut her ears to the stories which were told of the irregular life which the hussy had been leading; she made everybody who spoke to the King about her, praise her; her virtue and piety were cried up until the King was made to think that all he had heard of her light conduct were lies, and in the end he most firmly believed it. In the second place, Montespan was a creature full of caprice, who had no control over herself, was passionately fond of amusement, was tired whenever she was alone with the King, whom she loved only, for the purposes of her own interest or ambition, caring very little for him personally. To occupy him, and to prevent him from observing her fondness for play and dissipation, she brought Maintenon. The King was fond of a retired life, and would willingly have passed his time alone with Montespan; he often reproached her with not loving him sufficiently, and they quarrelled a great deal occasionally. Goody Scarron then appeared, restored peace between them, and consoled the King. She, however, made him remark more and more the bitter temper of Montespan; and, affecting great devotion, she told the King that his affliction was sent him by Heaven, as a punishment for the sins he had committed with Montespan. She was eloquent, and had very fine eyes; by degrees the King became accustomed to her, and thought she would effect his salvation. He then made a proposal to her; but she remained firm, and gave him to understand that, although he was very agreeable to her, she would not for the whole world offend Heaven. This excited in the King so great an admiration for her, and such a disgust to Madame de Montespan, that he began to think of being converted. The old woman then employed her creature, the Duc du Maine, to insinuate to his mother that, since the King had taken other mistresses, for example, Ludres and Fontange, she had lost her authority, and would become an object of contempt at Court. This irritated her, and she was in a very bad humour when the King came. In the meantime, Maintenon was incessantly censuring the King; she told him that he would be damned if he did not live on better terms with the Queen. Louis XIV. repeated this to his wife, who considered herself much obliged to Madame de Maintenon: she treated her with marks of distinction, and consented to her being appointed second dame d’atour to the Dauphine of Bavaria; so that she had now nothing to do with Montespan. The latter became furious, and related to the King all the particulars of the life of Dame Scarron. But the King, knowing her to be an arrant fiend, who would spare no one in her passion, would not believe anything she said to him. The Duc du Maine persuaded his mother to retire from Court for a short time in order that the King might recall her. Being fond of her son, and believing him to be honest in the advice he gave her, she went to Paris, and wrote to the King that she would never come back. The Duc du Maine immediately sent off all her packages after her without her knowledge; he even had her furniture thrown out of the window, so that she could not come back to Versailles. She had treated the King so ill and so unkindly that he was delighted at being rid of her, and he did not care by what means. If she had remained longer, the King, teased as he was, would hardly have been secure against the transports of her passion. The Queen was extremely grateful to Maintenon for having been the means of driving away Montespan and bringing back the King to the marriage-bed; an arrangement to which, like an honest Spanish lady, she had no sort of objection. With that goodness of heart which was so remarkable in her, she thought she was bound to do something for Madame de Maintenon, and therefore consented to her being appointed dame d’atour. It was not until shortly before her death that she learnt she had been deceived by her. After the Queen’s death, Louis XIV. thought he had gained a triumph over the very personification of virtue in overcoming the old lady’s scruples; he used to visit her every afternoon, and she gained such an influence over him as to induce him to marry.
Montespan was the reason the King fell for Madame de Maintenon. First, when she wanted her around her children, she ignored the rumors about the scandalous life Montespan had been leading; she insisted that everyone who spoke to the King about her praise her. They went on about her virtue and piety until the King started to believe that all the talk about her loose behavior was just lies, and eventually, he fully bought into it. Second, Montespan was unpredictable, had no self-control, and loved to have fun. She would get bored whenever she was alone with the King, whom she only loved for her own interests and ambitions, caring very little for him personally. To keep him occupied and prevent him from noticing her love for amusement and extravagance, she brought Maintenon into the picture. The King preferred a quiet life and would have happily spent time alone with Montespan; he'd often complain that she didn't love him enough, and they sometimes had big fights. Then, Madame Scarron came along, smoothed things over, and comforted the King. However, she also pointed out more and more Montespan’s bitter nature. Pretending to be very devout, she told the King that his suffering was a punishment from Heaven for the sins he committed with Montespan. She was articulate and had very striking eyes; gradually, the King grew used to her and thought she could save him. He then proposed to her, but she stood her ground, making it clear that even though she found him charming, she wouldn’t offend Heaven for anything. This stirred a deep admiration in the King for her and disgust for Madame de Montespan, making him consider converting. The old woman then used her ally, the Duc du Maine, to suggest to his mother that since the King had taken on other mistresses, like Ludres and Fontange, she had lost her authority and would become respected at Court. This angered her, and she was in a foul mood when the King arrived. Meanwhile, Maintenon kept criticizing the King, telling him he'd be damned if he didn't get along better with the Queen. Louis XIV. relayed this to his wife, who felt very grateful to Madame de Maintenon; she treated her with respect and agreed to her being appointed second lady of the household to the Dauphine of Bavaria, which meant she was now distanced from Montespan. Montespan exploded in fury and told the King everything about Dame Scarron's life. But the King, knowing her to be a wicked schemer who would stop at nothing in her rage, didn’t believe anything she said. The Duc du Maine convinced his mother to step away from Court temporarily, thinking it would prompt the King to ask her back. Caring for her son and believing he was giving her good advice, she went to Paris and wrote to the King saying she'd never return. The Duc du Maine immediately sent all her belongings after her without her knowing, even throwing her furniture out of the window so she couldn’t come back to Versailles. She had treated the King so poorly that he was thrilled to be rid of her, no matter the means. If she had stayed longer, the King, already frustrated, wouldn’t have been safe from her passionate outbursts. The Queen was extremely grateful to Maintenon for helping to remove Montespan and restore the King to their marriage bed; a situation she, as an honest Spanish woman, had no objections to at all. With her remarkable kindness, she felt she should do something for Madame de Maintenon and therefore agreed to her being appointed lady of the household. It wasn't until shortly before her death that she learned she had been deceived by her. After the Queen's death, Louis XIV. believed he had triumphed over the very embodiment of virtue by overcoming the old lady’s scruples; he visited her every afternoon, and she gained such influence over him that he agreed to marry.
Madame la Marechale de Schomberg had a niece, Mademoiselle d’Aumale, whom her parents had placed at St. Cyr during the King’s life. She was ugly, but possessed great wit, and succeeded in amusing the King so well that the old Maintenon became disturbed at it. She picked a quarrel with her, and wanted to send her again to the convent. But the King opposed this, and made the old lady bring her back. When the King died, Mademoiselle d’Aumale would not stay any longer with Madame de Maintenon.
Madame la Maréchale de Schomberg had a niece, Mademoiselle d’Aumale, whom her parents had enrolled at St. Cyr during the King’s lifetime. She wasn't attractive, but she was very witty and managed to entertain the King so well that the old Maintenon became jealous. She picked a fight with her and wanted to send her back to the convent. However, the King intervened and made the old lady bring her back. After the King died, Mademoiselle d’Aumale chose not to stay with Madame de Maintenon any longer.
When the Dauphine first arrived, she did not know a soul. Her household was formed before she came. She did not know who Maintenon was; and when Monsieur explained it to her a year or two afterwards, it was too late to resist. The Dauphin used at first to laugh at the old woman, but as he was amorous of one of the Dauphine’s Maids of Honour, and consequently was acquainted with the gouvernante of the Maids of Honour, Montchevreuil, a creature of Maintenon’s, that old fool set her out in very fair colours. Madame de Maintenon did not scruple to estrange the Dauphin from the Dauphine, and very piously to sell him first Rambure and afterwards La Force.
When the Dauphine first arrived, she didn’t know anyone. Her household had been set up before her arrival. She wasn’t familiar with Maintenon; and when Monsieur explained it to her a year or two later, it was too late to push back. At first, the Dauphin would laugh at the old woman, but since he was interested in one of the Dauphine’s Maids of Honour, he got to know the governess of the Maids of Honour, Montchevreuil, who was a favorite of Maintenon. That old fool painted her in a very flattering light. Madame de Maintenon had no qualms about driving a wedge between the Dauphin and the Dauphine, and she ingeniously sold him Rambure first and then La Force.
18th April, 1719—To-day I will begin my letter with the story of Madame de Ponikau, in Saxony. One day during her lying-in, as she was quite alone, a little woman dressed in the ancient French fashion came into the room and begged her to permit a party to celebrate a wedding, promising that they would take care it should be when she was alone. Madame de Ponikau having consented, one day a company of dwarfs of both sexes entered her chamber. They brought with them a little table, upon which a good dinner, consisting of a great number of dishes, was placed, and round which all the wedding guests took their seats. In the midst of the banquet, one of the little waiting-maids ran in, crying,
18th April, 1719—Today I will start my letter with the story of Madame de Ponikau in Saxony. One day during her confinement, while she was completely alone, a petite woman dressed in the old French style came into the room and asked if she could host a wedding party, promising it would only happen when Madame de Ponikau was by herself. After some thought, Madame de Ponikau agreed, and one day a group of dwarfs, both male and female, entered her room. They brought a small table on which a delicious meal was set, featuring a variety of dishes, and the wedding guests gathered around it. In the middle of the feast, one of the little maids burst in, crying,
“Thank Heaven, we have escaped great perplexity. The old ——- is dead.”
“Thank goodness, we've avoided a lot of confusion. The old ——- is dead.”
It is the same here, the old is dead. She quitted this world at St. Cyr, on Saturday last, the 15th day of April, between four and five o’clock in the evening. The news of the Duc du Maine and his wife being arrested made her faint, and was probably the cause of her death, for from that time she had not a moment’s repose or content. Her rage, and the annihilation of her hopes of reigning with him, turned her blood. She fell sick of the measles, and was for twenty days in great fever. The disorder then took an unfavourable turn, and she died. She had concealed two years of her age, for she pretended to be only eighty-four, while she was really eighty-six years old. I believe that what grieved her most in dying was to quit the world, and leave me and my son behind her in good health. When her approaching death was announced to her, she said, “To die is the least event of my life.” The sums which her nephew and niece De Noailles inherited from her were immense; but the amount cannot be ascertained, because she had concealed a large part of her wealth.
It's the same here; the old is gone. She left this world at St. Cyr on Saturday, April 15th, between four and five in the afternoon. The news of the Duc du Maine and his wife being arrested made her faint and was probably the reason for her death, since from that moment, she had not a second of peace or happiness. Her anger and the destruction of her hopes of ruling with him consumed her. She got sick with measles and endured a high fever for twenty days. Then her condition took a turn for the worse, and she passed away. She had hidden two years of her age; she claimed to be only eighty-four when she was actually eighty-six. I believe what saddened her most about dying was the thought of leaving the world and leaving me and my son behind in good health. When she was told her death was near, she said, “Dying is the least significant event of my life.” The amounts her nephew and niece De Noailles inherited from her were huge, but the exact sum can't be determined because she had hidden a large part of her fortune.
A cousin of hers, the Archbishop of Rouen, who created so much trouble with respect to the Constitution, followed his dear cousin into the other world exactly a week afterwards, on the same day, and at the same hour.
A cousin of hers, the Archbishop of Rouen, who caused so much trouble regarding the Constitution, followed his dear cousin into the afterlife exactly a week later, on the same day and at the same hour.
Nobody, knows what the King said to Maintenon on his death bed. She had retired to St. Cyr before he died. They fetched her back, but she did not stay, to the end. I think the King repented of his folly in having married her, and, indeed, notwithstanding all her contrivances, she could not persuade him to declare their marriage. She wept for the King’s death, but was not so deeply afflicted as she ought to have been. She always flattered herself with the hope of reigning together with the Duc du Maine.
Nobody knows what the King said to Maintenon on his death bed. She had gone back to St. Cyr before he passed away. They called her back, but she didn't stay until the end. I think the King regretted his mistake in marrying her, and despite all her efforts, she couldn't get him to acknowledge their marriage. She cried over the King’s death, but she wasn't as heartbroken as she should have been. She always maintained the hope of ruling alongside the Duc du Maine.
From the beginning to the end of their connection, the King’s society was always irksome to her, and she did not scruple to say so to her own relations. She had before been much accustomed to the company of men, but afterwards dared see none but the King, whom she never loved, and his Ministers. This made her ill-tempered, and she did not fail to make those persons who were within her power feel its effects. My son and I have had our share of it. She thought only of two things, her ambition and her amusement. The old sorceress never loved any one but her favourite, the Duc du Maine. Perceiving that the Dauphine was desirous of acting for herself and profiting by the king’s favour, that she ridiculed her to her attendants, and seemed not disposed to yield to her domination, she withdrew her attention from her; and if the Dauphine had not possessed great influence with the King, Maintenon would have turned round upon her former favourite; she was therefore very soon consoled for this Princess’s death. She thought to have the King entirely at her disposal through the Duc du Maine, and it was for this reason that she relied so much upon him, and was so deeply afflicted at his imprisonment.
From the start to the end of their relationship, the King’s circle was always frustrating to her, and she had no hesitation in saying so to her family. She had previously spent a lot of time with men, but afterward, she only dared to see the King, whom she never loved, and his Ministers. This made her irritable, and she made sure those around her felt it. My son and I have experienced it too. She only cared about two things: her ambition and her entertainment. The old witch never truly loved anyone except her favorite, the Duc du Maine. Noticing that the Dauphine wanted to assert herself and gain the King’s favor, and that she mocked her to her attendants while refusing to submit to her control, she shifted her focus away from her; if the Dauphine hadn't held significant sway with the King, Maintenon would have turned against her past favorite. She quickly got over the Princess's death. She thought she could have the King totally under her influence through the Duc du Maine, which is why she relied so heavily on him and was so deeply upset by his imprisonment.
She was not always so malicious, but her wickedness increased with her years. For us it had been well that she had died twenty years before, but for the honour of the late King that event ought to have taken place thirty-three years back, for, if I do not mistake, she was married to the King two years after the Queen’s death, which happened five-and-thirty years ago.
She wasn't always so evil, but her wickedness grew as she got older. For us, it would have been better if she had died twenty years earlier, but for the dignity of the late King, that should have happened thirty-three years ago because, if I'm correct, she married the King two years after the Queen's death, which happened thirty-five years ago.
If she had not been so outrageously inveterate against me, she could have done me much more injury with the King, but she set about it too violently; this caused the King to perceive that it was mere malice, and therefore it had no effect. There were three reasons why she hated me horribly. The first was, that the King treated me favourably. I was twenty-five years of age when she came into power; she saw that, instead of suffering myself to be governed by her, I would have my own way, and, as the King was kind to me, that I should undeceive him and counsel him not to suffer himself to be blindly led by so worthless a person. The second reason was that, knowing how much I must disapprove of her marriage with the King, she imagined I should always be an obstacle to her being proclaimed Queen; and the third was, that I had always taken the Dauphine’s part whenever Maintenon had mortified her. The poor Dauphine did not know what to do with Maintenon, who possessed the King’s heart, and was acquainted with all his intentions. Notwithstanding all the favour she enjoyed, the old lady was somewhat timid. If the Dauphine could have summoned courage to threaten Maintenon, as I advised her, to hint that her previous life was well known, and that unless she behaved better to the Dauphine the latter would expose her to the King, but that if, on the contrary, she would live quietly and on good terms, silence should be kept, then Maintenon would have pursued a very different conduct. That wicked Bessola always prevented this, because then she would have had no more tales to tell.
If she hadn't been so ridiculously determined against me, she could have caused me much more harm with the King, but she went about it too aggressively; this made the King realize it was just spite, and so it had no effect. There were three reasons why she hated me so much. The first was that the King treated me well. I was twenty-five when she came into power; she saw that instead of letting her control me, I was going to do things my own way, and since the King was kind to me, I would make him see the truth and advise him not to be blindly led by someone so unworthy. The second reason was that, knowing how much I disapproved of her marrying the King, she thought I would always be an obstacle to her becoming Queen. The third was that I had always supported the Dauphine whenever Maintenon had embarrassed her. Poor Dauphine didn't know how to deal with Maintenon, who had the King's heart and knew all his plans. Despite the favor she had, the old lady was a bit timid. If the Dauphine had found the courage to threaten Maintenon, like I suggested, to hint that her past was well known, and that unless she treated the Dauphine better, the latter would expose her to the King, but if she behaved well, her silence would be guaranteed, then Maintenon would have acted very differently. That wicked Bessola always stopped this from happening because otherwise, she wouldn't have any more stories to tell.
One day I found the Dauphine in the greatest distress and drowned in tears, because the old woman had threatened to make her miserable, to have Madame du Maine preferred to her, to make her odious to the whole Court and to the King besides. I laughed when she told me all this.
One day, I found the Dauphine in deep distress, crying hard, because the old woman had threatened to make her life miserable, to make Madame du Maine favored over her, and to turn everyone at court and the King against her. I laughed when she shared all of this with me.
“Is it possible,” I said, “with so much sense and courage as you possess that you will suffer this old hag to frighten you thus? You can have nothing to fear: you are the Dauphine, the first person in the kingdom; no one can do you any mischief without the most serious cause. When, therefore, they threaten you, answer boldly: ‘I do not fear pour menaces; Madame de Maintenon is too much beneath me, and the King is too just to condemn without hearing me. If you compel me I will speak to him myself, and we shall see whether he will protect me or not.’”
“Is it possible,” I said, “with all the sense and courage you have, that you would let this old hag scare you like this? You have nothing to fear: you are the Dauphine, the highest person in the kingdom; no one can harm you without a very good reason. So when they threaten you, respond confidently: ‘I do not fear your threats; Madame de Maintenon is far beneath me, and the King is too fair to condemn me without hearing my side. If you force me, I’ll speak to him myself, and we’ll see if he will protect me or not.’”
The Dauphine was not backward in repeating this word for word. The old woman immediately said, “This is not your own speech; this proceeds from Madame’s bad advice; you have not courage enough to think thus for yourself; however, we shall see whether Madame’s friendship will be profitable to you or not.” But from that time forth she never threatened the Princess. She had introduced the name of the Duchesse du Maine adroitly enough in her threats to the Dauphine, because, having educated the Duke, she thought her power at Court unlimited, and wished to chew that she could prefer the last Princess of the blood before the first person in France, and that therefore it was expedient to submit to her and obey her. But Bessola, who was jealous of me, and could not bear that the Dauphine should confide in me, had been bought over by the old woman, to whom she betrayed us, and told her all that I had said to console the Princess; she was commissioned, besides, to torment and intimidate her mistress as much as possible, and acquitted herself to a miracle, terrifying her to death, and at the same time seeming to act only from attachment, and to be entirely devoted to her. The poor Dauphine never distrusted this woman, who had been educated with her, and had accompanied her to France; she did not imagine that falsehood and perfidy existed to such an extent as this infernal creature carried them. I was perfectly amazed at it. I opposed Bessola, and did all I could to console the Dauphine and to alleviate her vexation. She told me when she was dying that I had prolonged her life by two years by inspiring her with courage. My exertions, however, procured for me Maintenon’s cordial hatred, which lasted to the end of her life. Although the Dauphine might have something to reproach herself with, she was not to be taken to task for it by that old woman, for who had ever led a less circumspect life than she? In public, or when we were together, she never said anything unpleasant to me, for she knew that I would not have failed to answer her properly, as I knew her whole life. Villarceaux had told me more of her than I desired to know.
The Dauphine didn’t hesitate to repeat this exactly. The old woman immediately said, “This isn’t your own speech; it comes from Madame’s bad advice; you don’t have the courage to think this way for yourself; however, we shall see whether Madame’s friendship will be beneficial to you or not.” But from that point on, she never threatened the Princess again. She had cleverly mentioned the name of the Duchesse du Maine in her threats to the Dauphine because, having raised the Duke, she believed her power at Court was limitless and wanted to show that she could favor the last Princess of the blood over the most important person in France, making it seem necessary to submit to her and obey her. But Bessola, who was jealous of me and couldn’t stand that the Dauphine confided in me, had been won over by the old woman. She betrayed us by revealing everything I had said to comfort the Princess and was also tasked with tormenting and intimidating her mistress as much as possible, which she managed to do remarkably well, scaring her to death while pretending to be devoted and caring. The poor Dauphine never suspected this woman, who had been raised alongside her and had come to France with her; she couldn’t imagine that deceit and treachery could be taken to such extremes by this wicked person. I was utterly astonished by it. I stood up to Bessola and did everything I could to reassure the Dauphine and ease her distress. She told me when she was dying that I had extended her life by two years by giving her strength. However, my efforts earned me Maintenon’s deep hatred, which lasted until her death. Even though the Dauphine might have had some regrets, she shouldn’t have been reprimanded by that old woman, who had led a less careful life than anyone. In public, or when we were together, she never said anything rude to me, knowing I wouldn’t hesitate to respond appropriately, as I was well aware of her entire life. Villarceaux had told me more about her than I wanted to know.
When the King was talking to me on his death-bed she turned as red as fire.
When the King was speaking to me on his deathbed, she turned as red as fire.
“Go away, Madame,” said she; “the King is too much affected while he talks to you; it may do him harm. Pray go away.”
“Leave, Madame,” she said; “the King is too emotional when he talks to you; it might hurt him. Please, go away.”
As I went out she followed me and said, “Do not think, Madame, that I have ever done you an ill turn with the King.”
As I was leaving, she followed me and said, “Don't think, Madame, that I've ever done anything bad to you with the King.”
I answered her with tears, for I thought I should choke with grief: “Madame, do not let us talk upon that subject,” and so quitted her.
I responded with tears, fearing I'd suffocate from sorrow: “Madame, let’s not discuss that topic,” and left her.
That humpbacked old Fagon, her favourite, used to say that he disliked Christianity because it would not allow him to build a temple to Maintenon and an altar to worship her.
That hunchbacked old Fagon, her favorite, used to say that he disliked Christianity because it wouldn’t let him build a temple to Maintenon and an altar to worship her.
The only trait in her character that I can find to praise is her conduct to Montchevreuil; although she was a wicked old devil, Maintenon had reason to love her and be kind to her, for she had fed and clothed her when Maintenon was in great want.
The only quality in her character that I can commend is how she treated Montchevreuil; although she was a wicked old devil, Maintenon had good reason to love her and be kind to her, as she had provided food and clothing for Maintenon when she was in desperate need.
I believe the old woman would not procure for Madame de Dangeau the privilege of the tabouret, only because she was a German and of good family. She once had two young girls from Strasbourg brought to Court, and made them pass for Countesses Palatine, placing them in the office of attendants upon her nieces. I did not know a word of it until the Dauphine came to tell it me with tears in her eyes.
I believe the old woman wouldn’t grant Madame de Dangeau the privilege of the tabouret just because she was German and from a respectable family. She once brought two young girls from Strasbourg to Court and made them pretend to be Countesses Palatine, putting them in charge of attending to her nieces. I didn’t find out about any of this until the Dauphine came to tell me with tears in her eyes.
I said to her, “Do not disturb yourself, leave me alone to act; when I have a good reason for what I do, I despise the old witch.”
I said to her, “Don’t stress yourself out, just leave me alone to do my thing; when I have a good reason for what I do, I can’t stand that old witch.”
When I saw from my window the niece walking with these German girls, I went into the garden and met them. I called one of them, and asked her who she was. She told me, boldly, that she was a Countess Palatine of Lutzelstein.
When I saw my niece walking with those German girls from my window, I went out to the garden to meet them. I called one of them over and asked her who she was. She confidently told me that she was a Countess Palatine of Lutzelstein.
“By the left hand?” I asked.
“By the left hand?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, “I am not illegitimate; the young Count Palatine married my mother, who is of the house of Gehlen.”
“No,” she replied, “I’m not illegitimate; the young Count Palatine married my mother, who is from the house of Gehlen.”
“In that case,” I said, “you cannot be Countess Palatine; for we never allow such unequal marriages to hold good. I will tell you, moreover, that you lie when you say that the Count Palatine married your mother; she is a ——-, and the Count has married her no more than a hundred others have done; I know her lawful husband is a hautboy-player. If you presume, in future, to pass yourself off as a Countess Palatine I will have you stripped; let me never again hear anything of this; but if you will follow my advice, and take your proper name, I shall not reproach you. And now you see what you have to choose between.”
“In that case,” I said, “you can't be Countess Palatine because we never allow such unequal marriages to be valid. I’ll also tell you that you’re lying when you say that the Count Palatine married your mother; she is a ——-, and the Count has married her just like he has a hundred others; I know her real husband is a hautboy player. If you try to pass yourself off as a Countess Palatine again, I will have you stripped of that title; don’t let me hear anything about this again. But if you take my advice and use your real name, I won’t blame you. Now you see what you need to choose between.”
The girl took this so much to heart that she died some days afterwards. As for the second, she was sent to a boarding-house in Paris, where she became as bad as her mother; but as she changed her name I did not trouble myself any further about her.
The girl took this to heart so much that she died a few days later. As for the second girl, she was sent to a boarding house in Paris, where she turned out just like her mother; but since she changed her name, I didn't bother myself with her anymore.
I told the Dauphine what I had done, who was very much obliged to me, and confessed she should not have had courage enough to do it herself. She feared that the King would be displeased with me; but he only said to me, jestingly, “One must not play tricks with you about your family, for it seems to be a matter of life or death with you.”
I told the Dauphine what I had done, and she was really grateful to me, admitting that she wouldn’t have had the courage to do it herself. She worried that the King might be upset with me; but he just joked, “You shouldn’t mess around with your family issues, because it seems to be a matter of life or death for you.”
I replied, “I hate lies.”
I said, “I hate lies.”
There was a troop of Italian players who had got up a comedy called “The Pretended Prude.” When I learnt they were going to represent it, I sent for them and told them not to do so. It was in vain; they played it, and got a great deal of money by it; but they were afterwards sent away in consequence. They then came to me and wanted me to intercede for them; but I said, “Why did you not take my advice?” It was said they hit off the character of Maintenon with the most amusing fidelity. I should have liked to see it, but I would not go lest the old woman should have told the King that I had planned it out of ill-will to her.
There was a group of Italian actors who had put together a comedy called “The Pretended Prude.” When I found out they were going to perform it, I called them in and told them not to. It didn’t work; they went ahead and performed it and made a lot of money from it, but they were later dismissed as a result. They then came to me asking for my support to get them back, but I said, “Why didn’t you take my advice?” It was said they captured the character of Maintenon with hilarious accuracy. I would have liked to see it, but I didn't go because I didn’t want that old woman telling the King that I was behind it out of spite towards her.
SECTION VII.—THE QUEEN—CONSORT OF LOUIS XIV.
Our Queen was excessively ignorant, but the kindest and most virtuous woman in the world; she had a certain greatness in her manner, and knew how to hold a Court extremely well. She believed everything the King told her, good or bad. Her teeth were very ugly, being black and broken. It was said that this proceeded from her being in the constant habit of taking chocolate; she also frequently ate garlic. She was short and fat, and her skin was very white. When she was not walking or dancing she seemed much taller. She ate frequently and for a long time; but her food was always cut in pieces as small as if they were for a singing bird. She could not forget her country, and her manners were always remarkably Spanish. She was very fond of play; she played basset, reversis, ombre, and sometimes a little primero; but she never won because she did not know how to play.
Our Queen was quite clueless but the kindest and most virtuous woman in the world. She had a certain presence about her and knew how to run a Court really well. She believed everything the King told her, whether it was good or bad. Her teeth were very unattractive, being black and broken. It was said that this was due to her constant habit of drinking chocolate; she also often ate garlic. She was short and overweight, and her skin was very pale. When she wasn’t walking or dancing, she seemed much taller. She ate often and for a long time; however, her food was always cut into pieces as small as if it were for a pet bird. She couldn’t forget her homeland, and her manners were always distinctly Spanish. She loved to play games; she played basset, reversis, ombre, and sometimes a little primero, but she never won because she didn’t know how to play.
She had such as affection for the King that she used to watch his eyes to do whatever might be agreeable to him; if he only looked at her kindly she was in good spirits for the rest of the day. She was very glad when the King quitted his mistresses for her, and displayed so much satisfaction that it was commonly remarked. She had no objection to being joked upon this subject, and upon such occasions used to laugh and wink and rub her little hands.
She cared for the King so much that she paid close attention to his eyes to do whatever he might like; if he just looked at her kindly, she'd feel great for the rest of the day. She was really happy when the King left his mistresses for her and showed so much joy that everyone noticed. She didn't mind being teased about it and would laugh, wink, and rub her little hands when it happened.
One day the Queen, after having conversed for half-an-hour with the Prince Egon de Furstemberg,—[Cardinal Furstemberg, Bishop of Strasbourg.]—took me aside and said to me, “Did you know what M. de Strasbourg has been saying? I have not understood him at all.”
One day, the Queen, after talking for half an hour with Prince Egon de Furstemberg,—[Cardinal Furstemberg, Bishop of Strasbourg.]—pulled me aside and said, “Did you hear what M. de Strasbourg has been saying? I haven't understood a word of it.”
A few minutes afterwards the Bishop said to me, “Did your Royal Highness hear what the Queen said to me? I have not comprehended a single word.”
A few minutes later, the Bishop said to me, “Did your Royal Highness hear what the Queen said to me? I didn’t understand a single word.”
“Then,” said I, “why did you answer her.”
“Then,” I said, “why did you respond to her?”
“I thought,” he replied, “that it would have been indecorous to have appeared not to understand Her Majesty.”
“I thought,” he replied, “that it would have been inappropriate to seem as if I didn’t understand Her Majesty.”
This made me laugh so much that I was obliged precipitately to quit the Chamber.
This made me laugh so hard that I had to quickly leave the room.
The Queen died of an abscess under her arm. Instead of making it burst, Fagon, who was unfortunately then her physician, had her blooded; this drove in the abscess, the disorder attacked her internally, and an emetic, which was administered after her bleeding, had the effect of killing the Queen.
The Queen died from an abscess under her arm. Instead of draining it, Fagon, who was unfortunately her doctor at the time, had her bled. This pushed the abscess deeper, leading to internal complications, and the emetic given after her bleeding ended up killing the Queen.
The surgeon who blooded her said, “Have you considered this well, Sir? It will be the death of my Mistress!”
The surgeon who took her blood asked, “Have you thought this through, Sir? It could lead to my Mistress’s death!”
Fagon replied, “Do as I bid you.”
Fagon replied, “Just do what I say.”
Gervais, the surgeon, wept, and said to Fagon, “You have resolved, then, that my Mistress shall die by my hand!”
Gervais, the surgeon, cried and said to Fagon, “So you've decided that my Mistress will die by my hand!”
Fagon had her blooded at eleven o’clock; at noon he gave her an emetic, and three hours afterwards she was dead. It may be truly said that with her died all the happiness of France. The King was deeply grieved by this event, which that old villain Fagon brought about expressly for the purpose of confirming that mischievous old woman’s fortune.
Fagon had her bled at eleven o’clock; at noon he gave her an emetic, and three hours later she was dead. It can honestly be said that with her, all the happiness of France died. The King was very upset by this, which that old scoundrel Fagon orchestrated specifically to secure that troublesome old woman’s fortune.
After the Queen’s death I also happened to have an abscess. Fagon did all he could to make the King recommend me to be blooded; but I said to him, in His Majesty’s presence, “No, I shall do no such thing. I shall treat myself according to my own method; and if you had done the same to the Queen she would have been alive now. I shall suffer the abscess to gather, and then I shall have it opened.” I did so, and soon got well.
After the Queen died, I ended up with an abscess. Fagon tried his best to get the King to recommend that I be bled, but I told him, in front of His Majesty, “No, I won’t do that. I’ll treat myself my own way; if you had done the same for the Queen, she’d still be alive. I’ll let the abscess build up, and then I’ll have it drained.” I did that, and I soon got better.
The King said very kindly to me, “Madame, I am afraid you will kill yourself.”
The King said to me very kindly, “Madame, I'm afraid you might hurt yourself.”
I replied, laughing, “Your Majesty is too good to me, but I am quite satisfied with not having followed my physician’s advice, and you will soon see that I shall do very well.”
I responded with a laugh, “Your Majesty is too kind to me, but I’m actually quite happy that I didn’t follow my doctor’s advice, and you’ll see soon enough that I’ll be just fine.”
After my convalescence I said at table, in presence of my two doctors, Daguin, who was then first physician, and Fagon, who succeeded him upon his being disgraced, “Your Majesty sees that I was right to have my own way; for I am quite well, notwithstanding all the wise sayings and arguments of these gentlemen.”
After my recovery, I said at the table, in front of my two doctors, Daguin, who was the primary physician at the time, and Fagon, who took over after Daguin was disgraced, “Your Majesty sees that I was right to do things my way; I’m completely fine, despite all the wise words and arguments from these gentlemen.”
They were a little confused, but put it off with a laugh; and Fagon said to me,—
They were a bit confused, but shrugged it off with a laugh; and Fagon said to me,—
“When folks are as robust as you, Madame, they may venture to risk somewhat.”
“When people are as strong as you, Madam, they might dare to take a few risks.”
I replied, “If I am robust, it is because I never take medicine but on urgent occasions.”
I responded, “If I’m strong, it’s because I only take medicine when absolutely necessary.”
BOOK 2.
Philippe I., Duc d’Orleans Philippe II., Duc d’Orleans, Regent of France The Affairs of the Regency The Duchesse d’Orleans, Consort of the Regent The Dauphine, Princess of Bavaria. Adelaide of Savoy, the Second Dauphine The First Dauphin The Duke of Burgundy, the Second Dauphin Petite Madame
Philippe I, Duke of Orleans Philippe II, Duke of Orleans, Regent of France The Affairs of the Regency The Duchess of Orleans, Consort of the Regent The Dauphine, Princess of Bavaria. Adelaide of Savoy, the Second Dauphine The First Dauphin The Duke of Burgundy, the Second Dauphin Petite Madame
SECTION VIII.—PHILIPPE I., DUC D’ORLEANS.
Cardinal Mazarin perceiving that the King had less readiness than his brother, was apprehensive lest the latter should become too learned; he therefore enjoined the preceptor to let him play, and not to suffer him to apply to his studies.
Cardinal Mazarin noticing that the King was less eager than his brother, worried that the latter might become too knowledgeable; he therefore ordered the tutor to let him play and not to let him focus on his studies.
“What can you be thinking of, M. la Mothe le Vayer,” said the Cardinal; “would you try to make the King’s brother a clever man? If he should be more wise than his brother, he would not be qualified for implicit obedience.”
“What are you thinking, M. la Mothe le Vayer?” said the Cardinal. “Are you trying to make the King’s brother smart? If he’s wiser than his brother, he won’t be fit for blind obedience.”
Never were two brothers more totally different in their appearance than the King and Monsieur. The King was tall, with light hair; his mien was good and his deportment manly. Monsieur, without having a vulgar air, was very small; his hair and eye-brows were quite black, his eyes were dark, his face long and narrow, his nose large, his mouth small, and his teeth very bad; he was fond of play, of holding drawing-rooms, of eating, dancing and dress; in short, of all that women are fond of. The King loved the chase, music and the theatre; my husband rather affected large parties and masquerades: his brother was a man of great gallantry, and I do not believe my husband was ever in love during his life. He danced well, but in a feminine manner; he could not dance like a man because his shoes were too high-heeled. Excepting when he was with the army, he would never get on horseback. The soldiers used to say that he was more afraid of being sun-burnt and of the blackness of the powder than of the musket-balls; and it was very true. He was very fond of building. Before he had the Palais Royal completed, and particularly the grand apartment, the place was, in my opinion, perfectly horrible, although in the Queen-mother’s time it had been very much admired. He was so fond of the ringing of bells that he used to go to Paris on All Souls’ Day for the purpose of hearing the bells, which are rung during the whole of the vigils on that day he liked no other music, and was often laughed at for it by his friends. He would join in the joke, and confess that a peal of bells delighted him beyond all expression. He liked Paris better than any other place, because his secretary was there, and he lived under less restraint than at Versailles. He wrote so badly that he was often puzzled to read his own letters, and would bring them to me to decipher them.
Never were two brothers more completely different in their looks than the King and Monsieur. The King was tall with light hair; he had a noble appearance and a manly demeanor. Monsieur, though not lacking in style, was quite short; his hair and eyebrows were jet black, his eyes dark, his face long and narrow, his nose prominent, his mouth small, and his teeth very bad; he loved to play games, host gatherings, eat, dance, and dress up; in short, he indulged in everything that women enjoy. The King loved hunting, music, and the theater; my husband preferred big parties and masquerades: his brother was quite the charmer, while I don’t think my husband ever fell in love in his life. He danced well, but in a more delicate style; he couldn’t dance like a man because his shoes had such high heels. Besides when he was with the army, he would never get on a horse. The soldiers used to say he was more scared of getting sunburned and the blackness of gunpowder than of the bullets, and that was very true. He loved building projects. Before the Palais Royal was finished, especially the grand apartment, I thought the place was pretty awful, even though it had been highly praised during the Queen Mother’s time. He loved the sound of bells so much that he would go to Paris on All Souls’ Day just to hear them ring throughout the vigils that day; he liked no other music and often got teased about it by his friends. He would laugh along and admit that a bell peal thrilled him like nothing else. He preferred Paris over anywhere else because his secretary was there and he had more freedom than at Versailles. He wrote so poorly that he often struggled to read his own letters and would come to me to help decipher them.
“Here, Madame,” he used to say, laughing, “you are accustomed to my writing; be so good as to read me this, for I really cannot tell what I have been writing.” We have often laughed at it.
“Here, Madame,” he used to say, laughing, “you’re used to my writing; could you please read this to me? I honestly can’t remember what I wrote.” We’ve often laughed about it.
He was of a good disposition enough, and if he had not yielded so entirely to the bad advice of his favourites, he would have been the best master in the world. I loved him, although he had caused me a great deal of pain; but during the last three years of his life that was totally altered. I had brought him to laugh at his own weakness, and even to take jokes without caring for them. From the period that I had been calumniated and accused, he would suffer no one again to annoy me; he had the most perfect confidence in me, and took my part so decidedly, that his favourites dared not practise against me. But before that I had suffered terribly. I was just about to be happy, when Providence thought fit to deprive me of my poor husband. For thirty years I had been labouring to gain him to myself, and, just as my design seemed to be accomplished, he died. He had been so much importuned upon the subject of my affection for him that he begged me for Heaven’s sake not to love him any longer, because it was so troublesome. I never suffered him to go alone anywhere without his express orders.
He was a really good guy, and if he hadn’t listened so much to the bad advice of his friends, he would have been the best boss ever. I cared about him, even though he caused me a lot of pain; but in the last three years of his life, everything changed completely. I had managed to make him laugh at his own flaws and even take jokes without getting upset. After I was slandered and falsely accused, he wouldn’t let anyone bother me again; he trusted me completely and defended me so strongly that his friends dared not work against me. But before that, I had gone through a lot of suffering. I was just about to be happy when fate decided to take my poor husband away. For thirty years, I had been trying to win him over, and just when it seemed I had, he passed away. He had been asked so many times about my feelings for him that he pleaded with me not to love him anymore because it was too much trouble. I never let him go anywhere alone without his direct orders.
The King often complained that he had not been allowed to converse sufficiently with people in his youth; but taciturnity was a part of his character, for Monsieur, who was brought up with him, conversed with everybody. The King often laughed, and said that Monsieur’s chattering had put him out of conceit with talking. We used to joke Monsieur upon his once asking questions of a person who came to see him.
The King often complained that he hadn't been allowed to talk enough with people when he was young; but being reserved was part of his nature, since Monsieur, who grew up with him, chatted with everyone. The King would often laugh and say that Monsieur's chatter had made him lose interest in talking. We used to tease Monsieur about that time he asked questions of someone who came to visit him.
“I suppose, Monsieur,” said he, “you come from the army?”
“I guess, sir,” he said, “you’re coming from the army?”
“No, Monsieur,” replied the visitor, “I have never joined it.”
“No, sir,” replied the visitor, “I have never joined it.”
“You arrive here, then, from your country house?”
“You're coming from your country house, right?”
“Monsieur, I have no country house.”
“Mister, I don’t have a country house.”
“In that case, I imagine you are living at Paris with your family?”
“In that case, I guess you're living in Paris with your family?”
“Monsieur, I am not married.”
“Sir, I'm not married.”
Everybody present at this burst into a laugh, and Monsieur in some confusion had nothing more to say. It is true that Monsieur was more generally liked at Paris than the King, on account of his affability. When the King, however, wished to make himself agreeable to any person, his manners were the most engaging possible, and he won people’s hearts much more readily than my husband; for the latter, as well as my son, was too generally civil. He did not distinguish people sufficiently, and behaved very well only to those who were attached to the Chevalier de Lorraine and his favourites.
Everyone at this burst into laughter, and Monsieur, a bit embarrassed, had nothing more to say. It's true that Monsieur was generally liked in Paris more than the King because of his friendliness. However, when the King wanted to make a good impression on someone, his manners were incredibly charming, and he won people’s hearts more easily than my husband did; my husband, like my son, was too universally polite. He didn't distinguish between people well enough and behaved very nicely only toward those who were close to the Chevalier de Lorraine and his favorites.
Monsieur was not of a temper to feel any sorrow very deeply. He loved his children too well even to reprove them when they deserved it; and if he had occasion to make complaints of them, he used to come to me with them.
Monsieur wasn't the type to feel deep sorrow. He loved his children too much to scold them, even when they deserved it; and if he needed to complain about them, he would come to me with his concerns.
“But, Monsieur,” I have said, “they are your children as well as mine, why do you not correct them?”
“But, Sir,” I said, “they're your kids just as much as mine, so why don't you discipline them?”
He replied, “I do not know how to scold, and besides they would not care for me if I did; they fear no one but you.”
He replied, “I don’t know how to scold, and besides, they wouldn’t care about me if I did; they fear no one but you.”
By always threatening the children with me, he kept them in constant fear of me. He estranged them from me as much as possible, but he left me to exercise more authority over my elder daughter and over the Queen of Sicily than over my son; he could not, however, prevent my occasionally telling them what I thought. My daughter never gave me any cause to complain of her. Monsieur was always jealous of the children, and was afraid they would love me better than him: it was for this reason that he made them believe I disapproved of almost all they did. I generally pretended not to see this contrivance.
By constantly using me to scare the kids, he kept them in a state of fear regarding me. He tried to push them away from me as much as possible, but he still allowed me to have more control over my older daughter and the Queen of Sicily than over my son; however, he couldn't stop me from occasionally expressing my thoughts to them. My daughter never gave me any reason to complain. Monsieur was always jealous of the kids and worried they would love me more than him, which is why he convinced them that I disapproved of almost everything they did. I usually pretended not to notice this scheme.
Without being really fond of any woman, Monsieur used to amuse himself all day in the company of old and young ladies to please the King: in order not to be out of the Court fashion, he even pretended to be amorous; but he could not keep up a deception so contrary to his natural inclination. Madame de Fiennes said to him one day, “You are in much more danger from the ladies you visit, than they are from you.” It was even said that Madame de Monaco had attempted to give him some violent proofs of her affection. He pretended to be in love with Madame de Grancey; but if she had had no other lover than Monsieur she might have preserved her reputation. Nothing culpable ever passed between them; and he always endeavoured to avoid being alone with her. She herself said that whenever they happened to be alone he was in the greatest terror, and pretended to have the toothache or the headache. They told a story of the lady asking him to touch her, and that he put on his gloves before doing so. I have often heard him rallied about this anecdote, and have often laughed at it.
Without genuinely liking any woman, Monsieur would spend all day socializing with both older and younger ladies to keep the King happy. To stay in line with Court trends, he even pretended to be infatuated, but he couldn’t maintain a lie that went against his true nature. Madame de Fiennes once told him, "You are in much more danger from the ladies you visit than they are from you." It was rumored that Madame de Monaco had tried to show him some intense signs of affection. He feigned love for Madame de Grancey, but if she had only had Monsieur as a lover, she might have saved her reputation. Nothing inappropriate ever happened between them, and he always tried to avoid being alone with her. She said that whenever they were alone, he was extremely nervous and pretended to have a toothache or headache. There was a story that she asked him to touch her, and he put on his gloves before doing it. I’ve heard him teased about this story many times and have often laughed at it.
Madame de Grancey was one of the most foolish women in the world. She was very handsome at the time of my arrival in France, and her figure was as good as her face; besides, she was not so much disregarded by others as by my husband; for, before the Chevalier de Lorraine became her lover, she had had a child. I knew well that nothing had passed between Monsieur and Grancey, and I was never jealous of them; but I could not endure that she should derive a profit from my household, and that no person could purchase an employment in it without paying a douceur to her. I was also often indignant at her insolence to me, and at her frequently embroiling me with Monsieur. It was for these reasons, and not from jealousy, as was fancied by those who knew nothing about it, that I sometimes sharply reprimanded her. The Chevalier de Lorraine, upon his return from Rome, became her declared lover. It was through his contrivances, and those of D’Effiat, that she was brought into the house of Monsieur, who really cared nothing about her. Her continued solicitations and the behaviour of the Chevalier de Lorraine had so much disgusted Monsieur, that if he had lived he would have got rid of them both.
Madame de Grancey was one of the most foolish women around. She was quite attractive when I arrived in France, and her figure matched her good looks. However, she was more ignored by my husband than by others; before she became the lover of the Chevalier de Lorraine, she had a child. I knew that nothing had happened between my husband and Grancey, and I was never jealous of them; but I couldn’t stand the fact that she was benefiting from my household, and that no one could get a job there without giving her a kickback. I was often furious at her rudeness towards me and for how she frequently put me in a tough spot with my husband. It was for these reasons, not jealousy as those who didn't understand thought, that I sometimes scolded her sharply. When the Chevalier de Lorraine returned from Rome, he became her official lover. It was through his efforts, along with D’Effiat, that she got into my husband's house, where he really didn’t care about her. Her constant demands and the Chevalier’s behavior had disgusted my husband so much that if he had lived, he would have gotten rid of both of them.
He had become tired of the Chevalier de Lorraine because he had found out that his attachment to him proceeded from interested motives. When Monsieur, misled by his favourites, did something which was neither just nor expedient, I used to say to him, “Out of complaisance to the Chevalier de Lorraine, you put your good sense into your pocket, and button it up so tight that it cannot be seen.”
He had grown tired of the Chevalier de Lorraine because he realized that his feelings for him were based on selfish reasons. When Monsieur, influenced by his favorites, made decisions that were neither fair nor practical, I would say to him, “To please the Chevalier de Lorraine, you’re putting your common sense away and locking it up so tight that no one can see it.”
After my husband’s death I saw Grancey only once; I met her in the garden. When she ceased to be handsome, she fell into utter despair; and so great a change took place in her appearance that no one would have known her. Her nose, before so beautiful, grew long and large, and was covered with pimples, over each of which she put a patch; this had a very singular effect; the red and white paint, too, did not adhere to her face. Her eyes were hollow and sunken, and the alteration which this had caused in her face cannot be imagined. In Spain they, lock up all the ladies at night, even to the septuagenary femmes de chambre. When Grancey followed our Queen to Spain as dame d’atour, she was locked up in the evening, and was in great grief about it.
After my husband died, I saw Grancey just once; I ran into her in the garden. When she stopped being attractive, she fell into complete despair, and the change in her appearance was so drastic that no one would have recognized her. Her once-beautiful nose became long and large, covered in pimples, with patches over each one; it created a very strange look. The red and white makeup didn’t even stick to her face. Her eyes were hollow and sunken, and the change this caused in her appearance is hard to imagine. In Spain, they keep all the women locked up at night, even the seventy-year-old maids. When Grancey accompanied our Queen to Spain as lady-in-waiting, she was locked up in the evening and was deeply saddened by it.
When she was dying, she cried, “Ah, mon Dieu, must I die, who have never once thought of death?”
When she was dying, she cried, “Oh my God, do I have to die, when I’ve never even thought about death?”
She had never done anything but sit at play with her lovers until five or six o’clock in the morning, feast, and smoke tobacco, and follow uncontrolled her natural inclinations.
She had only ever spent her time playing with her lovers until five or six in the morning, eating, smoking tobacco, and following her urges without restraint.
When she reached her climacteric, she said, in despair, “Alas, I am growing old, I shall have no more children.”
When she reached menopause, she said, in despair, “Oh no, I am getting old, I won’t have any more children.”
This was exceedingly amusing; and her friends, as well as her enemies, laughed at it. She once had a high dispute with Madame de Bouillon. One evening, Grancey chose to hide herself in one of the recesses formed by the windows in the chamber of the former lady, who, not thinking she was heard, conversed very freely with the Marquise d’Allure, respecting the libertine life of Grancey; in the course of which she said several strange things respecting the treatment which her lovers had experienced from her. Grancey at length rushed out, and fell to abusing Madame de Bouillon like a Billingsgate. The latter was not silent, and some exceedingly elegant discourse passed between them. Madame de Bouillon made a complaint against Grancey; in the first place, for having listened to her conversation; and in the second, for having insulted her in her own house. Monsieur reproved Grancey; told her that she had brought this inconvenience upon herself by her own indiscretion, and ordered her to be reconciled with her adversary.
This was really funny; both her friends and her enemies laughed about it. She once had a big argument with Madame de Bouillon. One evening, Grancey decided to hide in one of the recesses created by the windows in the former lady's room, who, not realizing she was being overheard, spoke very openly with the Marquise d’Allure about Grancey’s scandalous lifestyle. During their chat, she mentioned several odd things about how her lovers had been treated by her. Eventually, Grancey burst out and started yelling at Madame de Bouillon like a fishwife. The latter didn’t hold back either, and some very polished insults were exchanged between them. Madame de Bouillon lodged a complaint against Grancey, first for eavesdropping on her conversation and second for insulting her in her own home. Monsieur scolded Grancey, told her she had brought this trouble upon herself with her own thoughtlessness, and instructed her to make amends with her rival.
“How can I,” said Grancey, “be reconciled to Madame de Bouillon, after all the wicked things she has said about me?” But after a moment’s reflection she added, “Yes, I can, for she did not say I was ugly.”
“How can I,” said Grancey, “be okay with Madame de Bouillon after all the terrible things she’s said about me?” But after thinking for a moment, she added, “Yes, I can, because she didn’t say I was ugly.”
They afterwards embraced, and made it up.
They hugged each other and reconciled.
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Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.
Monsieur was taken ill at ten o’clock at night, but he did not die until the next day at noon. I can never think of this night without horror. I remained with him from ten at night until five the next morning, when he lost all consciousness.—[The Duc d’Orleans died of apoplexy on the 9th June, 1701]
Monsieur got sick at ten o’clock at night, but he didn’t pass away until noon the next day. I can never think about that night without feeling a sense of dread. I stayed with him from ten at night until five the next morning, when he lost all awareness.—[The Duc d’Orleans died of apoplexy on the 9th June, 1701]
The Electors of Germany would not permit Monsieur to write to them in the same style as the King did.
The Electors of Germany wouldn't allow Monsieur to write to them in the same way the King did.
SECTION IX.—PHILIPPE II., DUC D’ ORLEANS, REGENT OF FRANCE.
From the age of fourteen to that of fifteen years, my son was not ugly; but after that time he became very much sun-burnt in Italy and Spain. Now, however, he is too ruddy; he is fat, but not tall, and yet he does not seem disagreeable to me. The weakness of his eyes causes him sometimes to squint. When he dances or is on horseback he looks very well, but he walks horridly ill. In his childhood he was so delicate that he could not even kneel without falling, through weakness; by degrees, however, his strength improved. He loads his stomach too much at table; he has a notion that it is good to make only one meal; instead of dinner, he takes only one cup of chocolate, so that by supper he is extremely hungry and thirsty. In answer to whatever objections are made to this regimen, he says he cannot do business after eating. When he gets tipsy, it is not with strong potations, but with Champagne or Tokay. He is not very fond of the chase. The weakness of his sight arose from an accident which befell him at the age of four years, and which was something like an apoplexy. He sees well enough near, and can read the smallest writing; but at the distance of half the room he cannot distinguish persons without a glass. He had an application of a powder to that eye which is worst, and, although it had caused intolerable pain to every other person who had used it, it seemed to have no effect upon him, for he laughed and chatted as usual. He found some benefit from this; but W. Gendron was too severe for him. That physician forbade the petits-soupers and the amusements which usually followed them; this was not agreeable to my son, and those who used to frequent them to their own advantage; they therefore persuaded him to adopt some other remedies which almost deprived him of sight. For the last forty years (1719), that is to say since the accident happened, the month of October has never elapsed without his health and eyesight being affected towards the 21st in some way or other.
From the age of fourteen to fifteen, my son wasn’t unattractive; however, after that, he became quite sunburnt in Italy and Spain. Now, though, he’s a bit too red-faced; he’s chubby but not tall, and still, he doesn’t seem unpleasant to me. His weak eyesight sometimes causes him to squint. When he dances or rides a horse, he looks good, but he walks terribly. In his childhood, he was so frail that he couldn’t even kneel without falling due to weakness; gradually, though, he gained strength. He overeats at meals; he believes it’s better to have just one meal a day. Instead of dinner, he only has a cup of chocolate, leaving him extremely hungry and thirsty by supper. When objections are raised about this routine, he claims he can't work after eating. When he gets tipsy, it’s not from hard liquor but from Champagne or Tokay. He’s not very interested in hunting. His vision problems came from an accident he had at the age of four, similar to a stroke. He sees well up close and can read tiny text; however, from halfway across the room, he can’t recognize people without glasses. He had a powdered treatment for his worst eye, and even though it caused unbearable pain for everyone else who tried it, it didn’t affect him at all; he just laughed and chatted like normal. He found some benefit from it, but W. Gendron was too strict with him. That doctor banned late-night snacks and the fun that usually followed them; this didn’t sit well with my son, nor with those who enjoyed them for their own gain. They convinced him to try other treatments, which nearly robbed him of his sight. For the last forty years (since 1719), meaning since the accident happened, October has never gone by without affecting his health and vision in some way around the 21st.
He was only seventeen years old when he was married. If he had not been threatened with imprisonment in the old castle of Villers-Cotterets, and if hopes had not been given him of seeing the Duchesse de Bourbon as he wished, they could not have induced him to form this accursed marriage. It is my son’s unlucky destiny to have for a wife a woman who is desirous of ruling everything with her brothers. It is commonly said, that where one sins there one suffers; and thus it has happened to my son with respect to his wife and his brothers-in-law. If he had not inflicted upon me the deepest vexation by uniting himself with this low race, he might now speak to them boldly. I never quarrelled with my son; but he was angry with me about this marriage, which he had contracted against my inclination.
He was only seventeen when he got married. If he hadn’t been threatened with imprisonment in the old castle of Villers-Cotterets, and if he hadn’t been promised a chance to see the Duchesse de Bourbon as he hoped, he would never have agreed to this cursed marriage. It’s my son’s unfortunate fate to be married to a woman who wants to control everything with her brothers. It’s often said that where one sins, one suffers; and that’s exactly what’s happened to my son with his wife and her brothers. If he hadn’t caused me deep distress by marrying into this low family, he could now talk to them confidently. I never argued with my son, but he was upset with me about this marriage he entered into against my wishes.
As I sincerely love him, I have forgotten it; and I do not believe that we shall ever quarrel in future. When I have anything to say about his conduct, I say it openly, and there is an end of it. He behaves to me very respectfully. I did all in my power to prevent his marriage; but since it did take place, and with his consent, though without mine, I wish now only for his tranquillity. His wife fancies that she has done him an honour in marrying him, because he is only the son of the brother of a king, while she is the daughter of a king; but she will not perceive that she is also the daughter of a ——-. He was obliged to put down all his feelings of nobility; and if I had a hundred crowns for as many times as he has since repented it, I could almost buy France for the King, and pay his debts. My son visits his wife every day, and when she is in good humour he stays with her a long time; but when she is ill-tempered, which, unfortunately, happens too often, he goes away without saying anything. I have every reason to be satisfied with him; he lives on very good terms with me, and I have no right to complain of his conduct; but I see that he does not repose much confidence in me, and I know many persons to whom he is more communicative.
Since I truly love him, I’ve let it go; I don’t think we’ll ever argue again. If I have something to say about his behavior, I express it openly, and that's the end of it. He treats me very respectfully. I did everything I could to stop his marriage; but since it happened with his agreement, even if I didn’t consent, I now only wish him peace. His wife thinks she’s done him a favor by marrying him because he’s just the son of a king’s brother, while she’s a king’s daughter; but she doesn’t realize she’s also the daughter of a ——-. He had to suppress all his noble feelings; and if I had a hundred crowns for every time he’s regretted it, I could almost buy France for the King and pay off his debts. My son visits his wife every day, and when she’s in a good mood, he stays for a long time; but when she’s in a bad mood, which unfortunately happens too often, he leaves without saying anything. I have every reason to be pleased with him; he gets along very well with me, and I have no right to complain about his behavior; but I can see he doesn’t trust me much, and I know many people he confides in more.
I love my son with all my heart; but I cannot see how any one else can, for his manners are little calculated to inspire love. In the first place, he is incapable of the passion, or of being attached to any one for a long time; in the second, he is not sufficiently polished and gallant to make love, but sets about it rudely and coarsely; in the third, he is very indiscreet, and tells plainly all that he has done.
I love my son with all my heart, but I can’t understand how anyone else could, because his behavior doesn’t really invite affection. First of all, he’s incapable of feeling passion or forming a lasting attachment to anyone; second, he’s not refined or charming enough to woo someone, instead approaching love in a clumsy and rough way; and third, he’s very indiscreet and openly reveals everything he has done.
I have said to him a hundred times, “I wonder how any woman can run after you, whom they ought rather to fly from.”
I’ve told him a hundred times, “I don’t get how any woman could chase after you when they should really be running away from you.”
He would reply, laughing, “Ah! you do not know the libertine women of the present day; provided they are talked of, they are satisfied.”
He would respond, laughing, “Ah! You don’t know the free-spirited women of today; as long as they’re in the conversation, they’re happy.”
There was an affair of gallantry, but a perfectly honourable one, between him and the Queen of Spain. I do not know whether he had the good fortune to be agreeable to her, but I know he was not at all in love with her. He thought her mien and figure good, but neither her manners nor her face were agreeable to him.
There was a chivalrous relationship, but a completely respectable one, between him and the Queen of Spain. I’m not sure if he was lucky enough to charm her, but I do know he wasn’t in love with her at all. He thought her demeanor and appearance were nice, but he didn’t find her manners or her looks appealing.
He was not in any degree romantic, and, not knowing how to conduct himself in this affair, he said to the Duc de Grammont, “You understand the manner of Spanish gallantry; pray tell me a little what I ought to say and do.”
He wasn’t romantic at all, and since he didn’t know how to handle this situation, he said to the Duc de Grammont, “You get Spanish charm; please tell me what I should say and do.”
He could not, however, suit the fancy of the Queen, who was for pure gallantry; those who were less delicate he was better suited for, and for this reason it was said that libertine women used to run after him.
He couldn't impress the Queen, who preferred only the most charming suitors; he was better suited for those who were less refined, which is why it was said that carefree women used to chase after him.
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He never denied that he was indiscreet and inconstant. Being one day with me at the theatre, and hearing Valere say he was tired of his mistress, “That has been my case often,” he cried. I told him he never was in love in his life, and that what he called love was mere debauchery.
He never denied that he was careless and unreliable. One day at the theater with me, after hearing Valere say he was tired of his girlfriend, he exclaimed, “I often feel that way.” I told him he had never been in love in his life and that what he referred to as love was just hedonism.
He replied, “It is very true that I am not a hero of romance, and that I do not make love like a Celadon, but I love in my way.”
He replied, “It’s true that I’m not a romantic hero, and I don’t express my love like a Celadon, but I love in my own way.”
“Your way,” I said, “is an extremely gross one.” . . . This made him laugh.
“Your way,” I said, “is really awful.” . . . This made him laugh.
He likes the business of his gallantry to be conducted with beat of drum, without the least refinement. He reminds me of the old Patriarchs, who were surrounded by women.
He prefers his acts of bravery to be carried out with a loud drumbeat, without any subtlety. He makes me think of the ancient Patriarchs, who were always accompanied by women.
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All women do not please him alike. He does not like fine airs so well as profligate manners: the opera-house dancers are his favourites. The women run after him from mere interest, for he pays them well. A pleasant enough adventure happened last winter:
All women don't please him the same way. He prefers wild behavior over being pretentious: the opera house dancers are his favorites. The women chase after him out of curiosity because he pays them well. A rather nice adventure happened last winter:
A young and pretty woman visited my son in his cabinet; he presented her with a diamond of the value of 2,000 Louis and a box worth 200. This woman had a jealous husband, but she had effrontery enough to shew him the jewels which she said had been offered to her a great bargain by persons who wanted the money, and she begged him not to let such an opportunity slip. The credulous husband gave her the money she asked for. She thanked him, put the box in her dressing-case and the diamond on her finger, and displayed it in the best company.
A young and attractive woman visited my son in his office; he gifted her a diamond worth 2,000 Louis and a box worth 200. This woman had a jealous husband, but she was bold enough to show him the jewels, claiming they were a great deal offered by people in need of cash, and she urged him not to miss such an opportunity. The gullible husband gave her the money she requested. She thanked him, put the box in her makeup case, slipped the diamond on her finger, and showcased it in the finest circles.
When she was asked where she got the ring and the bog, “M. de Parabere gave them to me,” she said; and he, who happened to be present, added, “Yes, I gave them to her; can one do less when one has for a wife a lady of quality who loves none but her husband?”
When she was asked where she got the ring and the bog, “M. de Parabere gave them to me,” she said; and he, who happened to be there, added, “Yeah, I gave them to her; can anyone do less when they have a high-class wife who loves only her husband?”
This caused some mirth; for other people were not so simple as the husband, and knew very well where the presents came from. If my son has a queen-sultana, it is this Madame de Parabere. Her mother, Madame de la Vieuville, was dame d’atour to the Duchesse de Berri.—[Marie-Madeline de la Vieuville, Comtesse de la Parabere; it was she whom the Regent used to call “his little black crow.”]—It was there that my son first became acquainted with the daughter, who is now a widow: she is of a slight figure, dark complexion, and never paints; her eyes and mouth are pretty; she is not very sensible, but is a desirable little person. My son says he likes her because she thinks of nothing but amusing herself, and never interferes with other affairs. That would be very well if she were not a drunkard, and if she did not make my son eat and drink so much, and take him to a farm which she has at Anieres, and where he sometimes sups with her and the country folks. It is said that he becomes a little jealous of Parabere, in which case he must love her more than he has done yet. I often tell him that, if he really loved, he would not suffer his mistresses to run after others, and to commit such frequent infidelities. He replied that there was no such thing as love except in romances. He broke with Seri, because, as he said, she wanted him to love her like an Arcadian. He has often made me laugh at his complaining of this seriously, and with an air of great affliction.
This made some people laugh because others weren’t as naive as the husband and knew exactly where the gifts were coming from. If my son has a queen-sultana, it’s this Madame de Parabere. Her mother, Madame de la Vieuville, was the lady-in-waiting to the Duchesse de Berri.—[Marie-Madeline de la Vieuville, Comtesse de la Parabere; it was she whom the Regent used to call “his little black crow.”]—That’s where my son first met the daughter, who is now a widow: she’s slender, has a dark complexion, and never wears makeup; her eyes and mouth are attractive; she’s not very smart, but she’s a lovely little person. My son says he likes her because she only thinks about having fun and never gets involved in other matters. That would be fine if she weren’t a drunk and didn’t make my son eat and drink so much, or take him to a farm she has in Anieres, where he sometimes has dinner with her and the locals. It’s said that he gets a little jealous of Parabere, which means he must love her more than he has so far. I often tell him that if he truly loved, he wouldn’t let his mistresses chase after others and cheat so frequently. He responds that there’s no such thing as love except in stories. He broke things off with Seri because, he claims, she wanted him to love her like in a pastoral romance. He has often made me laugh by complaining about this seriously, with a very distressed look on his face.
“Why do you disturb yourself?” I have said to him; “if that is not agreeable to you, leave her alone. You are not obliged to feign a love which you do not feel.”
“Why are you upsetting yourself?” I said to him; “if that’s not what you want, just leave her be. You don’t have to pretend to love someone you don’t actually care about.”
This convinces me, however, that my son is incapable of love. He willingly eats, drinks, sings, and amuses himself with his mistresses, but to love one of them more than another is not his way. He is not afraid of application; but when he has been actively engaged from morning till night he is glad to divert himself at supper with such persons. It is for this reason that Parabere, who is said to be a great fool, is so agreeable to him. She eats and drinks astonishingly, and plays absurd tricks, which divert him and make him forget his labour.
This makes me think that my son can't truly love. He happily eats, drinks, sings, and entertains himself with his girlfriends, but he doesn't prefer one over the others. He doesn't shy away from hard work; but after being busy from morning to night, he enjoys unwinding at dinner with these people. That’s why Parabere, who’s said to be a complete simpleton, is so appealing to him. She eats and drinks a lot and does silly things that entertain him and help him forget about his hard work.
My son, it must be allowed, possesses some great qualities. He has good sense, understands several languages, is fond of reading, speaks well, has studied much, is learned and acquainted with most of the arts, however difficult. He is a musician, and does not compose badly; he paints well, he understands chemistry, is well versed in history, and is quick of comprehension. He soon, however, gets tired of everything. He has an excellent memory, is expert in war, and fears nothing in the world; his intentions are always just and fair, and if his actions are ever otherwise, it is the fault of others. His only faults are that he is too kind, not sufficiently reserved, and apt to believe people who have less sense than himself; he is, therefore, often deceived, for the knaves who know his easiness of temper will run all risks with him. All the misfortunes and inconveniences which befall him spring from that cause. His other fault is one not common to Frenchmen, the easiness with which women can persuade him, and this often brings him into domestic quarrels. He can refuse them nothing, and even carries his complaisance so far as to give them marks of affection without really liking them. When I tell him that he is too good, he says, “Is it not better to be good than bad?”
My son definitely has some great qualities. He’s sensible, speaks several languages, loves to read, communicates well, has studied a lot, is knowledgeable, and is familiar with most challenging arts. He’s a musician and doesn’t compose badly; he paints well, understands chemistry, is well-versed in history, and picks up things quickly. However, he soon gets bored with everything. He has an excellent memory, is skilled in warfare, and fears nothing. His intentions are always just and fair, and if he ever acts otherwise, it’s someone else's fault. His only flaws are being too kind, not reserved enough, and often believing people who are less sensible than he is, which leads him to be deceived frequently, as those who know his easygoing nature will take risks with him. All his misfortunes and problems come from that. Another issue he has, which isn’t common among Frenchmen, is how easily women can persuade him, leading to domestic conflicts. He can’t refuse them anything and even goes so far as to show them affection without really liking them. When I tell him that he’s too good, he replies, “Isn’t it better to be good than bad?”
He was always extremely weak, too, with respect to lovers, who chose to make him their confidant.
He was always really weak when it came to lovers who chose to make him their confidant.
The Duc de Saint Simon was one day exceedingly annoyed at this weakness of my son, and said to him, angrily, “Ah! there you are; since the days of Louis le Debonnaire there has been nobody so debonnaire as yourself.”
The Duc de Saint Simon was once very annoyed by this weakness of my son and said to him, angrily, “Ah! There you are; since the days of Louis the Debonair, no one has been as debonair as you.”
My son was much amused at it.
My son found it very amusing.
When he is under the necessity of saying anything harsh, he is much more pained at it than the person who experiences the disgrace.
When he has to say something harsh, it bothers him more than the person who has to face the shame.
He is not fond of the country, but prefers living in town. He is in this respect like Madame de Longueville, who was tired to death of being in Normandy, where her husband was.
He doesn't like the countryside and prefers living in the city. In this way, he is similar to Madame de Longueville, who was completely fed up with being in Normandy, where her husband was.
[The Duc de Longueville was Governor of Normandy; and after the
reduction of Bordeaux, in 1652, the Duchesse de Longueville received
an order from the Court to repair to her husband.]
[The Duc de Longueville was the Governor of Normandy; and after Bordeaux was taken in 1652, the Duchesse de Longueville received a summons from the Court to go to her husband.]
Those who were about her said, “Mon Dieu, Madame, you are eaten up with ennui; will you not take some amusement? There are dogs and a beautiful forest; will you hunt?”
Those around her said, “My God, Ma'am, you look so bored; won’t you find something fun to do? There are dogs and a beautiful forest; will you go hunting?”
“No,” she replied, “I don’t like hunting.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t like hunting.”
“Will you work?”
“Are you going to work?”
“No, I don’t like work.”
“No, I don’t like my job.”
“Will you take a walk, or play at some game?”
“Will you go for a walk or play a game?”
“No, I like neither the one nor the other.”
“No, I don’t like either one.”
“What will you do, then?” they asked.
“What will you do now?” they asked.
“What can I do?” she said; “I hate innocent pleasures.”
“What can I do?” she said. “I can't stand innocent pleasures."
My son understands music well, as all the musicians agree. He has composed two or three operas, which are pretty. La Fare, his Captain of the guards, wrote the words. He had them played in his palace, but never would permit them to be represented on the public stage.
My son really gets music, and all the musicians agree. He has composed two or three beautiful operas. La Fare, his Captain of the Guards, wrote the lyrics. He had them performed in his palace, but he would never allow them to be shown on the public stage.
When he had nothing to do he painted for one of the Duchess’s cabinets all the pastoral romance of “Daphnis and Chloe.”
When he had free time, he painted for one of the Duchess’s cabinets all the pastoral romance of “Daphnis and Chloe.”
[The designs for the romance of “Daphnis and Chloe” were composed by
the Regent, with the advice, and probably the assistance, of Claude
Audran, a distinguished painter, whom Lebrun often employed to help
him with his large pictures. He painted a part of the battles of
Alexander. These designs were engraved by Benoit Audran; they
embellish what is called “the Regent’s edition” of the Pastoral of
Longus, which was printed under his inspection in the year 1718. It
is somewhat surprising that Madame should speak so disdainfully of
so eminent an artist as Benoit Audran.]
[The designs for the story of “Daphnis and Chloe” were created by the Regent, with the advice and likely assistance of Claude Audran, a well-known painter who was often hired by Lebrun to help with his large paintings. He painted part of the battles of Alexander. These designs were engraved by Benoit Audran; they enhance what is known as “the Regent’s edition” of the Pastoral of Longus, which was printed under his supervision in 1718. It’s somewhat surprising that Madame would speak so dismissively of such a prominent artist as Benoit Audran.]
With the exception of the first, he invented and painted all the subjects. They have been engraved by one Audran. The Duchess thought them so pretty that she had them worked in a larger size in tapestry; and these, I think, are better than the engravings.
With the exception of the first one, he created and painted all the subjects. They were engraved by someone named Audran. The Duchess found them so beautiful that she had them made in a larger size as tapestry, and I believe these are better than the engravings.
My son’s learning has not the least tinge of pedantry. He knows a quantity of facetious stories, which he learnt in Italy and in Spain. He does not tell them badly, but I like him better in his more serious moods, because they are more natural to him. When he talks upon learned topics it is easy to see that they are rather troublesome to him than otherwise. I often blamed him for this; but he used to reply that it was not his fault, that he was ready enough to learn anything, but that when he once knew it he no longer took pleasure in it.
My son's learning doesn't have the slightest hint of pretentiousness. He knows a lot of funny stories that he picked up in Italy and Spain. He tells them well, but I prefer him when he's in more serious moods because they feel more authentic to him. When he discusses complex topics, it's clear that they are more of a burden to him than anything else. I often criticized him for this, but he would respond that it wasn't his fault; he was more than willing to learn anything, but once he learned it, he no longer found joy in it.
He is eloquent enough, and when he chooses he can talk with dignity. He has a Jesuit for his confessor, but he does not suffer himself to be ruled by him. He pretends that his daughter has no influence over him. He was delighted when he obtained the command of the Spanish army, and was pleased with everything in that country; this procured him the hatred of the Princesse des Ursins, who feared that my son would diminish her authority and gain more of the confidence of the Spaniards than she possessed.
He is articulate enough, and when he wants to, he can speak with dignity. He has a Jesuit as his confessor, but he doesn’t let him control him. He claims that his daughter has no influence over him. He was thrilled when he got the command of the Spanish army and was happy with everything in that country; this earned him the animosity of the Princesse des Ursins, who was afraid that my son would undermine her authority and gain more trust from the Spaniards than she had.
He learned to cook during his stay with the army in Spain.
He learned to cook while he was in the army in Spain.
I cannot tell where he learned so much patience; I am sure it was neither from Monsieur nor from me.
I can't figure out where he developed so much patience; I'm sure it didn't come from either Monsieur or me.
When he acted from himself I always found him reasonable; but he too often confided in rogues, who had not half his sense, and then all went wrong.
When he acted on his own, I always found him reasonable; but he too often trusted shady characters who didn’t have half his smarts, and that’s when everything went wrong.
My son is like all the rest of his family; when they had become accustomed to a thing they suffered it to go its own way. It was for this reason he could not persuade himself to shake off the Abbe Dubois, although he knew him to be a rascal. This Abbe had the impudence to try to persuade even me that the marriage he had brought about was an excellent one.
My son is just like the rest of his family; once they get used to something, they let it be. That’s why he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of Abbe Dubois, even though he knew the guy was a scoundrel. This Abbe even had the nerve to try to convince me that the marriage he arranged was a great one.
“But the honour which is lost in it,” said I, “how will you repair that?”
“But the honor that you lose in this,” I said, “how will you make that right?”
Old Maintenon had made immense promises to him, as well as to my son; but, thank God, she kept neither the one nor the other.
Old Maintenon had made huge promises to him, as well as to my son; but, thank God, she kept neither.
It is intolerable that my son will go about day and night with that wicked and impertinent Noce I hate that Noce as I hate the devil. He and Brogue run all risks, because they are thus enabled to sponge upon my son. It is said that Noce is jealous of Parabere, who has fallen in love with some one else. This proves that my son is not jealous. The person with whom she has fallen in love has long been a sort of adventurer: it is Clermont, a captain in my son’s Swiss Guard; the same who preferred Chouin to the great Princesse de Conti. It is said that Noce utters whatever comes into his head, and about any persons; this makes my son laugh, and amuses him, for Noce has wit and can do this pleasantly, enough. His father was under-governor to my son, who has thus been accustomed from his infancy to this wicked rascal, and who is very fond of him. I do not know for what reason, for he is a person who fears neither God nor man, and has not a single good point about him; he is green, black, and deep yellow; he is ten years older than my son; it is incredible how many, millions this mercenary rogue has drawn from him. Madame de Berri has told me that Broglie’s jokes consist only in saying openly, the most horrible things. The Broglii are of Italian extraction, but have been long settled in France. There were three brothers, the elder of whom died in the army; the second was an Abbe, but he cast aside his gown, and he is the knave of whom I have been speaking. The third is still serving in the army, and, according to common report, is one of the best gentlemen in the world. My son does not like him so well as his good-for-nothing brother, because he is too serious, and would not become his buffoon. My son excuses himself by saying that when he quits business he wants something to make him laugh, and that young Broglie is not old enough for this; that if he had a confidential business, or a warlike expedition to perform, he would prefer him; but that for laughing and dissipation of all sorts, his elder brother is more fit.
It’s unacceptable that my son goes around day and night with that wicked and disrespectful Noce. I loathe Noce as much as I despise the devil. He and Brogue take all kinds of risks because they can leech off my son. I've heard that Noce is jealous of Parabere, who has fallen for someone else. This shows that my son isn’t jealous. The person she’s in love with is an adventurer: it’s Clermont, a captain in my son’s Swiss Guard; the same one who preferred Chouin over the grand Princesse de Conti. People say Noce says whatever pops into his head about anyone; this makes my son laugh and entertains him, since Noce is witty and does it in a fun way. His father was my son’s under-governor, so he’s been used to this wicked rascal since childhood and is quite fond of him. I can’t understand why, as he’s someone who fears neither God nor man and has not a single redeeming quality; he’s a mix of green, black, and deep yellow; he’s ten years older than my son; it’s unbelievable how many millions this mercenary rogue has taken from him. Madame de Berri told me that Broglie’s jokes consist only of openly saying the most horrible things. The Broglii are of Italian descent but have been living in France for a long time. There were three brothers; the eldest died in the army; the second was an Abbe, but he gave up his robe, and he’s the knave I’ve been talking about. The third is still in the army and is reputed to be one of the best gentlemen around. My son doesn’t like him as much as his worthless brother because he’s too serious and wouldn’t become his clown. My son justifies it by saying that when he steps away from work, he wants something to make him laugh, and that young Broglie isn’t old enough for that; that if he had confidential business or a military mission, he’d prefer him, but for laughter and all kinds of fun, his older brother is much more suited.
My son has three natural children, two boys and a girl, of whom only one has been legitimated; that is his son by Mademoiselle de Seri,
My son has three biological kids, two boys and a girl, but only one has been legitimized; that's his son with Mademoiselle de Seri,
[N. de Seri de la Boissiere; the father had been ambassador in
Holland. Mademoiselle de Seri was the Regent’s first mistress; he
gave her the title of Comtesse d’Argenton. Her son, the Chevalier
d’Orleans, was Grand-Prieur of France.]
[N. de Seri de la Boissiere; the father had been ambassador in
Holland. Mademoiselle de Seri was the Regent’s first mistress; he
gave her the title of Countess d’Argenton. Her son, the Chevalier
d’Orleans, was Grand-Prior of France.]who was my Maid of Honour; she was genteel and gay, but not pretty nor of a good figure. This son was called the Chevalier d’Orleans. The other, who is now a lad of eighteen years, is the Abbe de Saint Albin; he had this child by Florence, an opera dancer, of a very neat figure, but a fool; although to look at her pretty face one would not have thought so. She is since dead. The third of my son’s illegitimate children is a girl of fourteen years old, whom he had by Desmarets, an actress, who is still on the stage. This child has been educated at a convent at Saint Denis, but has not much inclination for a monastic life. When my son sent for her she did not know who she was.
who was my Maid of Honor; she was classy and cheerful, but not attractive or well-proportioned. This son was called the Chevalier d'Orleans. The other, who is now an eighteen-year-old, is the Abbe de Saint Albin; he had this child with Florence, an opera dancer, who had a very nice figure but was foolish; although looking at her pretty face, you wouldn't have thought so. She has since passed away. The third of my son’s illegitimate children is a fourteen-year-old girl, whom he had with Desmarets, an actress, who is still performing. This child has been raised in a convent at Saint Denis but doesn’t have much interest in becoming a nun. When my son called for her, she didn’t know who she was.
Desmarets wanted to lay another child to my son’s account; but he replied, “No, that child is too much of a harlequin.”
Desmarets wanted to add another child to my son's responsibilities; but he replied, “No, that child is too much of a clown.”
When some one asked him what he meant, he said it was of so many different pieces, and therefore he renounced it.
When someone asked him what he meant, he said it was made up of so many different parts, and that’s why he rejected it.
I do not know whether the mother did not afterwards give it to the Elector of Bavaria, who had some share in it, and who sacrificed to her the most beautiful snuff-box that ever was seen; it was covered with large diamonds.
I don’t know if the mother didn’t later give it to the Elector of Bavaria, who was involved in it and who offered her the most beautiful snuff box ever seen; it was adorned with large diamonds.
My first son was called the Duc de Valois; but as this name was one of evil omen, Monsieur would not suffer my other son to be called so; he took, therefore, the title of Duc de Chartres. After Monsieur’s death my son took the name of Orleans, and his son that of Chartres.
My first son was named the Duc de Valois; however, since this name had a negative connotation, Monsieur wouldn’t allow my other son to be called that. He therefore adopted the title of Duc de Chartres. After Monsieur’s death, my son took the name of Orleans, while his son took the name of Chartres.
[Alesandre-Louis d’Orleans, Duc de Valois, died an infant on the
16th of March, 1676; the Regent was born on the 4th of August, 1674.
It is unnecessary to mention the unhappy ends of Henri III. and of
the three Kings, his sons, who all died without issue.]
[Alesandre-Louis d’Orleans, Duke of Valois, died as an infant on March 16, 1676; the Regent was born on August 4, 1674. There’s no need to mention the tragic ends of Henry III and his three sons, who all died without heirs.]
My son is too much prejudiced in favour of his nation; and although he sees daily that his countrymen are false and treacherous, he believes there is no nation comparable to them. He is not very lavish of his praise; and when he does approve of anything his sincerity gives it an additional value.
My son is overly biased in favor of his country; and even though he sees every day that his fellow countrymen are dishonest and untrustworthy, he believes there's no nation that compares to them. He doesn't give praise easily, and when he does appreciate something, his honesty makes it even more meaningful.
As he is now in his forty-second year the people of Paris do not forgive him for running about at balls, like a young fool, for the amusement of women, when he has the cares of the kingdom upon his shoulders. When the late King ascended the throne he had reason to take his diversion; it is not so now. Night and day it is necessary to labour in order to repair the mischief which the late King, or rather his Ministers, did to the country.
As he’s now in his forty-second year, the people of Paris don’t forgive him for acting like a young fool at parties, entertaining women, when he has the responsibilities of the kingdom on his shoulders. When the late King took the throne, he had a reason to enjoy himself; that’s not the case now. He must work day and night to fix the damage done to the country by the late King, or rather, his Ministers.
When my son gently reproached that old Maintenon for having maligned him, and asked her to put her hand upon her heart, and say whether her calumnies were true, she replied, “I said it because I believed it.”
When my son softly confronted that old Maintenon for having spoken poorly of him, and asked her to place her hand on her heart and confess whether her accusations were true, she responded, “I said it because I believed it.”
My son replied, “You could not believe it, because you knew the contrary.”
My son replied, “You wouldn't believe it because you knew the opposite.”
She said arrogantly, and yet my son kept his temper, “Is not the Dauphine dead?”
She said with arrogance, and yet my son kept his cool, “Isn’t the Dauphine dead?”
“Is it my fault,” he rejoined, “that she is dead? Was she immortal?”
“Is it my fault,” he replied, “that she’s dead? Was she immortal?”
“Well,” she replied, “I was so much distressed at the loss that I could not help detesting him whom I was told was the cause of it.”
“Well,” she replied, “I was so upset about the loss that I couldn't help but hate the person I was told caused it.”
“But, Madame,” said my son, “you know, from the report which has been made to the King, that I was not the cause, and that the Dauphine was not poisoned.”
“But, Madame,” my son said, “you know from the report that was given to the King that I wasn’t the cause, and that the Dauphine wasn’t poisoned.”
“I do know it,” she replied, “and I will say nothing more about it.”
“I do know it,” she replied, “and I won’t say anything more about it.”
SECTION X.—THE AFFAIRS OF THE REGENCY.
The old Maintenon wished to have the Duc du Maine made Regent; but my son’s harangue to the Parliament frustrated her intention.
The elderly Maintenon wanted the Duc du Maine to be made Regent; however, my son's speech to the Parliament thwarted her plans.
He was very angry with Lord Stair because he believed that he had done him an ill office with the King of England, and prevented the latter from entering into the alliance with France and Holland. If that alliance had taken place my son could have prevented the Pretender from beginning his journey; but as England refused to do so, the Regent was obliged to do nothing but what was stipulated for by the treaty of peace: that is to say, not to succour the Pretender with money nor arms, which he faithfully performed. He sent wherever Lord Stair requested.
He was really angry with Lord Stair because he thought he had messed things up with the King of England and stopped him from forming an alliance with France and Holland. If that alliance had happened, my son could have stopped the Pretender from starting his journey; but since England wouldn’t agree to it, the Regent had no choice but to stick to what was outlined in the peace treaty: that meant not helping the Pretender with money or weapons, which he did faithfully. He sent help wherever Lord Stair asked.
[The Duc d’Orleans ordered, in Lord Stair’s presence, Contades,
Major of the Guard, to arrest the Pretender on his passage through
Chateau-Thierry; but, adds Duclos, Contades was an intelligent man,
and well acquainted with the Regent’s secret intentions, and so he
set out resolved not to find what he went in search of.]
[The Duc d’Orleans ordered, in Lord Stair’s presence, Contades, Major of the Guard, to arrest the Pretender on his way through Chateau-Thierry; but, Duclos adds, Contades was a smart guy and well aware of the Regent’s hidden motives, so he set out determined not to discover what he was looking for.]
He believed that the English people would not be well pleased to see their King allied to the Crown of France.
He thought that the English people wouldn’t be too happy to see their King connected to the Crown of France.
1717
1717
The Baron Goertz thought to entrap my son, who, however, did not trust him; he would not permit him to purchase a single ship, and it was upon this that the Baron had built all his hopes of success.
The Baron Goertz attempted to trick my son, but my son didn't trust him; he refused to let him buy even one ship, and it was on this that the Baron had pinned all his hopes for success.
That tall Goertz, whom I have seen, has an unlucky physiognomy; I do not believe that he will die a fair death.
That tall Goertz, whom I’ve seen, has an unfortunate face; I don’t think he’ll die a peaceful death.
The Memoir of the thirty noblemen has so much angered my son that he will hasten to pronounce sentence.
The memoir of the thirty noblemen has made my son so angry that he will quickly decide the outcome.
[Goertz was the Swedish minister, and had been sent into Holland and
France to favour the cause of the Pretender. He was arrested in
Holland in 1717, and remained in prison for several months. He was
a very cunning person, and a great political intriguer. On the
death of Charles XII. he was taken before an extraordinary
tribunal, and condemned in an unjust and arbitrary manner to be
beheaded, which sentence was executed in, May, 1719.]
[Goertz was the Swedish minister who had been sent to Holland and France to support the Pretender's cause. He was arrested in Holland in 1717 and spent several months in prison. He was very cunning and a skilled political schemer. After the death of Charles XII, he was brought before an extraordinary tribunal and unjustly sentenced to beheaded, which was carried out in May 1719.]
1718
1718
The whole of the Parliament was influenced against him. He made a remonstrance against this, which was certainly effected at the instigation of the eldest bastard and his wife.—[The Duc and Duchesse du Maine.]—If any one spoke ill of my son, and seemed dissatisfied, the Duchesse du Maine: invited them to Sceaux, and pitied and caressed them to hear them abuse my son. I wondered at his patience. He has great courage, and went steadily on without disturbing himself about anything. Although the Parliament of Paris sent to all the other parliaments in the kingdom to solicit them to unite with it, none of them did so, but all remained faithful to my son. The libels which were dispersed for the purpose of exciting the people against him had scarcely any effect. I believe the plot would have succeeded better if the bastard and his wife had not engaged in it, for they were extraordinarily hated at Paris. My son told the Parliament they had nothing to do with the coinage; that he would maintain the royal authority, and deliver it to the King when he should be of age in the same state as he had found it on his becoming Regent.
The entire Parliament was turned against him. He made a complaint about this, which was clearly driven by the eldest illegitimate son and his wife. —[The Duc and Duchesse du Maine.]— Whenever someone said something negative about my son or seemed unhappy, the Duchesse du Maine would invite them to Sceaux, sympathizing with them and encouraging them to criticize my son. I was amazed by his patience. He has great courage and continued on without letting anything bother him. Even though the Parliament of Paris reached out to all the other parliaments in the kingdom to try to get them to join in, none did; they all remained loyal to my son. The propaganda spread to incite the people against him barely made an impact. I believe the scheme would have worked better if the bastard and his wife hadn't been involved, as they were extremely disliked in Paris. My son told the Parliament that they had nothing to do with the coinage and that he would uphold the royal authority, handing it over to the King when he came of age in the same condition as he found it when he became Regent.
The Marechale d’Uxelles hated my son mortally, but after the King’s death he played the fawning dog so completely that my son forgave him and took him into favour again. In the latter affair he was disposed once more to follow his natural inclination, but my son, having little value for whatever he could do, said, “Well, if he will not sign he may let it alone.”
The Marechale d’Uxelles absolutely despised my son, but after the King died, he acted like a sycophant so well that my son forgave him and welcomed him back. In this situation, he was once again inclined to act on his true nature, but my son, who didn’t think much of what he could do, said, “Well, if he won’t sign, he can just skip it.”
When the Marshal saw my son was serious and did not care at all for his bravadoes, he became submissive and did what my son desired.
When the Marshal noticed that my son was serious and wasn't intimidated by his tough talk, he backed down and did what my son wanted.
The wife of the cripple, the Duchesse du Maine, resolved to have an explanation with my son. She made a sententious speech, just as if she had been on the stage; she asked how he could think that the answer to Fitz-Morris’s book should have proceeded from her, or that a Princess of the blood would degrade herself by composing libels? She told him, too, that the Cardinal de Polignac was engaged in affairs of too much importance to busy himself in trifles like this, and M. de Malezieux was too much a philosopher to think of anything but the sciences. For her own part, she said she had sufficient employment in educating her children as became that royal dignity of which she had been wrongfully deprived. My son only replied to her thus:—
The wife of the disabled man, the Duchesse du Maine, decided to confront my son. She delivered a dramatic speech, almost like she was performing on stage; she questioned how he could believe that the response to Fitz-Morris’s book could have come from her, or that a princess would lower herself by writing slanderous things. She also pointed out that Cardinal de Polignac was involved in matters far too significant to waste time on trivial things like this, and M. de Malezieux was too much of a philosopher to think about anything other than science. As for herself, she stated she was busy enough raising her children, which was appropriate for the royal status she had been wrongly stripped of. My son only replied to her this way:—
“I have reason to believe that these libels have been got up at your house, and by you, because that fact has been attested by persons who have been in your service, and who have seen them in progress; beyond this no one makes me believe or disbelieve anything.”
“I believe these lies were created at your place, and by you, because people who worked for you have confirmed it and witnessed it happening; other than that, no one can make me believe or disbelieve anything.”
He made no reply to her last observation, and so she went away. She afterwards boasted everywhere of the firmness with which she had spoken to my son.
He didn't respond to her last comment, so she left. Later, she bragged everywhere about how strongly she had talked to my son.
My son this day (26th of August) assembled the Council of the Regency. He had summoned the Parliament by a ‘lettre-de-cachet’: they repaired to the Tuileries in a procession on foot, dressed in scarlet robes, hoping by this display to excite the people in their favour; but the mob only called out, “Where are these lobsters going?” The King had caused the Keeper of the Seals to make a remonstrance to the Parliament for having infringed upon his authority in publishing decrees without his sanction. He commanded them to quash the decree, which was done; and to confirm the authority of the Keeper of the Seals, which they did also. He then ordered them with some sternness not to interfere with the affairs of the Government beyond their province; and as the Duc du Maine had excited the Parliament against the King, he was deprived of the care of His Majesty’s education, and he with his brothers were degraded from the rank of Princes of the blood, which had been granted to them. They will in future have no other rank than that of their respective peerages; but the Duc du Maine alone, for the fidelity he has always manifested towards the King, will retain his rank for his life, although his issue, if he should have any, will not inherit it.
My son today (August 26th) gathered the Council of the Regency. He had called the Parliament using a ‘lettre-de-cachet’: they went to the Tuileries in a procession on foot, dressed in scarlet robes, hoping this display would win the support of the people; but the crowd just shouted, “Where are these lobsters going?” The King had instructed the Keeper of the Seals to address the Parliament for overstepping his authority by publishing decrees without his approval. He ordered them to revoke the decree, which they did; and to reaffirm the authority of the Keeper of the Seals, which they also did. He then firmly told them not to interfere with the government’s affairs beyond their jurisdiction; and since the Duc du Maine had turned the Parliament against the King, he was stripped of the responsibility for the King’s education, and he and his brothers were downgraded from their status as Princes of the blood, which had been granted to them. They will no longer hold any status other than that of their respective peerages; however, the Duc du Maine alone, due to his loyalty to the King, will keep his title for life, although his children, if he has any, will not inherit it.
[Saint-Simon reports that it was the Comte de Toulouse who was allowed to retain his rank.—See The Memoirs of Saint-Simon, Chapter XCIII.—D.W.]
[Saint-Simon reports that the Comte de Toulouse was allowed to keep his rank.—See The Memoirs of Saint-Simon, Chapter XCIII.—D.W.]
Madame d’Orleans was in the greatest despair, and came to Paris in such a condition as moved my pity for her. Madame du Maine is reported to have said, three weeks ago, at a grand dinner, “I am accused of having caused the Parliament to revolt against the Duc d’Orleans, but I despise him too much to take so noble a vengeance; I will be revenged in another manner.”
Madame d’Orleans was in deep despair and arrived in Paris in a state that stirred my sympathy for her. Madame du Maine is said to have declared, three weeks ago, at a lavish dinner, “People say I instigated the Parliament to rebel against the Duke of Orleans, but I think too little of him to go for such a grand revenge; I’ll get my revenge in a different way.”
The Parliament had very notable projects in hand. If my son had delayed four-and-twenty hours longer in removing the Duc du Maine from the King it would have been decided to declare His Majesty of full age; but my son frustrated this by dismissing the Duke, and degrading him at the same time. The Chief President is said to have been so frightened that he remained motionless, as if he had been petrified by a gaze at the head of Medusa. That celebrated personage of antiquity could not have been more a fury than Madame du Maine; she threatened dreadfully, and did not scruple to say, in the presence of her household, that she would yet find means to give the Regent such a blow as should make him bite the dust. That old Maintenon and her pupil have also had a finger in the pie.
The Parliament had some major projects underway. If my son had waited just 24 more hours to remove the Duke of Maine from the King, it would have been decided to declare His Majesty of full age; but my son prevented this by dismissing the Duke and humiliating him at the same time. The Chief President was reportedly so scared that he stood frozen, as if he had been turned to stone by looking at Medusa. That famous figure from history was hardly more furious than Madame du Maine; she threatened furiously and didn't hesitate to say, in front of her household, that she would find a way to deal the Regent a blow that would bring him down. That old Maintenon and her protégé also had a hand in this.
The Parliament asked pardon of my son, which proves that the Duc and Duchesse du Maine were the mainsprings of the plot.
The Parliament asked for my son's forgiveness, which shows that the Duke and Duchess of Maine were the main drivers of the scheme.
There is reason to believe that the old woman and the former Chancellor were also implicated in it. The Chancellor, who would have betrayed my son in so shameful a manner, was under the heaviest obligations to him. What has happened is a great mortification to Maintenon, and yet she has not given up all hopes. This makes me very anxious, for I know how expertly she can manage poison. My son, instead of being cautious, goes about the town at night in strange carriages, sometimes supping with one or another of his people, none of whom are worthy of being trusted, and who, excepting their wit, have not one good quality.
There’s reason to believe that the old woman and the former Chancellor were also involved in it. The Chancellor, who would betray my son in such a disgraceful way, owed him a huge debt of gratitude. What has happened is a deep embarrassment for Maintenon, yet she hasn’t lost all hope. This worries me a lot, because I know how skillfully she can handle poison. My son, instead of being careful, roams the town at night in strange carriages, sometimes having dinner with one or another of his associates, none of whom can be trusted, and who, aside from their intelligence, lack any good qualities.
Different reports respecting the Duchesse du Maine are abroad; some say she has beaten her husband and broken the glasses and everything brittle in her room. Others say she has not spoken a word, and has done nothing but weep. The Duc de Bourbon has undertaken the King’s education. He said that, not being himself of age, he did not demand this office before, but that being so now he should solicit it, and it was immediately given to him.
Different reports about the Duchesse du Maine are out there; some say she has hit her husband and smashed all the fragile things in her room. Others say she hasn’t said a word and has only wept. The Duc de Bourbon has taken on the King’s education. He mentioned that, since he was not of age before, he didn’t request this role then, but now that he is, he should ask for it, and it was granted to him right away.
One president and two counsellors have been arrested. Before the close of the session, the Parliament implored my son to use his good offices with the King for the release of their members, and promised that they should, if found culpable, be punished by the Parliament itself. My son replied that they could not doubt he should always advise the King to the most lenient measures; that His Majesty would not only be gracious to them as a body, while they merited it, but also to each individual; that, as to the prisoners, they would in good time be released.
One president and two counselors have been arrested. Before the session ended, the Parliament urged my son to use his influence with the King to secure the release of their members, promising that if they were found guilty, they would be punished by Parliament itself. My son responded that they could trust he would always advise the King to take the most lenient approach; that His Majesty would be kind to them as a group, as long as they deserved it, and also to each individual; and that, regarding the prisoners, they would be released in due time.
That old Maintenon has fallen sick of grief that her project for the Duc du Maine has miscarried.
That old Maintenon has fallen ill from the grief that her plan for the Duc du Maine has failed.
The Duke and the Parliament had resolved to have a bed of justice held, where my son should be dismissed, and the Regency be committed to the Duke, while at the same time the King’s household should be under arms. The Duke and the Prince de Conti had long been urging my son without knowing all the particulars. The Duc du Maine has not been banished to the country, but has permission to go with his family wherever he pleases; he will not, however, remain at Paris, because he no longer enjoys his rank; he chooses rather to live at Sceaux, where he has an elegant mansion and a fine park.
The Duke and the Parliament decided to hold a bed of justice, where my son would be dismissed, and the Regency would be handed over to the Duke, while the King’s household would be on alert. The Duke and the Prince de Conti had been pushing my son for a while without knowing all the details. The Duc du Maine hasn't been sent away to the countryside; he is allowed to go with his family wherever he wishes. However, he won't stay in Paris since he no longer holds his rank; instead, he prefers to live in Sceaux, where he has a nice mansion and a beautiful park.
The little dwarf (the Duchesse du Maine) says she has more courage than her husband, her son, and her brother-in-law put together; and that, like another Jael, she would kill my son with her own hand, and would drive a nail into his head. When I implored my son to be on his guard against her, and told him this, he laughed at my fears and shook his head incredulously.
The little dwarf (the Duchesse du Maine) claims she has more courage than her husband, son, and brother-in-law combined; and that, like another Jael, she would kill my son herself and drive a nail into his head. When I urged my son to be careful of her and shared this with him, he just laughed at my worries and shook his head in disbelief.
I do not believe that the Devil, in his own person, is more wicked than that old Maintenon, the Duc du Maine, and the Duchess. The latter said openly that her husband and her brother-in-law were no better than cowards; that, woman as she was, she was ready to demand an audience of my son and to plunge a dagger in his heart. Let any one judge whether I have not reason to fear such persons, and particularly, when they, have so strong a party. Their cabal is very considerable; there are a dozen persons of consideration, all great noblemen at Court. The richest part of the people favour the Spanish pretensions, as well as the Duc and Duchesse du Maine; they wish to call in the King of Spain. My brother has too much sense for them; they want a person who will suffer himself to be led as they, please; the King of Spain is their man; and, for this reason, they are trying all means to induce him to come. It is for these reasons that I think my son is in so great danger.
I don't think the Devil himself is more wicked than that old Maintenon, the Duc du Maine, and the Duchess. The Duchess openly claimed that her husband and brother-in-law were nothing but cowards; that, even as a woman, she was ready to ask for a meeting with my son and stab him in the heart. Anyone can see why I have reason to fear such people, especially when they have such strong backing. Their group is quite significant; there are a dozen important individuals, all major noblemen at court. The wealthiest part of the population supports the Spanish claims, as do the Duc and Duchesse du Maine; they want to bring in the King of Spain. My brother is too wise for them; they are looking for someone who will let them lead him as they wish; the King of Spain fits that bill, and that's why they’re trying everything to persuade him to come. That's why I believe my son is in such serious danger.
My son has not yet released the three rogues of the Parliament, although their liberation has been twice petitioned for.
My son hasn't let the three troublemakers from Parliament go yet, even though they've been petitioned for their release twice.
The Duc du Maine and the cabal have made his sister believe that if my son should die they would make her Regent, and would aid her with their counsel to enable her to become one of the greatest persons in the world. They say they mean no violence towards my son, who cannot live long on account of his irregularities; that he must soon die or lose his sight; and in the latter event he would consent to her becoming Regent. I know a person to whom the Duc du Maine said so. This put an end to one’s astonishment, that she should have wished to force her daughter to marry the Duc du Maine.
The Duc du Maine and his group have convinced his sister that if my son were to die, they would make her the Regent and support her so she could become one of the most powerful people in the world. They claim they intend no harm to my son, who likely won’t live much longer because of his reckless behavior; he’ll either die soon or go blind, and if he goes blind, he would agree to her becoming Regent. I know someone who heard the Duc du Maine say this. This explains why she tried to push her daughter into marrying the Duc du Maine.
All this gave me great anxiety. I foresaw it all and said to my son, “You are committing a folly, for which I shall have to suffer all my life.”
All of this made me really anxious. I could see everything coming and said to my son, “You’re making a huge mistake, and I’ll have to bear the consequences for the rest of my life.”
He has made great changes; instead of a great number of Councils he has appointed Secretaries of State. M. d’Armenouville is Secretary of State for the Navy; M. le Blanc, for the Army; M. de la Vrilliere, for the Home Department; the Abbe Dubois, for Foreign Affairs; M. de Maurepas, for the Royal Household; and a Bishop for the Church Benefices.
He has implemented significant changes; instead of many Councils, he has appointed Secretaries of State. M. d’Armenouville is Secretary of State for the Navy; M. le Blanc, for the Army; M. de la Vrilliere, for the Home Department; the Abbe Dubois, for Foreign Affairs; M. de Maurepas, for the Royal Household; and a Bishop for Church Benefices.
Malezieux and the Cardinal de Polignac had probably as great a share in the answer to Fitz-Morris as the Duchesse du Maine.
Malezieux and Cardinal de Polignac likely played a significant role in the response to Fitz-Morris, just like the Duchesse du Maine.
The Duc de Bourbon and the Prince de Conti assisted very zealously in the disgrace of the Duc du Maine. My son could not bring himself to resolve upon it until the treachery had been clearly demonstrated to him, and he saw that he should lend himself to his own dishonour if he did not prevent the blow.
The Duc de Bourbon and the Prince de Conti were very eager to bring down the Duc du Maine. My son couldn’t bring himself to make a decision until the betrayal was clearly shown to him, and he realized he would be compromising his own honor if he didn’t stop the attack.
My son is very fond of the Comte de Toulouse, whom he finds a sensible person on all occasions: if the latter had followed the advice of the Duc du Maine he would have shared his fate; but he despised his brother’s advice and followed that of his wife.
My son really likes the Comte de Toulouse, whom he sees as a reasonable person at all times: if he had listened to the Duc du Maine's advice, he would have ended up with the same fate; but he rejected his brother’s advice and chose to follow his wife's instead.
My son believes as firmly in predestination as if he had been, like me, a Calvinist, for nineteen years. I do not know how he learnt the affair of the Duc du Maine; he has always kept it a great secret. But what appears the most singular to me is that he does not hate his brother-in-law, who has endeavoured to procure his death and dishonour. I do not believe his like was ever seen: he has no gall in his composition; I never knew him to hate any one.
My son believes in predestination as strongly as I did when I was a Calvinist for nineteen years. I don’t know how he found out about the Duc du Maine; he has always kept that a big secret. What surprises me the most is that he doesn’t hate his brother-in-law, who has tried to bring about his death and disgrace. I don’t think anyone like him has ever existed: he lacks any bitterness; I’ve never seen him hate anyone.
He says he will take as much care as he can; but that if God has ordained that he shall perish by the hands of his enemies he cannot change his destiny, and that therefore he shall go on tranquilly.
He says he'll take as much care as he can; but if God has decided that he will die at the hands of his enemies, he can't change his fate, and so he will continue on calmly.
He has earnestly requested Lord Stair to speak to the King of England on your account.—[This passage is addressed to the Princess of Wales.]—He says no one can be more desirous than he is that you should be reinstated in your father’s affection, and that he will neglect no opportunity of bringing it about, being persuaded that it is to the advantage of the King of England, as well as of yourself, that you should be reconciled.
He has seriously asked Lord Stair to talk to the King of England about you.—[This passage is addressed to the Princess of Wales.]—He says no one wants you to be back in your father's good graces more than he does, and he will make sure to take every chance to make it happen, believing that it benefits both the King of England and you for you to be reconciled.
M. Law must be praised for his talent, but there is an astonishing number of persons who envy him in this country. My son is delighted with his cleverness in business.
M. Law deserves praise for his talent, but an astonishing number of people in this country envy him. My son is thrilled with his cleverness in business.
He has been compelled to arrest the Spanish Ambassador, the Prince of Cellamara, because letters were found upon his courier, the Abbe Porto Carero, who was his nephew, and who has also been arrested, containing evidence of a plot against the King and against my son. The Ambassador was arrested by two Counsellors of State. It was time that this treachery should be made public. A valet of the Abbe Porto Carero having a bad horse, and not being able to get on so quick as his master, stayed two relays behind, and met on his way the ordinary courier from Poitiers. The valet asked him, “What news?”
He had to arrest the Spanish Ambassador, the Prince of Cellamara, because letters were found on his courier, Abbe Porto Carero, who was his nephew and has also been arrested. These letters contained proof of a plot against the King and my son. The Ambassador was taken into custody by two Counsellors of State. It was time to expose this betrayal. A servant of Abbe Porto Carero, who had a slow horse and couldn't keep up with his master, fell two relays behind and encountered the regular courier from Poitiers. The servant asked him, “What’s the news?”
“I don’t know any,” replied the postilion, “except that they have arrested at Poitiers an English bankrupt and a Spanish Abbe who was carrying a packet.”
“I don’t know any,” replied the postilion, “except that they’ve arrested an English bankrupt and a Spanish Abbe at Poitiers who was carrying a package.”
When the valet heard this he instantly took a fresh horse, and, instead of following his master, he came back full gallop to Paris. So great was his speed, that he fell sick upon his arrival in consequence of the exertion. He outstripped my son’s courier by twelve hours, and so had time to apprise the Prince of Cellamara twelve hours before his arrest, which gave him time to burn his most important letters and papers. My son’s enemies pretend to treat this affair as insignificant to the last degree; but I cannot see anything insignificant in an Ambassador’s attempting to cause a revolt in a whole kingdom, and among the Parliament, against my son, and meditating his assassination as well as that of his son and daughter. I alone was to have been let live.
When the valet heard this, he quickly grabbed a fresh horse and, instead of following his master, raced back to Paris at full speed. He was moving so fast that he got sick upon arriving due to the effort. He arrived twelve hours ahead of my son’s courier, which gave him plenty of time to warn the Prince of Cellamara about the arrest, allowing him to burn his most important letters and documents. My son’s enemies try to downplay this situation as completely trivial; however, I don’t see anything trivial about an Ambassador trying to incite a revolt in an entire kingdom and among the Parliament against my son, while also plotting his assassination, as well as that of his son and daughter. I was the only one meant to survive.
That Des Ursins must have the devil in her to have stirred up Pompadour against my son. He is not any very great personage; but his wife is a daughter of the Duc de Navailles, who was my son’s governor. Madame de Pompadour was the governess of the young Duc d’Alencon, the son of Madame de Berri. As to the Abbe Brigaut, I know him very well. Madame de Ventadour was his godmother, and he was baptized at the same time with the first Dauphin, when he received the name of Tillio. He has talent, but he is an intriguer and a knave. He pretended at first to be very devout, and was appointed Pere de l’Oratoire; but, getting tired of this life, he took up the trade of catering for the vices of the Court, and afterwards became the secretary and factotum of Madame du Maine, for whom he used to assist in all the libels and pasquinades which were written against my son. It would be difficult to say which prated most, he or Pompadour.
That Des Ursins must really have some issues to have turned Pompadour against my son. He’s not a big player, but his wife is a daughter of the Duc de Navailles, who was my son’s governor. Madame de Pompadour used to be the governess for the young Duc d’Alencon, the son of Madame de Berri. As for Abbe Brigaut, I know him quite well. Madame de Ventadour was his godmother, and he was baptized at the same time as the first Dauphin, getting the name Tillio. He has talent, but he’s an intriguer and a rogue. He pretended to be very devout at first and was appointed Pere de l’Oratoire; but, getting bored with that life, he started catering to the Court's vices and later became the secretary and right-hand man of Madame du Maine, helping her with all the slander and satire directed at my son. It’s hard to say who talked more, he or Pompadour.
Madame d’Orleans has great influence over my son. He loves all his children, but particularly his eldest daughter. While still a child, she fell dangerously ill, and was given over by her physicians. My son was in deep affliction at this, and resolved to attempt her cure by treating her in his own way, which succeeded so well that he saved her life, and from that moment has loved her better than all his other children.
Madame d'Orleans has a lot of sway over my son. He cares for all his children, but especially for his eldest daughter. When she was still a child, she got seriously ill and the doctors had given up on her. My son was heartbroken about this and decided to try to heal her himself, which worked so well that he saved her life. From that moment on, he loved her more than any of his other kids.
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The Abbe Dubois has an insinuating manner towards every one; but more particularly towards those of whom he had the care in their childhood.
The Abbe Dubois has a flattering way of interacting with everyone, but especially with those he looked after during their childhood.
Two Germans were implicated in the conspiracy; but I am only surprised at one of them, the Brigadier Sandrazky, who was with me daily, and in whose behalf I have often spoken, because his father served my brother as commandant at Frankendahl; he died in the present year. The other is the Count Schlieben, who has only one arm. I am not astonished at him; for, in the first place, I know how he lost his arm; and, in the second, he is a friend and servant of the Princesse des Ursins: they expect to take him at Lyons. Sandrazky was at my toilette the day before yesterday; as he looked melancholy, I asked him what was the matter? He replied, “I am ill with vexation: I love my wife, who is an Englishwoman, very tenderly, and she is no less fond of me; but, as we have not the means of keeping up an establishment, she must go into a convent. This distresses me so much that I am really very unwell.”
Two Germans were involved in the conspiracy, but I’m only surprised by one of them, Brigadier Sandrazky, who was with me every day and for whom I have often spoken well because his father was my brother’s commandant at Frankendahl; he died this year. The other is Count Schlieben, who has only one arm. I'm not surprised by him; first, I know how he lost his arm, and second, he is a friend and servant of the Princesse des Ursins: they expect to capture him at Lyons. Sandrazky was at my dressing table the day before yesterday; since he looked downcast, I asked him what was wrong. He replied, “I’m sick with worry: I love my wife, who is English, very dearly, and she feels the same about me; however, since we can’t afford to maintain a household, she has to go into a convent. This really distressing me so much that I’m actually very unwell.”
I was grieved to hear this, and resolved to solicit my son for him.
I was saddened to hear this and decided to ask my son to help him.
My son sometimes does as is said in Atys,—[The opera of Atys, act ii., scene 3.]—“Vous pourriez aimer et descendre moins bas;” for when Jolis was his rival, he became attached to one of his daughter’s ‘filles de chambre’, who hoped to marry Jolis because he was rich; for this reason she received him better than my son, who, however, at last gained her favour. He afterwards took her away from his daughter, and had her taught to sing, for she had a fine voice.
My son sometimes acts like it's written in Atys,—[The opera of Atys, act ii., scene 3.]—“You could love and aim higher;” because when Jolis was his competitor, he got interested in one of Jolis's daughter’s maids of honor, who wanted to marry Jolis because he was wealthy; for this reason, she treated him better than my son, who, in the end, won her over. He eventually took her away from his daughter and had her trained to sing since she had a beautiful voice.
The printed letters of Cellamara disclose the whole of the conspiracy. The Abbe Brigaut, too, it is said, begins to chatter about it. This affair has given me so much anxiety that I only sleep through mere exhaustion. My heart beats incessantly; but my son has not the least care about it. I beseech him, for God’s sake, not to go about in coaches at night, and he promises me he will not; but he will no more keep that promise than he did when he made it to me before.
The printed letters from Cellamara reveal the entire conspiracy. It’s also said that Abbe Brigaut is starting to talk about it. This situation has caused me so much stress that I can only sleep out of sheer exhaustion. My heart races nonstop; yet my son doesn’t seem to care at all. I beg him, for God’s sake, not to ride in carriages at night, and he promises me that he won’t; but he’s just as likely to keep that promise as he was the last time he made it.
It is now eight days since the Duc du Maine and his wife were arrested (29th December). She was at Paris, and her husband at Sceaux in his chateau. One of the four captains of the King’s Guard arrested the Duchess, the Duke was arrested only by a lieutenant of the Body Guard. The Duchess was immediately taken to Dijon and her husband to the fortress of Doullens. I found Madame d’Orleans much more calm than I had expected. She was much grieved, and wept bitterly; but she said that, since her brother was convicted, she must confess he had done wrong; that he was, with his wife, the cause of his own misfortune, but that it was no less painful to her to know that her own brother had thus been plotting against her husband. His guilt was proved upon three points: first, in a paper under the hand of the Spanish Ambassador, the Prince of Cellamara, in which he imparted to Alberoni that the Duchesse and the Duc du Maine were at the head of the conspiracy; he tells him how many times he has seen them, by whose means, and in what place; then he says that he has given money to the Duc du Maine to bribe certain persons, and he mentions the sum. There are already two men in the Bastille who confess to have received money, and others who have voluntarily stated that they conducted the Ambassador to the Duke and Duchess, and negotiated everything between the parties. The greater part of their servants have been sent to the Bastille. The Princess is deeply afflicted; and, although the clearest proofs are given of her children’s crime, she throws all the blame upon the Duke, her grandson, who, she says, has accused them falsely, because he hates them, and she has refused to see him. The Duchess is more moderate in her grief. The little Princesse de Conti heartily pities her sister and weeps copiously, but the elder Princess does not trouble herself about her uncle and aunt.
It has now been eight days since the Duke of Maine and his wife were arrested (29th December). She was in Paris, while her husband was at their chateau in Sceaux. One of the four captains of the King’s Guard arrested the Duchess, while the Duke was only arrested by a lieutenant of the Body Guard. The Duchess was immediately taken to Dijon, and her husband to the fortress of Doullens. I found Madame d’Orleans much calmer than I had anticipated. She was very upset and wept heavily; however, she admitted that since her brother was convicted, she had to acknowledge he had done wrong. She believed he and his wife were the cause of their own misfortune, but it was still painful for her to realize that her brother had been plotting against her husband. His guilt was proven on three counts: first, a document from the Spanish Ambassador, the Prince of Cellamara, where he informed Alberoni that the Duchess and Duke of Maine were leading the conspiracy. He detailed how many times he’s seen them, through whom, and where; then he stated that he had given money to the Duke of Maine to bribe certain individuals, mentioning the amount. There are already two men in the Bastille who confess to having received money, and others have voluntarily stated that they facilitated the Ambassador's meetings with the Duke and Duchess and negotiated everything between the parties. Most of their servants have been sent to the Bastille. The Princess is deeply upset; and, although there’s clear evidence of her children's crime, she blames the Duke, her grandson, claiming he has falsely accused them out of hatred, and she has refused to see him. The Duchess is more composed in her sadness. The young Princesse de Conti genuinely sympathizes with her sister and weeps profusely, but the elder Princess doesn’t concern herself with her uncle and aunt.
The Cardinals cannot be arrested, but they may be exiled; therefore the Cardinal de Polignac has been ordered to retire to one of his abbeys and to remain there. It was love that turned his head. He was formerly a great friend of my son’s, and he did not change until he became attached to that little hussy.
The Cardinals can't be arrested, but they can be exiled; so Cardinal de Polignac has been ordered to go to one of his abbeys and stay there. It was love that messed him up. He used to be a close friend of my son's, and he only changed when he got involved with that little troublemaker.
Magni
Magni
[Foucault de Magni, introducteur des ambassadeurs, and son of a
Counsellor of State. Duclos says he was a silly fellow, who never
did but, one wise thing, which was to run away.]
[Foucault de Magni, ambassador's introducer, and son of a
State Counselor. Duclos says he was a foolish man, who only did one smart thing, which was to run away.]has not yet been taken; he flies from one convent to another. He stayed with the Jesuits a long time.
has not yet been taken; he moves from one convent to another. He stayed with the Jesuits for a long time.
1719
1719
They say that the Duchesse du Maine used all her persuasions to induce her husband to fly; but that he replied, as neither of them had written anything with their own hands, nothing could be proved against them; while, by flying, they would confess their guilt. They did not consider that M. de Pompadour could say enough to cause their arrest.
They say that the Duchesse du Maine did everything she could to convince her husband to escape, but he replied that since neither of them had written anything down themselves, nothing could be used against them. By running away, they would only admit their guilt. They didn't realize that M. de Pompadour had enough to say to get them arrested.
The Duchess’s fraternal affection is a much stronger passion than her love for her children.
The Duchess's brotherly love is a much stronger feeling than her love for her kids.
A letter of Alberoni’s to the lame bastard has been intercepted, in which is the following passage: “As soon as you declare war in France spring all your mines at once.”
A letter from Alberoni to the lame bastard has been intercepted, which contains the following passage: “As soon as you declare war in France, set off all your mines at once.”
What enrages me is that Madame d’Orleans and the Princess would still make one believe that the Duc and Duchesse du Maine are totally innocent, although proofs of their guilt are daily appearing. The Duchess came to me to beg I would procure an order for her daughter’s people, that is, her dames d’honneur, her femmes de chambre, and her hair-dresser, to be sent to her. I could not help laughing, and I said, “Mademoiselle de Launay is an intriguer and one of the persons by whom the whole affair was conducted.”
What really frustrates me is that Madame d’Orleans and the Princess continue to make people believe that the Duc and Duchesse du Maine are completely innocent, even though evidence of their guilt is showing up every day. The Duchess came to me asking if I could get an order for her daughter's staff, meaning her ladies-in-waiting, her maids, and her hairdresser, to be sent to her. I couldn't help but laugh, and I said, “Mademoiselle de Launay is a schemer and one of the people involved in the whole situation.”
But she replied, “The Princess is at the Bastille.”—“I know it,” I said; “and well she has deserved it.” This almost offended the Princess.
But she replied, “The Princess is at the Bastille.” — “I know,” I said; “and she definitely deserves it.” This almost offended the Princess.
The Duchesse du Maine said openly that she should never be happy until she had made an end of my son. When her mother reproached her with it, she did not deny it, but only replied, “One says things in a passion which one does not mean to do.”
The Duchesse du Maine openly stated that she would never be happy until she dealt with my son. When her mother confronted her about it, she didn’t deny it; she simply responded, “People say things in the heat of the moment that they don’t actually mean.”
Although the plot has been discovered, the conspirators have not yet been all taken. My son says, jokingly, “I have hold of the monster’s head and tail, but I have not yet got his body.”
Although the plot has been uncovered, the conspirators haven’t all been caught yet. My son jokes, “I’ve got the monster’s head and tail, but I still don’t have its body.”
I can guess how it happened that the mercantile letters stated my son to have been arrested; it is because the conspirators intended to have done so, and two days later it would have taken place. It must have been persons of this party, therefore, who wrote to England.
I can imagine how the business letters said that my son was arrested; it's because the conspirators planned to do that, and two days later it would have happened. So it must have been people from this group who wrote to England.
When Schlieben was seized, he said, “If Monsieur the Regent does not take pity upon me, I am ruined.”
When Schlieben was captured, he said, “If the Regent doesn’t take pity on me, I’m done for.”
He was for a long time at the Spanish Court, where he was protected by the Princesse des Ursins. He has some wit, can chatter well, and is an excellent spy for such a lady. The persons who had arrested him took him to Paris by the diligence, without saying a word. On reaching Paris the diligence was ordered to the Bastille; the poor travellers not knowing why, were in a great fright, and expected all to be locked up, but were not a little pleased at being set free. Sandrazky is not very clever; he is a Silesian. He married an Englishwoman, whose fortune he soon dissipated, for he is a great gambler.
He spent a long time at the Spanish Court, where he was under the protection of the Princesse des Ursins. He has a bit of charm, can talk well, and is an excellent informant for such a lady. The people who arrested him took him to Paris by coach, without saying a word. Upon arriving in Paris, the coach was directed to the Bastille; the poor travelers, not knowing why, were very scared and expected to be imprisoned, but they were quite relieved to be let go. Sandrazky isn't very bright; he's from Silesia. He married an Englishwoman, whose fortune he quickly squandered because he's a big gambler.
The Duchesse du Maine has fallen sick with rage, and that old Maintenon is said to be afflicted by the affair more than any other person. It was by her fault that they fell into this scrape, for she put it into their heads that it was unjust they should not reign, and that the kingdom belonged as much to them as King Solomon’s did to him.
The Duchesse du Maine is furious, and that old Maintenon is said to be more upset about this situation than anyone else. It's her fault they got into this mess because she convinced them it was unfair for them not to rule, claiming the kingdom belonged to them just as much as it did to King Solomon.
Madame d’Orleans weeps for her brother by day and night.
Madame d’Orleans cries for her brother day and night.
They tried to arrest the Duc de Saint-Aignan at Pampeluna; but he effected his escape with his wife, and in disguise.
They attempted to arrest the Duc de Saint-Aignan in Pampeluna; however, he escaped with his wife while in disguise.
When they carried away the Duc du Maine, he said, “I shall soon return, for my innocence will be speedily manifested; but I only speak for myself, my wife may not come back quite so soon.”
When they took the Duc du Maine away, he said, “I’ll be back soon, because my innocence will be proven quickly; but I’m only speaking for myself, my wife might not return quite as quickly.”
Madame d’Orleans cannot believe that her brother has been engaged in a conspiracy; she says it must have been his wife who acted in his name. The Princess, on the other hand, believes that her daughter is innocent, and that the Duc du Maine alone has carried on the plot.
Madame d’Orleans can’t believe that her brother was involved in a conspiracy; she insists it must have been his wife acting on his behalf. The Princess, however, is convinced that her daughter is innocent and that the Duc du Maine is the one who has been driving the scheme.
The factum is not badly drawn up. Our priest can write well enough when he likes; he drew it up, and my son corrected it.
The document is pretty well written. Our priest can write decently when he wants to; he put it together, and my son edited it.
The more the affair is examined, the more clearly does the guilt of the Duke and Duchess appear; for three days ago, Malezieux, who is in the Bastille, gave up his writing-desk. The first thing that was found in it was a projet, which Malezieux had written at the Duchess’s bedside, and which Cardinal de Polignac had corrected with his own hand. Malezieux pretends that it is a Spanish letter, addressed to the Duchess, and that he had translated it for her, with the assistance of the Cardinal de Polignac; and yet the letters of Alberoni to the Prince de Cellamara refer so directly to this projet that it is easy to see that they spring from the same source.
The more this situation is investigated, the more the guilt of the Duke and Duchess becomes clear. Three days ago, Malezieux, who is in the Bastille, surrendered his writing desk. The first thing found inside was a draft that Malezieux wrote at the Duchess's bedside, which Cardinal de Polignac personally corrected. Malezieux claims it’s a Spanish letter addressed to the Duchess and that he translated it for her with help from Cardinal de Polignac; however, the letters from Alberoni to Prince de Cellamara reference this draft so directly that it’s obvious they come from the same origin.
The Duchesse du Maine has made the Princess believe that the Duke (of Bourbon) was the cause of all this business, so that now he dare not appear before the latter, although he has always behaved with great respect and friendship towards her; while the Duc and Duchesse du Maine, on the contrary, have been engaged in a law-suit against her for five years. It was not until after the Princess had inherited the property of Monsieur de Vendome, that this worthy couple insinuated themselves into her good graces.
The Duchesse du Maine has convinced the Princess that the Duke of Bourbon is behind all of this, to the point where he can’t even show his face around her, even though he has always treated her with respect and kindness. Meanwhile, the Duc and Duchesse du Maine have been in a legal battle with her for five years. It wasn't until the Princess inherited the property of Monsieur de Vendome that this couple tried to win her over.
The Parliament is reconciled to my son, and has pronounced its decree, which is favourable to him, and which is another proof that the Duc du Maine had excited it against him.
The Parliament has come to terms with my son and has issued its decree, which is in his favor, further proving that the Duc du Maine had stirred it up against him.
The Jesuits have probably been also against my son; for all those who have declared against the Constitution cannot be friendly to him; they have, however, kept so quiet that nothing can be brought against them. They are cunning old fellows.
The Jesuits have probably been against my son too; because everyone who has spoken out against the Constitution isn't likely to support him. They've managed to stay so discreet that nothing can be proven against them. They're clever old guys.
Madame d’Orleans begins to recover her spirits and to laugh again, particularly since I learn she has consulted the Premier President and other persons, to know whether, upon my son’s death, she would become the Regent. They told her that could not be, but that the office would fall upon the Duke. This answer is said to have been very unpalatable to her.
Madame d’Orleans starts to feel better and laugh again, especially now that I’ve heard she consulted the Premier President and others to find out if she would become the Regent after my son’s death. They told her that wouldn’t happen, and that the position would go to the Duke instead. This response is said to have upset her greatly.
If my son would have paid a price high enough to the Cardinal de Polignac, he would have betrayed them all. He is now consoling himself in his Abbey with translating Lucretius.
If my son had paid a high enough price to Cardinal de Polignac, he would have betrayed them all. He is now comforting himself in his Abbey by translating Lucretius.
The King of Spain’s manifesto, instead of injuring my son, has been useful to him, because it was too violent and partial. Alberoni must needs be a brutal and an intemperate person. But how could a journeyman gardener know the language which ought to be addressed to crowned heads? Several thousand copies of this manifesto have been transmitted to Paris, addressed to all the persons in the Court, to all the Bishops, in short, to everybody; even to the Parliament, which has taken the affair up very properly, from Paris to Bordeaux, as the decree shows. I thought it would have been better to burn this manifesto in the post-office instead of suffering it to be spread about; but my son said they should all be delivered, for the express purpose of discovering the feelings of the parties to whom they were addressed, and a register of them was kept at the post-office. Those who were honest brought them of their own accord; the others kept them, and they are marked, without the public knowing anything about it. The manifesto is the work of Malezieux and the Cardinal de Polignac.
The King of Spain’s manifesto, rather than harming my son, has actually helped him because it was too aggressive and biased. Alberoni must be a cruel and reckless person. But how could a regular gardener know what to say to kings? Several thousand copies of this manifesto have been sent to Paris, addressed to everyone at the Court, all the Bishops, basically to everyone; even to Parliament, which has taken the matter very seriously, from Paris to Bordeaux, as the decree shows. I thought it would have been better to burn this manifesto in the post office rather than let it circulate; but my son insisted that they should all be delivered to find out how the recipients felt, and a record of them was kept at the post office. Those who were honest returned them voluntarily; the others kept them, and they are noted down, without the public knowing anything about it. The manifesto is the work of Malezieux and Cardinal de Polignac.
A pamphlet has been cried about the streets, entitled, “Un arret contre les poules d’Inde.” Upon looking at it, however, it seems to be a decree against the Jesuits, who had lost a cause respecting a priory, of which they had taken possession. Everybody bought it except the partisans of the Constitution and of the Spanish faction.
A pamphlet has been shouted about the streets, titled, “A Decree Against Turkeys.” However, upon examining it, it appears to be a decree against the Jesuits, who had lost a case regarding a priory that they had taken over. Everyone bought it except for the supporters of the Constitution and the Spanish faction.
My son is more fond of his daughters, legitimate and illegitimate, than his son.
My son prefers his daughters, both legitimate and illegitimate, over his son.
The Duc and Duchesse du Maine rely upon nothing having been found in their writing; but Mademoiselle de Montauban and Malezieux have written. in their name; and is not what Pompadour has acknowledged voluntarily quite as satisfactory a proof as even their own writing?
The Duke and Duchess du Maine count on the fact that nothing has been discovered in their writing; however, Mademoiselle de Montauban and Malezieux have written in their name. Isn't what Pompadour has admitted willingly just as good proof as their own writing?
They have got the pieces of all the mischievous Spanish letters written by the same hand, and corrected by that of the Cardinal de Polignac, so that there can be no doubt of his having composed them.
They have all the parts of the mischievous Spanish letters written by the same person, and revised by Cardinal de Polignac, so there’s no doubt that he wrote them.
A manifesto, too, has been found in Malezieux’s papers. It is well written, but not improved by the translation. Malezieux pretends that he only translated it before it was sent hence to Spain.
A manifesto has also been discovered in Malezieux’s papers. It’s well written, but the translation doesn’t do it justice. Malezieux claims that he only translated it before it was sent off to Spain.
Mademoiselle de Montauban and Mademoiselle de Launay, a person of some wit, who has kept up a correspondence with Fontenelle, and who was ‘femme de chambre’ to the Duchesse du Maine, have both been sent to the Bastille.
Mademoiselle de Montauban and Mademoiselle de Launay, a witty person who has been corresponding with Fontenelle and who was a lady’s maid to the Duchesse du Maine, have both been sent to the Bastille.
The Duc du Maine now repents that he followed his wife’s advice; but it seems that he only followed the worst part of it.
The Duke of Maine now regrets taking his wife's advice; however, it seems he only followed the worst part of it.
The Duchesse d’Orleans has been for some days past persuading my son to go masked to a ball. She says that his daughter, the Duchesse de Berri, and I, make him pass for a coward by preventing him from going to balls and running about the town by night as he used to do before; and that he ought not to manifest the least symptom of fear. He replied that he knew he should give me great pain by doing so, and that the least he could do was to tranquillize my mind by living prudently. She then said that the Duchesse de Berri filled me with unfounded fears in order that she might have more frequent opportunities of being with him, and of governing him entirely. Can the Devil himself be worse than this bastard? It teaches me, however, that my son is not secure with her. I must do violence to myself that my suspicions may not be apparent.
The Duchesse d’Orleans has been trying for a few days to convince my son to wear a mask and go to a ball. She claims that his daughter, the Duchesse de Berri, and I make him look like a coward by stopping him from going to balls and wandering around the city at night like he used to; and that he shouldn’t show any sign of fear. He replied that he knew it would cause me great distress if he did, and that the least he could do was to ease my mind by being sensible. She then asserted that the Duchesse de Berri filled me with baseless worries so she could have more chances to be with him and control him completely. Can anyone be worse than this vile person? It does, however, make me realize that my son isn’t safe with her. I must force myself to hide my suspicions.
My son has not kept his word; he went to this ball, although he denies it.
My son hasn't kept his promise; he went to this party, even though he claims he didn't.
Although it is well known that Maintenon has had a hand in all these affairs, nothing can be said to her, for her name does not appear in any way.
Although it’s widely recognized that Maintenon has been involved in all these matters, nothing can be said about her, as her name doesn’t show up anywhere.
When my son is told of persons who hate him and who seek his life, he laughs and says, “They dare not; I am not so weak that I cannot defend myself.” This makes me very angry.
When my son hears about people who hate him and want to harm him, he just laughs and says, “They wouldn't dare; I'm not so weak that I can't protect myself.” This frustrates me a lot.
If the proofs against Malezieux are not manifest, and if they do not put the rogue upon his trial, it will be because his crime is so closely connected with that of the Duchesse du Maine that, in order to convict him before the Parliament, he must be confronted with her. Besides, as the Parliament is better disposed towards the Duc and Duchesse du Maine than to my son, they might be acquitted and taken out of his hands, which would make them worse than they are now. For this reason it is that they are looking for proofs so clear that the Parliament cannot refuse to pronounce upon them.
If the evidence against Malezieux isn't obvious and he doesn't stand trial, it's because his crime is so closely tied to that of the Duchesse du Maine that, to convict him in front of the Parliament, he needs to be confronted with her. Moreover, since the Parliament favors the Duc and Duchesse du Maine over my son, they could be acquitted and taken out of his grasp, making them even worse than they are now. That's why they are searching for such clear evidence that the Parliament cannot turn it away.
The Duc du Maine writes thus to his sister:
The Duke of Maine writes this to his sister:
“They ought not to have put me in prison; but they ought to have stripped me and put me into petticoats for having been thus led by my wife;” and he wrote to Madame de Langeron that he enjoyed perfect repose, for which he thanked God; that he was glad to be no longer exposed to the contempt of his family; and that his sons ought to be happy to be no longer with him.
“They shouldn't have put me in prison; they should have stripped me and dressed me in petticoats for being misled by my wife;” and he wrote to Madame de Langeron that he was enjoying complete peace, for which he thanked God; that he was relieved to no longer face his family's contempt; and that his sons should be happy not to be around him anymore.
The King of Spain and Alberoni have a personal hatred against my son, which is the work of the Princesse des Ursins.
The King of Spain and Alberoni have a personal grudge against my son, which is the doing of the Princesse des Ursins.
My son is naturally brave, and fears nothing: death is not at all terrible to him.
My son is naturally brave and doesn't fear anything: death doesn't scare him at all.
On the 29th of March the young Duc de Richelieu was taken to the Bastille: this caused a great number of tears to be shed, for he is universally loved. He had kept up a correspondence with Alberoni, and had got his regiment placed at Bayonne, together with that of his friend, M. de Saillant, for the purpose of delivering the town to the Spaniards. He went on Wednesday last to the Marquis de Biron, and urged him to despatch him as promptly as possible to join his regiment at Bayonne, and so prove the zeal which attached him to my son. His comrade, who passes for a coward and a sharper at play, has also been shut up in the Bastille.
On March 29th, the young Duc de Richelieu was taken to the Bastille; this made a lot of people cry, as he is widely loved. He had been in contact with Alberoni and had arranged for his regiment to be stationed at Bayonne, along with that of his friend, M. de Saillant, to hand the town over to the Spaniards. Last Wednesday, he went to the Marquis de Biron and urged him to send him as quickly as possible to join his regiment at Bayonne, to show his dedication to my son. His friend, who is considered a coward and a cheat at cards, has also been imprisoned in the Bastille.
[On the day that they were arrested, the Regent said he had that in
his pocket which would cut off four heads, if the Duke had so many.
—Memoires de Duclos.]
[On the day they were arrested, the Regent said he had something in his pocket that could take off four heads, if the Duke had that many. —Memoires de Duclos.]
The Duc de Richelieu had the portraits of his mistresses painted in all sorts of monastic habits: Mademoiselle de Charolais as a Recollette nun, and it is said to be very like her. The Marechales de Villars and d’Estrees are, it is said, painted as Capuchin nuns.
The Duke de Richelieu had portraits of his mistresses painted in various monastic outfits: Mademoiselle de Charolais as a Recollette nun, which is said to resemble her quite well. The Maréchales de Villars and d’Estrees are reportedly depicted as Capuchin nuns.
When the Duc de Richelieu was shown his letter to Alberoni, he confessed all that concerned himself, but would not disclose his accomplices.
When the Duke of Richelieu was shown his letter to Alberoni, he admitted to everything regarding himself, but refused to reveal his accomplices.
Nothing but billets-doux were found in his writing-case. Alberoni in this affair trusted a man who had formerly been in his service, but who is now a spy of my son’s. He brought Alberoni’s letter to the Regent; who opened it, read it, had a copy made, resealed it, and sent it on to its destination. The young Duc de Richelieu answered it, but my son can make no use of this reply because the words in which it is written have a concealed sense.
Nothing but love letters were found in his writing case. Alberoni in this situation relied on a man who had previously worked for him, but who is now a spy for my son. He brought Alberoni’s letter to the Regent; who opened it, read it, had a copy made, resealed it, and sent it to its intended recipient. The young Duc de Richelieu replied, but my son can’t use this response because the wording has a hidden meaning.
The Princess has strongly urged my son to permit the Duchesse du Maine to quit Dijon, under the pretext that the air was unwholesome for her. My son consented upon condition that she should be conducted in her own carriage, but under the escort of the King’s Guard, from Dijon to Chalons-sur-Saone.
The Princess has strongly urged my son to allow the Duchesse du Maine to leave Dijon, claiming that the air was unhealthy for her. My son agreed on the condition that she would travel in her own carriage, but with the King's Guard escorting her from Dijon to Chalons-sur-Saone.
Here she thought she should enjoy comparative liberty, and that the town would be her prison: she was much astonished to find that she was as closely confined at Chalons as at Dijon. When she asked the reason for this rigour she was told that all was discovered, and that the prisoners had disclosed the particulars of the conspiracy. She was immediately struck with this; but recovering her self-possession, she said, “The Duc de Orleans thinks that I hate him; but if he would take my advice, I would counsel him better than any other person.” My son’s wife remains very tranquil.
Here she thought she would have some freedom and that the town would be her prison: she was quite shocked to find that she was just as tightly confined in Chalons as she had been in Dijon. When she asked why this was happening, she was told that everything had been discovered and that the prisoners had revealed the details of the conspiracy. This struck her immediately, but after regaining her composure, she said, “The Duc de Orleans thinks I hate him; but if he would take my advice, I could guide him better than anyone else.” My son’s wife remains very calm.
On the 17th of April a rascal was brought in who was near surprising my son in the Bois de Boulogne a year ago. He is a dismissed colonel; his name is La Jonquiere. He had written to my son demanding enormous pensions and rewards; but meeting with a refusal, he went into Spain, where he promised Alberoni to carry off my son, and deliver him into his hands, dead or alive. He brought one hundred men with him, whom he put in ambuscade near Paris. He missed my son only by a quarter of an hour in the Bois de Boulogne, which the latter had passed through in his way to La Muette, where he went to dine with his daughter. La Jonquiere having thus failed, retired in great vexation to the Low Countries, where he boasted that, although he had missed this once, he would take his measures so much better in future that people should soon hear of a great blow being struck. This was luckily repeated to my son, who had him arrested at Liege. He sent a clever fellow to him, who caught him, and leading him out of the house where they were, he clapped a pistol to his throat, and threatened to shoot him on the spot if he did not go with him and without speaking a word. The rascal, overcome with terror, suffered himself to be taken to the boat, but when he saw that they were approaching the French territory he did not wish to go any further; he said he was ruined, and should be drawn and quartered. They bound him and carried him to the Bastille.
On April 17th, a scoundrel was brought in who almost caught my son by surprise in the Bois de Boulogne a year ago. He's a dismissed colonel named La Jonquiere. He had written to my son demanding huge pensions and rewards; but when he was turned down, he went to Spain, where he promised Alberoni to capture my son and deliver him, dead or alive. He brought a hundred men with him and set up an ambush near Paris. He missed my son by just fifteen minutes in the Bois de Boulogne, which my son had passed through on his way to La Muette to have dinner with his daughter. After this failure, La Jonquiere returned in great anger to the Low Countries, where he bragged that although he missed this time, he'd plan so much better in the future that people would soon hear about a major blow being dealt. Fortunately, this got back to my son, who had him arrested in Liege. He sent a clever guy to him, who restrained him and, taking him out of the house, pressed a pistol to his throat and threatened to shoot him right there if he didn’t come along quietly. The scoundrel, overwhelmed with fear, allowed himself to be taken to the boat, but when he saw they were nearing French territory, he refused to go any further. He said he'd be ruined and would be drawn and quartered. They bound him and took him to the Bastille.
I have exhorted my son to take care of himself, and not to go out but in a carriage. He has promised that he will not, but I cannot trust him.
I have urged my son to look after himself and only go out in a carriage. He has assured me that he will, but I can’t trust him.
The late Monsieur was desirous that his son’s wife should not be a coquette. This was not the particular which I so much disapproved of; but I wished the husband not to be informed of it, or that it should get abroad, which would have had no other effect than that of convincing my son that his wife had dishonoured him.
The late Monsieur wanted his son's wife to not be a flirt. This wasn't what I mainly objected to; I just didn't want the husband to find out or for it to spread, as that would only convince my son that his wife had dishonored him.
I must never talk to my son about the conspiracy in the presence of Madame d’Orleans; it would be wounding her in the tenderest place; for all that concerns her brother is to her the law and the prophets.
I can never discuss the conspiracy with my son while Madame d’Orleans is around; it would hurt her deeply because everything about her brother is everything to her.
My son has so satisfactorily disproved the accusations of that old Maintenon and the Duc du Maine, that the King has believed him, and, after a minute examination, has done my son justice. But Madame d’Orleans has not conducted herself well in this affair; she has spread by means of her creatures many calumnies against my son, and has even said that he wanted to poison her. By such means she has made her peace with old Maintenon, who could not endure her before. I have often admired the patience with which my son suffers all this, when he knows it just as well as I do. If things had remained as Madame de Maintenon had arranged them at the death of the King, my son would only have been nominally Regent, and the Duc du Maine would actually have enjoyed all the power. She thought because my son was in the habit of running after women a little that he would be afraid of the labour, and that he would be contented with the title and a large pension, leaving her and the Duc du Maine to have their own way. This was her plan, and she fancied that her calumnies had so far succeeded in making my son generally despised that no person would be found to espouse his cause. But my son was not so unwise as to suffer all this; he pleaded his cause so well to the Parliament that the Government was entrusted to him, and yet the old woman did not relinquish her hopes until my son had the Duc du Maine arrested; then she fainted.
My son has effectively cleared his name from the accusations made by that old Maintenon and the Duc du Maine, and the King believes him. After a thorough investigation, the King has given my son the recognition he deserves. However, Madame d’Orleans has behaved poorly in this situation; she has spread numerous rumors about my son through her followers and even claimed that he wanted to poison her. By doing this, she has managed to make amends with old Maintenon, who used to dislike her. I've often marveled at how patiently my son endures all of this, knowing the truth just as well as I do. If things had gone according to Madame de Maintenon’s plans after the King’s death, my son would have only been the figurehead Regent, while the Duc du Maine would have held all the real power. She believed that because my son liked to chase women a bit, he would be intimidated by the work and would settle for just the title and a hefty pension, allowing her and the Duc du Maine to take control. This was her plan, and she thought her slanders had made him so universally scorned that no one would come to his defense. But my son was too wise to let this happen; he presented his case to the Parliament so well that they entrusted the government to him. Old Maintenon only gave up her hopes when my son had the Duc du Maine arrested; at that point, she fainted.
The Pope’s nuncio thrusts his nose into all the plots against my son; he may be a good priest, but he is nevertheless a wicked devil.
The Pope's envoy sticks his nose into all the schemes against my son; he might be a good priest, but he's still a wicked devil.
On the 25th of April M. de Laval, the Duchesse de Roquelaure’s brother, was arrested.
On April 25th, M. de Laval, the brother of the Duchesse de Roquelaure, was arrested.
M. de Pompadour has accused the Duc de Laval of acting in concert with the Prince de Cellamara, to whom, upon one occasion, he acted as coachman, and drove him to the Duchesse du Maine at the Arsenal. This Comte de Laval is always sick and covered with wounds; he wears a plaster which reaches from ear to ear; he is lame, and often has his arm in a sling; nevertheless, he is full of intrigue, and is engaged night and day in writing against my son.
M. de Pompadour has accused the Duc de Laval of teaming up with the Prince de Cellamara, for whom he once played chauffeur, driving him to the Duchesse du Maine at the Arsenal. This Comte de Laval is always ill and covered in wounds; he wears a bandage that goes from ear to ear; he is limping and often has his arm in a sling; however, he is always scheming and spends his days and nights writing against my son.
Madame de Maintenon is said to have sent large sums of money into the provinces for the purpose of stirring up the people against my son; but, thank God, her plan has not succeeded.
Madame de Maintenon is said to have sent large amounts of money to the provinces to incite the people against my son; but, thank God, her scheme hasn’t worked.
The old woman has spread about the report that my son poisoned all the members of the Royal Family who have died lately. She hired one of the King’s physicians first to spread this report. If Marechal, the King’s surgeon, who was present at the opening of the bodies, had not stated that there was no appearance of poison, and confirmed that statement to the King, this infamous creature would have plunged my innocent son into a most deplorable situation.
The old woman has circulated the story that my son poisoned all the members of the Royal Family who have recently died. She first hired one of the King’s doctors to spread this rumor. If Marechal, the King’s surgeon, who was there when the bodies were examined, hadn’t said that there was no sign of poison and confirmed that to the King, this despicable person would have put my innocent son in a terrible position.
Mademoiselle de Charolais says that the affair of Bayonne cannot be true, for that the Duc de Richelieu did not tell her of it, and he never concealed anything from her. She says, too, that she will not see my son, for his having put the Duke into the Bastille.
Mademoiselle de Charolais says that the Bayonne situation can't be true because the Duc de Richelieu didn't mention it to her, and he has never kept anything from her. She also states that she won't see my son because he put the Duke in the Bastille.
The Duke walks about on the top of the terrace at the Bastille, with his hair dressed, and in an embroidered coat. All the ladies who pass stop their carriages to look at the pretty fellow.
The Duke strolls along the top of the terrace at the Bastille, with his hair styled and wearing an embroidered coat. All the ladies who pass by pause their carriages to admire the handsome guy.
[This young man, says Duclos, thought himself of some consequence
when he was made a State prisoner, and endured his confinement with
the same levity which he had always displayed in love, in business,
or in war. The Regent was much amused with him, and suffered him to
have all he wanted-his valet de chambre, two footmen, music, cards,
etc.; so that, although he was deprived of his liberty, he might be
as licentious as ever.]
[This young man, Duclos says, thought he was pretty important when he became a State prisoner, and he took his confinement with the same lightheartedness he always showed in love, business, or war. The Regent found him quite amusing and let him have everything he wanted—his personal servant, two footmen, music, cards, etc.; so, even though he was locked up, he could still live pretty freely.]
Madame d’Orleans has been so little disposed to undertake her husband’s defence in public, that she has pretended to believe the charges against him, although no person in the world knows better than she does that the whole is a lie. She sent to her brothers for a counter-poison, so that my son should not take her off by those means; and thus she reconciled Maintenon, who was at enmity with her. I learnt this story during the year, and I do not know whether my son is aware of it. I would not say anything to him about it, for I did not wish to embroil man and wife.
Madame d’Orleans has been so unwilling to publicly defend her husband that she has acted as if she believes the accusations against him, even though no one knows better than she that it’s all a lie. She reached out to her brothers for an antidote, so that my son wouldn’t be taken out by those means; and in doing so, she made amends with Maintenon, who had been at odds with her. I learned this story during the year, and I’m not sure if my son knows about it. I wouldn’t say anything to him about it, as I didn’t want to create problems between husband and wife.
The Abbe Dubois—[Madame probably means the Duc du Maine]—seems to think that we do not know how many times he went by night to Madame de Maintenon’s, to help this fine affair.
The Abbe Dubois—[Madame probably refers to the Duc du Maine]—seems to believe that we are unaware of how many times he went to Madame de Maintenon's at night to support this fine matter.
My son has been dissuaded from issuing the manifesto.
My son has been discouraged from releasing the manifesto.
Madame d’Orleans has at length quite regained her husband; and, following her advice, he goes about by night in a coach. On Wednesday night he set off for Anieres, where Parabere has a house. He supped there, and, getting into his carriage again, after midnight, he put his foot into a hole and sprained it.
Madame d’Orleans has finally gotten her husband back; and, taking her advice, he travels at night in a carriage. On Wednesday night, he headed to Anieres, where Parabere has a house. He had dinner there, and after getting back into his carriage just after midnight, he stepped into a hole and twisted his ankle.
I am very much afraid my son will be attacked by the small-pox. He eats heavy suppers; he is short and fat, and just one of those persons whom the disease generally attacks.
I’m really worried that my son will catch smallpox. He eats heavy dinners, is short and overweight, and he fits the profile of someone the disease usually targets.
The Cardinal de Noailles has been pestering my son in favour of the Duc de Richelieu; and as it cannot be positively proved that he addressed the letter to Alberoni, they can do no more to him than banish him to Conflans, after six months’ imprisonment. Mademoiselle de Charolais procured some one to ask my son secretly by what means she could see the Duc de Richelieu, and speak with him, before he set off for Conflans.
The Cardinal de Noailles has been bothering my son to support the Duc de Richelieu; and since it can't be definitively proven that he sent the letter to Alberoni, the worst they can do is exile him to Conflans after six months of imprisonment. Mademoiselle de Charolais arranged for someone to discreetly ask my son how she could meet the Duc de Richelieu and talk to him before he leaves for Conflans.
[This must have been a joke of Mademoiselle de Charolais; for she
had already, together with Mademoiselle Valois, paid the Duke
several visits in the Bastille. When the Duke was sent to Conflans
to the Cardinal de Noailles, he used to escape almost every night,
and come to see his mistresses. It was this that determined the
Regent to send him to Saint-Germain en Laye; but, soon afterwards,
Mademoiselle de Valois obtained from her father a pardon for her
lover.—-Memoirs de Richelieu, tome iii., p. 171]
[This must have been a joke by Mademoiselle de Charolais; because she, along with Mademoiselle Valois, had already visited the Duke several times in the Bastille. When the Duke was sent to Conflans to see Cardinal de Noailles, he would escape almost every night to visit his mistresses. This behavior led the Regent to send him to Saint-Germain en Laye; however, shortly after, Mademoiselle de Valois got her father to grant her lover a pardon.—Memoirs de Richelieu, tome iii., p. 171]
My son replied, “that she had better speak to the Cardinal de Noailles; for as he was to conduct the Duke to Conflans, and keep him in his own house, he would know better than any other person how he might be spoken with.” When she learnt that the Duke had arrived at Saint-Germain, she hastened thither immediately.
My son replied, “that she should talk to Cardinal de Noailles; since he was going to take the Duke to Conflans and host him at his place, he would know better than anyone else how to approach him.” When she found out that the Duke had arrived at Saint-Germain, she rushed over right away.
I never doubted for a moment that my son’s marriage was in every respect unfortunate; but my advice was not listened to. If the union had been a good one, that old Maintenon would not have insisted on it.
I never doubted for a second that my son’s marriage was unfortunate in every way; yet my advice went ignored. If the marriage had been a good one, that old Maintenon wouldn’t have pushed for it.
Nothing less than millions are talked of on all sides: my sun has made me also richer by adding 130,000 livres to my pension.
Nothing less than millions is being discussed everywhere: my fortune has also increased, with an additional 130,000 livres added to my pension.
By what we hear daily of the insurrection in Bretagne, it seems that my son’s enemies are more inveterate against him than ever. I do not know whether it is true, as has been said, that there was a conspiracy at Rochelle, and that the governor intended to give up the place to the Spaniards, but has fled; that ten officers were engaged in the plot, some of whom have been arrested, and the others have fled to Spain.
By what we hear every day about the uprising in Brittany, it seems that my son's enemies are more determined against him than ever. I’m not sure if it's true, as reported, that there was a conspiracy in La Rochelle and that the governor meant to hand over the place to the Spaniards but has since fled; that ten officers were involved in the plot, some of whom have been arrested while the others have escaped to Spain.
I always took the Bishop of Soissons for an honest man. I knew him when he was only an Abbe, and the Duchess of Burgundy’s almoner; but the desire to obtain a Cardinal’s hat drives most of the Bishops mad. There is not one of them who does not believe that the more impertinently he behaves to my son about the Constitution, the more he will improve his credit with the Court of Rome, and the sooner become a Cardinal.
I always thought the Bishop of Soissons was an honest guy. I knew him when he was just an Abbe, serving as the Duchess of Burgundy’s almoner; but the urge to get a Cardinal’s hat drives most Bishops crazy. There isn't a single one who doesn’t think that the more rude he is to my son about the Constitution, the better his reputation will be with the Court of Rome, and the sooner he’ll become a Cardinal.
My son, although he is Regent, never comes to see me, and never quits me, without kissing my hand before he embraces me; and he will not even take a chair if I hand it to him. He is not, however, at all timid, but chats familiarly with me, and we laugh and talk together like good friends.
My son, even though he’s the Regent, never comes to see me without kissing my hand before hugging me, and he won’t even take a seat if I offer it to him. He’s not timid at all; we chat easily and laugh together like good friends.
While the Dauphin was alive La Chouin behaved very ill to my son; she embroiled him with the Dauphin, and would neither speak to nor see him; in short, she was constantly opposed to him. And yet, when he learnt that she had fallen into poverty, he sent her money, and secured her a pension sufficient to live upon.
While the Dauphin was alive, La Chouin treated my son very poorly; she caused trouble for him with the Dauphin and refused to speak to or see him. In short, she was always against him. Yet, when he found out that she had fallen on hard times, he sent her money and arranged a pension that was enough for her to live on.
My son gave me actions to the amount of two millions, which I distributed among my household. The King also took several millions for his own, household; all the Royal Family have had them; all the enfans and petits enfans de France, and the Princes of the blood.
My son gave me shares worth two million, which I shared among my household. The King also took several million for his own household; the entire Royal Family has received some; all the children and grandchildren of France, and the Princes of the blood.
[This may be stock the M. Law floated in the Mississippi Company. D.W.]
[This may be stock that M. Law promoted in the Mississippi Company. D.W.]
The old Court is doing its utmost to put people, out of conceit with Law’s bank.
The old Court is doing everything it can to make people lose faith in Law’s bank.
I do not think that Lord Stair praises my son so much as he used to do, for they do not seem to be very good friends. After having received all kinds of civilities from my son, who has made him richer than ever he expected to be in his life, he has turned his back upon him, caused him numerous little troubles, and annoys him so much that my son would gladly be rid of him.
I don’t think Lord Stair praises my son as much as he used to, since they don’t seem to be very good friends anymore. After receiving all kinds of kindness from my son, who has made him richer than he ever expected to be, he has now turned his back on him, created all sorts of small troubles, and annoys him so much that my son would happily be rid of him.
My son was obliged to make a speech at the Bank, which was applauded.
My son had to give a speech at the Bank, which received applause.
1720
1720
They have been obliged to adopt severe measures in Bretagne; four persons of quality have been beheaded. One of them, who might have escaped by flying to Spain, would not go. When he was asked why, he said it had been predicted that he should die by sea (de la mer). Just before he was executed he asked the headsman what his name was.
They have been forced to take drastic action in Brittany; four noble people have been beheaded. One of them, who could have escaped by fleeing to Spain, chose not to. When he was asked why, he replied that it had been foretold he would die by the sea. Just before he was executed, he asked the executioner what his name was.
“My name is Sea (La Mer),” replied the man.
“My name is Sea (La Mer),” the man replied.
“Then,” said the nobleman, “I am undone.”
“Then,” said the nobleman, “I’m finished.”
All Paris has been mourning at the cursed decree which Law has persuaded my son to make. I have received anonymous letters, stating that I have nothing to fear on my own account, but that my son shall be pursued with fire and sword; that the plan is laid and the affair determined on. From another quarter I have learnt that knives are sharpening for my son’s assassination. The most dreadful news is daily reaching me. Nothing could appease the discontent until, the Parliament having assembled, two of its members were deputed to wait upon my son, who received them graciously, and, following their advice, annulled the decree, and so restored things to their former condition. This proceeding has not only quieted all Paris, but has reconciled my son (thank God) to the Parliament.
All of Paris has been mourning over the awful decree that Law convinced my son to enact. I've been getting anonymous letters saying that I have nothing to fear personally, but that my son will be hunted down with fire and weapons; that the plan is set and the decision made. From another source, I learned that people are sharpening knives for my son's assassination. I'm receiving terrible news every day. Nothing could calm the unrest until, when the Parliament met, two of its members were sent to speak with my son, who welcomed them kindly. Following their advice, he canceled the decree, restoring everything to how it was before. This action not only calmed all of Paris, but thankfully also reconciled my son with the Parliament.
My son wished by sending an embassy to give a public proof how much he wished for a reconciliation between the members of the Royal Family of England, but it was declined.
My son tried to show his desire for a reconciliation among the members of the Royal Family of England by sending a delegation, but it was rejected.
The goldsmiths will work no longer, for they charge their goods at three times more than they are worth, on account of the bank-notes. I have often wished those bank-notes were in the depths of the infernal regions; they have given my son much more trouble than relief. I know not how many inconveniences they have caused him. Nobody in France has a penny; but, saving your presence, and to speak in plain palatine, there is plenty of paper.
The goldsmiths won't work anymore because they price their goods at three times their actual worth, thanks to the banknotes. I've often wished those banknotes were in the deepest part of hell; they've caused my son way more trouble than help. I can't even count how many problems they've created for him. Nobody in France has any money; but, with all due respect, to put it simply, there’s a ton of paper around.
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It is singular enough that my son should only become so firmly attached to his black Parabere, when she had preferred another and had formally dismissed him.
It’s quite unusual that my son became so attached to his black Parabere after she chose someone else and had officially let him go.
Excepting the affair with Parabere, my son lives upon very good terms with his wife, who for her part cares very little about it; nothing is so near to her heart as her brother, the Duc du Maine. In a recent quarrel which she had with my son on this subject, she said she would retire to Rambouillet or Montmartre. “Wherever you please,” he replied; “or wherever you think you will be most comfortable.” This vexed her so mach that she wept day and night about it.
Aside from the situation with Parabere, my son gets along well with his wife, who doesn't care much about it; nothing matters more to her than her brother, the Duc du Maine. In a recent argument they had over this, she said she would go to Rambouillet or Montmartre. “Go wherever you want,” he replied; “or wherever you think you'll be most comfortable.” This upset her so much that she cried day and night about it.
On the 17th of June, while I was at the Carmelites, Madame de Chateau-Thiers came to see me, and said to me, “M. de Simiane is come from the Palais Royal; and he thinks it fit you should know that on your return you will find all the courts filled with the people who, although they do not say anything, will not disperse. At six o’clock this morning they brought in three dead bodies which M. Le Blanc has had removed. M. Law has taken refuge in the Palais Royal: they have done him no harm; but his coach man was stoned as he returned, and the carriage broken to pieces. It was the coachman’s fault, who told them ‘they were a rabble, and ought to be hanged.’” I saw at once that it would not do to seem to be intimidated, so I ordered the coach to be driven to the Palais Royal. There was such a press of carriages that I was obliged to wait a full hour before I reached the rue Saint-Honore; then I heard the people talking: they did not say anything against my son; they gave me several benedictions, and demanded that Law should be hanged. When I reached the Palais Royal all was calm again. My son came to me, and in the midst of my anxiety he was perfectly tranquil, and even made me laugh.
On June 17th, while I was at the Carmelites, Madame de Chateau-Thiers came to see me and said, “M. de Simiane has come from the Palais Royal, and he thinks you should know that when you return, all the courts will be filled with people who, even though they’re not saying anything, won’t disperse. At six o’clock this morning, they brought in three dead bodies that M. Le Blanc had removed. M. Law has taken refuge in the Palais Royal; he hasn’t been harmed, but his coachman was stoned on the way back, and the carriage was destroyed. It was the coachman’s fault, as he told them 'they were a rabble and should be hanged.'” I realized right away that I shouldn’t appear intimidated, so I ordered the coach to head to the Palais Royal. There was such a crowd of carriages that I had to wait a whole hour before I reached rue Saint-Honoré; then I heard people talking: they didn’t say anything against my son; they gave me several blessings and demanded that Law should be hanged. When I arrived at the Palais Royal, everything was calm again. My son came to me, and despite my anxiety, he was perfectly relaxed and even made me laugh.
M. Le Blanc went with great boldness into the midst of the irritated populace and harangued them. He had the bodies of the men who had been crushed to death in the crowd brought away, and succeeded in quieting them.
M. Le Blanc stepped boldly into the crowd of angry people and spoke to them passionately. He had the bodies of the men who had been crushed in the crowd removed, and he managed to calm them down.
My son is incapable of being serious and acting like a father with his children; he lives with them more like a brother than a father.
My son can't be serious or behave like a dad with his kids; he acts more like a brother than a father.
The Parliament not only opposed the edict, and would not allow it to pass, but also refused to give any opinion, and rejected the affair altogether. For this reason my son had a company of the footguard placed on Sunday morning at the entrance of the palace to prevent their assembling; and, at the same time, he addressed a letter to the Premier-President, and to the Parliament a ‘lettre-de-cachet’, ordering them to repair to Pontoise to hold their sittings. The next day, when the musketeers had relieved the guards, the young fellows, not knowing what to do to amuse themselves, resolved to play at a parliament. They elected a chief and other presidents, the King’s ministers, and the advocates. These things being settled, and having received a sausage and a pie for breakfast, they pronounced a sentence, in which they condemned the sausage to be cooked and the pie to be cut up.
The Parliament not only opposed the decree and wouldn’t let it go through, but also refused to express any opinion and dismissed the whole matter. Because of this, my son stationed a company of the footguard at the palace entrance on Sunday morning to stop them from gathering; he also sent a letter to the Premier-President and the Parliament, a ‘lettre-de-cachet’, instructing them to go to Pontoise for their sessions. The next day, after the musketeers took over from the guards, the young guys, unsure of how to entertain themselves, decided to play at being Parliament. They elected a leader, along with other officers, the King’s ministers, and the lawyers. Once these roles were set, and after having a sausage and a pie for breakfast, they issued a ruling in which they declared the sausage should be cooked and the pie should be sliced up.
All these things make me tremble for my son. I receive frequently anonymous letters full of dreadful menaces against him, assuring me that two hundred bottles of wine have been poisoned for him, and, if this should fail, that they will make use of a new artificial fire to burn him alive in the Palais Royal.
All these things make me anxious for my son. I often get anonymous letters filled with terrifying threats against him, claiming that two hundred bottles of wine have been poisoned for him, and if that doesn’t work, they plan to use a new artificial fire to burn him alive in the Palais Royal.
It is too true that Madame d’Orleans loves her brother better than her husband.
It’s true that Madame d’Orleans loves her brother more than her husband.
The Duc du Maine says that if, by his assistance, the King should obtain the direction of his own affairs, he would govern him entirely, and would be more a monarch than the King, and that after my son’s death he would reign with his sister.
The Duke of Maine says that if he helps the King take control of his own affairs, he would manage everything for him and be more of a monarch than the King himself, and that after my son dies, he would rule alongside his sister.
A week ago I received letters in which they threatened to burn my son at the Palais Royal and me at Saint Cloud. Lampoons are circulated in Paris.
A week ago, I got letters where they threatened to burn my son at the Palais Royal and me at Saint Cloud. Satirical pieces are being circulated in Paris.
My son has already slept several times at the Tuileries, but I fear that the King will not be able to accustom himself to his ways, for my son could never in his life play with children: he does not like them.
My son has already napped a few times at the Tuileries, but I worry that the King won't be able to get used to his habits, because my son has never really played with other kids; he doesn’t like them.
He was once beloved, but since the arrival of that cursed Law he is hated more and more. Not a week passes without my receiving by the post letters filled with frightful threats, in which my son is spoken of as a bad man and a tyrant.
He was once loved, but ever since that cursed Law came about, he's been hated more and more. Not a week goes by without me receiving letters in the mail filled with awful threats, calling my son a bad man and a tyrant.
I have just now received a letter in which he is threatened with poison. When I showed it to him he did nothing but laugh, and said the Persian poison could not be given to him, and that all that was said about it was a fable.
I just received a letter where he’s being threatened with poison. When I showed it to him, he just laughed and said that Persian poison couldn’t harm him, and that everything said about it was just a myth.
To-morrow the Parliament will return to Paris, which will delight the Parisians as much as the departure of Law.
Tomorrow, Parliament will return to Paris, which will please the Parisians just as much as Law's departure did.
That old Maintenon has sent the Duc du Maine about to tell the members of the Royal Family that my son poisoned the Dauphin, the Dauphine, and the Duc de Berri. The old woman has even done more she has hinted to the Duchess that she is not secure in her husband’s house, and that she should ask her brother for a counter-poison, as she herself was obliged to do during the latter days of the King’s life.
That old Maintenon has sent the Duc du Maine to inform the members of the Royal Family that my son poisoned the Dauphin, the Dauphine, and the Duc de Berri. The old woman has gone even further; she has suggested to the Duchess that she isn’t safe in her husband’s house and should ask her brother for an antidote, just like she had to do in the last days of the King’s life.
The old woman lives very retired. No one can say that any imprudent expressions have escaped her. This makes me believe that she has some plan in her head, but I cannot guess what it is.
The old woman lives a very secluded life. No one can say that she has ever spoken thoughtlessly. This makes me think that she has some kind of plan in her mind, but I can't figure out what it is.
SECTION XI.—THE DUCHESSE D’ORLEANS, WIFE OF THE REGENT.
If, by shedding my own blood, I could have prevented my son’s marriage, I would willingly have done so; but since the thing was done, I have had no other wish than to preserve harmony. Monsieur behaved to her with great attention during the first month, but as soon as he suspected that she looked with too favourable an eye upon the Chevalier du Roye,
If I could have stopped my son’s marriage by shedding my own blood, I would have gladly done it; but now that it’s happened, all I want is to keep the peace. Monsieur treated her with a lot of care during the first month, but as soon as he thought she might be interested in the Chevalier du Roye,
[Bartholemi de La Rochefoucauld, at first Chevalier de Roye, but
afterwards better known by the title of Marquis de La Rochefoucauld.
He was Captain of the Duchesse de Berri’s Body-Guards, and he died
in 1721.]
[Bartholemi de La Rochefoucauld, initially known as Chevalier de Roye, but later more commonly referred to as the Marquis de La Rochefoucauld. He served as Captain of the Duchesse de Berri’s Body-Guards, and he passed away in 1721.]
he hated her as the Devil. To prevent an explosion, I was obliged daily to represent to him that he would dishonour himself, as well as his son, by exposing her conduct, and would infallibly bring upon himself the King’s displeasure. As no person had been less favourable to this marriage than I, he could not suspect but that I was moved, not from any love for my daughter-in-law, but from the wish to avoid scandal and out of affection to my son and the whole family. While all eclat was avoided, the public were at least in doubt about the matter; by an opposite proceeding their suspicions would have been confirmed.
he hated her like the Devil. To avoid an explosion, I had to remind him daily that he would disgrace himself and his son by exposing her actions, and he would definitely incur the King's wrath. Since no one had been less supportive of this marriage than I, he couldn't suspect that I was acting out of any love for my daughter-in-law, but instead to prevent a scandal and out of concern for my son and the entire family. While we managed to avoid any public uproar, people were at least uncertain about the situation; taking a different approach would have only confirmed their suspicions.
Madame d’Orleans looks older than she is; for she paints beyond all measure, so that she is often quite red. We frequently joke her on this subject, and she even laughs at it herself. Her nose and cheeks are somewhat pendant, and her head shakes like an old woman: this is in consequence of the small-pox. She is often ill, and always has a fictitious malady in reserve. She has a true and a false spleen; whenever she complains, my son and I frequently rally her about it. I believe that all the indispositions and weaknesses she has proceed from her always lying in bed or on a sofa; she eats and drinks reclining, through mere idleness; she has not worn stays since the King’s death; she never could bring herself to eat with the late King, her own father, still less would she with me. It would then be necessary for her to sit upon a stool, and she likes better to loll upon a sofa or sit in an arm-chair at a small table with her favourite, the Duchess of Sforza. She admits her son, and sometimes Mademoiselle d’Orleans. She is so indolent that she will not stir; she would like larks ready roasted to drop into her mouth; she eats and walks slowly, but eats enormously. It is impossible to be more idle than she is: she admits this herself; but she does not attempt to correct it: she goes to bed early that she may lie the longer. She never reads herself, but when she has the spleen she makes her women read her to sleep. Her complexion is good, but less so than her second daughter’s. She walks a little on one side, which Madame de Ratzenhausen calls walking by ear. She does not think that there is her equal in the world for beauty, wit, and perfection of all kinds. I always compare her to Narcissus, who died of self-admiration. She is so vain as to think she has more sense than her husband, who has a great deal; while her notions are not in the slightest degree elevated. She lives much in the femme-de-chambre style; and, indeed, loves this society better than that of persons of birth. The ladies are often a week together without seeing her; for without being summoned they cannot approach her. She does not know how to live as the wife of a prince should, having been educated like the daughter of a citizen. A long time had elapsed before she and her younger brother were legitimated by the King; I do not know for what reason.
Madame d’Orleans looks older than she is because she uses way too much makeup, making her frequently look quite red. We often joke about this, and she even laughs along with us. Her nose and cheeks hang a bit, and her head shakes like an old woman's, which is a result of having had smallpox. She's often unwell and always has some fake illness ready to mention. She has both a real and a fake spleen; whenever she complains, my son and I tease her about it. I believe all her ailments come from her tendency to lounge in bed or on a sofa; she eats and drinks while lying down out of sheer laziness. She hasn't worn stays since the King’s death and could never bring herself to eat with her late father, the King, let alone with me. She prefers to recline on a sofa or sit in an armchair at a small table with her favorite, the Duchess of Sforza. She allows her son and sometimes Mademoiselle d’Orleans to visit her. She's so lazy that she won’t get up; she wants cooked larks to drop right into her mouth. She eats and walks slowly, but she eats a lot. It's impossible to be lazier than she is, and she admits it herself, but she doesn't try to change. She goes to bed early so she can lay there longer. She never reads on her own, but when she feels down, she has her ladies read to her until she falls asleep. Her complexion is decent, but not as good as her second daughter’s. She has a bit of a lopsided walk, which Madame de Ratzenhausen describes as walking by ear. She believes there's no one in the world as beautiful, witty, and perfect as she is. I always compare her to Narcissus, who died of self-love. She's so vain that she thinks she's smarter than her husband, who is quite intelligent, even though her ideas are pretty basic. She lives in a very informal way and actually prefers the company of commoners to that of noble people. The ladies often go a week without seeing her because they can't approach her without an invitation. She doesn’t know how to act like a princess should, having been raised like a commoner's daughter. A long time passed before she and her younger brother were legitimized by the King; I have no idea why.
[This legitimation presented great difficulties during the life of
the Marquis de Montespan. M. Achille de Harlai, Procureur-General
du Parliament, helped to remove them by having the Chevalier de
Longueville, son of the Duke of that name and of the Marechale de la
Feste, recognized without naming his mother. This once done, the
children of the King and of Madame de Montespan were legitimated in
the same manner.]
[This legitimation faced significant challenges during the life of the Marquis de Montespan. M. Achille de Harlai, the Attorney General of the Parliament, helped to resolve these issues by having the Chevalier de Longueville, the son of the Duke of that name and the Marechale de la Feste, recognized without mentioning his mother. Once this was accomplished, the children of the King and Madame de Montespan were legitimized in the same way.]
When they arrived at Court their conversation was exactly like that of the common people.
When they got to court, their conversation was just like that of everyday people.
In my opinion my son’s wife has no charms at all; her physiognomy does not please me. I don’t know whether my son loves her much, but I know she does what she pleases with him. The populace and the femmes de chambre are fond of her; but she is not liked elsewhere. She often goes to the Salut at the Quinze Vingts; and her women are ordered to say that. she is a saint, who suffers my son to be surrounded by mistresses without complaining. This secures the pity of the populace and makes her pass for one of the best of wives, while, in fact; she is, like her elder brother, full of artifice.
In my opinion, my son's wife has no appeal at all; her face just doesn’t do it for me. I’m not sure how much my son loves her, but I know she has her way with him. The general public and the maids really like her, but she isn’t well-liked elsewhere. She often visits the Salut at the Quinze Vingts, and her attendants are instructed to say that she’s a saint who puts up with my son being surrounded by mistresses without complaint. This earns her sympathy from the public and makes her seem like one of the best wives, while in reality, she’s just as cunning as her older brother.
She is very superstitious. Some years ago a nun of Fontevrault, called Madame de Boitar, died. Whenever Madame d’Orleans loses anything she promises to this nun prayers for the redemption of her soul from purgatory, and then does not doubt that she shall find what she has lost. She piques herself upon being extremely pious; but does not consider lying and deceit are the works of the Devil and not of God. Ambition, pride and selfishness have entirely spoilt her. I fear she will not make a good end. That I may live in peace I seem to shut my eyes to these things. My son often, in allusion to her pride, calls her Madame Lucifer. She is not backward in believing everything complimentary that is said to her. Montespan, old Maintenon, and all the femmes de chambre have made her believe that she did my son honour in marrying him; and she is so vain of her own birth and that of her brothers and sisters that she will not hear a word said against them; she will not see any difference between legitimate and illegitimate children.
She is very superstitious. A few years ago, a nun from Fontevrault, named Madame de Boitar, passed away. Whenever Madame d’Orleans loses something, she promises this nun prayers for her soul's release from purgatory, and then believes she will find what she lost. She prides herself on being extremely pious but fails to see that lying and deceit are works of the Devil, not of God. Ambition, pride, and selfishness have completely corrupted her. I worry she won’t end well. To keep my peace, I try to ignore these things. My son often, referring to her pride, calls her Madame Lucifer. She readily believes every flattering thing said about her. Montespan, old Maintenon, and all the ladies-in-waiting have convinced her that marrying my son was a great honor for her, and she is so proud of her own background and that of her siblings that she refuses to hear anything negative about them; she doesn’t see a difference between legitimate and illegitimate children.
She wishes to reign; but she knows nothing of true grandeur, having been educated in too low a manner. She might live well as a simple duchess; but not as one of the Royal Family of France. It is too true that she has always been ambitious of possessing, not my son’s heart, but his power; she is always in fear lest some one else should govern him. Her establishment is well regulated; my son has always let her be mistress in this particular. As to her children, I let them go on in their own way; they were brought here without my consent, and it is for others to take care of them. Sometimes she displays more affection for her brother than even for her children. An ambitious woman as she is, having it put into her head by her brother that she ought to be the Regent, can love none but him. She would like to see him Regent better than her husband, because he has persuaded her that she shall reign with him; she believes it firmly, although every one else knows that his own wife is too ambitious to permit any one but herself to reign. Besides her ambition she has a great deal of ill-temper. She will never pardon either the nun of Chelles or Mademoiselle de Valois, because they did not like her nephew with the long lips. Her anger is extremely bitter, and she will never forgive. She loves only her relations on the maternal side. Madame de Sforza, her favourite, is the daughter of Madame de Thianges, Madame de Montespan’s sister, and therefore a cousin of Madame d’Orleans, who hates her sister and her nephew worse than the Devil.
She wants to be in charge, but she doesn’t understand true greatness because she was raised in a lowly way. She could live comfortably as a simple duchess, but not as part of the Royal Family of France. It’s true that she’s always been more interested in my son’s power than his heart; she's always worried that someone else might take control of him. Her household is well organized; my son has always allowed her to be in charge of that. As for her kids, I let them do their own thing; they came here without my permission, and it’s up to others to take care of them. Sometimes she seems to care more for her brother than for her own kids. Being as ambitious as she is, and with her brother convincing her that she should be the Regent, she can only love him. She would prefer to see him as Regent over her husband because he has convinced her that she will rule alongside him; she believes this firmly, even though everyone else knows his own wife is too ambitious to allow anyone else to hold that position. In addition to her ambition, she has a bad temper. She will never forgive either the nun of Chelles or Mademoiselle de Valois because they didn’t like her nephew with the long lips. Her anger is very intense, and she holds grudges. She only loves her relatives on her mother's side. Madame de Sforza, her favorite, is the daughter of Madame de Thianges, who is Madame de Montespan’s sister, and thus a cousin of Madame d’Orleans, who loathes her sister and her nephew even more than the Devil.
I could forgive her all if she were not so treacherous. She flatters me when I am present, but behind my back she does all in her power to set the Duchesse de Berri against me; she tells her not to believe that I love her, but that I wish to have her sister with me. Madame d’Orleans believes that her daughter, Madame de Berri, loves her less than her father. It is true that the daughter has not a very warm attachment to her mother, but she does her duty to her; and yet the more they are full of mutual civilities the more they quarrel. On the 4th of October, 1718, Madame de Berri having invited her father to go and sleep at La Muette, to see the vintage feast and dance which were to be held on the next day. Madame d’Orleans wrote to Madame de Berri, and asked her if she thought it consistent with the piety of the Carmelites that she should ask her father to sleep in her house. Madame de Berri replied that it had never been thought otherwise than pious that a parent should sleep in his daughter’s house. The mother did this only to annoy her husband and daughter, and when she chooses she has a very cutting way. It may be imagined how this letter was received by the father and daughter. I arrived at La Muette just as it had come. My son dare not complain to me, for as often as he does, I say to him, “George Dandin, you would have it so:”—[Moliere]—he therefore only laughed and said nothing. I did not wish to add to the bitterness which this had occasioned, for that would have been to blow a fire already too hot; I confined myself, therefore, to observing that when she wrote it she probably had the spleen.
I could forgive her for everything if she weren't so deceitful. She praises me when I'm around, but behind my back, she does everything she can to turn the Duchesse de Berri against me; she tells her not to believe that I love her, but that I want to have her sister with me. Madame d’Orleans thinks that her daughter, Madame de Berri, loves her less than she loves her father. It's true that the daughter doesn't have a very strong attachment to her mother, but she still does her duty; yet the more they go through the motions of being polite to each other, the more they argue. On October 4, 1718, Madame de Berri invited her father to come and stay at La Muette to see the vintage feast and dance planned for the following day. Madame d'Orleans wrote to Madame de Berri, asking if she thought it aligned with the piety of the Carmelites to invite her father to sleep in her house. Madame de Berri responded that it was always considered pious for a parent to spend the night at his daughter's home. The mother was just trying to irritate her husband and daughter, and when she wants to, she can be really cutting. You can imagine how that letter was received by the father and daughter. I arrived at La Muette just as it arrived. My son doesn't dare complain to me, because whenever he does, I remind him, "George Dandin, you brought this on yourself:"—[Moliere]—so he just laughed and said nothing. I didn't want to add to the bitterness this caused, as that would have been just fanning a flame that was already too hot; so I settled for observing that when she wrote it, she was probably feeling pretty low.
She is not very fond of her children, and, as I think, she carries her indifference too far; for the children see she does not love them, and this makes them fond of being with me. This angers the mother, and she reproaches them for it, which only makes them like her less.
She doesn't really care for her kids, and I believe her indifference goes too far; the kids can tell she doesn't love them, which makes them want to be around me more. This frustrates the mom, and she blames them for it, which just makes them like her even less.
Although she loves her son, she does not in general care so much for her children as for her brothers, and all who belong to the House of Mortemart.
Although she loves her son, she generally cares more for her brothers and everyone connected to the House of Mortemart than for her children.
I was the unintentional cause of making a quarrel between her and the nun of Chelles. At the commencement of the affair of the Duc du Maine, I received a letter from my daughter addressed to Madame d’Orleans; and not thinking that it was for the Abbess, who bears the same title with her mother, I sent it to the latter. This letter happened, unluckily, to be an answer to one of our Nun’s, in which she had very plainly said what she thought of the Duc and Duchesse du Maine, and ended by pitying her father for being the Duke’s brother-in-law, and for having contracted an alliance so absurd and injurious. It may be guessed whether my daughter’s answer was palatable to my daughter-in-law. I am very sorry that I made the mistake; but what right had she to read a letter which was not meant for her?
I unintentionally caused a fight between her and the nun of Chelles. At the start of the Duc du Maine situation, I got a letter from my daughter addressed to Madame d’Orleans. Not realizing it was meant for the Abbess, who has the same title as her mother, I sent it to the latter. Unfortunately, this letter was a reply to one from our Nun, in which she had clearly expressed her opinions about the Duc and Duchesse du Maine and ended by feeling sorry for her father for being the Duke’s brother-in-law and for getting into such an absurd and harmful alliance. It’s easy to see whether my daughter’s response was acceptable to my daughter-in-law. I regret making the mistake, but what right did she have to read a letter that wasn’t intended for her?
The new Abbess of Chelles has had a great difference with her mother, who says she will never forgive her for having agreed with her father to embrace the religious profession without her knowledge. The daughter said that, as her mother had always taken the side of the former Abbess against her, she had not confided this secret to her, from a conviction that she would oppose it to please the Abbess. This threw the mother into a paroxysm of grief. She said she was very unhappy both in her husband and her children; that her husband was the most unjust person in the world, for that he kept her brother-in-law in prison, who was one of the best and most pious of men—in short, a perfect saint; and that God would punish such wickedness. The daughter replied it was respect for her mother that kept her silent; and the latter became quite furious. This shows that she hates us like the very Devil, and that she loves none but her lame brother, and those who love him or are nearly connected with him.
The new Abbess of Chelles has had a huge falling out with her mother, who says she will never forgive her for agreeing with her father to join the religious life without telling her. The daughter explained that since her mother had always sided with the previous Abbess against her, she didn’t share this secret, believing her mother would oppose it to please the Abbess. This sent the mother into a fit of grief. She expressed how unhappy she was with her husband and children, claiming her husband was the most unjust person in the world for keeping her brother-in-law imprisoned, who was one of the best and most devout men—in short, a perfect saint; and that God would punish such evil. The daughter replied that it was out of respect for her mother that she had remained silent, which made the mother extremely angry. This shows that she hates us like the Devil and that she loves only her lame brother and those who care for him or are closely connected to him.
She thinks there never was so perfect a being in the world as her mother. She cannot quite persuade herself that she was ever Queen, because she knew the Queen too well, who always called her daughter, and treated her better than her sisters; I cannot tell why, because she was not the most amiable of them.
She believes there has never been a more perfect person in the world than her mother. She can’t quite convince herself that she was ever a Queen, because she knew the Queen too well, who always referred to her as daughter and treated her better than her sisters; I can’t say why, since she wasn’t the most pleasant of the bunch.
It is quite true that there is little sympathy between my son’s wife and me; but we live together as politely as possible. Her singular conduct shall never prevent me from keeping that promise which I made to the late King in his last moments. He gave some good Christian exhortations to Madame d’Orleans; but, as the proverb says, it is useless to preach to those who have no heart to act.
It’s true that my son's wife and I don’t get along very well, but we do our best to be polite to each other. Her strange behavior will never stop me from honoring the promise I made to the late King in his final moments. He shared some wise Christian advice with Madame d’Orleans; however, as the saying goes, there’s no point in preaching to those who lack the will to act.
In the spring of this year (1718) her brothers and relations said that but for the antidotes which had been administered to Madame d’Orleans, without the knowledge of me or my son, she must have perished.
In the spring of this year (1718), her brothers and relatives said that without the antidotes that were given to Madame d’Orleans, without my or my son's knowledge, she would have died.
I had resolved not to interfere with anything respecting this affair; but had the satisfaction of speaking my mind a little to Madame du Maine. I said to her: “Niece” (by which appellation I always addressed her), “I beg you will let me know who told you that Madame d’Orleans had taken a counterpoison unknown to us. It is the greatest falsehood that ever was uttered, and you may say so from me to whoever told it you.”
I had decided not to get involved in this situation, but I was happy to share my thoughts briefly with Madame du Maine. I said to her, “Niece” (that’s how I always addressed her), “please tell me who informed you that Madame d’Orleans had taken a counterpoison that we don’t know about. That’s the biggest lie ever told, and you can let whoever told you know that it came from me.”
She looked red, and said, “I never said it was so.”
She looked embarrassed and said, “I never said that.”
“I am very glad of it, niece,” I replied; “for it would be very disgraceful to you to have said so, and you ought not to allow people to bring you such tales.” When she heard this she went off very quickly.
“I’m really glad to hear that, niece,” I said; “because it would be very embarrassing for you to say that, and you shouldn’t let people tell you such stories.” When she heard this, she quickly left.
Madame d’Orleans is a little inconstant in her friendship. She is very fond of jewels, and once wept for four-and-twenty hours because my son gave a pair of beautiful pendants to Madame de Berri.
Madame d’Orleans is a bit fickle in her friendships. She loves jewelry and once cried for twenty-four hours because my son gave a pair of beautiful earrings to Madame de Berri.
My son has this year (1719) increased his wife’s income by 160,000 livres, the arrears of which have been paid to her from 1716, so that she received at once the sum of 480,000 livres. I do not envy her this money, but I cannot bear the idea that she is thus paid for her infidelity. One must, however, be silent.
My son has, this year (1719), raised his wife’s income by 160,000 livres, with the back pay dating from 1716, meaning she received a total of 480,000 livres at once. I don’t resent her for this money, but I can’t stand the thought that she’s being rewarded for her unfaithfulness. Still, I must remain quiet.
SECTION XII.—MARIE-ANNE CHRISTINE VICTOIRE OF BAVARIA, THE FIRST DAUPHINE.
She was ugly, but her extreme politeness made her very agreeable. She loved the Dauphin more like a son than a husband. Although he loved her very well, he wished to live with her in an unceremonious manner, and she agreed to it to please him. I used often to laugh at her superstitious devotion, and undeceived her upon many of her strange opinions. She spoke Italian very well, but her German was that of the peasants of the country. At first, when she and Bessola were talking together, I could not understand a word.
She wasn’t conventionally attractive, but her remarkable politeness made her very likable. She loved the Dauphin more as a son than as a husband. Although he cared for her deeply, he preferred to live with her in a casual way, and she went along with it to make him happy. I often found her superstitious beliefs amusing and helped clear up many of her strange opinions. She spoke Italian quite well, but her German was that of the local peasants. At first, when she and Bessola were talking, I couldn’t understand a word.
She always manifested the greatest friendship and confidence in me to the end of her days. She was not haughty, but as it had become the custom to blame everything she did, she was somewhat disdainful. She had a favourite called Bessola—a false creature, who had sold her to Maintenon. But for the infatuated liking she had for this woman, the Dauphine would have been much happier. Through her, however, she was made one of the most wretched women in the world.
She always showed me the deepest friendship and trust until the end of her life. She wasn't arrogant, but since it had become common to criticize everything she did, she was a bit dismissive. She had a favorite named Bessola—a deceitful person, who had betrayed her to Maintenon. If it weren't for the blind affection she had for this woman, the Dauphine would have been much happier. Instead, through her, she became one of the most miserable women in the world.
This Bessola could not bear that the Dauphine should speak to any person but herself: she was mercenary and jealous, and feared that the friendship of the Dauphine for any one else would discredit her with Maintenon, and that her mistress’s liberality to others would diminish that which she hoped to experience herself. I told this person the truth once, as she deserved to be told, in the presence of the Dauphine; from which period she has neither done nor said anything troublesome to me. I told the Dauphine in plain German that it was a shame that she should submit to be governed by Bessola to such a degree that she could not speak to whom she chose. I said this was not friendship, but a slavery, which was the derision of the Court.
This Bessola couldn't stand the idea of the Dauphine talking to anyone but her. She was selfish and jealous, fearing that if the Dauphine became friends with someone else, it would make her look bad in front of Maintenon. She worried that the generosity the Dauphine showed to others would cut into what she hoped to receive herself. I once told her the truth, as she deserved, in front of the Dauphine; since then, she hasn't bothered me at all. I told the Dauphine straight up that it was shameful for her to let Bessola control her to the point where she couldn't talk to whoever she wanted. I said this wasn’t friendship, but slavery, which was a joke at the Court.
Instead of being vexed at this, she laughed, and said, “Has not everybody some weakness? Bessola is mine.”
Instead of being annoyed by this, she laughed and said, “Doesn’t everyone have some flaw? Bessola is mine.”
This wench often put me in an ill-humour: at last I lost all patience, and could no longer restrain myself. I would often have told her what I thought, but that I saw it would really distress the poor Dauphine: I therefore restrained myself, and said to her, “Out of complaisance to you, I will be silent; but give such orders that Bessola may not again rouse me, otherwise I cannot promise but that I may say something she will not like.”
This girl often put me in a bad mood: finally, I lost all patience and could no longer hold back. I would have told her what I thought, but I noticed it would really upset the poor Dauphine. So, I held back and said to her, “To be polite, I will stay quiet; but make sure Bessola doesn’t provoke me again, or I can’t guarantee I won’t say something she won’t like.”
The Dauphine thanked me affectionately, and thus more than ever engaged my silence.
The Dauphine thanked me warmly, and that made me even more committed to staying quiet.
When the Dauphine arrived from Bavaria, the fine Court of France was on the decline: it was at the commencement of Maintenon’s reign, which spoilt and degraded everything. It was not, therefore, surprising that the poor Dauphine should regret her own country. Maintenon annoyed her immediately after her marriage in such a manner as must have excited pity. The Dauphine had made her own marriage; she had hoped to be uncontrolled, and to become her own mistress; but she was placed in that Maintenon’s hands, who wanted to govern her like a child of seven years old, although she was nineteen. That old Maintenon, piqued at the Dauphine for wishing to hold a Court, as she should have done, turned the King against her. Bessola finished this work by betraying and selling her; and thus was the Dauphine’s misery accomplished! By selecting me for her friend, she filled up the cup of Maintenon’s hatred, who was paying Bessola; because she knew she was jealous of me, and that I had advised the Dauphine not to keep her, for I was quite aware that she had secret interviews with Maintenon.
When the Dauphine arrived from Bavaria, the prestigious Court of France was in decline: it was the beginning of Maintenon’s reign, which ruined and degraded everything. So, it wasn’t surprising that the poor Dauphine missed her homeland. Mainton annoyed her right after her marriage in a way that must have been pitiful. The Dauphine had arranged her own marriage; she had hoped to have freedom and be her own boss, but she found herself in Maintenon’s control, who wanted to manage her like a child of seven, even though she was nineteen. That old Maintenon, offended by the Dauphine’s desire to have her own court, turned the King against her. Bessola finished the job by betraying and selling her out; thus, the Dauphine’s misery was complete! By choosing me as her friend, she filled Mainton’s cup of hatred, who was paying Bessola because she knew she was jealous of me, and I had advised the Dauphine not to keep her, fully aware of the secret meetings Bessola had with Maintenon.
That lady had also another creature in the Dauphine’s household: this was Madame de Montchevreuil, the gouvernante of the Dauphine’s filles d’honneur. Madame de Maintenon had engaged her to place the Dauphin upon good terms with the filles d’honneur, and she finished by estranging him altogether from his wife. During her pregnancy, which, as well as her lying-in, was extremely painful, the Dauphine could not go out; and this Montchevreuil took advantage of the opportunity thus afforded her to introduce the filles d’honneur to the Dauphin to hunt and game with him. He became fond, in his way, of the sister of La Force, who was afterwards compelled to marry young Du Roure. The attachment continued, notwithstanding this marriage; and she procured the Dauphin’s written promise to marry her in case of the death of the Dauphine and her husband. I do not know how the late King became acquainted with this fact; but it is certain that he was seriously angered at it, and that he banished Du Roure to Gascony, his native country. The Dauphin had an affair of gallantry with another of his wife’s filles d’honneur called Rambures. He did not affect any dissimulation with his wife; a great uproar ensued; and that wicked Bessola, following the directions of old Maintenon, who planned everything, detached the Dauphin from his wife more and more. The latter was not very fond of him; but what displeased her in his amours was that they exposed her to be openly and constantly ridiculed and insulted. Montchevreuil made her pay attention to all that passed, and Bessola kept up her anger against her husband.
That woman had another person in the Dauphine’s household: Madame de Montchevreuil, who was the governess to the Dauphine’s ladies-in-waiting. Madame de Maintenon had hired her to help the Dauphin get along with the ladies-in-waiting, but she ultimately drove a wedge between him and his wife. During her difficult pregnancy and painful childbirth, the Dauphine couldn’t go out, and Montchevreuil seized this chance to introduce the ladies-in-waiting to the Dauphin for hunting and games. He grew close, in his own way, to La Force’s sister, who later had to marry young Du Roure. Their connection persisted despite the marriage, and she got the Dauphin to promise in writing that he would marry her if the Dauphine and her husband died. I don’t know how the late King found out about this, but it’s clear he was very angry and exiled Du Roure to Gascony, his home. The Dauphin also had a fling with another one of his wife’s ladies-in-waiting named Rambures. He was open about it, causing a big uproar, and that wicked Bessola, following the orders of old Maintenon, who orchestrated everything, pulled the Dauphin away from his wife even more. The Dauphine wasn’t very fond of him, but what bothered her about his affairs was that they made her a target for constant ridicule and insult. Montchevreuil made sure she noticed everything happening, and Bessola fueled her anger towards her husband.
Maintenon had caused it to be reported among the people by her agents that the Dauphine hated France, and that she urged the imposition of new taxes.
Maintenon had her agents spread the word among the people that the Dauphine hated France and was pushing for new taxes to be imposed.
The Dauphine was so ill-treated in her accouchement of the Duc de Berri that she became quite deformed, although previous to this her figure had been remarkably good. On the evening before she died, as the little Duke was sitting on her bed, she said to him, “My dear Berri, I love you very much, but I have paid dearly for you.” The Dauphin was not grieved at her death; old Montchevreuil had told him so many lies of his wife that he could not love her. That old Maintenon hoped, when this event happened, that she should be able to govern the Duke by means of his mistresses, which could not have been if he had continued to be attached to his wife. This old woman had conceived so violent a hatred against the poor Princess, that I do believe she prevailed on Clement, the accoucheur, to treat her ill in her confinement; and what confirms me in this is that she almost killed her by visiting her at that time in perfumed gloves. She said it was I who wore them, which was untrue. I would not swear that the Dauphine did not love Bessola better than her husband; she deserved no such attachment. I often apprised her mistress of her perfidy, but she would not believe me.
The Dauphine was treated so poorly during the birth of the Duc de Berri that she became quite deformed, even though before that her figure had been remarkably good. On the night before she died, while the little Duke was sitting on her bed, she said to him, “My dear Berri, I love you very much, but I have paid dearly for you.” The Dauphin didn’t mourn her death; old Montchevreuil had filled his head with so many lies about his wife that he couldn’t love her. That old Maintenon hoped that when this happened, she could control the Duke through his mistresses, which wouldn’t have been possible if he had stayed attached to his wife. This old woman had developed such a deep hatred for the poor Princess that I believe she convinced Clement, the midwife, to mistreat her during her labor; and what makes me think this is that she nearly killed her by visiting her at that time while wearing perfumed gloves. She claimed it was me who wore them, which wasn’t true. I can’t swear that the Dauphine didn’t love Bessola more than her husband; she didn’t deserve that kind of loyalty. I often warned her mistress about her betrayal, but she wouldn’t believe me.
The Dauphine used to say, “We are two unhappy persons, but there is this difference between us: you endeavoured, as much as you could, to avoid coming here; while I resolved to do so at all events. I have therefore deserved my misery more than you.”
The Dauphine used to say, “We're two unhappy people, but there's this difference between us: you did everything you could to avoid coming here; while I made up my mind to come no matter what. So I've earned my misery more than you.”
They wanted to make her pass for crazy, because she was always complaining. Some hours before her death she said to me, “I shall convince them to-day that I was not mad in complaining of my sufferings.” She died calmly and easily; but she was as much put to death as if she had been killed by a pistol-shot.
They wanted to make her seem crazy because she kept complaining. A few hours before she died, she said to me, “I’ll show them today that I wasn’t crazy for complaining about my suffering.” She died peacefully and easily, but she was just as much killed as if she had been shot.
When her funeral service was performed I carried the taper (nota bene) and some pieces of gold to the Bishop who performed the grand mass, and who was sitting in an arm-chair near the altar. The prelate intended to have given them to his assistants, the priests of the King’s chapel; but the monks of Saint Denis ran to him with great eagerness, exclaiming that the taper and the gold belonged to them. They threw themselves upon the Bishop, whose chair began to totter, and made his mitre fall from his head. If I had stayed there a moment longer the Bishop, with all the monks, would have fallen upon me. I descended the four steps of the altar in great haste, for I was nimble enough at that time, and looked on the battle at a distance, which appeared so comical that I could not but laugh, and everybody present did the same.
When her funeral service was held, I carried the candle and some gold to the Bishop who led the grand mass, seated in an armchair near the altar. The Bishop planned to give them to his assistants, the priests of the King’s chapel, but the monks of Saint Denis rushed at him, eagerly claiming that the candle and the gold belonged to them. They lunged at the Bishop, causing his chair to wobble and his mitre to fall off. If I had stayed there any longer, the Bishop and all the monks would have swarmed me. I quickly descended the four steps of the altar, as I was quite agile at that time, and watched the chaos from a distance, which looked so ridiculous that I couldn’t help but laugh, and everyone else there did too.
That wicked Bessola, who had tormented the Dauphine day and night, and had made her distrust every one who approached her, and thus separated her from all the world, returned home a year after her mistress’s death. Before her departure she played another trick by having a box made with a double bottom, in which she concealed jewels and ready money to the amount of 100,000 francs; and all this time she went about weeping and complaining that, after so many years of faithful service, she was dismissed as poor as a beggar. She did not know that her contrivance had been discovered at the Customhouse and that the King had been apprised of it. He ordered her to be sent for, showed her the things which she had prepared to carry away, and said he thought she had little reason to complain of the Dauphine’s parsimony. It may be imagined how foolish she looked. The King added that, although he might withhold them from her, yet to show her that she had done wrong in acting clandestinely, and in complaining as she had done, he chose to restore her the whole.
That wicked Bessola, who had tormented the Dauphine day and night, making her distrust everyone around her and isolating her from the world, returned home a year after her mistress’s death. Before leaving, she pulled another stunt by having a box made with a false bottom, where she hid jewels and cash totaling 100,000 francs. All this time, she went around crying and complaining that, after so many years of loyal service, she was dismissed as poor as a beggar. She didn’t know that her scheme had been discovered at the Customhouse and that the King had been informed. He called her in, showed her the items she intended to take, and remarked that she had little reason to complain about the Dauphine’s stinginess. You can imagine how foolish she looked. The King added that, although he could have taken them from her, he wanted to show her that she was wrong for acting secretly and for her complaints, so he decided to give her everything back.
SECTION XIII.—ADELAIDE OF SAVOY, THE SECOND DAUPHINE.
The Queen of Spain stayed longer with her mother than our Dauphine, and therefore was better educated. Maintenon, who understood nothing about education, permitted her to do whatever she pleased, that she might gain her affections and keep her to herself. This young lady had been well brought up by her virtuous mother; she was genteel and humorous, and could joke very pleasantly: when she had a colour she did not look ugly. No one can imagine what mad-headed people were about this Princess, and among the number was the Marechale d’Estrees. Maintenon was very properly recompensed for having given her these companions; for the consequence was that the Dauphine no longer liked her society. Maintenon was very desirous to know the reason of this, and teased the Princess to tell her. At length she did; and said that the Marechale d’Estrees was continually asking her, “What are you always doing with that old woman? Why do you not associate with folks who would amuse you more than that old skeleton?” and that she said many other uncivil things of her. Maintenon told me this herself, since the death of the Dauphine, to prove that it was only the Marechale’s fault that the Dauphine had been on such bad terms with me. This may be partly true; but it is no less certain that Maintenon had strongly prepossessed her against me. Almost all the foolish people who were about her were relations or friends of the old woman; and it was by her order that they endeavoured to amuse her and employ her, so that she might want no other society.
The Queen of Spain spent more time with her mother than our Dauphine did, which is why she was better educated. Maintenon, who didn’t really understand education, let her do whatever she wanted to win her affection and keep her close. This young lady had been raised well by her virtuous mother; she was refined and funny, and could joke very charmingly: when she had some color in her cheeks, she didn't look unattractive. No one can imagine how many crazy people were around this Princess, including the Marechale d’Estrees. Maintonen was rightfully compensated for giving her these companions, because the result was that the Dauphine no longer enjoyed her company. Maintenon was very eager to find out why, and she kept asking the Princess to tell her. Finally, the Princess revealed that the Marechale d’Estrees was always asking her, “What are you always doing with that old woman? Why don’t you hang out with people who would entertain you more than that old skeleton?” and that she said many other rude things about her. Maintenon told me this herself, after the Dauphine died, to prove that it was only the Marechale’s fault that the Dauphine had been on such bad terms with me. This might be partly true, but it’s also clear that Maintenon had really turned her against me. Almost all the foolish people around her were relatives or friends of the old woman; and it was by her command that they tried to keep her entertained and occupied so that she wouldn’t crave any other company.
The young Dauphine was full of pantomime tricks. * * * * She was fond, too, of collecting a quantity of young persons about her for the King’s amusement, who liked to see their sports; they, however, took care never to display any but innocent diversions before him: he did not learn the rest until after her death. The Dauphine used to call old Maintenon her aunt, but only in jest; the fines d’honneur called her their gouvernante, and the Marechale de La Mothe, mamma; if the Dauphine had also called the old woman her mamma, it would have been regarded as a declaration of the King’s marriage; for this reason she only called her aunt.
The young Dauphine was full of playful tricks. * * * * She loved to gather a group of young people around her for the King’s entertainment, who enjoyed watching their games; however, they made sure to show him only innocent fun: he didn’t find out about the other activities until after her death. The Dauphine would jokingly refer to the elderly Maintenon as her aunt, while the fine ladies called her their governess, and Marechale de La Mothe called her mama; if the Dauphine had also referred to the old woman as her mama, it would have been seen as a declaration of the King’s marriage; for this reason, she only called her aunt.
It is not surprising that the Dauphine, even when she was Duchess of Burgundy, should have been a coquette. One of Maintenon’s maxims was that there was no harm in coquetry, but that a grande passion only was a sin. In the second place, she never took care that the Duchess of Burgundy behaved conformably to her rank; she was often left quite alone in her chateau with the exception of her people; she was permitted to run about arm-in-arm with one of her young ladies, without esquires, or dames d’honneur or d’atour. At Marly and Versailles she was obliged to go to chapel on foot and without her stays, and seat herself near the femmes de chambre. At Madame de Maintenon’s there was no observance of ranks; every one sat down there promiscuously; she did this for the purpose of avoiding all discussion respecting her own rank. At Marly the Dauphine used to run about the garden at night with the young people until two or three o’clock in the morning. The King knew nothing of these nocturnal sports. Maintenon had forbidden the Duchesse de Lude to tease the Duchess of Burgundy, or to put her out of temper, because then she would not be able to divert the King. Maintenon had threatened, too, with her eternal vengeance whoever should be bold enough to complain of the Dauphine to the King. It was for this reason that no one dared tell the King what the whole Court and even strangers were perfectly well acquainted with. The Dauphine liked to be dragged along the ground by valets, who held her feet. These servants were in the habit of saying to each other, “Come, shall we go and play with the Duchess of Burgundy?” for so she was at this time. She was dreadfully nasty,
It’s not surprising that the Dauphine, even when she was the Duchess of Burgundy, acted like a flirt. One of Maintenon’s beliefs was that flirting was harmless, but having a deep passion was sinful. Also, she didn’t ensure that the Duchess of Burgundy behaved according to her status; she often found herself alone at her chateau with just her staff. She was allowed to stroll around arm-in-arm with one of her young ladies, without any knights or ladies-in-waiting. At Marly and Versailles, she had to walk to chapel without her corset and sit near the maids of honor. At Madame de Maintenon’s, there was no strictness about hierarchy; everyone sat together regardless of rank, which she did to avoid discussions about her status. At Marly, the Dauphine would run around the garden at night with the young people until two or three in the morning. The King was unaware of these late-night antics. Maintenon had warned the Duchesse de Lude not to bother the Duchess of Burgundy or upset her because then she wouldn’t be able to entertain the King. Maintenon also threatened anyone who dared to complain about the Dauphine to the King with her lifelong wrath. Because of this, no one dared to inform the King of what the entire Court and even outsiders already knew. The Dauphine enjoyed being dragged along the ground by servants who would hold her feet. These servants often said to one another, “Hey, should we go and play with the Duchess of Burgundy?” as that’s how she was referred to at the time. She was incredibly unruly.
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She made the Dauphin believe whatever she chose, and he was so fond of her that one of her glances would throw him into an ecstacy and make him forget everything. When the King intended to scold her she would put on an air of such deep dejection that he was obliged to console her instead; the aunt, too, used to affect similar sorrow, so that the King had enough to do with consoling them both. Then, for quietness’ sake, he used to lean upon the old aunt, and think nothing more about the matter.
She made the Dauphin believe whatever she wanted, and he was so taken with her that just one look from her would send him into a blissful state and make him forget everything else. When the King planned to reprimand her, she would act so downcast that he ended up comforting her instead; the aunt would also pretend to be just as upset, so the King had his hands full trying to console both of them. Then, to keep the peace, he would lean on the old aunt and simply move on from the whole situation.
The Dauphine never cared for the Duc de Richelieu, although he boasted of the contrary, and was sent to the Bastille for it. She was a coquette, and chatted with all the young men; but if she loved any of them it was Nangis, who commanded the King’s regiment. She had commanded him to pretend to be in love with little La Vrilliere, who, though not so pretty nor with so good a presence as the Dauphine, had a better figure and was a great coquette. This badinage, it is said, afterwards became reality. The good Dauphin was like the husbands of all frail wives, the last to perceive it. The Duke of Burgundy never imagined that his wife thought of Nangis, although it was visible to all the world besides that she did. As he was very much attached to Nangis, he believed firmly that his wife only behaved civilly to him on his account; and he was besides convinced that his favourite had at the same time an affair of gallantry with Madame la Vrilliere.
The Dauphine never liked the Duc de Richelieu, even though he boasted otherwise and ended up in the Bastille for it. She was a flirt and chatted with all the young men; but if she had feelings for anyone, it was Nangis, who led the King’s regiment. She had told him to act like he was in love with little La Vrilliere, who, although not as pretty or charming as the Dauphine, had a better figure and was quite the flirt herself. This playful act, it is said, eventually turned into something real. The poor Dauphin was just like all husbands of unfaithful wives, the last to notice. The Duke of Burgundy never thought his wife was interested in Nangis, even though everyone else could see it. Since he was very close to Nangis, he firmly believed that his wife was only being nice to him for his sake; he was also convinced that his favorite was involved in a romantic affair with Madame la Vrilliere at the same time.
The Dauphin had good sense, but he suffered his wife to govern him; he loved only such persons as she loved, and he hated all who were disagreeable to her. It was for this reason that Nangia enjoyed so much of his favour, that he, with all his sense, became so perfectly ridiculous.
The Dauphin was sensible, but he allowed his wife to control him; he only cared for people she liked, and he disliked anyone she found unpleasant. Because of this, Nangia had a lot of his favoritism, and despite his intelligence, he became absolutely ridiculous.
The Dauphine of Burgundy was the person whom the King loved above all others, and whom Maintenon had taught to do whatever was agreeable to him. Her natural wit made her soon learn and practise everything. The King was inconsolable for her death; and when La Maintenon saw that all she could say had no effect upon his grief, it is said that she told the King all that she had before concealed with respect to the Dauphine’s life, and by this means dissipated his great affliction.
The Dauphine of Burgundy was the person the King loved more than anyone else, and Maintenon had taught her to do whatever would please him. Her natural cleverness helped her quickly learn and practice everything. The King was heartbroken over her death; and when La Maintenon realized that nothing she said could ease his sorrow, she reportedly revealed to the King everything she had previously kept hidden about the Dauphine’s life, and in doing so, relieved his immense grief.
[This young lady, so fascinating and so dear to the King, betrayed,
nevertheless, the secrets of the State by informing her father, then
Duke of Savoy, and our enemy, of all the military projects which she
found means to read. The King had the proofs of this by the letters
which were found in the Princess’s writing case after her death.
“That little slut,” said he to Madame Maintenon, “has deceived us.”
Memoires de Duclos, tome i.]
[This young woman, so captivating and so beloved by the King, nonetheless betrayed state secrets by informing her father, who was then the Duke of Savoy and our enemy, about all the military plans she managed to read. The King had evidence of this in the letters discovered in the Princess's writing case after her death. “That little traitor,” he said to Madame Maintenon, “has deceived us.” Memoires de Duclos, tome i.]
Three years before her death, however, the Dauphine changed greatly for the better; she played no more foolish tricks, and left off drinking to excess. Instead of that untameable manner which she had before, she became polite and sensible, kept up her dignity, and did not permit the younger ladies to be too familiar with her, by dipping their fingers into her dish, rolling upon the bed, and other similar elegancies. She used to converse with people, and could talk very well. It was the marriage of Madame de Berri that effected this surprising change in the Dauphine. Seeing that young lady did not make herself beloved, and began things in the wrong way, she was desirous to make herself more liked and esteemed than she was. She therefore changed her behaviour entirely; she became reserved and reasonable, and, having sense enough to discover her defects, she set about correcting them, in which she succeeded so as to excite general surprise. Thus she continued until her death, and often expressed regret that she had led so irregular a life. She used to excuse herself by saying it was mere childishness, and that she had little to thank those young ladies for who had given her such bad advice and set her such bad examples. She publicly manifested her contempt for them, and prevailed on the King not to invite them to Marly in future. By this conduct she gained everybody’s affection.
Three years before her death, the Dauphine changed significantly for the better; she stopped her foolish antics and quit drinking excessively. Instead of her previously wild behavior, she became polite and sensible, maintained her dignity, and didn’t allow the younger ladies to be too familiar with her by dipping their fingers into her food, rolling on the bed, and other similar antics. She started engaging in conversations and could hold her own quite well. It was the marriage of Madame de Berri that brought about this surprising change in the Dauphine. Noticing that the young lady was not well-liked and began things poorly, she wanted to be more liked and respected than she had been. So, she completely changed her behavior; she became reserved and reasonable, and, realizing her flaws, she set about correcting them, achieving a level of improvement that surprised everyone. She maintained this demeanor until her death and often expressed regret for living such an erratic life. She would excuse herself by saying it was simply childishness and that she had little to thank the young ladies for, who had given her such poor advice and set such bad examples. She openly showed her disdain for them and convinced the King not to invite them to Marly anymore. This behavior earned her everyone’s affection.
She was delicate and of rather a weak constitution. Dr. Chirac said in her last illness that she would recover; and so she probably would have done if they had not permitted her to get up when the measles had broken out upon her, and she was in a copious perspiration. Had they not blooded her in the foot she might have been alive now (1716). Immediately after the bleeding, her skin, before as red as fire, changed to the paleness of death, and she became very ill. When they were lifting her out of bed I told them it was better to let the perspiration subside before they blooded her. Chirac and Fagon, however, were obstinate and laughed at me.
She was fragile and had a rather weak constitution. Dr. Chirac said during her final illness that she would recover; and she probably would have if they hadn't let her get up when she had the measles and was sweating heavily. If they hadn't bled her in the foot, she might still be alive today (1716). Right after the bleeding, her skin, which had been as red as fire, turned pale as death, and she became very ill. When they were lifting her out of bed, I told them it was better to let the sweat clear up before they bled her. Chirac and Fagon, though, were stubborn and laughed at me.
Old Maintenon said to me angrily, “Do you think you know better than all these medical men?”
Old Maintenon said to me angrily, “Do you really think you know more than all these doctors?”
“No, Madame,” I replied; “and one need not know much to be sure that the inclination of nature ought to be followed; and since that has displayed itself it would be better to let it have way, than to make a sick person get up in the midst of a perspiration to be blooded.”
“No, Madame,” I replied; “and you don’t need to know much to understand that we should follow our natural instincts; since they’ve already surfaced, it’s better to let them run their course than to make a sick person get up, sweating, just to have their blood drawn.”
She shrugged up her shoulders ironically. I went to the other side and said nothing.
She shrugged her shoulders sarcastically. I walked to the other side and didn’t say anything.
SECTION XIV.—THE FIRST DAUPHIN.
All that was good in the first Dauphin came from his preceptor; all that was bad from himself. He never either loved or hated any one much, and yet he was very wicked. His greatest pleasure was to do something to vex a person; and immediately afterwards, if he could do something very pleasing to the same person, he would set about it with great willingness. In every respect he was of the strangest temper possible: when one thought he was good-humoured, he was angry; and when one supposed him to be ill-humoured, he was in an amiable mood. No one could ever guess him rightly, and I do not believe that his like ever was or ever will be born. It cannot be said that he had much wit; but still less was he a fool. Nobody was ever more prompt to seize the ridiculous points of anything in himself or in others; he told stories agreeably; he was a keen observer, and dreaded nothing so much as to be one day King: not so much from affection for his father, as from a dread of the trouble of reigning, for he was so extremely idle that he neglected all things; and he would have preferred his ease to all the kingdoms and empires of the earth. He could remain for a whole day, sitting on a sofa or in an arm-chair, beating his cane against his shoes, without saying a word; he never gave an opinion upon any subject; but when once, in the course of the year, he did speak, he could express himself in terms sufficiently noble. Sometimes when he spoke one would say he was stupidity itself; at another time he would deliver himself with astonishing sense. At one time you would think he was the best Prince in the world; at another he would do all he could to give people pain. Nobody seemed to be so ill with him but he would take the trouble of making them laugh at the expense of those most dear to him. His maxim was, never to seem to like one man in the Court better than another. He had a perfect horror of favourites, and yet he sought favour himself as much as the commonest courtier could do. He did not pride himself upon his politeness, and was enraged when any one penetrated his intentions. As I had known him from his infancy I could sometimes guess his meaning, which angered him excessively. He was not very fond of being treated respectfully; he liked better not to be put to any trouble. He was rather partial than just, as may be shown by the regulations he made as to the rank of my son’s daughter. He never liked or hated any Minister. He laughed often and heartily. He was a very obedient son, and never opposed the King’s will in any way, and was more submissive to Maintenon than any other person. Those who say that he would have retired, if the King had declared his marriage with that old woman, did not know him; had he not an old mistress of his own, to whom he was believed to be privately married? What prevented Maintenon from being declared Queen was the wise reasons which the Archbishop of Cambray, M. de Fenelon, urged to the King, and for which she persecuted that worthy man to the day of his death.
All the good in the first Dauphin came from his tutor; all the bad came from him. He never really loved or hated anyone too much, yet he was quite wicked. His biggest enjoyment came from doing something to annoy someone; and right after, if he could do something nice for the same person, he would jump at the chance. In every way, he had the strangest temperament: when you thought he was in a good mood, he was actually angry; and when you figured he was in a bad mood, he was being friendly. No one could ever read him right, and I doubt anyone like him has ever been or ever will be born. It can't be said that he was very witty, but he was far from being a fool. No one was quicker to spot the ridiculous aspects of himself or others; he told stories in an enjoyable way, was a sharp observer, and feared nothing more than one day becoming King: not so much because he cared for his father, but because he dreaded the hassle of ruling, as he was extremely lazy and ignored everything; he would rather have his comfort than all the kingdoms and empires in the world. He could spend an entire day sitting on a sofa or in a chair, tapping his cane against his shoes, without saying a word; he never offered an opinion on any topic; but when he did speak, which happened about once a year, he could express himself quite eloquently. Sometimes, when he talked, you would think he was downright stupid; other times, he would speak with astonishing clarity. At one moment, you might think he was the best Prince in the world; at another, he would do everything he could to hurt people. No one seemed to be in worse shape with him, but he would still make an effort to make them laugh at the expense of those closest to him. His rule was to never seem to favor one Court member over another. He had a total aversion to favorites, yet he sought favor for himself just like any common courtier. He didn’t boast about his politeness and got angry if anyone figured out his intentions. Since I had known him since he was a child, I could sometimes guess what he meant, which infuriated him. He didn’t really like being treated with too much respect; he preferred not to be bothered at all. He was more partial than fair, as shown by the rules he made regarding the rank of my son’s daughter. He didn’t really like or dislike any Minister. He often laughed heartily. He was a very obedient son and never went against the King’s wishes, being more submissive to Maintenon than to anyone else. Those who think he would have withdrawn if the King had announced his marriage to that older woman didn’t know him; didn’t he have an old mistress of his own, to whom he was believed to be secretly married? The reason Maintenon wasn’t declared Queen was the wise arguments made by the Archbishop of Cambray, M. de Fenelon, to the King, which led her to persecute that worthy man until the day he died.
If the Dauphin had chosen, he might have enjoyed greater credit with his father. The King had offered him permission to go to the Royal Treasury to bestow what favours he chose upon the persons of his own Court; and at the Treasury orders were given that he should have whatever he asked for. The Dauphin replied that it would give him so much trouble. He would never know anything about State affairs lest he should be obliged to attend the Privy Councils, and have no more time to hunt. Some persons thought he did this from motives of policy and to make the King believe he had no ambition; but I am persuaded it was from nothing but indolence and laziness; he loved to live a slothful life, and to interfere with nothing.
If the Dauphin had chosen, he might have earned more respect from his father. The King had offered him the chance to visit the Royal Treasury and grant favors to anyone in his Court; at the Treasury, they were told to give him whatever he requested. The Dauphin said it would be too much trouble for him. He claimed he wanted to avoid dealing with State affairs since that would mean attending the Privy Councils and having less time to hunt. Some believed he acted this way for political reasons, thinking it would convince the King he lacked ambition; but I believe it was purely due to laziness and a desire for a laid-back life, preferring not to get involved in anything.
At the King of Spain’s departure our King wept a good deal; the Dauphin also wept much, although he had never before manifested the least affection for his children. They were never seen in his apartment morning and evening. When he was not at the chase the Dauphin passed his time with the great Princesse de Conti, and latterly with the Duchess. One must have guessed that the children belonged to him, for he lived like a stranger among them. He never called them his sons, but the Duke of Burgundy, the Duc d’Anjou, the Duc de Berri; and they, in turn, always called him Monseigneur.
At the King of Spain's departure, our King cried quite a bit; the Dauphin also shed a lot of tears, even though he had never shown any affection for his children before. They were hardly ever seen in his room in the morning and evening. When he wasn't hunting, the Dauphin spent his time with the great Princesse de Conti, and more recently, with the Duchess. One had to assume that the children were his, since he always acted like a stranger around them. He never referred to them as his sons, but as the Duke of Burgundy, the Duc d’Anjou, and the Duc de Berri; and in turn, they always addressed him as Monseigneur.
I lived upon a very good understanding with him for more than twenty years, and he had great confidence in me until the Duchess got possession of him; then everything with regard to me was changed: and as, after my husband’s death, I never went to the chase with the Dauphin, I had no further relation with him, and he behaved as if he had never seen or known me. If he had been wise he would have preferred the society of the Princesse de Conti to that of the Duchess, because the first, having a good heart, loved him for himself; while the other loved nothing in the world, and listened to nothing but her taste for pleasure, her interest, and her ambition. So that, provided she attained her ends, she cared little for the Dauphin, who by his condescension for this Princess gave a great proof of weakness.
I had a great relationship with him for over twenty years, and he trusted me a lot until the Duchess came into the picture; then everything changed for me. After my husband passed away, I stopped going hunting with the Dauphin and we lost touch. He acted like he had never seen or known me. If he had been smart, he would have chosen to spend time with the Princesse de Conti instead of the Duchess, because she, having a good heart, loved him for who he was. The Duchess, however, cared for nothing but her own pleasure, interests, and ambitions. As long as she got what she wanted, she didn’t care much about the Dauphin, who showed a lot of weakness by catering to this Princess.
In general, his heart was not correct enough to discern what real friendship was; he loved only those who afforded him amusement, and despised all others. The Duchess was very agreeable and had some pleasant notions; she was fond of eating, which was the very thing for the Dauphin, because he found a good breakfast at her house every morning and a collation in the afternoon. The Duchess’s daughters were of the same character as their mother; so that the Dauphin might be all the day in the company of gay people.
In general, he wasn't really able to understand what true friendship meant; he only liked people who entertained him and looked down on everyone else. The Duchess was charming and had some nice ideas; she loved to eat, which was perfect for the Dauphin because he enjoyed a good breakfast at her place every morning and snacks in the afternoon. The Duchess's daughters were just like their mother, so the Dauphin could spend all day with cheerful people.
He was strongly attached to his son’s wife; but when she quarrelled with the Duchess her father-in-law changed his opinion of her. What displeased him besides was that the Duchess of Burgundy married his younger son, the Duc de Berri, against his inclination. He was not wrong in that, because, although the marriage was to our advantage, I must confess that the Dauphin was not even treated with decency in the business.
He was very fond of his son's wife; however, when she got into a fight with the Duchess, her father-in-law's feelings about her changed. What upset him even more was that the Duchess of Burgundy married his younger son, the Duc de Berri, against his wishes. He wasn't wrong about that because, even though the marriage was beneficial for us, I have to admit that the Dauphin wasn't treated with any respect in the whole situation.
Neither of the two Dauphins or the Dauphines ever interested themselves much about their children. The King had them educated without consulting them, appointed all their servants, and was even displeased if they interfered with them in any way. The Dauphin knows nothing of good breeding; he and his sons are perfect clowns.
Neither of the two Dauphins or the Dauphines ever really cared about their kids. The King had them educated without asking for their input, picked all their staff, and was even annoyed if they tried to get involved in any way. The Dauphin knows nothing of proper manners; he and his sons are complete buffoons.
The women of La Halle had a real passion for the first Dauphin; they had been made to believe that he would take the part of the people of Paris, in which there was not a word of truth. The people believed that he was better hearted than he was. He would not, in fact, have been wicked if the Marechal d’Uxelles, La Chouin and Montespan, with whom he was in his youth, as well as the Duchess, had not spoiled him, and made him believe that malice was a proof of wit.
The women of La Halle had a real passion for the first Dauphin; they had been led to believe that he would support the people of Paris, which was completely untrue. The people thought he was kinder than he actually was. He wouldn’t have turned out wicked if it hadn’t been for the Marechal d’Uxelles, La Chouin, and Montespan, who influenced him in his youth, as well as the Duchess, who spoiled him and made him think that being malicious was a sign of cleverness.
He did not grieve more than a quarter of an hour at the death of his mother or of his wife; and when he wrapped himself up in his long mourning cloak he was ready to choke with laughter.
He didn’t mourn for more than about fifteen minutes after his mother or his wife died; and when he put on his long mourning cloak, he felt on the verge of bursting into laughter.
He had followed his father’s example in taking an ugly, nasty mistress, who had been fille d’honneur to the elder Princess de Conti: her name is Mademoiselle de Chouin, and she is still living at Paris (1719). It was generally believed that he had married her clandestinely; but I would lay a wager he never did. She had the figure of a duenna; was of very small stature; had very short legs; large rolling eyes; a round face; a short turned-up nose; a large mouth filled with decayed teeth, which made her breath so bad that the room in which she sat could hardly be endured.
He followed his father's lead by taking an ugly, unpleasant mistress, who had been a lady-in-waiting to the elder Princess de Conti. Her name is Mademoiselle de Chouin, and she's still living in Paris (1719). People generally believed that he had secretly married her, but I would bet he never did. She had the figure of a governess; was very short; had short legs; large, bulging eyes; a round face; a short turned-up nose; and a big mouth filled with decayed teeth, which made her breath so bad that the room she was in could hardly be tolerated.
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And yet this short, fat woman had a great deal of wit; and I believe the Dauphin accustomed himself to take snuff that he might not be annoyed by her bad teeth. He was very civil to the Marechal d’Uxelles, because he pretended to be the intimate with this lady; but as soon as the Dauphin was caught, the Marechal ceased to see her, and never once set foot in her house, although before that he had been in the habit of visiting her daily.
And yet this short, chubby woman was really witty; and I think the Dauphin got used to taking snuff to avoid being bothered by her bad teeth. He was quite polite to the Marechal d’Uxelles because he acted like he was close with her; but as soon as the Dauphin got caught, the Marechal stopped seeing her and never set foot in her house again, even though he used to visit her every day.
The Dauphin had a daughter by Raisin the actress, but he would never acknowledge her, and after his death the Princess Conti took care of her, and married her to a gentleman of Vaugourg. The Dauphin was so tired of the Duc du Maine that he had sworn never to acknowledge any of his illegitimate children. This Raisin must have had very peculiar charms to make an impression upon a heart so thick as that of the Dauphin, who really loved her. One day he sent for her to Choisy, and hid her in a mill without anything to eat or drink; for it was a fast day, and the Dauphin thought there was no greater sin than to eat meat on a fast day. After the Court had departed, all that he gave her for supper was some salad and toast with oil. Raisin laughed at this very much herself, and told several persons of it. When I heard of it I asked the Dauphin what he meant by making his mistress fast in this manner.
The Dauphin had a daughter with the actress Raisin, but he never acknowledged her. After he died, Princess Conti took care of her and arranged for her to marry a gentleman from Vaugourg. The Dauphin was so fed up with Duc du Maine that he vowed never to recognize any of his illegitimate kids. Raisin must have had some unique charm to impress someone as cold-hearted as the Dauphin, who actually loved her. One day, he summoned her to Choisy and stashed her in a mill without any food or drink because it was a fast day, and the Dauphin believed there was no greater sin than eating meat on such a day. After the Court left, all he gave her for dinner was some salad and toast with oil. Raisin found this very amusing and shared it with several people. When I heard about it, I asked the Dauphin what he meant by making his mistress fast like that.
“I had a mind,” he said, “to commit one sin, but not two.”
“I was thinking,” he said, “about committing one sin, but not two.”
I cannot bear that any one should touch me behind; it makes me so angry that I do not know what I do. I was very near giving the Dauphin a blow one day, for he had a wicked trick of coming behind one for a joke, and putting his fist in the chair just where one was going to sit down. I begged him, for God’s sake, to leave off this habit, which was so disagreeable to me that I would not answer for not one day giving him a sound blow, without thinking of what I was doing. From that time he left me alone.
I can't stand it when someone touches me from behind; it makes me so angry that I don’t know how to react. I almost hit the Dauphin one day because he had this annoying habit of sneaking up behind people for a laugh and putting his fist in the chair right where someone was about to sit down. I begged him to please stop this habit because it bothered me so much that I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t punch him one day without thinking about it. After that, he left me alone.
The Dauphin was very much like the Queen; he was not tall, but good-looking enough. Our King was accustomed to say: “Monseigneur (for so he always called him) has the look of a German prince.” He had, indeed, something of a German air; but it was only the air; for he had nothing German besides. He did not dance well. The Queen-Dowager of Spain flattered herself with the hope of marrying him.
The Dauphin was a lot like the Queen; he wasn't tall, but he was handsome enough. Our King often said, “Monseigneur (as he always called him) looks like a German prince.” He definitely had a bit of a German vibe; but that was all he had in common with Germans. He wasn't a good dancer. The Queen-Dowager of Spain hoped to marry him.
He thought he should recommend himself to the King by not appearing to care what became of his brothers.
He thought he should win the King's favor by acting as if he didn't care about what happened to his brothers.
When the Dauphin was lying sick of the small-pox, I went on the Wednesday to the King.
When the Dauphin was sick with smallpox, I went to see the King on Wednesday.
He said to me, sarcastically, “You have been frightening us with the great pain which Monseigneur would have to endure when the suppuration commences; but I can tell you that he will not suffer at all, for the pustules have already begun to dry.”
He said to me, sarcastically, “You’ve been scaring us with the terrible pain Monseigneur will have to go through when the pus starts, but I can tell you he won’t suffer at all because the blisters have already started to dry.”
I was alarmed at this, and said, “So much the worse; if he is not in pain his state is the more dangerous, and he soon will be.”
I was shocked by this and said, “That's even worse; if he's not in pain, his situation is more serious, and it won't be long before he is.”
“What!” said the King, “do you know better than the doctors?”
“What!” said the King, “do you think you know better than the doctors?”
“I know,” I replied, “what the small-pox is by my own experience, which is better than all the doctors; but I hope from my heart that I may be mistaken.”
“I know,” I replied, “what smallpox is from my own experience, which is better than what any doctor can say; but I truly hope I'm wrong.”
On the same night, soon after midnight, the Dauphin died.
On the same night, just after midnight, the Dauphin passed away.
SECTION XV.—THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY, THE SECOND DAUPHIN.
He was quite humpbacked. I think this proceeded from his having been made to carry a bar of iron for the purpose of keeping himself upright, but the weight and inconvenience of which had had a contrary effect. I often said to the Duke de Beauvilliers he had very good parts, and was sincerely pious, but so weak as to let his wife rule him like a child. In spite of his good sense, she made him believe whatever she chose. She lived upon very good terms with him, but was not outrageously fond, and did not love him better than many other persons; for the good gentleman had a very disagreeable person, and his face was not the most beautiful. I believe, however, she was touched with his great affection for her; and indeed it would be impossible for a man to entertain a more fervent passion than he did for his wife. Her wit was agreeable, and she could be very pleasant when she chose: her gaiety dissipated the melancholy which sometimes seized upon the devout Dauphin. Like almost all humpbacked men, he had a great passion for women; but at the same time was so pious that he feared he committed a grievous sin in looking at any other than his own wife; and he was truly in love with her. I saw him once, when a lady had told him that he had good eyes, squint immediately that he might appear ugly. This was really an unnecessary trouble; for the good man was already sufficiently plain, having a very ill-looking mouth, a sickly appearance, small stature, and a hump at his back.
He was pretty hunchbacked. I think this came from having to carry a bar of iron to keep himself upright, but the weight and discomfort ended up having the opposite effect. I often told the Duke de Beauvilliers that he had many good qualities and was genuinely religious, but he was so weak that his wife controlled him like a child. Despite his good sense, she made him believe whatever she wanted. They got along well, but she wasn't overly affectionate and didn't love him more than many others; after all, the poor guy had a very unattractive appearance, and his face wasn’t exactly the prettiest. However, I believe she was moved by his deep affection for her; indeed, it would be hard for anyone to feel a stronger passion than he did for his wife. Her wit was charming, and she could be very enjoyable when she wanted to be: her cheerfulness lifted the gloom that sometimes affected the devout Dauphin. Like most hunchbacked men, he had a strong passion for women, but at the same time was so religious that he feared he was committing a serious sin by looking at anyone other than his own wife; he was truly in love with her. I once saw him, after a lady told him he had nice eyes, immediately squint as if to appear ugly. This was really unnecessary; after all, the poor man was already quite plain, with a very unattractive mouth, a sickly look, a short stature, and a hump on his back.
He had many good qualities: he was charitable, and had assisted several officers unknown to any one. He certainly died of grief for the loss of his wife, as he had predicted. A learned astrologer of Turin, having cast the nativity of the Dauphine, told her that she would die in her twenty-seventh year.
He had many great qualities: he was generous and had helped several officers who were unknown to anyone. He definitely died from the heartbreak of losing his wife, just as he had foreseen. A knowledgeable astrologer from Turin, after analyzing the birth chart of the Dauphine, told her that she would die in her twenty-seventh year.
She often spoke of it, and said one day to her husband, “The time is approaching when I shall die; you cannot remain without a wife as well on account of your rank as your piety; tell me, then, I beg of you, whom you will marry?”
She often talked about it and said one day to her husband, “The time is coming when I will die; you can't live without a wife, both because of your status and your faith; so please tell me, whom will you marry?”
“I hope,” he replied, “that God will not inflict so severe a punishment on me as to deprive me of you; but if this calamity should befall me, I shall not marry again, for I shall follow you to the grave in a week.”
“I hope,” he replied, “that God won’t punish me so severely as to take you away; but if that tragedy happens, I won’t marry again, because I’ll follow you to the grave in a week.”
This happened exactly as he said it would; for, on the seventh day after his wife’s death, he died also. This is not a fiction, but perfectly true.
This happened just as he predicted; on the seventh day after his wife’s death, he died too. This isn’t a story, but completely true.
While the Dauphine was in good health and spirits she often said, “I must enjoy myself now. I shall not be able to do so long, for I shall die this year.”
While the Dauphine was feeling healthy and upbeat, she often said, “I need to enjoy myself now. I won’t be able to for long because I’m going to die this year.”
I thought it was only a joke, but it turned out to be too true. When she fell sick she said she should never recover.
I thought it was just a joke, but it turned out to be true. When she got sick, she said she would never get better.
SECTION XVI.—PETITE MADAME.
A cautery which had been improperly made in the nape of the neck had drawn her mouth all on one side, so that it was almost entirely in her left cheek. For this reason talking was very painful to her, and she said very little. It was necessary to be accustomed to her way of speaking to understand her. Just when she was about to die her mouth resumed its proper place, and she did not seem at all ugly. I was present at her death. She did not say a word to her father, although a convulsion had restored her mouth. The King, who had a good heart and was very fond of his children, wept excessively and made me weep also. The Queen was not present, for, being pregnant, they would not let her come.
A cautery that had been done incorrectly on the back of her neck had caused her mouth to slide to one side, mostly in her left cheek. Because of this, speaking was very painful for her, and she barely said anything. You really had to get used to the way she spoke to understand her. Just as she was about to die, her mouth returned to its normal position, and she didn’t look ugly at all. I was there when she passed away. She didn't say a word to her father, even though a convulsion had fixed her mouth. The King, who had a good heart and loved his children deeply, cried a lot, and I couldn’t help but cry too. The Queen wasn’t there because she was pregnant, so they wouldn’t let her come.
It is totally false that the Queen was delivered of a black child. The late Monsieur, who was present, said that the young Princess was ugly, but not black. The people cannot be persuaded that the child is not still alive, and say that it is in a convent at Moret, near Fontainebleau. It is, however, quite certain that the ugly child is dead, for all the Court saw it die.
It is completely untrue that the Queen gave birth to a black child. The late Monsieur, who was there, stated that the young Princess was unattractive, but not black. People can't be convinced that the child isn't alive and insist it's in a convent in Moret, near Fontainebleau. However, it's clearly certain that the unattractive child is dead, as everyone in the Court witnessed its death.
BOOK 3.
Henrietta of England, Monsieur’s First Consort The Due de Berri The Duchesse de Berri Mademoiselle d’Orleans, Louise-Adelaide de Chartres Mademoiselle de Valois, Consort of the Prince of Modena The Illegitimate Children of the Regent, Duc d’Orleans The Chevalier de Lorraine Philip V., King of Spain The Duchess, Consort of the Duc de Bourbon The Younger Duchess Duc Louis de Bourbon Francois-Louis, Prince de Conti La Grande Princesse de Conti The Princess Palatine, Consort of Prince Francois-Louis de Conti The Princesse de Conti, Louise-Elizabeth, Consort of Louis-Armand Louis-Armand, Prince de Conti The Abbe Dubois Mr. Law
Henrietta of England, Monsieur’s First Consort The Duke of Berri The Duchess of Berri Mademoiselle d’Orleans, Louise-Adelaide de Chartres Mademoiselle de Valois, Consort of the Prince of Modena The Illegitimate Children of the Regent, Duke of Orleans The Chevalier de Lorraine Philip V, King of Spain The Duchess, Consort of the Duke de Bourbon The Younger Duchess Duke Louis de Bourbon Francois-Louis, Prince de Conti The Great Princess de Conti The Princess Palatine, Consort of Prince Francois-Louis de Conti The Princess de Conti, Louise-Elizabeth, Consort of Louis-Armand Louis-Armand, Prince de Conti The Abbe Dubois Mr. Law
SECTION XVII.—HENRIETTA OF ENGLAND, THE FIRST WIFE OF MONSIEUR, BROTHER OF LOUIS XIV.
It is true that the late Madame was extremely unhappy; she confided too much in people who betrayed her: she was more to be pitied than blamed, being connected with very wicked persons, about whom I could give some particulars. Young, pretty and gay, she was surrounded by some of the greatest coquettes in the world, the mistresses of her bitterest foes, and who sought only to thrust her into some unfortunate situation and to embroil her with Monsieur. Madame de Coetquen was the Chevalier de Lorraine’s mistress, although Madame did not know it; and she contrived that the Marechal de Turenne should become attached to her. Madame having told the Marshal all her secrets respecting the negotiations with England, he repeated them to his mistress, Madame de Coetquen, whom he believed to be devoted to his mistress. This woman went every night to the Chevalier de Lorraine and betrayed them all. The Chevalier used this opportunity to stir up Monsieur’s indignation against Madame, telling him that he passed with the King for a simpleton, who could not hold his tongue; that he would lose all confidence, and that his wife would have everything in her own hand. Monsieur wished to know all the particulars from Madame; but she refused to tell him her brother’s secrets, and this widened the breach between them. She became enraged, and had the Chevalier de Lorraine and his brother driven away, which in the end cost her own life; she, however, died with the consciousness of never having done her husband any harm. She was the confidante of the King, to whom it had been hinted that it might be expedient to give some employment to Monsieur, who might otherwise make himself beloved in the Court and in the city. For this reason the King assisted Madame in her affairs of gallantry, in order to occupy his brother. I have this from the King himself. Madame was besides in great credit with her brother, Charles II. (of England). Louis XIV. wished to gain him over through his sister, wherefore it was necessary to take part with her, and she was always better treated than I have been. The late Monsieur never suspected his wife of infidelity with the King, her brother-in-law, he told me, all her life, and would not have been silent with respect to this intrigue if he had believed it. I think that with respect to this great injustice is done to Madame. It would have been too much to deceive at once the brother and the nephew, the father and the son.
It's true that the late Madame was very unhappy; she trusted too many people who betrayed her. She was more to be pitied than blamed, being involved with some very wicked individuals, about whom I could share some details. Young, pretty, and lively, she was surrounded by some of the biggest flirts in the world, the mistresses of her fiercest enemies, who only aimed to get her into trouble and entangle her with Monsieur. Madame de Coetquen was the mistress of the Chevalier de Lorraine, although Madame was unaware of it; and she arranged for the Marechal de Turenne to become attached to her. Madame shared all her secrets about the negotiations with England with the Marshal, who then relayed them to his mistress, Madame de Coetquen, whom he thought was loyal to him. This woman would go to the Chevalier de Lorraine every night and betray them all. The Chevalier used this chance to stir up Monsieur’s anger against Madame, telling him that he was seen by the King as a fool who couldn't keep quiet; that he would lose all confidence, and that his wife would have everything in her control. Monsieur wanted to hear all the details from Madame, but she refused to reveal her brother’s secrets, which deepened the rift between them. She got furious and had the Chevalier de Lorraine and his brother removed, which ultimately cost her life; however, she died knowing she had never harmed her husband. She was a confidante of the King, who was advised that it might be wise to find some role for Monsieur, who might otherwise gain popularity at Court and in the city. For this reason, the King supported Madame in her romantic affairs to keep his brother occupied. I heard this directly from the King. Madame also had a strong relationship with her brother, Charles II. of England. Louis XIV. wanted to win him over through his sister, so it was necessary to side with her, and she was always treated better than I was. The late Monsieur never suspected his wife of being unfaithful with the King, her brother-in-law; he told me this throughout her life, and he would not have remained silent about such a scheme if he believed it. I think that a great injustice was done to Madame. It would have been too much to deceive both the brother and the nephew, the father and the son, all at once.
The late Monsieur was very much disturbed at his wife’s coquetry; but he dared not behave ill to her, because she was protected by the King.
The late Monsieur was very upset by his wife's flirtation; but he didn’t dare treat her poorly, since she was under the King's protection.
The Queen-mother of England had not brought up her children well: she at first left them in the society of femmes de chambre, who gratified all their caprices; and having afterwards married them at a very early age, they followed the bad example of their mother. Both of them met with unhappy deaths; the one was poisoned, and the other died in child-birth.
The Queen Mother of England didn’t raise her children properly: she first left them in the company of maids who indulged all their whims; and after marrying them off at a very young age, they ended up following their mother’s poor example. Both of them had tragic ends; one was poisoned, and the other died during childbirth.
Monsieur was himself the cause of Madame’s intrigue with the Comte de Guiche. He was one of the favourites of the late Monsieur, and was said to have been handsome once. Monsieur earnestly requested Madame to shew some favour to the Comte de Guiche, and to permit him to wait upon her at all times. The Count, who was brutal to every one else, but full of vanity, took great pains to be agreeable to Madame, and to make her love him. In fact, he succeeded, being seconded by his aunt, Madame de Chaumont, who was the gouvernante of Madame’s children. One day Madame went to this lady’s chamber, under the pretence of seeing her children, but in fact to meet De Guiche, with whom she had an assignation. She had a valet de chambre named Launois, whom I have since seen in the service of Monsieur; he had orders to stand sentinel on the staircase, to give notice in case Monsieur should approach. This Launois suddenly ran into the room, saying, “Monsieur is coming downstairs.”
Monsieur was the reason behind Madame’s interest in the Comte de Guiche. He had been one of the favorites of the late Monsieur and was said to have been handsome once. Monsieur urgently asked Madame to show some favor to the Comte de Guiche and to allow him to visit her whenever he wanted. The Count, who was rude to everyone else but full of himself, tried hard to be charming to Madame and to win her affection. In fact, he succeeded, with the support of his aunt, Madame de Chaumont, who was in charge of Madame’s children. One day, Madame visited this lady’s room, pretending to see her children, but actually to meet De Guiche, whom she had arranged to meet. She had a servant named Launois, whom I later saw working for Monsieur; he was told to keep watch on the staircase and to alert her if Monsieur was coming. Suddenly, this Launois burst into the room, saying, “Monsieur is coming downstairs.”
The lovers were terrified to death. The Count could not escape by the antechamber on account of Monsieur’s people who were there. Launois said, “I know a way, which I will put into practice immediately; hide yourself,” he said to the Count, “behind the door.” He then ran his head against Monsieur’s nose as he was entering, and struck him so violently that he began to bleed. At the same moment he cried out, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur, I did not think you were so near, and I ran to open you the door.”
The lovers were terrified. The Count couldn't escape through the antechamber because Monsieur's people were there. Launois said, “I have a plan that I'll put into action right away; hide yourself,” he told the Count, “behind the door.” He then bumped his head against Monsieur’s nose as he was coming in and hit him so hard that he started to bleed. At the same moment, he shouted, “I’m sorry, Monsieur, I didn’t realize you were so close, and I rushed to open the door for you.”
Madame and Madame de Chaumont ran in great alarm to Monsieur, and covered his face with their handkerchiefs, so that the Comte de Guiche had time to get out of the room, and escape by the staircase. Monsieur saw some one run away, but he thought it was Launois, who was escaping through fear. He never learnt the truth.
Madame and Madame de Chaumont rushed in a panic to Monsieur and covered his face with their handkerchiefs, giving the Comte de Guiche time to leave the room and make his getaway down the stairs. Monsieur saw someone run away but assumed it was Launois fleeing in fear. He never found out the truth.
What convinces me of the late Madame’s innocence is that, after having received the last sacraments, she begged pardon of Monsieur for all disquiets she had occasioned, and said that she hoped to reach heaven because she had committed no crime against her husband.
What makes me believe in the late Madame’s innocence is that, after receiving the last rites, she asked Monsieur for forgiveness for all the troubles she caused, and she said that she hoped to get to heaven because she hadn't done anything wrong to her husband.
I think M. de Monmouth was much worse than the Comte de Guiche; because, although a bastard, he was the son of Madame’s own brother; and this incest doubled the crime. Madame de Thiange, sister of Madame de Montespan, conducted the intrigue between the Duke of Monmouth and Madame.
I think M. de Monmouth was way worse than the Comte de Guiche because, even though he was a bastard, he was the son of Madame’s own brother; and this incest made the crime even worse. Madame de Thiange, sister of Madame de Montespan, was behind the affair between the Duke of Monmouth and Madame.
It is said here that Madame was not a beauty, but that she had so graceful a manner as to make all she did very agreeable. She never forgave. She would have the Chevalier de Lorraine dismissed; he was so, but he was amply revenged of her. He sent the poison by which she was destroyed from Italy by a nobleman of Provence, named Morel: this man was afterwards given to me as chief maitre d’hotel, and after he had sufficiently robbed me they made him sell his place at a high price. This Morel was very clever, but he was a man totally void of moral or religious principle; he confessed to me that he did not believe in anything. At the point of death he would not hear talk of God. He said, speaking of himself, “Let this carcass alone, it is now good for nothing.” He would steal, lie and swear; he was an atheist and.....
It’s said that Madame wasn’t a beauty, but her graceful manner made everything she did very charming. She never forgave anyone. She wanted the Chevalier de Lorraine gone; he was indeed gone, but he got his revenge on her. He sent the poison that led to her demise from Italy through a nobleman from Provence named Morel. This man later became my chief maitre d’hotel, and after he had stolen enough from me, they forced him to sell his position for a high price. Morel was very clever, but he had no moral or religious principles; he confessed to me that he didn’t believe in anything. Even at death’s door, he refused to discuss God. He said about himself, “Leave this carcass alone; it’s useless now.” He would steal, lie, and swear; he was an atheist and...
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It is too true that the late Madame was poisoned, but without the knowledge of Monsieur. While the villains were arranging the plan of poisoning the poor lady, they deliberated whether they should acquaint Monsieur with it or not. The Chevalier de Lorraine said “No, don’t tell him, for he cannot hold his tongue. If he does not tell it the first year he may have us hanged ten years afterwards;” and it is well known that the wretches said, “Let us not tell Monsieur, for he would tell the King, who would certainly hang us all.” They therefore made Monsieur believe that Madame had taken poison in Holland, which did not act until she arrived here.
It’s true that the late Madame was poisoned, but Monsieur didn’t know about it. While the villains were planning the poisoning of the poor lady, they debated whether or not to inform Monsieur. The Chevalier de Lorraine said, “No, don’t tell him; he can’t keep a secret. If he doesn’t spill it in the first year, he might have us executed ten years later," and it’s clear that the scoundrels thought, “Let’s not tell Monsieur, because he’d inform the King, who would definitely have us all hanged.” So, they convinced Monsieur that Madame had been poisoned in Holland, and the poison didn’t take effect until she got here.
[It is said that the King sent for the maitre d’hotel, and that,
being satisfied that Monsieur had not been a party to the crime, he
said, “Then I am relieved; you may retire.” The Memoirs of the day
state also that the King employed the Chevalier de Lorraine to
persuade Monsieur to obey his brother’s wishes.]
[It is said that the King called for the maitre d’hôtel, and after being satisfied that Monsieur wasn't involved in the crime, he said, “Then I’m relieved; you may leave.” The Memoirs of the day also record that the King had the Chevalier de Lorraine convince Monsieur to go along with his brother’s wishes.]
It appears, therefore, that the wicked Gourdon took no part in this affair; but she certainly accused Madame to Monsieur, and calumniated and disparaged her to everybody.
It seems, then, that the malicious Gourdon had no involvement in this matter; however, she definitely blamed Madame to Monsieur and slandered and belittled her to everyone.
It was not Madame’s endive-water that D’Effial had poisoned; that report must have been a mere invention, for other persons might have tasted it had Madame alone drank from her own glass. A valet de chambre who was with Madame, and who afterwards was in my service (he is dead now), told me that in the morning, while Monsieur and Madame were at Mass, D’Effial went to the sideboard and, taking the Queen’s cup, rubbed the inside of it with a paper. The valet said to him, “Monsieur, what do you do in this room, and why do you touch Madame’s cup?” He answered, “I am dying with thirst; I wanted something to drink, and the cup being dirty, I was wiping it with some paper.” In the afternoon Madame asked for some endive-water; but no sooner had she swallowed it than she exclaimed she was poisoned. The persons present drank some of the same water, but not the same that was in the cup, for which reason they were not inconvenienced by it. It was found necessary to carry Madame to bed. She grew worse, and at two o’clock in the morning she died in great pain. When the cup was sought for it had disappeared, and was not found until long after. It seems it had been necessary to pass it through the fire before it could be cleaned.
It wasn't Madame’s endive-water that D’Effial had poisoned; that rumor must have been made up, because other people could have tried it if Madame had only sipped from her own glass. A valet de chambre who was with Madame, and who later worked for me (he's dead now), told me that in the morning, while Monsieur and Madame were at Mass, D’Effial went to the sideboard and took the Queen’s cup, rubbing the inside with a piece of paper. The valet asked him, “Monsieur, what are you doing in this room, and why are you handling Madame’s cup?” He replied, “I’m dying of thirst; I wanted something to drink, and since the cup was dirty, I was wiping it with some paper.” In the afternoon, Madame requested some endive-water; but as soon as she drank it, she shouted that she was poisoned. The people there drank some of the same water, but not from the same cup, which is why they didn’t have any issues with it. It became necessary to take Madame to bed. She got worse, and at two o’clock in the morning, she died in severe pain. When they went to look for the cup, it was gone and wasn’t found until much later. It turns out it needed to be passed through the fire before it could be cleaned.
A report prevailed at St. Cloud for several years that the ghost of the late Madame appeared near a fountain where she had been accustomed to sit during the great heats, for it was a very cool spot. One evening a servant of the Marquis de Clerambault, having gone thither to draw water from the fountain, saw something white sitting there without a head. The phantom immediately arose to double its height. The poor servant fled in great terror, and said when he entered the house that he had seen Madame. He fell sick and died. Then the captain of the Chateau, thinking there was something hidden beneath this affair, went to the fountain some days afterwards, and, seeing the phantom, he threatened it with a sound drubbing if it did not declare what it was.
A rumor circulated in St. Cloud for several years that the ghost of the late Madame appeared near a fountain where she used to sit during the hot days, as it was a very cool spot. One evening, a servant of the Marquis de Clerambault went there to fetch water from the fountain and saw something white sitting there without a head. The ghost immediately rose to double its height. The terrified servant ran away and, upon returning to the house, claimed he had seen Madame. He became ill and died shortly afterward. Then the captain of the Chateau, suspecting something was off about the situation, went to the fountain a few days later and, upon seeing the ghost, threatened it with a good beating if it didn’t reveal what it was.
The phantom immediately said, “Ah, M. de Lastera, do me no harm; I am poor old Philipinette.”
The ghost quickly said, “Ah, M. de Lastera, please don’t hurt me; I’m just poor old Philipinette.”
This was an old woman in the village, seventy-seven years old, who had lost her teeth, had blear eyes, a great mouth and large nose; in short, was a very hideous figure. They were going to take her to prison, but I interceded for her. When she came to thank me I asked her what fancy it was that had induced her to go about playing the ghost instead of sleeping.
This was an old woman in the village, seventy-seven years old, who had lost her teeth, had cloudy eyes, a big mouth, and a large nose; in short, she was quite an ugly sight. They were going to take her to jail, but I spoke up for her. When she came to thank me, I asked her what had prompted her to go around pretending to be a ghost instead of just resting.
She laughed and said, “I cannot much repent what I have done. At my time of life one sleeps little; but one wants something to amuse one’s mind. In all the sports of my youth nothing diverted me so much as to play the ghost. I was very sure that if I could not frighten folks with my white dress I could do so with my ugly face. The cowards made so many grimaces when they saw it that I was ready to die with laughing. This nightly amusement repaid me for the trouble of carrying a pannier by day.”
She laughed and said, “I don’t really regret what I’ve done. At my age, I don’t sleep much; but I do need something to keep my mind busy. Of all the fun I had when I was young, nothing entertained me more than playing a ghost. I was pretty sure that if I couldn’t scare people with my white dress, my ugly face would do the trick. The scaredy-cats made such ridiculous faces when they saw it that I almost died laughing. This nighttime fun made up for the effort of carrying a load during the day.”
If the late Madame was better treated than I was it was for the purpose of pleasing the King of England, who was very fond of his sister.
If the late Madame was treated better than I was, it was to make the King of England happy, who was very fond of his sister.
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I'm sorry, but there doesn't seem to be any text provided for me to modernize. Please provide the text you'd like me to work on.
Madame de La Fayette, who has written the life of the late Madame, was her intimate friend; but she was still more intimately the friend of M. de La Rochefoucauld, who remained with her to the day of his death. It is said that these two friends wrote together the romance of the Princesse de Cloves.
Madame de La Fayette, who wrote the biography of the late Madame, was her close friend; however, she was even closer to M. de La Rochefoucauld, who stayed with her until his death. It's said that these two friends co-wrote the novel of the Princesse de Clèves.
SECTION XVIII.—THE DUC DE BERRI.
It is not surprising that the manners of the Duc de Berri were not very elegant, since he was educated by Madame de Maintenon and the Dauphine as a valet de chambre. He was obliged to wait upon the old woman at table, and at all other times upon the Dauphine’s ladies, with whom he was by day and night. They made a mere servant of him, and used to talk to him in a tone of very improper familiarity, saying, “Berri, go and fetch me my work; bring me that table; give me my scissors.”
It's not surprising that the Duc de Berri's manners weren't very polished, since he was raised by Madame de Maintenon and the Dauphine as a personal attendant. He had to serve the old woman at the dining table and at all other times take care of the Dauphine's ladies, who he was with day and night. They treated him like just a servant and would talk to him in an overly familiar way, saying things like, “Berri, go get my work; bring me that table; hand me my scissors.”
Their manner of behaving to him was perfectly shameful. This had the effect of degrading his disposition, and of giving him base propensities; so that it is not surprising he should have been violently in love with an ugly femme de chambre. His good father was naturally of rather a coarse disposition.
Their way of treating him was completely disgraceful. This ended up bringing him down and making him act in a lower way; so it's no wonder he fell hard for an unattractive maid. His father, of course, had a rather rough nature.
But for that old Maintenon, the Duc de Berri would have been humpbacked, like the rest who had been made to carry iron crosses.
But for that old Maintenon, the Duke of Berry would have been hunchbacked, like the others who had to carry iron crosses.
The Duc de Berri’s character seemed to undergo a total change; it is said to be the ordinary lot of the children in Paris that, if they display any sense in their youth, they become stupid as they grow older.
The Duc de Berri’s character seemed to completely change; it’s said that it’s typical for kids in Paris that if they show any intelligence in their youth, they end up becoming foolish as they grow older.
It was in compliance with the King’s will that he married. At first he was passionately fond of his wife; but at the end of three months he fell in love with a little, ugly, black femme de chambre. The Duchess, who had sufficient penetration, was not slow in discovering this, and told her husband immediately that, if he continued to live upon good terms with her, as he had done at first, she would say nothing about it, and act as if she were not acquainted with it; but if he behaved ill, she would tell the whole affair to the King, and have the femme de chambre sent away, so that he should never hear of her again. By this threat she held the Duke, who was a very simple man, so completely in check, that he lived very well with her up to his death, leaving her to do as she pleased, and dying himself as fond as ever of the femme de chambre. A year before his death he had her married, but upon condition that the husband should not exercise his marital rights. He left her pregnant as well as his wife, both of whom lay-in after his decease. Madame de Berri, who was not jealous, retained this woman, and took care of her and her child.
He married because the King wanted him to. At first, he was deeply in love with his wife; but after three months, he fell for a short, ugly black maid. The Duchess, who was quite perceptive, quickly figured this out and told her husband that if he kept being friendly with her like he had been initially, she wouldn't say anything and would act like she didn’t know. But if he misbehaved, she would tell the King and make sure the maid got sent away so he would never see her again. With this threat, she had the Duke, who was quite naive, completely under control, and he got along well with her until he died, still very much in love with the maid. A year before he passed away, he had her married, but on the condition that her husband wouldn’t assert his marital rights. He left both her and his wife pregnant, and they both gave birth after his death. Madame de Berri, who wasn’t jealous, kept the maid and took care of her and her child.
The Duke abridged his life by his extreme intemperance in eating and drinking. He had concealed, besides, that in falling from his horse he had burst a blood-vessel. He threatened to dismiss any of his servants who should say that he had lost blood. A number of plates were found in the ruelle of his bed after his death. When he disclosed the accident it was too late to remedy it. As far as could be judged his illness proceeded from gluttony, in consequence of which emetics were so frequently administered to him that they hastened his death.
The Duke shortened his life through his excessive eating and drinking. He also hid the fact that he had burst a blood vessel when he fell from his horse. He threatened to fire any servant who claimed he had lost blood. After his death, many plates were found in the area by his bed. When he finally revealed the accident, it was too late to fix the issue. It seemed that his illness was caused by gluttony, which led to him being given so many emetics that they actually sped up his death.
He himself said to his confessor, the Pere de la Rue, “Ah, father, I am myself the cause of my death!”
He said to his confessor, Father de la Rue, “Oh, Father, I am the reason for my own death!”
He repented of it, but not until too late.
He regretted it, but not until it was too late.
SECTION XIX.—THE DUCHESSE DE BERRI.
My son loves his eldest daughter better than all the rest of his children, because he has had the care of her since she was seven years old. She was at that time seized with an illness which the physicians did not know how to cure. My son resolved to treat her in his own way. He succeeded in restoring her to health, and from that moment his love seemed to increase with her years. She was very badly educated, having been always left with femmes de chambre. She is not very capricious, but she is haughty and absolute in all her wishes.
My son loves his oldest daughter more than all his other children because he has been taking care of her since she was seven. At that time, she fell ill with a disease that the doctors couldn’t cure. My son decided to treat her his way. He managed to make her healthy again, and from that point on, his love for her seemed to grow as she got older. She was poorly educated, having always been left in the care of maids. She’s not very temperamental, but she is proud and demanding about all her wants.
[Her pride led her into all sorts of follies. She once went through
Paris preceded by trumpets and drama; and on another occasion she
appeared at the theatre under a canopy. She received the Venetian
Ambassador sitting in a chair elevated upon a sort of a platform.
This haughtiness, however, did not prevent her from keeping very bad
company, and she would sometimes lay aside her singularities and
break up her orgies to pass some holy days at the Carmelites.]
[Her pride got her into all kinds of trouble. She once paraded through Paris with trumpets and a show; and another time she showed up at the theater under a canopy. She welcomed the Venetian Ambassador while sitting in a chair on a raised platform. However, this arrogance didn’t stop her from hanging out with bad influences, and she would sometimes put aside her quirks and end her wild parties to observe some holy days with the Carmelites.]
From the age of eight years she has had entirely her own way, so that it is not surprising she should be like a headstrong horse. If she had been well brought up, she would have been a worthy character, for she has very good sense and a good natural disposition, and is not at all like her mother, to whom, although she was very severely treated, she always did her duty. During her mother’s last illness, she watched her like a hired nurse. If Madame de Berri had been surrounded by honest people, who thought more of her honour than of their own interest, she would have been a very admirable person. She had excellent feelings; but as that old woman (Maintenon) once said, “bad company spoils good manners.” To be pleasing she had only to speak, for she possessed natural eloquence, and could express herself very well.
Since she was eight years old, she has done whatever she wanted, so it's not surprising that she's like a headstrong horse. If she had been raised properly, she would have had a strong character because she is quite sensible and has a good nature. She's nothing like her mother, who, despite being treated harshly, always fulfilled her responsibilities. During her mother's last illness, she took care of her like a hired nurse. If Madame de Berri had been around honest people who cared more about her reputation than their own interests, she would have been a truly admirable person. She had great instincts; but as that old woman (Maintenon) once said, “bad company spoils good manners.” To be charming, all she needed to do was speak, as she had a natural eloquence and could articulate herself very well.
Her complexion is very florid, for which she often lets blood, but without effect; she uses a great quantity of paint, I believe for the purpose of hiding the marks of the small-pox. She cannot dance, and hates it; but she is well-grounded in music. Her voice is neither strong nor agreeable, and yet she sings very correctly. She takes as much diversion as possible; one day she hunts, another day she goes out in a carriage, on a third she will go to a fair; at other times she frequents the rope-dancers, the plays, and the operas, and she goes everywhere ‘en echarpe’, and without stays. I often rally her, and say that she fancies she is fond of the chase, but in fact she only likes changing her place. She cares little about the result of the chase, but she likes boar-hunting better than stag-hunting, because the former furnishes her table with black puddings and boars’ heads.
Her complexion is very flushed, so she often gets bloodletting, but it doesn't help; she uses a lot of makeup, probably to cover up the scars from smallpox. She can't dance and hates it, but she's well-versed in music. Her voice isn't strong or pleasant, yet she sings quite accurately. She enjoys as much entertainment as she can; one day she goes hunting, another day she takes a carriage ride, and on a third she visits a fair; at other times she enjoys tightrope walkers, plays, and operas, and she goes everywhere dressed casually and without a corset. I often tease her, saying she thinks she loves hunting, but really she just likes the change of scenery. She doesn't care much about the outcome of the hunt, but she prefers boar hunting over deer hunting because the former provides her table with blood sausage and roasted boar heads.
I do not reckon the Duchesse de Berri among my grandchildren. She is separated from me, we live like strangers to each other, she does not disturb herself about me, nor I about her. (7th January, 1716.)
I don't consider the Duchesse de Berri to be one of my grandchildren. We are apart from each other, living like strangers; she doesn't concern herself with me, and I don't with her. (7th January, 1716.)
Madame de Maintenon was so dreadfully afraid lest the King should take a fancy to the Duchesse de Berri while the Dauphine was expected, that she did her all sorts of ill offices. After the Dauphine’s death she repaired the wrong; but then, to tell the truth, the King’s inclination was not so strong.
Madame de Maintenon was so terrified that the King might become infatuated with the Duchesse de Berri while waiting for the Dauphine that she went out of her way to undermine her. After the Dauphine’s death, she fixed the situation, but to be honest, the King’s interest wasn't as intense anymore.
If the Duchesse de Berri was not my daughter-in-law, I should have no reason to be dissatisfied with her; she behaves politely to me, which is all that I can say. (25th Sept., 1716.)
If the Duchesse de Berri weren't my daughter-in-law, I wouldn't have any reason to be unhappy with her; she treats me kindly, which is about all I can say. (25th Sept., 1716.)
She often laughs at her own figure and shape. She has certainly good sense, and is not very punctilious. Her flesh is firm and healthy, her cheeks are as hard as stone. I should be ungrateful not to love her, for she does all sorts of civil things towards me, and displays so great a regard for me that I am often quite amazed at it. (12th April, 1718.)
She often laughs at her own figure and shape. She definitely has good sense and isn't very fussy. Her body is firm and healthy, and her cheeks are as tough as stone. I would be ungrateful not to love her, because she does all kinds of nice things for me and shows such great affection that I’m often quite surprised by it. (12th April, 1718.)
She is magnificent in her expenditure; to be sure she can afford to be so, for her income amounts to 600,000 livres. Amboise was her jointure, but she preferred Meudon.
She spends extravagantly; of course, she can afford it since her income is 600,000 livres. Amboise was her settlement, but she preferred Meudon.
She fell sick on the 28th March, 1719. I went to see her last Sunday, the 23rd May, and found her in a sad state, suffering from pains in her toes and the soles of her feet until the tears came into her eyes. I went away because I saw that she refrained from crying out on my account. I thought she was in a bad way. A consultation was held by her three physicians, the result of which was that they determined to bleed her in the feet. They had some difficulty in persuading her to submit to it, because the pain in her feet was so great that she uttered the most piercing screams if the bedclothes only rubbed against them. The bleeding, however, succeeded, and she was in some degree relieved. It was the gout in both feet.
She got sick on March 28, 1719. I visited her last Sunday, May 23, and found her in a terrible state, suffering from pain in her toes and the soles of her feet to the point where tears filled her eyes. I left because I saw that she was holding back from crying out for my sake. I thought she was in serious trouble. Her three doctors held a consultation, and they decided to bleed her feet. They had a hard time convincing her to go through with it because the pain in her feet was so intense that she screamed in agony if the bedcovers brushed against them. However, the bleeding was successful, and she felt some relief. It was gout in both feet.
The feet are now covered with swellings filled with water, which cause her as much pain as if they were ulcers; she suffers day and night. Whatever they may say, there has been no other swelling of the feet since those blisters appeared. (13th June.)
The feet are now swollen with fluid-filled blisters that hurt her as much as if they were open sores; she’s in pain all day and night. No matter what people say, there haven't been any other foot swellings since those blisters showed up. (13th June.)
The swelling has now entirely disappeared, but the pain is greater than before. All the toes are covered with transparent blisters; she cries out so that she may be heard three rooms off. The doctors now confess they do not know what the disorder is. (20th June.) The King’s surgeon says it is rheumatic gout. (11th July.) I believe that frequent and excessive bathing and gluttony have undermined her health. She has two fits of fever daily, and the disease does not abate. She is not impatient nor peevish; the emetic given to her the day before yesterday causes her much pain; it seems that from time to time rheumatic pains have affected her shoulders without her taking much notice of them. From being very fat, as she was, she has become thin and meagre. Yesterday she confessed, and received the communion. (18th July.) She was bled thrice before she took the emetic. (Tuesday, 18th July.) She received the last Sacrament with a firmness which deeply affected her attendants. Between two and three o’clock this night (19th July) she died. Her end was a very easy one; they say she died as if she had gone to sleep. My son remained with her until she lost all consciousness, which was about an hour before her death. She was his favourite daughter. The poor Duchesse de Berri was as much the cause of her own death as if she had blown her brains out, for she secretly ate melons, figs and milk; she herself confessed, and her doctor told me, that she had closed her room to him and to the other medical attendants for a fortnight that she might indulge in this way. Immediately after the storm she began to die. Yesterday evening she said to me: “Oh, Madame! that clap of thunder has done me great harm;” and it was evident that it had made her worse.
The swelling has completely disappeared now, but the pain is worse than before. All her toes are covered with clear blisters; she cries out loud enough to be heard three rooms away. The doctors are now admitting they don't know what the issue is. (20th June.) The King's surgeon claims it’s rheumatic gout. (11th July.) I think that frequent and excessive bathing and overeating have weakened her health. She experiences two fever attacks daily, and the illness doesn't seem to get any better. She's not impatient or irritable; the emetic she took the day before yesterday causes her a lot of pain; it seems that from time to time rheumatic pains have troubled her shoulders without her paying much attention to them. After being very overweight, she's become thin and frail. Yesterday she confessed and received communion. (18th July.) She was bled three times before taking the emetic. (Tuesday, 18th July.) She received the last rites with a composure that deeply moved those around her. Between two and three o'clock this morning (19th July) she passed away. Her death was very peaceful; they say she died as if she had simply fallen asleep. My son stayed with her until she lost all awareness, which happened about an hour before she died. She was his favorite daughter. The poor Duchesse de Berri contributed to her own death as much as if she had taken her own life, because she secretly ate melons, figs, and milk; she herself admitted this, and her doctor told me that she had kept her room closed to him and the other medical staff for two weeks to indulge herself in this way. Right after the storm, she started to decline. Last night she said to me: “Oh, Madame! That clap of thunder has harmed me greatly;” and it was clear that it had made her condition worse.
My son has not been able to sleep. The poor Duchesse de Berri could not have been saved; her brain was filled with water; she had an ulcer in the stomach and another in the groin; her liver was affected, and her spleen full of disease. She was taken by night to St. Denis, whither all her household accompanied her corse. They were so much embarrassed about her funeral oration that it was resolved ultimately not to pronounce one.
My son hasn't been able to sleep. The poor Duchesse de Berri couldn't have been saved; her brain was flooded, and she had an ulcer in her stomach and another in her groin. Her liver was damaged, and her spleen was disease-ridden. She was taken to St. Denis at night, with all her household following her body. They were so worried about her funeral speech that they ultimately decided not to give one.
With all her wealth she has left my son 400,000 livres of debt to pay. This poor Princess was horribly robbed and pillaged. You may imagine what a race these favourites are; Mouchi, who enjoyed the greatest favour, did not grieve for her mistress a single moment; she was playing the flute at her window on the very day that the Princess was borne to St. Denis, and went to a large dinner party in Paris, where she ate and drank as if nothing had happened, at the same time talking in so impertinent a manner as disgusted all the guests. My son desired her and her husband to quit Paris.
With all her wealth, she left my son with 400,000 livres in debt to pay. This unfortunate Princess was horribly robbed and exploited. You can imagine what these favorites are like; Mouchi, who had the greatest favor, didn’t mourn her mistress for a second. She was playing the flute at her window on the very day the Princess was taken to St. Denis and attended a big dinner party in Paris, where she ate and drank as if nothing had happened, all while speaking so rudely that it disgusted all the guests. My son asked her and her husband to leave Paris.
My son’s affliction is so much the greater since he perceives that, if he had been less complying with his beloved daughter, and if he had exercised somewhat more of a parent’s authority, she would have been alive and well at this time.
My son's pain is even worse because he realizes that if he had been less accommodating to his beloved daughter and had shown a bit more parental authority, she would be alive and well right now.
That Mouchi and her lover Riom have been playing fine tricks; they had duplicate keys, and left the poor Duchess without a sou. I cannot conceive what there is to love in this Riom; he has neither face nor figure; he looks, with his green-and-yellow complexion, like a water fiend; his mouth, nose and eyes are like those of a Chinese. He is more like a baboon than a Gascon, which he is. He is a very dull person, without the least pretensions to wit; he has a large head, which is sunk between a pair of very broad shoulders, and his appearance is that of a low-minded person; in short, he is a very ugly rogue.
That Mouchi and her boyfriend Riom have been pulling off some clever tricks; they had duplicate keys and left the poor Duchess broke. I can't understand what anyone sees in this Riom; he has neither looks nor build; he has a green-and-yellow complexion that makes him look like a water creature; his mouth, nose, and eyes resemble those of a Chinese person. He’s more like a baboon than a Gascon, which he is. He’s really dull and has no sense of humor whatsoever; he has a large head that sits awkwardly between a pair of very broad shoulders, giving him the appearance of someone dim-witted; in short, he’s a very ugly scoundrel.
And yet the toad does not come of bad blood; he is related to some of the best families. The Duc de Lauzun is his uncle, and Biron his nephew. He is, nevertheless, unworthy of the honour which was conferred on him; for he was only a captain in the King’s Guard. The women all ran after him; but, for my part, I find him extremely disagreeable; he has an unhealthy air and looks like one of the Indian figures upon a screen.
And yet the toad doesn’t come from a bad lineage; he’s connected to some of the best families. The Duc de Lauzun is his uncle, and Biron is his nephew. Still, he’s unworthy of the honor given to him because he was just a captain in the King’s Guard. All the women chased after him, but I personally find him really unpleasant; he has an unhealthy look and resembles one of those Indian figures on a screen.
He was not here when Madame de Berri died, but was with the army, in the regiment which had been bought for him. When the news of the Duchess’s death reached him the Prince de Conti went to seek Riom, and sang a ridiculous song, my son was a little vexed at this, but he did not take any notice of it.
He wasn't here when Madame de Berri passed away, but was with the army, in the regiment that had been purchased for him. When the news of the Duchess’s death reached him, the Prince de Conti went to find Riom and sang a silly song. My son found this a bit annoying, but he didn't pay any attention to it.
There can be no doubt that the Duchess was secretly married to Riom; this has consoled me in some degree for her loss. I had heard it said before, and I made a representation upon the subject to my granddaughter.
There’s no doubt that the Duchess was secretly married to Riom; this has somewhat comforted me for her loss. I had heard it before, and I discussed it with my granddaughter.
She laughed, and replied: “Ah, Madame, I thought I had the honour of being so well known to you that you could not believe me guilty of so great a folly; I who am so much blamed for my pride.”
She laughed and replied, “Oh, Madame, I thought I was so well known to you that you couldn’t possibly think I’d be guilty of such a foolishness; I, who am so often criticized for my pride.”
This answer lulled my suspicions, and I no longer believed the story. The father and mother would never have consented to this marriage; and even if they had sanctioned such an impertinence I never would!
This answer calmed my doubts, and I no longer believed the story. The father and mother would never have agreed to this marriage; and even if they had allowed such a disrespect, I never would!
[The Duchess, with her usual violence, teased her father to have her
marriage made public; this was also Riom’s most ardent desire, who
had married her solely from ambitious motives. The Regent had
despatched Riom to the army for the purpose of gaining time. One
daughter was the result of the connection between Riom and the
Duchesse de Berri, who was afterwards sent into a convent at
Pontoisse.]
[The Duchess, with her usual intensity, urged her father to publicly announce her marriage; this was also Riom’s greatest wish, as he had married her purely for ambitious reasons. The Regent had sent Riom to the army to buy some time. One daughter was the outcome of the relationship between Riom and the Duchesse de Berri, who was later sent to a convent in Pontoisse.]
The toad had made the Princess believe that he was a Prince of the House of Aragon, and that the King of Spain unjustly withheld from him his kingdom; but that if she would marry him he could sue for his claim through the treaties of peace. Mouchi used to talk about this to the Duchess from morning to night; and it was for this reason that she was so greatly in favour.
The toad had convinced the Princess that he was a Prince of the House of Aragon, and that the King of Spain was unfairly denying him his kingdom; but if she married him, he could press his claim through the peace treaties. Mouchi would talk about this to the Duchess from morning to night, and that’s why she was so supportive.
That Mouchi is the granddaughter of Monsieur’s late surgeon. Her mother, La Forcade, had been appointed by my son the gouvernante of his daughter and son, and thus the young Forcade was brought up with the Duchesse de Berri, who married her to Monsieur Mouchi, Master of the Wardrobe to the Duke, and gave her a large marriage-portion. While the King lived the Princess could not visit her much; and it was not until after his death that she became the favourite, and was appointed by the Duchess second dame d’atour.
That Mouchi is the granddaughter of the late surgeon to Monsieur. Her mother, La Forcade, was appointed by my son as the governess for his daughter and son, which is how young Forcade was raised alongside the Duchesse de Berri. The Duchesse married her off to Monsieur Mouchi, the Master of the Wardrobe for the Duke, and provided her with a substantial dowry. While the King was alive, the Princess couldn't visit her often; it wasn't until after his death that she became the favorite and was appointed by the Duchess as the second lady-in-waiting.
SECTION XX.—MADEMOISELLE D’ORLEANS, LOUISE-ADELAIDE DE CHARTRES.
Mademoiselle de Chartres, Madame d’Orleans’ second daughter, is well made, and is the handsomest of my granddaughters. She has a fine skin, a superb complexion, very white teeth, good eyes, and a faultless shape, but she stammers a little; her hands are extremely delicate, the red and white are beautifully and naturally mingled in her skin. I never saw finer teeth; they are like a row of pearls; and her gums are no less beautiful. A Prince of Auhalt who is here is very much in love with her; but the good gentleman is ugly enough, so that there is no danger. She dances well, and sings better; reads music at sight, and understands the accompaniment perfectly; and she sings without any grimace. She persists in her project of becoming a nun; but I think she would be better in the world, and do all in my power to change her determination: it seems, however, to be a folly which there is no eradicating. Her tastes are all masculine; she loves dogs, horses, and riding; all day long she is playing with gunpowder, making fusees and other artificial fireworks. She has a pair of pistols, which she is incessantly firing; she fears nothing in the world, and likes nothing which women in general like; she cares little about her person, and for this reason I think she will make a good nun.
Mademoiselle de Chartres, Madame d’Orleans’ second daughter, is well-built and is the most beautiful of my granddaughters. She has a lovely complexion, very white teeth, good eyes, and a perfect figure, although she does stammer a bit; her hands are very delicate, and the blend of red and white in her skin is beautiful and natural. I’ve never seen finer teeth; they look like a row of pearls, and her gums are equally lovely. A Prince of Auhalt who is here is very much in love with her, but the poor man is quite unattractive, so there’s no real threat. She dances well and sings even better; she can read music at sight and understands the accompaniment perfectly, plus she sings without any exaggerated expressions. She’s determined to become a nun, but I think she’d be better off in society, and I’ll do everything I can to change her mind; however, it seems like a whim that can’t be changed. Her interests are all masculine; she loves dogs, horses, and riding; all day long she plays with gunpowder, making fireworks and other explosives. She has a pair of pistols that she constantly shoots, and she fears nothing in the world and dislikes most things that women generally enjoy; she doesn’t care much about her appearance, and for that reason, I think she would make a good nun.
She does not become a nun through jealousy of her sister, but from the fear of being tormented by her mother and sister, whom she loves very much, and in this she is right. She and her sister are not fond of their mother’s favourites, and cannot endure to flatter them. They have no very reverent notions, either, of their mother’s brother, and this is the cause of dissensions. I never saw my granddaughter in better spirits than on Sunday last; she was with her sister, on horseback, laughing, and apparently in great glee. At eight o’clock in the evening her mother arrived; we played until supper; I thought we were afterwards going to play again, but Madame d’Orleans begged me to go into the cabinet with her and Mademoiselle d’Orleans; the child there fell on her knees, and begged my permission, and her mother’s, to go to Chelles to perform her devotions. I said she might do that anywhere, that the place mattered not, but that all depended upon her own heart, and the preparation which she made. She, however, persisted in her desire to go to Chelles. I said to her mother:
She doesn't become a nun out of jealousy for her sister, but because she's scared of being tormented by her mother and sister, whom she loves very much, and in this, she's justified. She and her sister don't like their mother's favorites and can't stand flattering them. They also don't have much respect for their mother's brother, which causes conflicts. I never saw my granddaughter in better spirits than last Sunday; she was horseback riding with her sister, laughing, and clearly having a great time. At eight o'clock in the evening, her mother arrived; we played until dinner. I thought we were going to play again afterward, but Madame d'Orleans asked me to join her and Mademoiselle d'Orleans in the study. The child knelt down there and asked for my permission, and her mother’s, to go to Chelles to pray. I told her she could do that anywhere, that the location didn't matter, but it was all about her own heart and how prepared she was. However, she insisted on going to Chelles. I turned to her mother:
“You must decide whether your daughter shall go to Chelles or not.”
“You need to decide if your daughter is going to Chelles or not.”
She replied, “We cannot hinder her performing her devotions.”
She said, “We can’t stop her from doing her prayers.”
[In the Memoirs of the time it is said that Mademoiselle de
Chartres, being at the Opera with her mother, exclaimed, while
Caucherau was singing a very tender air, “Ah! my dear Caucherau!”
and that her mother, thinking this rather too expressive, resolved
to send her to a convent.]
[In the Memoirs of the time, it is said that Mademoiselle de Chartres, at the Opera with her mother, exclaimed, while Caucherau was singing a very tender song, “Ah! my dear Caucherau!” and her mother, thinking this was a bit too expressive, decided to send her to a convent.]
So yesterday morning at seven o’clock she set off in a coach; she afterwards sent back the carriage, with a letter to her father, her mother, and myself, declaring that she will never more quit that accursed cloister. Her mother, who has a liking for convents, is not very deeply afflicted; she looks upon it as a great blessing to be a nun, but, for my part, I think it is one of the greatest misfortunes.
So yesterday morning at seven o’clock she left in a coach; she later sent the carriage back with a letter for her father, her mother, and me, stating that she will never leave that cursed convent again. Her mother, who has a fondness for convents, isn't too upset; she sees it as a great blessing to be a nun, but as for me, I believe it's one of the biggest misfortunes.
My son went yesterday to Chelles, and took with him the Cardinal de Noailles, to try for the last time to bring his daughter away from the convent. (20th July, 1718.)
My son went to Chelles yesterday and took along Cardinal de Noailles to make one last attempt to get his daughter out of the convent. (July 20, 1718.)
My heart is full when I think that our poor Mademoiselle d’Orleans has made the profession of her vows. I said to her all I could, in the hope of diverting her from this diabolical project, but all has been useless. (23rd August, 1718.) I should not have restrained my tears if I had been present at the ceremony of her profession. My son dreaded it also. I cannot tell for what reason Mademoiselle d’Orleans resolved to become a nun. Mademoiselle de Valois wanted to do the same thing, but she could not prevail upon her mother. In the convent they assume the names of saints. My granddaughter has taken that of Sister Bathilde; she is of the Benedictine order.
My heart is heavy knowing that our poor Mademoiselle d’Orleans has taken her vows. I said everything I could to steer her away from this terrible decision, but it was all in vain. (23rd August, 1718.) I would have wept openly if I had attended her profession ceremony. My son also dreaded it. I can't understand why Mademoiselle d’Orleans chose to become a nun. Mademoiselle de Valois wanted to do the same, but she couldn’t convince her mother. In the convent, they take the names of saints. My granddaughter has chosen to be called Sister Bathilde; she belongs to the Benedictine order.
Madame d’Orleans has long wished her daughter to take this step, and it was on her account that the former Abbess, Villars’ sister, was prevailed upon to quit the convent. He is in the interest of the Duc du Maine. I do not see, however, that his sister has much to complain of, for they gave her a pension of 12,000 livres until the first abbey should become vacant. Madame d’Orleans is, however, vexed at the idea of Villars’ sister being obliged to yield to my son’s daughter, which is, nevertheless, as it should be.
Madame d’Orleans has long wanted her daughter to take this step, and it was because of her that the former Abbess, who is Villars’ sister, was convinced to leave the convent. He is aligned with the Duc du Maine. However, I don’t think his sister has much to complain about, since they provided her with a pension of 12,000 livres until the first abbey becomes available. Madame d’Orleans is still upset at the thought of Villars’ sister having to make way for my son’s daughter, but that is how it should be.
Our Abbess is upon worse terms than ever with her mother. She complains that the latter never comes but to scold her. She does not envy her sister her marriage, for she finds herself very happy, and in this she displays great good sense.
Our Abbess is on worse terms than ever with her mother. She complains that her mother only comes around to scold her. She doesn't envy her sister's marriage, as she feels very happy herself, and in this, she shows a lot of good sense.
SECTION XXI.—MADEMOISELLE DE VALOIS, CHARLOTTE-AGLAE, CONSORT OF THE PRINCE OF MODENA.
Mademoiselle de Valois is not, in my opinion, pretty, and yet occasionally she does not look ugly. She has something like charms, for her eyes, her colour and her skin are good. She has white teeth, a large, ill-looking nose, and one prominent tooth, which when she laughs has a bad effect. Her figure is drawn up, her head is sunk between her shoulders, and what, in my opinion, is the worst part of her appearance, is the ill grace with which she does everything. She walks like an old woman of eighty. If she were a person not very anxious to please, I should not be surprised at the negligence of her gait; but she likes to be thought pretty. She is fond of dress, and yet she does not understand that a good mien and graceful manners are the most becoming dress, and that where these are wanting all the ornaments in the world are good for nothing. She has a good deal of the Mortemart family in her, and is as much like the Duchess of Sforza, the sister of Montespan, as if she were her daughter; the falsehood of the Mortemarts displays itself in her eyes. Madame d’Orleans would be the most indolent woman in the world but for Madame de Valois, her daughter, who is worse than she. To me nothing is more disgusting than a young person so indolent. She cares little for me, or rather cannot bear me, and, for my part, I care as little for a person so educated.
Mademoiselle de Valois isn’t, in my opinion, pretty, but sometimes she doesn’t look ugly. She has some charm, as her eyes, complexion, and skin are nice. She has white teeth, a large, unattractive nose, and one prominent tooth that looks bad when she laughs. Her posture is stiff, her head is sunk between her shoulders, and the worst part of her appearance, in my view, is the clumsiness with which she does everything. She walks like an old woman of eighty. If she weren’t so eager to be seen as pretty, I wouldn’t be surprised by her slouchy way of moving; but she really wants to be thought attractive. She loves to dress up, yet doesn’t realize that good posture and graceful manners are the best accessories, and that without them, all the embellishments in the world are useless. She has a lot of Mortemart traits, and she resembles the Duchess of Sforza, Montespan’s sister, as if she were her daughter; the insincerity of the Mortemarts shows in her eyes. Madame d’Orleans would be the most lethargic woman in the world if it weren’t for Madame de Valois, her daughter, who is even worse. To me, nothing is more off-putting than a young person who is so lazy. She doesn’t care much for me, or rather, she can’t stand me, and for my part, I feel just as little regard for someone with such a background.
She is not upon good terms with her mother, because she wanted to marry her to the Prince de Dombes, the Duc du Maine’s eldest son. The mother says now reproachfully to her daughter that, if she had married her nephew, neither his father’s nor his own misfortunes would have taken place. She cannot bear to have her daughter in her sight, and has begged me to keep her with me.
She doesn't get along with her mother because her mother wanted her to marry the Prince de Dombes, the Duc du Maine’s oldest son. Now, her mother reproachfully tells her that if she had married her cousin, neither his father's nor his own troubles would have happened. She can’t stand having her daughter around and has asked me to keep her with me.
My son has agreed to give his daughter to the Prince of Modem, at which I very sincerely rejoice. On the day before yesterday (28th November, 1719) she came hither with her mother to tell me that the courier had arrived. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she looked very miserable. The Duchess of Hanover tells me that the intended husband fell in love with Mademoiselle de Valois at the mere sight of her portrait. I think her rather pretty than agreeable. Her hawk nose spoils all, in my opinion. Her legs are long, her body stout and short, and her gait shows that she has not learnt to dance; in fact, she never would learn. Still, if the interior was as good as the exterior, all might pass; but she has as much of the father as of the mother in her, and this it is that I dislike.
My son has agreed to give his daughter to the Prince of Modem, and I'm truly happy about it. The day before yesterday (28th November, 1719), she came here with her mother to tell me that the courier had arrived. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she looked very unhappy. The Duchess of Hanover says the fiancé fell in love with Mademoiselle de Valois just from seeing her portrait. I find her more pretty than charming. I think her hawk nose ruins her looks, honestly. She has long legs, a stout and short body, and she walks as if she hasn’t learned to dance; in fact, she never would learn. Still, if her character matched her appearance, it might be acceptable; but she has traits from both her father and mother that I really dislike.
Our bride-elect is putting, as we say here, as good a face as she can upon a bad bargain; although her language is gay her eyes are swollen, and it is suspected that she has been weeping all night. The Grand Prior, who is also General of the Galleys, will escort his sister into Italy. The Grand Duchess of Tuscany says that she will not see Mademoiselle de Valois nor speak to her, knowing very well what Italy is, and believing that Mademoiselle de Valois will not be able to reconcile herself to it. She is afraid that if her niece should ever return to France they will say, “There is the second edition of the Grand Duchess;” and that for every folly she may commit towards her father-in-law and husband they will add, “Such are the instructions which her aunt, the Grand Duchess, has given her.” For this reason she said she would not go to see her.
Our future bride is trying, as we say here, to put on a brave face in a tough situation; even though she speaks cheerfully, her eyes are puffy, and it's suspected that she’s been crying all night. The Grand Prior, who is also the General of the Galleys, will take his sister into Italy. The Grand Duchess of Tuscany says she won’t see Mademoiselle de Valois or talk to her, fully aware of what Italy is like and believing that Mademoiselle de Valois won't be able to adjust. She's worried that if her niece ever comes back to France, people will say, “There goes the second version of the Grand Duchess;” and for every mistake she makes with her father-in-law and husband, they will add, “These are the lessons her aunt, the Grand Duchess, taught her.” For this reason, she said she wouldn’t go to see her.
The present has come from Modena; it does not consist of many pieces; there is a large jewel for the bride, with some very fine diamonds, in the midst of which is the portrait of the Prince of Modena, but it is badly executed. This present is to be given on the day of the marriage and at the signature of the contract in the King’s presence; this ceremony will take place on the 11th (of February, 1720). The nuptial benediction will be pronounced on Monday, and on Thursday she will set off. I never in my life saw a bride more sorrowful; for the last three days she has neither eaten nor drunk, and her eyes are filled with tears.
The gift has arrived from Modena; it doesn’t include many items. There’s a large jewel for the bride, featuring some really nice diamonds, with a poorly done portrait of the Prince of Modena in the center. This gift will be presented on the wedding day during the contract signing in the King’s presence; this ceremony is set for the 11th (of February, 1720). The wedding blessing will take place on Monday, and she’ll leave on Thursday. I’ve never seen a bride looking more sad; for the past three days, she hasn’t eaten or drunk anything, and her eyes are filled with tears.
I have been the prophetess of evil, but I have prophesied too truly. When our Princess of Modena told me that she wished to go to Chelles to bid her sister farewell, I told her that the measles had been in the convent a short time before, that the Abbess herself had been attacked by this disease, which was contagious. She replied that she would seek it. I said such things are more easily found than anything good; you run a risk of your life, and I recommend you to take care. Notwithstanding my advice, she went on Sunday morning to Chelles, and passed the whole of the day with her sister. Soon afterwards she found herself unwell, and was laid up with the measles. Her consolation is that this illness retards her journey.
I have been a messenger of bad news, but I've spoken the truth. When our Princess of Modena told me she wanted to go to Chelles to say goodbye to her sister, I warned her that the measles had recently been at the convent and that the Abbess had caught it, which is contagious. She said she was looking for it. I told her that bad things are easier to find than good ones; you're risking your health, and I advised her to be careful. Despite my warning, she went to Chelles on Sunday morning and spent the entire day with her sister. Not long after, she started feeling ill and ended up with the measles. At least she finds some comfort in knowing this illness delays her journey.
On the 12th of March (1720) my son brought his daughter to bid me farewell. She could not articulate a word. She took my hands, kissed and pressed them, and then clasped her own. My son was much affected when he brought her. They thought at first of marrying her to the Prince of Piedmont. Her father had given her some reason to hope for this union, but he afterwards retracted.
On March 12, 1720, my son brought his daughter to say goodbye to me. She couldn't say a word. She took my hands, kissed and held them, then clasped her own. My son was quite moved when he brought her. They initially considered marrying her to the Prince of Piedmont. Her father had given her some reason to hope for this match, but he later changed his mind.
[According to Duclos it was Madame herself who prevented this
marriage by writing to the Queen of Sicily that she was too much her
friend to make her so worthless a present as Mademoiselle de Valois.
Duclos adds that the Regent only laughed at this German blunder of
his mother’s.]
[According to Duclos, it was Madame herself who stopped this marriage by writing to the Queen of Sicily that she valued their friendship too much to give her such a worthless gift as Mademoiselle de Valois. Duclos adds that the Regent just laughed at this German mistake his mother made.]
She would have preferred marrying the Duke or the Comte de Charolois, because then she would have remained with her friends. Her father has given her several jewels. The King’s present is superb. It consists of fourteen very large and fine diamonds, to each of which are fastened round pearls of the first water, and together they form a necklace. The Grand Duchess advised her niece well in telling her not to follow her example, but to endeavour to please her husband and father-in-law.
She would have preferred to marry the Duke or the Comte de Charolois because then she could have stayed close to her friends. Her father has given her several pieces of jewelry. The King’s gift is stunning. It includes fourteen large and beautiful diamonds, each attached to top-quality round pearls, and together they make a necklace. The Grand Duchess wisely advised her niece not to follow her example but to try to please her husband and father-in-law.
[The same author (Duclos) says, on the contrary, that the Duchess
had given her niece the following advice: “My dear, do as I have
done. Have one or two children and try to get back to France; there
is nothing good for us out of that country.”]
[The same author (Duclos) says, on the contrary, that the Duchess
had given her niece the following advice: “My dear, do as I have
done. Have one or two children and try to get back to France; there
is nothing good for us outside that country.”]The Prince of Modena will repair to Genoa incognito, because the Republic has declared that they will pay due honours to his bride as a Princess of the blood, but not as Princess of Modena. They have already begun to laugh here at the amusements of Modena. She has sent to her father from Lyons an harangue which was addressed to her by a curate. In spite of her father, she will visit the whole of Provence. She will go to Toulon, La Ste. Beaume, and I know not what. I believe she wishes to see everything or anything except her husband.
The Prince of Modena will secretly go to Genoa because the Republic has announced they will honor his bride as a royal, but not as the Princess of Modena. People have already started to mock the festivities in Modena. She has sent her father from Lyons a speech that a priest wrote for her. Regardless of her father’s wishes, she plans to visit all of Provence. She will go to Toulon, La Ste. Beaume, and who knows where else. I think she wants to see everything or anything except her husband.
[She performed her journey so slowly that the Prince complained of
it, and the Regent was obliged to order his daughter to go directly
to the husband, who was expecting her.]
[She made her way so slowly that the Prince complained, and the Regent had to instruct his daughter to head straight to her husband, who was waiting for her.]
It may truly be said of this Princess that she has eaten her white bread first.
It can truly be said of this Princess that she has had her privileged life first.
All goes well at Modena at present, but the too charming brother-in-law is not permitted to be at the petite soupers of his sister. The husband, it is said, is delighted with his wife; but she has told him that he must not be too fond of her, for that is not the fashion in France, and would seem ridiculous. This declaration has not, as might be guessed, given very great satisfaction in this country.
All is going well in Modena right now, but the overly charming brother-in-law isn't allowed to attend his sister's small dinner parties. It’s said that the husband is very happy with his wife; however, she has told him not to be too affectionate toward her, as that’s not the style in France and would look silly. This statement has, as you might expect, not been received very well in this country.
The Grand Duchess says, in the time of the Queen-mother’s regency, when the Prince and his brother, the Prince de Conti, were taken to the Bastille, they were asked what books they would have to amuse themselves with? The Prince de Conti said he should like to have “The Imitation of Jesus Christ;” and the Prince de Condo said he would rather like “The Imitation of the Duc de Beaufort,” who had then just left the Bastille.
The Grand Duchess says that during the Queen-mother’s regency, when the Prince and his brother, the Prince de Conti, were taken to the Bastille, they were asked what books they would like to have to entertain themselves. The Prince de Conti said he would like to have “The Imitation of Jesus Christ,” and the Prince de Condo said he would prefer “The Imitation of the Duc de Beaufort,” who had just left the Bastille at that time.
“I think,” added the Duchess, “that the Princess of Modena will soon be inclined to ask for ‘The Imitation of the Grand Duchess.’”
“I think,” added the Duchess, “that the Princess of Modena will soon want to ask for ‘The Imitation of the Grand Duchess.’”
[The Princess of Modena did, in fact, go back to France, and
remained there for the rest of her life.]
[The Princess of Modena did go back to France and stayed there for the rest of her life.]
Our Princess of Modena has found her husband handsomer and likes him better than she thought she should; she has even become so fond of him, that she has twice kissed his hands; a great condescension for a person so proud as she is, and who fancies that, there is not her equal on the earth.
Our Princess of Modena has discovered that her husband is more attractive than she expected, and she actually likes him more than she thought she would; she has become so fond of him that she has kissed his hands twice, which is a big deal for someone as proud as she is, who believes there’s no one equal to her on this earth.
The Duke of Modena is a very strange person in all matters. His son and his son’s wife have requested him to get rid of Salvatico, who has been here in the quality of envoy. This silly person made on the journey a declaration in form of his love for the Princess, and threatened her with all sorts of misfortune if she did not accept his love. He began his declaration with,
The Duke of Modena is quite an odd character in every way. His son and daughter-in-law have asked him to get rid of Salvatico, who has been here as an envoy. This foolish man declared his love for the Princess during the journey and threatened her with all kinds of misery if she didn’t return his feelings. He started his declaration with,
“Ah! ah! ah! Madame, ah! ah! ah! Madame.”
“Ah! ah! ah! Ma’am, ah! ah! ah! Ma’am.”
The Princess interrupted him: “What do you mean with your ah’s?”
The Princess interrupted him, “What do you mean by your ah’s?”
He replied, “Ah! the Prince of Modena is under great obligations; I have made him happy.”
He replied, “Ah! the Prince of Modena is very grateful; I have made him happy.”
He had begun the same follies here, and was in the habit of entering the Princess’s chamber at all times, and he even had the impudence to be jealous. The Princess complained of him to her husband, and he told his father of it, begging him to send the rogue away; but the father was so far from complying that he wanted to make Salvatico his major-domo. Upon the whole, I think that Salvatico’s love for our Princess of Modena is fortunate for her; for, having learnt all that had passed here,
He had started the same foolish behavior here, and he regularly entered the Princess’s room at any time, even having the audacity to feel jealous. The Princess expressed her concerns about him to her husband, who then told his father, asking him to send the guy away; but instead of helping, the father wanted to make Salvatico his chief servant. Overall, I believe Salvatico’s feelings for our Princess of Modena are a good thing for her; because, having found out everything that happened here,
[Mademoiselle de Valois had an amorous intrigue with the Duc de
Richelieu; and it is said that she only consented to marry the
Prince of Modena upon condition that her father, the Regent, would
set her husband at liberty. Madame had intimated to the Duc de
Richelieu that, if he approached the places where her granddaughter
was with her, his life would be in great peril.]
[Mademoiselle de Valois had a romantic affair with the Duc de Richelieu; and it’s said that she only agreed to marry the Prince of Modena on the condition that her father, the Regent, would free her husband. Madame had hinted to the Duc de Richelieu that if he got too close to where her granddaughter was with her, his life would be in serious danger.]
he might have made inconvenient reports: he would, however, perhaps have done it in vain, for the Prince would not have believed him. Salvatico is quite crazy. He is the declared favourite of the Duke of Modena, which verifies the German proverb, “Like will to like, as the devil said to the collier.”
he might have made inconvenient reports: he would, however, perhaps have done it in vain, for the Prince would not have believed him. Salvatico is quite crazy. He is the declared favorite of the Duke of Modena, which verifies the German proverb, “Like attracts like, as the devil said to the coal miner.”
The Prince and Princess are very fond of each other; but it is said they join in ridiculing the old father (2nd August, 1720). The Princess goes about all day from room to room, crying, “How tired I am, how tiresome everything is here!” She, however, lives a little better with her husband than at the beginning.
The Prince and Princess care for each other a lot; however, it's said that they both make fun of the old father (2nd August, 1720). The Princess wanders from room to room all day, complaining, “I’m so tired, everything here is so boring!” Still, she gets along a bit better with her husband than she did at the start.
SECTION XXII.—THE ILLEGITIMATE CHILDREN OF THE REGENT, DUC D’ORLEANS.
My son has three illegitimate children, two boys and a girl; but only one of them is legitimated, that is, his son by Mademoiselle de Seri, a lady of noble family, and who was my Maid of Honour. The younger Margrave of Anspach was also in love with her. This son is called the Chevalier d’Orleans. The other, who is now (1716) about eighteen years old, is an Abbe; he is the son of La Florence, a dancer at the Opera House. The daughter is by Desmarets, the actress. My son says that the Chevalier d’Orleans is more unquestionably his than any of the others; but, to tell the truth, I think the Abbe has a stronger family likeness to my son than the Chevalier, who is like none of them. I do not know where my son found him; he is a good sort of person, but he has neither elegance nor beauty. It is a great pity that the Abbe is illegitimate: he is well made; his features are not bad; he has very good talents, and has studied much.—[Duclos says that this ‘eleve’ of the Jesuits was, nevertheless, the most zealous ignoramus that ever their school produced.]—He is a good deal like the portraits of the late Monsieur in his youth, only that he is bigger. When he stands near Mademoiselle de Valois it is easy to see that they belong to the same father. My son purchased for the Chevalier d’Orleans the office of General of the Galleys from the Marechal de Tasse. He intends to make him a Knight of Malta, so that he may live unmarried, for my son does not wish to have the illegitimate branches of his family extended. The Chevalier does not want wit; but he is a little satirical, a habit which he takes from his mother.
My son has three children out of wedlock, two boys and a girl; but only one of them is legitimated, which is his son with Mademoiselle de Seri, a woman from a noble family who used to be my Maid of Honour. The younger Margrave of Anspach was also in love with her. This son is named the Chevalier d’Orleans. The other boy, who is now (1716) about eighteen years old, is an Abbe; he is the son of La Florence, a dancer at the Opera House. The daughter is from Desmarets, the actress. My son claims that the Chevalier d’Orleans is definitely his son more than the others; however, to be honest, I think the Abbe resembles my son more than the Chevalier, who doesn’t look like any of them. I don’t know where my son found him; he’s a decent guy, but he doesn’t have any elegance or beauty. It’s a real shame that the Abbe is illegitimate: he is well-built; his features aren’t bad; he has great talents and has studied a lot.—[Duclos mentions that this ‘eleve’ of the Jesuits was, nonetheless, the most zealous ignoramus their school ever produced.]—He looks quite a bit like the portraits of the late Monsieur when he was young, except that he is taller. When he stands next to Mademoiselle de Valois, it’s easy to see they share the same father. My son bought the position of General of the Galleys for the Chevalier d’Orleans from Marechal de Tasse. He plans to make him a Knight of Malta, so he can live unmarried because my son doesn’t want any more illegitimate branches in his family. The Chevalier isn’t lacking in wit; however, he is a bit sarcastic, a trait he got from his mother.
My son will not recognize the Abbe Saint-Albin, on account of the irregular life which his mother, La Florence, has led. He fears being laughed at for acknowledging children so different. The Abbe Dubois was a chief cause, too, why my son would not acknowledge this son. It was because the Abbe, aspiring to the Cardinal’s hat, was jealous of every one who might be a competitor with him. I love this Abbe Saint-Albin, in the first place, because he is attached to me, and, in the second, because he is really very clever; he has wit and sense, with none of the mummery of priests. My son does not esteem him half so much as he deserves, for he is one of the best persons in the world; he is pious and virtuous, learned in every point, and not vain. It is in vain for my son to deny him; any one may see of what race he comes, and I am sorry that he is not legitimated. My son is much more fond of Seri’s Son.
My son won’t recognize Abbe Saint-Albin because of the chaotic life his mother, La Florence, has lived. He’s afraid of being mocked for acknowledging children who are so different. The Abbe Dubois also played a big role in why my son won’t accept this boy. The Abbe, who is aiming for a cardinal's position, is jealous of anyone he sees as a rival. I love Abbe Saint-Albin for two reasons: first, because he’s loyal to me, and second, because he’s genuinely intelligent; he has wit and common sense without any of the pretentiousness of priests. My son doesn’t value him nearly as much as he deserves, since he’s one of the best people you could meet; he’s devout, virtuous, knowledgeable about everything, and not arrogant. It’s pointless for my son to deny him; anyone can see his true lineage, and I regret that he isn’t legitimated. My son prefers Seri’s Son much more.
The poor Abbe de Saint-Albin is grieved to death at not being acknowledged; while Fortune smiles upon his elder brother, he is forgotten, despised, and has no rank; he seeks only to be legitimated. I console him as well as I can; but why should I tease my son about the business?
The poor Abbe de Saint-Albin is completely heartbroken because he isn’t recognized; while his older brother enjoys good fortune, he is overlooked, disrespected, and has no status; he only wants to be legitimized. I try to comfort him as best as I can, but why should I bother my son about it?
[The Abbe de Saint-Albin was appointed Bishop of Laon, and, after
Dubois’ death, Archbishop of Cambrai. When he wished to become a
member of the Parliament he could not give the names either of his
father or mother; he had been baptized in the name of Cauche, the
Regent’s valet de chambre and purveyor.]
[The Abbe de Saint-Albin was appointed Bishop of Laon, and, after Dubois’ death, Archbishop of Cambrai. When he wanted to become a member of Parliament, he couldn't provide the names of either his father or mother; he had been baptized under the name Cauche, the Regent’s personal servant and supplier.]
It would only put him in the way of greater inconveniences, for, as he has also several children by Parabere, she would be no less desirous that he should legitimate hers. This consideration ties my tongue.
It would only lead to more complications for him because, since he has several kids with Parabere, she would be just as eager for him to legitimize hers. This thought leaves me speechless.
The daughter of the actress Desmarets is somewhat like her mother, but she is like no one else. She was educated in a convent at Saint Denis, but had no liking for a nun’s life. When my son had her first brought to him she did not know who she was. When my son told her he was her father, she was transported with joy, fancying that she was the daughter of Seri and sister to the Chevalier; she thought, too, that she would be legitimated immediately. When my son told her that could not be done, and that she was Desmarets’ daughter, she wept excessively. Her mother had never been permitted to see her in the convent; the nuns would not have allowed it, and her presence would have been injurious to the child. From the time she was born, her mother had not seen her until the present year (1719), when she saw her in a box at the theatre, and wept for joy. My son married this girl to the Marquis de Segur.
The daughter of actress Desmarets is somewhat like her mother, but she’s unique in her own way. She was raised in a convent in Saint Denis, but she didn't like the idea of being a nun. When my son first met her, she didn’t know who she was. When he told her he was her father, she was overjoyed, imagining she was the daughter of Seri and sister to the Chevalier; she also thought she would be legitimated right away. When my son explained that wasn’t possible and that she was Desmarets’ daughter, she cried a lot. Her mother had never been allowed to see her in the convent; the nuns wouldn’t permit it, and her mother’s presence would have been harmful to the child. Since the day she was born, her mother hadn’t seen her until this year (1719), when she spotted her in a box at the theater and cried for joy. My son married this girl off to the Marquis de Segur.
An actress at the Opera House, called Mdlle. d’Usg, who is since dead, was in great favour with my son, but that did not last long. At her death it appeared that, although she had had several children, neither she nor her mother nor her grandmother had ever been married.
An actress at the Opera House, named Mdlle. d’Usg, who has since passed away, was very popular with my son, but that didn't last long. After her death, it was revealed that, even though she had several children, neither she nor her mother nor her grandmother had ever been married.
SECTION XXIII.—THE CHEVALIER DE LORRAINE.
The Chevalier de Lorraine looked very ill, but it was in consequence of his excessive debauchery, for he had once been a handsome man. He had a well-made person, and if the interior had answered to the exterior I should have had nothing to say against him. He was, however, a very bad man, and his friends were no better than he. Three or four years before my husband’s death, and for his satisfaction, I was reconciled with the Chevalier, and from that time he did me no mischief. He was always before so much afraid of being sent away that he used to tell Monsieur he ought to know what I was saying and doing, that he might be apprised of any attempt that should be made against the Chevalier or his creatures.
The Chevalier de Lorraine looked really sick, but that was because of his excessive partying; he used to be a charming guy. He had a nice figure, and if his character matched his looks, I wouldn't have anything bad to say about him. However, he was a very bad person, and his friends were just as bad. Three or four years before my husband's death, to keep the peace, I made amends with the Chevalier, and from then on, he didn't cause me any trouble. Before that, he was so worried about being kicked out that he would tell Monsieur he needed to know what I was saying and doing, so he could be warned about any threats against the Chevalier or his associates.
He died so poor that his friends were obliged to bury him; yet he had 100,000 crowns of revenue, but he was so bad a manager that his people always robbed him. Provided they would supply him when he wanted them with a thousand pistoles for his pleasures or his play, he let them dispose of his property as they thought fit. That Grancey drew large sums from him. He met with a shocking death. He was standing near Madame de Mare, Grancey’s sister, and telling her that he had been sitting up at some of his extravagant pleasures all night, and was uttering the most horrible expressions, when suddenly he was stricken with apoplexy, lost the power of speech, and shortly afterwards expired.
He died so broke that his friends had to take care of his funeral; yet he had 100,000 crowns in income, but he was such a poor manager that his people always took advantage of him. As long as they provided him with a thousand pistoles whenever he wanted them for his pleasures or gambling, he let them handle his property however they wanted. Grancey took large amounts of money from him. He met a terrible fate. He was standing near Madame de Mare, Grancey’s sister, and telling her that he had been up all night indulging in his extravagant pleasures, using the most shocking language, when suddenly he suffered a stroke, lost his ability to speak, and shortly after that passed away.
[He died suddenly in his own house, playing at ombre, as many of his
family had done, and was regretted by no person except Mdlle. de
Lillebonne, to whom he was believed to have been privately married.
—Note to Dangeau’s Journal. This man, who was suspected of having
poisoned the King’s sister-in-law, was nevertheless in possession of
four abbeys, the revenues of which defrayed the expenses of his
debaucheries.]
[He died unexpectedly in his own home while playing ombre, just like many of his family members had done, and no one mourned him except Mdlle. de Lillebonne, whom people believed he had secretly married. —Note to Dangeau’s Journal. This man, who was suspected of having poisoned the King’s sister-in-law, still held four abbeys, the income from which funded his extravagant lifestyle.]
SECTION XXIV.—PHILIP V., KING OF SPAIN.
Louis XIV. wept much when his grandson set out for Spain. I could not help weeping, too. The King accompanied him as far as Sceaux. The tears and lamentations in the drawing-room were irresistible. The Dauphin was also deeply affected.
Louis XIV cried a lot when his grandson left for Spain. I couldn't help but cry, too. The King went with him as far as Sceaux. The tears and sadness in the drawing-room were overwhelming. The Dauphin was also very moved.
The King of Spain is very hunchbacked, and is not in other respects well made; but he is bigger than his brothers. He has the best mien, good features, and fine hair. What is somewhat singular, although his hair is very light, his eyes are quite black; his complexion is clear red and white; he has an Austrian mouth; his voice is deep, and he is singularly slow in speaking. He is a good and peaceable sort of a person, but a little obstinate when he takes it in his head. He loves his wife above all things, leaves all affairs to her, and never interferes in anything. He is very pious, and believes he should be damned if he committed any matrimonial infidelity. But for his devotion he would be a libertine, for he is addicted to women, and it is for this reason he is so fond of his wife. He has a very humble opinion of his own merit. He is very easily led, and for this reason the Queen will not lose sight of him. He receives as current truths whatever is told him by persons to whom he is accustomed, and never thinks of doubting. The good gentleman ought to be surrounded by competent persons, for his own wit would not carry him far; but he is of a good disposition, and is one of the quietest men in the world. He is a little melancholy, and there is nothing in Spain to make him gay.
The King of Spain has a significant hunch and isn't particularly well-built in other ways, but he is taller than his brothers. He has a great presence, nice features, and beautiful hair. Interestingly, even though his hair is very light, his eyes are quite dark; his complexion is a clear mix of red and white; he has an Austrian mouth; his voice is deep, and he speaks unusually slowly. He is a kind and peaceful person but can be a bit stubborn when he sets his mind to something. He loves his wife above all else, leaves all matters to her, and never gets involved in anything. He is very religious and believes he would be damned if he cheated on her. If it weren't for his devotion, he might be a libertine, as he is attracted to women, which is why he is so fond of his wife. He thinks very little of his own worth. He is easily influenced, which is why the Queen keeps a close eye on him. He accepts whatever he hears from people he trusts without questioning it. The good man needs to be surrounded by capable individuals because his own intelligence isn't enough to get him by; however, he has a good nature and is one of the calmest men you'll ever meet. He is a bit melancholic, and there’s nothing in Spain that lifts his spirits.
He must know people before he will speak to them at all. If you desire him to talk you must tease him and rally him a little, or he will not open his mouth. I have seen Monsieur very impatient at his talking to me while he could not get a word from him. Monsieur did not take the trouble to talk to him before he was a King, and then he wished him to speak afterwards; that did not suit the King. He was not the same with me. In the apartment, at table, or at the play, he used to sit beside me. He was very fond of hearing tales, and I used to tell them to him for whole evenings: this made him well accustomed to me, and he had always something to ask me. I have often laughed at the answer he made me when I said to him, “Come, Monsieur, why do not you talk to your uncle, who is quite distressed that you never speak to him.”
He needs to know people before he’ll talk to them at all. If you want him to converse, you have to tease him a bit, or he won't say a word. I've seen Monsieur getting really frustrated trying to talk to me while the King wouldn’t respond at all. Monsieur didn't bother to chat with him before he became King, and then he expected him to talk later; that just didn’t work for the King. He was different with me. In the room, at the table, or at the theater, he would sit next to me. He loved hearing stories, and I would tell them to him for entire evenings: this made him comfortable with me, and he always had something to ask. I’ve often laughed at his response when I said to him, “Come on, Monsieur, why don’t you talk to your uncle? He’s quite upset that you never say anything to him.”
“What shall I say to him?” he replied, “I scarcely know him.”
“What should I say to him?” he replied, “I barely know him.”
It is quite true that the Queen of Spain was at first very fond of the Princesse des Ursins, and that she grieved much when that Princess was dismissed for the first time. The story that is told of the Confessor is also very true; only one circumstance is wanting in it, that is, that the Duc de Grammont, then Ambassador, played the part of the Confessor, and it was for this reason he was recalled.
It is indeed true that the Queen of Spain initially had a great fondness for the Princesse des Ursins, and she was very upset when that Princess was dismissed for the first time. The story about the Confessor is also accurate; the only detail missing is that the Duc de Grammont, who was the Ambassador at the time, took on the role of the Confessor, and that’s why he was recalled.
The Queen had one certain means of making the King do whatever she wished. The good gentleman was exceedingly fond of her, and this fondness she turned to good account. She had a small truckle-bed in her room, and when the King would not comply with any of her requests she used to make him sleep in this bed; but when she was pleased with him he was admitted to her own bed; which was the very summit of happiness to the poor King. After the Princesse des Ursins had departed, the King recalled the Confessor from Rome, and kept him near his own person (1718).
The Queen had a surefire way of getting the King to do whatever she wanted. The kind man was very fond of her, and she took full advantage of that. She had a small bed in her room, and whenever the King refused to meet any of her requests, she made him sleep in that bed. However, when she was happy with him, he got to sleep in her own bed, which was the ultimate joy for the poor King. After the Princesse des Ursins left, the King called back the Confessor from Rome and kept him close (1718).
The King of Spain can never forgive, and Madame des Ursins has told him so many lies to my son’s disadvantage that the King can never, while he lives, be reconciled to him.
The King of Spain can never forgive, and Madame des Ursins has told him so many lies that harm my son that the King can never, as long as he lives, be reconciled with him.
Rebenac’s—[Francois de Feuquieres, Called the Comte de Rebenac, Extraordinary Ambassador to Spain.]—passion for the late Queen of Spain was of no disadvantage to her; she only laughed at it, and did not care for him. It was the Comte de Mansfeld, the man with the pointed nose, who poisoned her. He bought over two of her French femmes de chambre to give her poison in raw oysters; and they afterwards withheld from her the antidote which had been entrusted to their care.
Rebenac’s—[Francois de Feuquieres, Known as the Comte de Rebenac, Extraordinary Ambassador to Spain.]—obsession with the late Queen of Spain didn’t hurt her; she just laughed it off and wasn’t interested in him. It was the Comte de Mansfeld, the guy with the pointed nose, who actually poisoned her. He bribed two of her French maids to slip poison into her raw oysters; and later, they kept the antidote, which had been entrusted to them, from her.
The Queen of Spain, daughter of the first Madame,—[Henrietta of England.]—died in precisely the same manner as she did, and at the same age, but in a much more painful manner, for the violence of the poison was such as to make her nails fall off.
The Queen of Spain, daughter of the first Madame—[Henrietta of England.]—died in exactly the same way as she did, and at the same age, but in a much more painful manner, as the poison was so strong that it caused her nails to fall off.
SECTION XXV.—THE DUCHESSE LOUISE-FRANCISQUE, CONSORT OF LOUIS III., DUC DE BOURBON.
I knew a German gentleman who has now been dead a long time (1718), who has sworn to me positively that the Duchess is not the daughter of the King, but of Marechal de Noailles. He noted the time at which he saw the Marshal go into Montespan’s apartment, and it was precisely nine months from that time that the Duchess came into the world. This German, whose name was Bettendorf, was a brigadier in the Body Guard; and he was on guard at Montespan’s when the captain of the first company paid this visit to the King’s mistress.
I knew a German guy who passed away a long time ago (1718) and he firmly told me that the Duchess isn’t the King’s daughter, but the daughter of Marechal de Noailles. He remembered the exact time he saw the Marshal go into Montespan’s room, and it was exactly nine months later that the Duchess was born. This German, named Bettendorf, was a brigadier in the Body Guard, and he was on duty at Montespan’s when the captain of the first company visited the King’s mistress.
The Duchess is not prettier than her daughters, but she has more grace; her manners are more fascinating and agreeable; her wit shines in her eyes, but there is some malignity in them also. I always say she is like a very pretty cat, which, while you play with it, lets you feel it has claws. No person has a better carriage of the head. It is impossible to dance better than the Duchess and her daughters can; but the mother dances the best. I do not know how it is, but even her lameness is becoming to her. The Duchess has the talent of saying things in so pleasant a manner that one cannot help laughing. She is very amusing and uncommonly good company; her notions are so very comical. When she wishes to make herself agreeable to any one she is very insinuating, and can take all shapes; if she were not also treacherous, one might say truly that nobody is more amiable than the Duchess; she understands so well how to accommodate herself to people’s peculiar habits that one would believe she takes a real interest in them; but there is nothing certain about her. Although her sense is good, her heart is not. Notwithstanding her ambition, she seems at first as if she thought only of amusing and diverting herself and others; and she can feign so skilfully that one would think she had been very agreeably entertained in the society of persons, whom immediately upon her return home she will ridicule in all possible ways.
The Duchess isn’t prettier than her daughters, but she has more grace; her manners are more captivating and charming; her wit sparkles in her eyes, but there’s also some spitefulness there. I always say she’s like a very pretty cat that lets you know it has claws while you play with it. No one carries their head better. It’s impossible for anyone to dance better than the Duchess and her daughters; but the mother dances the best. I don’t know how, but even her lameness looks good on her. The Duchess has a way of saying things so pleasantly that you can’t help but laugh. She’s very entertaining and incredibly good company; her ideas are quite funny. When she wants to be charming to someone, she’s very flattering and can adapt to any situation; if she weren’t also deceitful, you could truly say that no one is more likable than the Duchess; she knows how to fit herself to people’s quirks so well that you’d think she genuinely cares about them; but nothing about her is certain. Although her sense is good, her heart isn’t. Despite her ambition, she seems at first like she only thinks about having fun and making others laugh; and she can pretend so skillfully that you’d think she was genuinely enjoying the company of people, whom she will immediately mock in every possible way as soon as she gets home.
La Mailly complained to her aunt, old Maintenon, that her husband was in love with the Duchess; but this husband, having afterwards been captivated by an actress named Bancour, gave up to her all the Duchess’s letters, for which he was an impertinent rascal. The Duchess wrote a song upon Mailly, in which she reproached her, notwithstanding her airs of prudery, with an infidelity with Villeroi, a sergeant of the Guard.
La Mailly complained to her aunt, old Maintenon, that her husband was in love with the Duchess; but this husband, later captivated by an actress named Bancour, gave her all the Duchess’s letters, for which he was quite the scoundrel. The Duchess wrote a song about Mailly, in which she called her out, despite her pretentious attitude of prudery, for being unfaithful with Villeroi, a sergeant of the Guard.
In the Duchess’s house malice passes for wit, and therefore they are under no restraint. The three sisters—the Duchess, the Princesse de Conti, and Madame d’Orleans—behave to each other as if they were not sisters.
In the Duchess’s house, cruelty is considered cleverness, so they feel no limits. The three sisters—the Duchess, the Princesse de Conti, and Madame d’Orleans—act towards each other as if they aren’t related.
The Princess is a very virtuous person, and is much displeased at her daughter-in-law’s manner of life, for Lasso is with her by day and by night; at the play, at the Opera, in visits, everywhere Lasso is seen with her.
The Princess is a very virtuous person and is quite unhappy with her daughter-in-law’s lifestyle because Lasso is with her all day and night; at the theater, at the opera, during visits—Lasso is always seen with her.
SECTION XXVI.—THE YOUNGER DUCHESS.
The Duke’s wife is not an ill-looking person: she has good eyes, and would be very well if she had not a habit of stretching and poking out her neck. Her shape is horrible; she is quite crooked; her back is curved into the form of an S. I observed her one day, through curiosity, when the Dauphine was helping her to dress.
The Duke's wife isn't unattractive; she has nice eyes and would look great if she didn't have this habit of stretching and sticking out her neck. Her figure is awful; she's really bent out of shape, with her back curving like an S. I noticed her one day out of curiosity while the Dauphine was helping her get dressed.
She is a wicked devil; treacherous in every way, and of a very dangerous temper. Upon the whole, she is not good for much. Her falsehood was the means of preventing the Duke from marrying one of my granddaughters. Being the intimate friend of Madame de Berri, who was very desirous that one of her sisters should marry the Duke and the other the Prince de Conti, she promised to bring about the marriage, provided Madame de Berri would say nothing of it to the King or to me. After having imposed this condition, she told the King that Madame de Berri and my son were planning a marriage without his sanction; in order to punish them she begged the King to marry the Duke to herself, which was actually done.
She’s a wicked person; deceitful in every way, and has a very dangerous temper. Overall, she doesn't bring much to the table. Her dishonesty was the reason the Duke didn’t end up marrying one of my granddaughters. As a close friend of Madame de Berri, who was really eager for one of her sisters to marry the Duke and the other to marry the Prince de Conti, she promised to make the marriage happen, as long as Madame de Berri didn’t mention it to the King or to me. After setting this condition, she informed the King that Madame de Berri and my son were planning a marriage without his approval; to punish them, she persuaded the King to marry the Duke to herself, which he actually did.
Thanks to her good sense, she lives upon tolerable terms with her husband, although he has not much affection for her. They follow each their own inclinations; they are not at all jealous of each other, and it is said they have separate beds.
Thanks to her common sense, she gets along reasonably well with her husband, even though he doesn't have much affection for her. They pursue their own interests; they aren't jealous of each other at all, and it's rumored that they sleep in separate beds.
She causes a great many troubles and embarrassments to her relation, the young Princesse de Conti, and perfectly understands tormenting folks.
She creates a lot of problems and awkward situations for her relative, the young Princesse de Conti, and knows exactly how to annoy people.
The young Duchess died yesterday evening (22nd March, 1720). The Duke’s joy at the death of his wife will be greatly diminished when he learns that she has bequeathed to her sister, Mademoiselle de la Roche-sur-Yon, all her property; and as the husband and wife lived according to the custom of Paris, ‘en communaute’, the Duke will be obliged to refund the half of all he gained by Law’s bank.
The young Duchess passed away yesterday evening (March 22, 1720). The Duke’s joy over his wife’s death will be significantly reduced when he finds out that she left all her belongings to her sister, Mademoiselle de la Roche-sur-Yon. Since the couple lived under the Parisian custom of ‘en communauté,’ the Duke will have to return half of everything he gained from Law’s bank.
After the death of the younger Duchess, the Princesse de Conti, her mother, wrote to a Chevalier named Du Challar, who was the lover of the deceased, to beg him to come and see her, as he was the only object left connected with her daughter, and assuring him that he might reckon upon her services in everything that depended upon her. It was the younger Duchess who was so fond of Lasse, and who had been so familiar with him at a masked ball.
After the younger Duchess passed away, the Princesse de Conti, her mother, reached out to a Chevalier named Du Challar, who was the late Duchess's lover, asking him to come visit her. She explained that he was the only connection she had left to her daughter and assured him that he could count on her help with anything he needed. It was the younger Duchess who had liked Lasse so much and had been so close to him at a masked ball.
I recognized only two good qualities in her: her respect and affection for her grandmother, the Princess, and the skill with which she concealed her faults. Beside this, she was good for nothing, in whatever way her character is regarded. That she was treacherous is quite certain; and she shortened her life by her improper conduct. She neither loved nor hated her husband, and they lived together more like brother and sister than husband and wife.
I only saw two good things in her: her respect and love for her grandmother, the Princess, and how well she hid her flaws. Besides that, she was useless, no matter how you looked at her. It’s clear that she was deceitful, and her bad behavior cut her life short. She neither loved nor hated her husband, and they got along more like siblings than a married couple.
The Elector of Bavaria, during his stay at Paris, instead of visiting his nephews and nieces, passed all his time, by day and by night, with the Duchess and her daughters. As to me, he fled me as he would fly the plague, and never spoke to me but in the company of M. de Torcy. The Duchess had three of the handsomest daughters in the world: the one called Mademoiselle de Clermont is extremely beautiful; but I think her sister, the Princesse de Conti, more amiable. The Duchess can drink very copiously without being affected; her daughters would fain imitate her, but they soon get tipsy, and cannot control themselves as their mother can.
The Elector of Bavaria, while in Paris, chose to spend all his time, day and night, with the Duchess and her daughters instead of visiting his nephews and nieces. As for me, he avoided me like the plague and only spoke to me when M. de Torcy was around. The Duchess had three of the most beautiful daughters in the world: Mademoiselle de Clermont, who is extremely pretty, but I find her sister, the Princesse de Conti, to be more charming. The Duchess can drink heavily without any effects, but her daughters try to follow her lead and quickly get tipsy, unable to handle their alcohol like their mother.
SECTION XXVII.—LOUIS III., DUC DE BOURBON.
It is said that the Duke has solid parts; he does everything with a certain nobility; he has a good person, but the loss of that eye, which the Duc de Berri struck out, disfigures him much. He is certainly very politic, and this quality he has from his mother. He is polite and well-bred; his mind is not very comprehensive, and he has been badly instructed. They say he is unfit for business for three reasons: first, on account of his ignorance; secondly, for his want of application; and, thirdly, for his impatience. I can see that in examining him narrowly one would find many defects in him; but he has also many praiseworthy qualities, and he possesses many friends. He has a greatness and nobility of soul, and a good deportment.
People say the Duke has strong qualities; he conducts himself with a certain dignity; he has a good character, but the loss of the eye that the Duc de Berri knocked out really alters his appearance. He is definitely very political, a trait he inherited from his mother. He is courteous and well-mannered; his understanding isn’t very deep, and his education has not been very good. They claim he’s not suited for business for three reasons: first, due to his ignorance; second, because of his lack of focus; and third, his impatience. If you examine him closely, you’d find many flaws, but he also has many admirable qualities and possesses a lot of friends. He has a sense of grandeur and nobility of spirit, along with a good demeanor.
The Prince is in love with Madame de Polignac; but she is fond of the Duke, who cannot yet forget Madame de Nesle, although she has dismissed him to make room for that great calf, the Prince of Soubise. The latter person is reported to have said, “Why does the Duke complain? Have I not consented to share Madame de Nesle’s favours with him whenever he chooses?”
The Prince is in love with Madame de Polignac, but she's into the Duke, who still can't get over Madame de Nesle, even though she's moved on to make space for that big shot, the Prince of Soubise. It's said that the Prince of Soubise remarked, “Why is the Duke complaining? Haven't I agreed to share Madame de Nesle's affection with him whenever he likes?”
Such is the delicacy which prevails here in affairs of love.
Such is the sensitivity that exists here in matters of love.
The Duke is very passionate. When Madame de Nesle dismissed him he almost died of vexation; he looked as if he was about to give up the ghost, and for six months he did not know what to do.
The Duke is very passionate. When Madame de Nesle dismissed him, he almost died from frustration; he looked like he was about to pass out, and for six months, he didn’t know what to do.
The Marquis de Villequier, the Duc d’Aumont’s son, one day visited the Marquise de Nesle. She took it into her head to ask him if he was very fond of his wife. Villequier replied, “I am not in love with her; I see her very little; our humours differ greatly. She is serious, and for my part I like pleasure and gaiety. I feel for her a friendship founded on esteem, for she is one of the most virtuous women in France.”
The Marquis de Villequier, the son of the Duc d’Aumont, visited the Marquise de Nesle one day. She decided to ask him if he was very fond of his wife. Villequier responded, “I’m not in love with her; I hardly see her; our personalities are really different. She is serious, while I enjoy fun and being cheerful. I have a friendship for her based on respect, as she is one of the most virtuous women in France.”
Madame de Nesle, of whom no man could say so much, took this for an insult, and complained of it to the Duke, who promised to avenge her. Some days afterwards he invited young Villequier to dine with him at the Marquis de Nesle’s; there were, besides Madame de Nesle, the Marquis de Gevres, Madame de Coligny, and others. During dinner the Duke began thus:
Madame de Nesle, whom no man could praise that much, took this as an insult and complained to the Duke, who promised to take revenge for her. A few days later, he invited young Villequier to dinner at the Marquis de Nesle’s place; besides Madame de Nesle, there were the Marquis de Gevres, Madame de Coligny, and others. During dinner, the Duke started this way:
“A great many men fancy they are sure of the fidelity of their wives, but it is a mistake. I thought to protect myself from this common fate by marrying a monster, but it served me nought; for a villain named Du Challar, who was more ugly than I am, played me false. As to the Marquis de Gevres, as he will never marry * * * , he will be exempt; but you, Monsieur de Nesle, you are so and so.” Nesle, who did not believe it, although it was very true, only laughed. Then addressing himself to Villequier, he said, “And you, Villequier, don’t you think you are so?” He was silent. The Duke continued, “Yes, you are befooled by the Chevalier de Pesay.”
“A lot of guys think they're sure about their wives' loyalty, but that's a mistake. I thought I could avoid this common problem by marrying a monster, but that didn't help; a villain named Du Challar, who was uglier than I am, betrayed me. As for the Marquis de Gevres, since he will never marry * * *, he’ll be safe; but you, Monsieur de Nesle, you are in trouble.” Nesle, who didn't believe it, even though it was very true, just laughed. Then he turned to Villequier and asked, “And you, Villequier, don’t you think it's the same for you?” He was silent. The Duke continued, “Yes, you're being tricked by the Chevalier de Pesay.”
Villequier blushed, but at last said, “I confess that up to this moment I had no reason to believe it; but since you put me into such good company I have no right to complain.”
Villequier blushed, but finally said, “I admit that until now I had no reason to believe it; but since you’ve put me in such good company, I can’t complain.”
I do not think Madame de Nesle was well revenged.
I don't think Madame de Nesle got her revenge properly.
I remember that the Duke, who was terribly ill-made, said one day to the late Monsieur, who was a straight, well-formed person, that a mask had taken him for Monsieur. The latter, somewhat mortified at such a mistake, replied, “I lay that, with all other wrongs done to me, at the foot of the Cross.”
I remember that the Duke, who was really poorly built, said one day to the late Monsieur, who was a tall, well-shaped guy, that a mask had mistaken him for Monsieur. The latter, feeling a bit embarrassed by the mix-up, replied, “I put that, along with all the other wrongs done to me, at the foot of the Cross.”
Ever since the Duchess espoused the party of her son against her brother and his nephews, the Duke has displayed a great fondness for his mother, about whom he never disturbed himself before.
Ever since the Duchess supported her son's side against her brother and his nephews, the Duke has shown a strong affection for his mother, someone he never really paid attention to before.
Mdlle. de Polignac made the Duke believe she was very fond of him. He entertained great suspicions of her, and had her watched, and learnt that she was carrying on a secret intrigue with the Chevalier of Bavaria. He reproached her with it, and she denied the accusation. The Duke cautioned her not to think that she could deceive him. She protested that he had been imposed upon. As soon, however, as she had quitted him she went to the Chevalier’s house; and the Duke, who had her dogged, knew whither she had gone. The next day he appointed her to visit him; she went directly to the bedroom, believing that his suspicions were entirely lulled. The Duke then opened the door wide, so that she might be seen from the cabinet, which was full of men; and calling the Chevalier of Bavaria, he said to him: “Here, Sir Chevalier, come and see your mistress, who will now have no occasion to go so far to find you.”
Mdlle. de Polignac made the Duke believe she really liked him. He was very suspicious of her, had her followed, and discovered that she was secretly involved with the Chevalier of Bavaria. He confronted her about it, but she denied everything. The Duke warned her not to think she could trick him. She insisted that he had been misled. However, as soon as she left him, she went straight to the Chevalier’s place; the Duke, who had her followed, knew exactly where she went. The next day, he asked her to visit him; she went right to the bedroom, thinking his suspicions were allayed. The Duke then opened the door wide so she could be seen from the room filled with men, and called the Chevalier of Bavaria, saying: “Here, Sir Chevalier, come and see your mistress, who won’t have to go so far to find you anymore.”
Although the Duke and the Prince de Conti are brothers-in-law in two ways, they cannot bear each other.
Although the Duke and the Prince de Conti are brothers-in-law in two ways, they can't stand each other.
The Duke is at this moment (1718) very strongly attached to Madame de Prie. She has already received a good beating on his account from her husband, but this does not deter her. She is said to have a good deal of sense; she entirely governs the Duke, who is solely occupied with making her unfaithful to M. de Prie. She has consoled the Duke for his dismissal from Madame de Nesle; but it is said that she is unfaithful to him, and that she has two other lovers. One is the Prince of Carignan, and the other Lior, the King’s first maitre d’hotel, which latter is the handsomest of the three.
The Duke is currently (1718) very much attached to Madame de Prie. She has already taken a good beating from her husband because of him, but that doesn’t stop her. She’s said to be quite intelligent; she completely manages the Duke, who is solely focused on making her cheat on M. de Prie. She has comforted the Duke after he was dismissed from Madame de Nesle; however, it’s rumored that she’s being unfaithful to him and has two other lovers. One is the Prince of Carignan, and the other is Lior, the King’s head butler, who is the most handsome of the three.
It is impossible that the Duke can now inspire any woman with affection for him. He is tall, thin as a lath; his legs are like those of a crane; his body is bent and short, and he has no calves to his legs; his eyes are so red that it is impossible to distinguish the bad eye from the good one; his cheeks are hollow; his chin so long that one would not suppose it belonged to the face; his lips uncommonly large: in short, I hardly ever saw a man before so ugly. It is said that the inconstancy of his mistress, Madame de Prie, afflicts him profoundly.
It’s hard to believe that the Duke can inspire any woman to love him now. He’s tall and as thin as a stick; his legs look like a crane’s; his body is short and bent, and he has no calves; his eyes are so red that you can’t tell which one is good; his cheeks are sunken; his chin is so long it seems out of place on his face; his lips are unusually large: in short, I’ve rarely seen a man as unattractive as him. People say that his mistress, Madame de Prie, leaving him deeply distresses him.
The Marchioness was extremely beautiful, and her whole person was
very captivating. Possessing as many mental as personal charms, she
concealed beneath an apparent simplicity the most dangerous
treachery. Without the least conception of virtue, which, according
to her ideas, was a word void of sense, she affected innocence in
vice, was violent under an appearance of meekness, and libertine by
constitution. She deceived her lover with perfect impunity, who
would believe what she said even against the evidence of his own
eyes. I could mention several instances of this, if they were not
too indecent. It is, however, sufficient to say that she had one
day to persuade him that he was the cause of a libertinism of which
he was really the victim.—Memoires de Duclos, tome ii. It is well
known that, after the Duke assumed the Regency, upon the death of
the Regent, the Marchioness du Prie governed in his name; and that
she was exiled, and died two years afterwards of ennui and vexation.
The Marchioness was incredibly beautiful, and her whole presence was very captivating. Possessing as many mental charms as personal ones, she hid beneath a facade of simplicity the most dangerous deceit. Completely lacking any understanding of virtue, which she considered a meaningless term, she pretended to be innocent in her wrongdoing, was aggressive under a guise of meekness, and was inherently promiscuous. She deceived her lover with complete ease, making him believe whatever she said even against what he saw with his own eyes. I could point out several examples of this, if they weren't too inappropriate. It's enough to say that one day she convinced him that he was the reason for a promiscuity of which he was truly the victim.—Memoires de Duclos, tome ii. It's well known that after the Duke took over the Regency following the Regent's death, the Marchioness du Prie governed on his behalf; and that she was exiled and died two years later from boredom and frustration.
The Princess of Modena takes nothing by the death of the Duchess; the Duke has said that he never would have married that Princess, and that now he will not marry at all.
The Princess of Modena gains nothing from the Duchess's death; the Duke has stated that he would never have married that Princess, and that now he won't marry anyone at all.
In order that Mademoiselle de la Roche-sur-Yon may enjoy the millions that belong to her of right, in consequence of her sister’s death, it is necessary first for her to receive them; but the Duke, it is reported, as the good Duc de Crequi used to say, “Holds back as tight as the trigger of the Cognac cross-bow;” and in fact he has not only refused to give up to his sister what she should take under her sister’s will, but he disputes her right to the bank-notes which she had given to the Duchess to take care of for her, when she herself was dangerously ill.
To ensure Mademoiselle de la Roche-sur-Yon can enjoy the millions that rightfully belong to her due to her sister’s death, she first needs to receive them; however, the Duke, as the good Duc de Crequi used to say, “Holds back as tight as the trigger of the Cognac cross-bow.” In fact, he has not only refused to hand over what his sister should inherit from her sister's will, but he is also challenging her right to the banknotes she had entrusted to the Duchess for safekeeping when she was seriously ill.
The Duke and his mother are said to have gained each two hundred and fifty millions.
The Duke and his mother are reported to have each made two hundred and fifty million.
The Duke, who is looked upon as Law’s very good friend, has been ill-treated by the people, who have passed all kinds of insults upon him, calling him even a dog. His brother, the Marquis de Clermont, too, has fared little better; for they cried after him at the Port Royal, “Go along, dog! you are not much better than your brother.” His tutor alighted for the purpose of haranguing the mob; but they picked up some stones, and he soon found it expedient to get into the carriage again, and make off with all speed.
The Duke, who is considered a close friend of the law, has been mistreated by the people, who have hurled various insults at him, even calling him a dog. His brother, the Marquis de Clermont, hasn’t fared much better; they shouted at him at Port Royal, “Get lost, dog! You’re not much better than your brother.” His tutor got out to try to address the crowd, but they started picking up stones, and he quickly realized it was best to hop back in the carriage and drive away as fast as possible.
SECTION XXVIII.—FRANCOIS-LOUIS, PRINCE DE CONTI.
The Prince de Conti, who died lately (in 1709), had good sense, courage, and so many agreeable qualities as to make himself generally beloved. But he had also some bad points in his character, for he was false, and loved no person but himself.
The Prince de Conti, who passed away recently (in 1709), had good sense, courage, and many likable traits that made him generally well-liked. However, he also had some negative aspects in his character, as he was deceitful and loved no one but himself.
It is said that he caused his own death by taking stimulating medicines, which destroyed a constitution naturally feeble. There had been some talk of making him King of Poland.—[In 1696, after the death of John Sobiesky.]
It is said that he caused his own death by taking stimulants, which ruined a naturally weak constitution. There had been some discussion about making him King of Poland.—[In 1696, after the death of John Sobiesky.]
SECTION XXIX.—THE GREAT PRINCESSE DE CONTI, DAUGHTER OF LA VALLIERE.
This is of all the King’s illegitimate daughters the one he most loves. She is by far the most polite and well-bred, but she is now totally absorbed by devotion.
This is the King's favorite among all his illegitimate daughters. She is the most polite and well-mannered, but she is now completely consumed by her devotion.
SECTION XXX.—THE PRINCESS PALATINE, MARIE-THERESE DE BOURBON, WIFE OF FRANCOIS-LOUIS,
PRINCE DE CONTI.
PRINCE DE CONTI.
This Princess is the only one of the House of Conde who is good for anything. I think she must have some German blood in her veins. She is little, and somewhat on one side, but she is not hunchbacked. She has fine eyes, like her father; with this exception, she has no pretensions to beauty, but she is virtuous and pious. What she has suffered on account of her husband has excited general compassion; he was as jealous as a fiend, though without the slightest cause. She never knew where she was to pass the night. When she had made arrangements to sleep at Versailles, he would take her from Paris to Chantilly, where she supposed she was going to stay; then she was obliged to set out for Versailles. He tormented her incessantly in all possible ways, and he looked, moreover, like a little ape. The late Queen had two paroquets, one of which was the very picture of the Prince, while the other was as much like the Marechal de Luxembourg as one drop of water is like another.
This princess is the only one from the House of Conde who is worth anything. I think she must have some German ancestry. She’s small and a bit lopsided, but she’s not hunchbacked. She has beautiful eyes, like her father; aside from that, she doesn’t consider herself beautiful, but she is virtuous and devout. What she has endured because of her husband has drawn widespread sympathy; he was as jealous as can be, even though there was no reason for it. She never knew where she would spend the night. When she planned to sleep in Versailles, he would drag her from Paris to Chantilly, where she thought she would be staying; then she would have to leave for Versailles. He tormented her relentlessly in every possible way, and he also looked like a little monkey. The late queen had two parrots, one of which looked just like the prince, while the other was as similar to the Marechal de Luxembourg as one drop of water is to another.
Notwithstanding all that the Princess has suffered, she daily regrets the loss of her husband. I am often quite angry to see her bewailing her widowhood instead of enjoying the repose which it affords her; she wishes that her husband were alive again, even although he should torment her again as much as before.
Notwithstanding all that the Princess has gone through, she still regrets losing her husband every day. It often frustrates me to see her mourning her widowhood instead of appreciating the peace it brings her; she wishes her husband were alive again, even if he would torment her just like he did before.
She was desirous that Mademoiselle de Conde should marry the late Margrave; this lady was incomparably more handsome than her sister; but I think he had a greater inclination for Mademoiselle de Vendome, because she seemed to be more modest and quiet.
She wanted Mademoiselle de Conde to marry the late Margrave; this lady was far more beautiful than her sister; but I believe he preferred Mademoiselle de Vendome because she appeared more reserved and calm.
The Princess, who has been born and educated here, had not the same dislike that I felt to her son’s marrying an illegitimate child, and yet she has repented it no less. She is exceedingly unhappy with respect to her children. The Princesse de Conti, mother of the Prince de Conti, who is rather virtuous than otherwise, is nevertheless a little simpleton, and is something like the Comtesse Pimbeche Orbeche, for she is always wishing to be engaged in lawsuits against her mother; who, on her part, has used all possible means, but without success, to be reconciled to her. On Thursday last (10th March, 1720) she lost her cause, and I am very glad of it, for it was an unjust suit. The younger Princess wished the affair to be referred to arbitration; but the son would have the business carried through, and made his counsel accuse his mother of falsehood. The advocate of the Princess replied as follows:
The Princess, who was born and raised here, didn’t share the same dislike that I had for her son marrying an illegitimate child, yet she regrets it just as much. She is extremely unhappy concerning her children. The Princesse de Conti, mother of the Prince de Conti, is more virtuous than otherwise, but she is a bit naive, much like Comtesse Pimbeche Orbeche, as she is constantly looking to get into lawsuits against her mother, who has tried everything possible without success to reconcile with her. Last Thursday (March 10, 1720), she lost her case, and I’m quite pleased about it because it was an unjust lawsuit. The younger Princess wanted the matter to go to arbitration; however, her son insisted on pursuing it, and he had his lawyer accuse his mother of lying. The Princess's advocate responded as follows:
“The sincerity of the Princesse de Conti and of the Princess her daughter are so well known that all the world can judge of them.” This has amused the whole palace.
“The honesty of the Princesse de Conti and her daughter, the Princess, is so well recognized that everyone can form their own opinion about them.” This has entertained the entire palace.
SECTION XXXI.—LOUISE-ELIZABETH, PRINCESSE DE CONTI, CONSORT OF LOUIE-ARMAND DE CONTI.
She is a person full of charms, and a striking proof that grace is preferable to beauty. When she chooses to make herself agreeable, it is impossible to resist her. Her manners are most fascinating; she is full of gentleness, never displaying the least ill-humour, and always saying something kind and obliging. It is greatly to be regretted that she is not in the society of more virtuous persons, for she is herself naturally very good; but she is spoiled by bad company. She has an ugly fool for her husband, who has been badly brought up; and the examples which are constantly before her eyes are so pernicious that they have corrupted her and made her careless of her reputation. Her amiable, unaffected manners are highly delightful to foreigners. Among others, some Bavarians have fallen in love with her, as well as the Prince Ragotzky; but she disgusted him with her coquetry.
She is a charming person and a clear example that grace is better than beauty. When she decides to be pleasant, it’s impossible not to be drawn to her. Her demeanor is captivating; she is gentle, never showing even a hint of bad temper, and always saying something nice and helpful. It’s really unfortunate that she isn’t surrounded by more virtuous people, as she is naturally very good; however, she is negatively influenced by the bad company she keeps. She has an unattractive fool for a husband, who has been poorly raised, and the examples she sees around her are so harmful that they have corrupted her and made her indifferent about her reputation. Her sweet, genuine manners are very appealing to foreigners. Among others, some Bavarians have fallen for her, as well as Prince Ragotzky; but she turned him off with her flirtation.
She does not love her husband, and cannot do so, no less on account of his ugly person than for his bad temper. It is not only his face that is hideous, but his whole person is frightful and deformed. She terrified him by placing some muskets and swords near her bed, and assuring him that if he came there again with his pistols charged, she would take the gun and fire upon him, and if she missed, she would fall upon him with the sword. Since this time he has left off carrying his pistols.
She doesn't love her husband and can't bring herself to do so, not just because of his ugly appearance but also due to his terrible temper. It's not just his face that's hideous; his whole body is frightening and misshapen. She scared him by putting some muskets and swords next to her bed and telling him that if he came back with his loaded pistols, she would shoot him, and if she missed, she would attack him with the sword. Since then, he has stopped carrying his pistols.
Her husband teased her, and made her weep so much that she has lost her child, and her health is again injured.
Her husband joked with her, and made her cry so much that she lost her baby, and her health is suffering again.
SECTION XXXII.—LOUIE-ARMAND, PRINCE DE CONTI.
It cannot be denied that his whole appearance is extremely repulsive. He is a horribly ill-made little man, and is always absent-minded, which gives him a distracted air, as if he were really crazy. When it could be the least expected, too, he will fall over his own walking-stick. The folks in the palace were so much accustomed to this in the late King’s time, that they used always to say, when they heard anything fall,
It can't be denied that his whole appearance is really off-putting. He's a badly put-together little guy and is always lost in thought, which makes him seem a bit unhinged. When you least expect it, he’ll trip over his own walking stick. The people in the palace got so used to this during the late King’s reign that they would always say, when they heard something crash,
“It’s nothing; only the Prince de Conti tumbling down.”
“It’s nothing; just the Prince de Conti falling down.”
He has sense, but he has been brought up like a scullion boy; he has strange whimsies, of which he is quite aware himself, but which he cannot control. His wife is a charming woman, and is much to be pitied for being in fear of her life from this madman, who often threatens her with loaded pistols. Fortunately, she has plenty of courage and does not fear him. Notwithstanding this, he is very fond of her; and this is the more surprising, because his love for the sex is not very strong; and although he visits improper places occasionally, it is only for the purpose of tormenting the poor wretches who are to be found there. Before he was married he felt no, affection for any woman but his mother, who also loved him very tenderly. She is now vexed at having no longer the same ascendency over her son, and is jealous of her daughter-in-law because the Prince loves her alone. This occasions frequent disturbances in the house. The mother has had a house: built at some distance from her son. When they are good friends, she dismisses the workmen; but when they quarrel, she doubles the number and hastens the work, so that one may always tell, upon a mere inspection of the building, upon what terms the Princesse de Conti and her son are living. The mother wished to have her grandson to educate; her daughter-in-law opposed it because she preferred taking care of him herself; and then ensued a dog-and-cat quarrel. The wife, who is cunning enough, governs her husband entirely, and has gained over his favourites to be her creatures. She is the idol of the-whole house.
He has common sense, but he was raised like a servant boy; he has strange quirks that he knows about, but he can’t control them. His wife is a wonderful woman, and she deserves pity for being afraid for her life from this madman, who often threatens her with loaded guns. Fortunately, she is very brave and doesn’t fear him. Still, he really loves her, which is surprising since he doesn’t have a strong attraction to women in general; even though he sometimes visits shady places, it’s only to torment the poor souls he finds there. Before he got married, he felt no love for any woman except his mother, who loved him dearly in return. She’s upset that she no longer has the same influence over her son and is jealous of her daughter-in-law because the Prince loves only her. This leads to frequent arguments in the house. The mother has a house built some distance from her son. When they get along, she sends the workers home; but when they fight, she increases the workforce and speeds up the construction, so you can always tell just by looking at the building what the relationship is like between the Princesse de Conti and her son. The mother wanted to take care of her grandson, but her daughter-in-law opposed this because she wanted to raise him herself, resulting in a cat-and-dog fight. The wife, who is quite clever, completely controls her husband and has won over his favorites to be loyal to her. She is the idol of the entire household.
In order to prevent the Prince de Conti from going to Hungary, the government of Poitou has been bought for him, and a place in the Council of the Regency allotted to him; by this means they have retained the wild beast.
To keep the Prince de Conti from going to Hungary, the Poitou government has been bribed for him, and he’s been given a position in the Regency Council; this way, they’ve managed to keep the wild beast under control.
Our young Princess says her husband has a rheum in his eyes.
Our young Princess says her husband has watery eyes.
To amuse her, he reads aloud Ovid in the original; and although she does not understand one word of Latin, she is obliged to listen and to remain silent, even though any one should come in; for if anybody interrupts him he is angry, and scolds all who are in the apartment.
To entertain her, he reads Ovid aloud in Latin; and even though she doesn't understand a word, she has to listen quietly, even if someone else comes in. If anyone interrupts him, he gets upset and scolds everyone in the room.
At the last masked ball (4th March, 1718) some one who had dressed himself like the Prince de Conti, and wore a hump on his back, went and sat beside him. “Who are you, mask?” asked the Prince.
At the last masked ball (March 4, 1718), someone dressed as the Prince de Conti, complete with a hump on his back, came and sat next to him. “Who are you, masked one?” asked the Prince.
The other replied, “I am the Prince de Conti.”
The other replied, “I’m the Prince de Conti.”
Without the least ill-temper, the Prince took off his mask, and, laughing, said, “See how a man may be deceived. I have been fancying for the last twenty years that I was the Prince de Conti.” To keep one’s temper on such an occasion is really an uncommon thing.
Without the slightest annoyance, the Prince removed his mask and laughed, saying, “Look how easily a person can be fooled. For the past twenty years, I’ve believed I was the Prince de Conti.” Staying calm in a moment like this is truly rare.
The Prince thought himself quite cured, but he has had a relapse in Spain, and, although he is a general of cavalry, he cannot mount his horse. I said on Tuesday last (17th July, 1719) to the young Princesse de Conti that I heard her husband was not entirely recovered. She laughed and whispered to me,—
The Prince believed he was fully recovered, but he has had a setback in Spain, and even though he is a cavalry general, he can't get on his horse. I mentioned last Tuesday (July 17, 1719) to the young Princesse de Conti that I heard her husband wasn't completely better. She chuckled and whispered to me,—
“Oh, yes, he is quite well; but he pretends not to be so that he may avoid going to the siege, where he may be killed, for he is as cowardly as an ape.” I think if I had as little inclination for war as he has, I would not engage in the campaign at all; there is nothing to oblige him to do so-it is to reap glory, not to encounter shame, that men go into the army. His best friends, Lanoue and Cleremont, for example, have remonstrated with him on this subject, and he has quarrelled with them in consequence. It is an unfortunate thing for a man not to know himself.
“Oh, yes, he’s doing fine; but he acts like he isn’t so he can dodge going to the battle, where he might get killed, because he’s as cowardly as a monkey.” I think if I had as little interest in war as he does, I wouldn’t join the campaign at all; there’s nothing forcing him to go—it’s for glory, not to face shame, that people join the army. His closest friends, Lanoue and Cleremont, have tried to talk to him about this, and he’s ended up fighting with them because of it. It’s a sad situation for a man not to understand himself.
The Prince is terribly afflicted with a dysentery. They wanted to carry him to Bayonne, but he has so violent a fever that he would not be able to support the journey. He is therefore obliged to stay with the army (25th August, 1719).
The Prince is suffering badly from dysentery. They wanted to take him to Bayonne, but he has such a high fever that he can't handle the trip. So, he's stuck staying with the army (25th August, 1719).
He has been back nine or ten days, but I have heard nothing of him yet; he is constantly engaged in the Rue de Quincampoix, trying to gain money among the stock-jobbers (19th September, 1719).
He’s been back for nine or ten days, but I haven’t heard anything from him yet; he’s always busy on Rue de Quincampoix, trying to make money with the stock traders (19th September, 1719).
At length he has been to see me. Perhaps there was this morning less stock-jobbing than usual in the Rue de Quincampoix, for there he has been ever since his return. His cousin, the Duke, is engaged in the same pursuit. The Prince de Conti has not brought back much honour from the campaign; he is too much addicted to debauchery of all kinds.
At last, he came to see me. Maybe there was less trading than usual in the Rue de Quincampoix this morning, because he has been there ever since he got back. His cousin, the Duke, is into the same thing. The Prince de Conti hasn’t gained much respect from the campaign; he is too into all sorts of partying.
Although he can be polite when he chooses, no one can behave more brutally than he does occasionally, and he becomes more and more mad daily.
Although he can be polite when he wants to, no one can act more brutally than he does at times, and he gets crazier every day.
At one of the last opera balls he seized a poor little girl just come from the country, took her from her mother’s side, and, placing her between his own legs, amused himself by slapping and filliping her until he made her nose and mouth bleed. The young girl, who had done nothing to offend him, and who did not even know him, wept bitterly; but he only laughed, and said, “Cannot I give nice fillips?” All who were witnesses of this brutal scene pitied her; but no one dared come to the poor child’s assistance, for they were afraid of having anything to do with this violent madman. He makes the most frightful grimaces, and I, who am extremely frightened at crazy people, tremble whenever I happen to be alone with him.
At one of the last opera balls, he grabbed a poor little girl who had just arrived from the countryside, pulled her away from her mother, and sat her down between his legs. He entertained himself by slapping and flicking her until she bled from her nose and mouth. The young girl, who hadn’t done anything to provoke him and didn’t even know him, cried bitterly; but he just laughed and said, “Can’t I give nice flicks?” Everyone who witnessed this horrible scene felt sorry for her, but no one dared to help the poor child because they were scared of getting involved with this violent madman. He makes the most terrifying faces, and I, who am really scared of crazy people, tremble whenever I find myself alone with him.
His wicked pranks remind me of my own. When I was a child I used to take touchwood, and, placing pieces of it over my eyes and in my mouth, I hid myself upon the staircase for the purpose of terrifying the people; but I was then much afraid of ghosts, so that I was always the first to be frightened. It is in the same way that the Prince de Conti does; he wishes to make himself feared, and he is the most timid person in the world.
His mischievous tricks remind me of my own. When I was a kid, I would take some twigs, put them over my eyes and in my mouth, and hide on the stairs to scare people. But I was really scared of ghosts myself, so I was always the first to get frightened. It's the same with the Prince de Conti; he wants to be feared, yet he's the most afraid person ever.
The Duke and his mother, as well as Lasse, the friend of the latter, have gained several millions. The Prince has gained less, and yet his winnings, they say, amount to millions.
The Duke, his mother, and Lasse, her friend, have all made several million. The Prince has made less, but they say his earnings still total in the millions.
[He had four wagons loaded with silver carried from Law’s bank, in
exchange for his paper money; and this it was that accelerated Law’s
disgrace, and created a kind of popularity for the Prince de Conti.]
[He had four wagons filled with silver taken from Law's bank, in exchange for his paper money; and this was what hastened Law's downfall and gave a sort of popularity to the Prince de Conti.]
The two cousins do not stir from the Rue de Quincampoix, which has given rise to the following epigram:
The two cousins remain on the Rue de Quincampoix, which has inspired the following saying:
Prince dites nous vos exploits
Que faites vous pour votre gloire?
Taisez-vous sots!—Lisez l’histoire
De la rue de Quincampoix.
Prince, tell us about your feats
What are you doing for your glory?
Be quiet, fools!—Read the story
Of Quincampoix Street.But the person who had gained most by this affair is Dantin, who is horridly avaricious.
But the person who benefited the most from this situation is Dantin, who is incredibly greedy.
The Princesse de Conti told me that she had had her son examined in his infancy by Clement, for the purpose of ascertaining whether he was in every respect well made; and that he, having found the child perfectly well made, went to the Prince de Conti, and said to him: “Monseigneur, I have examined the shape of the young Prince who is just born: he is at all points well formed, let him sleep without a bolster that he may remain so; and only imagine what grief it would occasion to the Princesse de Conti, who has brought him into the world straight, if you should make him crooked.”
The Princesse de Conti told me that she had her son checked out as a baby by Clement to see if he was perfectly healthy. Clement found the child to be completely fine, and then he went to Prince de Conti and said, “My Lord, I've examined the shape of the young Prince who has just been born: he is perfectly formed in every way, so let him sleep without a pillow to keep it that way; just imagine the sadness it would bring the Princesse de Conti, who has given birth to him straight, if you were to make him crooked.”
The Prince de Conti wished to speak of something else, but Clement still returned to the same topic, saying, “Remember, Monseigneur, he is straight as a wand, and do not make him crooked and hunchbacked.”
The Prince de Conti wanted to talk about something different, but Clement kept bringing up the same subject, saying, “Keep in mind, Monseigneur, he is as straight as an arrow, so don't twist him into a crooked, hunchbacked figure.”
The Prince de Conti, not being able to endure this, ran away.
The Prince de Conti, unable to take it anymore, ran away.
SECTION XXXIII.—THE ABBE DUBOIS.
My son had a sub-governor, and he it was who appointed the Abbe, a very learned person, to be his tutor. The sub-governor’s intention was to have dismissed the Abbe as soon as he should have taught my son sufficiently, and, excepting during the time occupied by the lessons, he never suffered him to remain with his pupil. But this good gentleman could not accomplish his design; for being seized with a violent colic, he died, unhappily for me, in a few hours. The Abbe then proposed himself to supply his place. There was no other preceptor near at hand, so the Abbe remained with my son, and assumed so adroitly the language of an honest man that I took him for one until my son’s marriage; then it was that I discovered all his knavery. I had a strong regard for him, because I thought he was tenderly attached to my son, and only desired to promote his advantage; but when I found that he was a treacherous person, who thought only of his own interest, and that, instead of carefully trying to preserve my son’s honour, he plunged him into ruin by permitting him to give himself up to debauchery without seeming to perceive it, then my esteem for this artful priest was changed into disgust. I know, from my son himself, that the Abbe, having one day met him in the street, just as he was about to enter a house of ill-fame, did nothing but laugh at him, instead of taking him by the arm and leading him home again. By this culpable indulgence, and by the part he took in my son’s marriage, he has proved that there is neither faith nor honesty in him. I know that I do him no wrong in suspecting him to have contributed to my son’s marriage; what I say I have from my son himself, and from people who were living with that old Maintenon at the time, when the Abbe used to go nightly for the purpose of arranging that intrigue with her, the object of which was to sell and betray his master. He deceives himself if he fancies that I do not know all this. At first he had declared in my favour, but after the old woman had sent for him two or three times he suddenly changed his conduct. It was not, however, on this that the King afterwards took a dislike to him, but for a nefarious scheme in which he was engaged with the Pere La Chaise. Monsieur was as much vexed as I. The King and the old woman threatened to dismiss all his favourites, which made him consent to everything; he repented afterwards, but it was then too late.
My son had a deputy governor, and he was the one who appointed the Abbe, a very educated man, to be his tutor. The deputy governor planned to dismiss the Abbe as soon as he had taught my son enough, and except for the time spent on lessons, he never allowed the Abbe to be with his pupil. But this good man couldn’t carry out his plan; he was suddenly struck by a severe colic and, unfortunately for me, died within a few hours. The Abbe then offered to take his place. There was no other tutor nearby, so the Abbe stayed with my son and cleverly presented himself as an honest man, which led me to believe he was one until my son’s marriage; it was then that I discovered all his deceit. I had held him in high regard because I thought he was genuinely fond of my son and only wanted to promote his well-being; but when I realized that he was actually treacherous, only looking out for his own interests, and that instead of working to protect my son’s honor, he allowed him to indulge in a life of debauchery without seeming to notice, my respect for this cunning priest turned into disgust. I learned from my son himself that the Abbe, one day running into him on the street just as he was about to enter a brothel, just laughed at him instead of taking him by the arm and leading him home. Through this culpable leniency, and his involvement in my son’s marriage, he showed that there is neither faith nor honesty in him. I know I’m not wrong in suspecting him of playing a part in my son’s marriage; what I say comes from my son himself, and from those who were close to that old Maintenon at the time when the Abbe used to go there every night to scheme with her, with the aim of selling and betraying his master. He deludes himself if he thinks I’m unaware of all this. Initially, he had declared his support for me, but after the old woman summoned him a few times, he suddenly changed his behavior. However, the King later turned against him not for this, but for a wicked scheme he was involved in with Pere La Chaise. Monsieur was just as annoyed as I was. The King and the old woman threatened to dismiss all his favorites, which made him agree to everything; he regretted it later, but by then, it was too late.
I would to God that the Abbe Dubois had as much religion as he has talent! but he believes in nothing—he is treacherous and wicked—his falsehood may be seen in his very eyes. He has the look of a fox; and his device is an animal of this sort, creeping out of his hole and watching a fowl. He is unquestionably a good scholar, talks well, and has instructed my son well; but I wish he had ceased to visit his pupil after his tuition was terminated. I should not then have to regret this unfortunate marriage, to which I can never reconcile myself. Excepting the Abbe Dubois there is no priest in my son’s favour. He has a sort of indistinctness in his speech, which makes it sometimes necessary for him to repeat his words; and this often annoys me.
I wish Abbe Dubois had as much faith as he has talent! But he believes in nothing—he's deceitful and wicked—his dishonesty is evident in his very eyes. He has the look of a fox, and his symbol is a creature like that, sneaking out of its hole and eyeing a bird. He’s definitely a good scholar, speaks well, and has taught my son effectively; but I wish he had stopped visiting his student after his lessons ended. Then I wouldn’t have to regret this unfortunate marriage, which I can never accept. Besides Abbe Dubois, there’s no priest who supports my son. He has a sort of mumbling way of speaking, which sometimes forces him to repeat himself; and that often irritates me.
If there is anything which detracts from the Abbe’s good sense it is his extreme pride; it is a weak side upon which he may always be successfully attacked. I wish my son had as little confidence in him as I have; but what astonishes me most is that, knowing him as he does, better than I do, he will still trust him. My son is like the rest of his family; he cannot get rid of persons to whom he is accustomed, and as the Abbe has been his tutor, he has acquired a habit of suffering him to say anything he chooses. By his amusing wit, too, he always contrives to restore himself to my son’s good graces, even when the latter has been displeased with him.
If there’s anything that undermines the Abbe's good judgment, it’s his excessive pride; that’s a vulnerability he can always be attacked on. I wish my son doubted him as much as I do; but what surprises me most is that, despite knowing the Abbe better than I do, he still trusts him. My son is like the rest of his family; he can’t let go of people he’s used to, and since the Abbe has been his tutor, he’s gotten used to allowing him to say whatever he wants. With his charming wit, he always manages to win my son back over, even when my son has been upset with him.
If the Abbe had been choked with his first lie he had been dead long ago. Lying is an art in which he excels, and the more eminently where his own interest is concerned; if I were to enumerate all the lies I have known him to utter I should have a long list to write. He it was who suggested to the King all that was necessary to be said to him respecting my son’s marriage, and for this purpose he had secret interviews with Madame de Maintenon. He affects to think we are upon good terms, and whatever I say to him, however disagreeable, he takes it all with a smile.
If the Abbe had been caught in his first lie, he would have been done for a long time ago. Lying is something he’s really good at, especially when it comes to his own interests; if I were to list all the lies I’ve seen him tell, I would have a lengthy list. He’s the one who suggested to the King everything that needed to be said regarding my son’s marriage, and for this, he had private meetings with Madame de Maintenon. He pretends to believe that we get along well, and no matter what I say to him, no matter how unpleasant, he takes it all with a smile.
My son has most amply recompensed the Abbe Dubois; he has given him the place of Secretary of the King’s Cabinet, which M. Calieres formerly held, and which is worth 22,000 livres; he has also given him a seat in the Council of Regency for the Foreign Affairs.
My son has more than rewarded Abbe Dubois; he has appointed him as the Secretary of the King’s Cabinet, a position that M. Calieres previously held, and it's worth 22,000 livres. He has also given him a spot in the Council of Regency for Foreign Affairs.
My son assures me that it is not his intention to make the Abbe Dubois a Cardinal, and that the Abbe himself does not think about it (17th August, 1717).
My son assures me that he doesn't plan to make Abbe Dubois a Cardinal, and that Abbe Dubois himself isn't thinking about it either (17th August, 1717).
On the 6th of March, this disagreeable priest came to me and said, “Monseigneur has just nominated me Archbishop of Cambrai.” I replied, “I congratulate you upon it; but has this taken place today? I heard of it a week ago; and, since you were seen to take the oaths on your appointment, no one has doubted it.” It is said that the Duc de Mazarin said, on the Abbe’s first Mass, “The Abbe Dubois is gone to his first communion;” meaning that he had never before taken the communion in all his life. I embarrassed my son by remarking to him that he had changed his opinion since he told me the Abbe should never become Bishop or Archbishop, and that he did not think of being Cardinal. My son blushed and answered, “It is very true; but I had good reason for changing my intention.” “Heaven grant it may be so,” I said, “for it must be by God’s mercy, and not from the exercise of your own reason.”
On March 6th, this unpleasant priest came to me and said, “The Monseigneur has just appointed me Archbishop of Cambrai.” I replied, “Congratulations! But did this happen today? I heard about it a week ago, and since you were seen taking the oaths for your position, no one has doubted it.” It’s said that Duc de Mazarin remarked at the Abbe’s first Mass, “Abbe Dubois has gone to his first communion,” meaning he had never taken communion in his life before. I put my son in an awkward position by pointing out that he had changed his mind since he told me the Abbe would never become a Bishop or Archbishop, and he didn’t think he would become a Cardinal. My son blushed and replied, “That’s true, but I had good reason to change my mind.” “Let’s hope that’s the case,” I said, “because it has to be by God’s mercy, not from your own reasoning.”
The Archbishop of Cambrai is the declared enemy of our Abbe Saint-Albin. The word arch is applicable to all his qualities; he is an arch-cheat, an arch-hypocrite, an arch-flatterer, and, above all, an arch-knave.
The Archbishop of Cambrai is the declared enemy of our Abbe Saint-Albin. The term arch fits all his traits; he is an arch-cheat, an arch-hypocrite, an arch-flatterer, and most of all, an arch-knave.
It is reported that a servant of the Archbishop of Rheims said to a servant of the Archbishop of Cambrai, “Although my master is not a Cardinal, he is still a greater lord than yours, for he consecrates the Kings.”
It is reported that a servant of the Archbishop of Rheims said to a servant of the Archbishop of Cambrai, “Even though my boss isn’t a Cardinal, he’s still a greater lord than yours, because he consecrates the Kings.”
“Yes,” replied the Abbe Dubois’ servant, “but my master consecrates the real God, who is still greater than all Kings.”
“Yes,” replied the Abbe Dubois’ servant, “but my master honors the true God, who is even greater than all kings.”
SECTION XXXIV.—MR. LAW.
Mr. Law is a very honest and a very sensible man; he is extremely polite to everybody, and very well bred. He does not speak French ill—at least, he speaks it much better than Englishmen in general. It is said that when his brother arrived in Paris, Mr. Law made him a present of three millions (of livres); he has good talents, and has put the affairs of the State in such good order that all the King’s debts have been paid. He is admirably skilled in all that relates to finance. The late King would have been glad to employ him, but, as Mr. Law was not a Catholic, he said he ought not to confide in him (19th Sept., 1719).
Mr. Law is a very honest and sensible man; he is extremely polite to everyone and very well-mannered. He doesn't speak French poorly—at least, he speaks it much better than most Englishmen. It's said that when his brother arrived in Paris, Mr. Law gave him a gift of three million livres. He has great talents and has managed State affairs so well that all the King’s debts have been settled. He is exceptionally skilled in all matters related to finance. The late King would have been happy to hire him, but since Mr. Law wasn’t Catholic, he felt he shouldn’t trust him (19th Sept., 1719).
He (Law) says that, of all the persons to whom he has explained his system, there have been only two who have properly comprehended it, and these are the King of Sicily and my son; he was quite astonished at their having so readily understood it. He is so much run after, that he has no repose by day or by night. A Duchess even kissed his hand publicly.
He (Law) claims that among everyone he's explained his system to, only two have really understood it: the King of Sicily and my son. He was quite surprised that they grasped it so quickly. He's so in demand that he can't find any peace, day or night. A Duchess even kissed his hand in public.
If a Duchess can do this, what will not other ladies do?
If a Duchess can do this, what won’t other women do?
Another lady, who pursued him everywhere, heard that he was at Madame de Simiane’s, and immediately begged the latter to permit her to dine with her. Madame de Simiane went to her and said she must be excused for that day, as Mr. Law was to dine with her. Madame de Bouchu replied that it was for this reason expressly she wished to be invited. Madame de Simiane only repeated that she did not choose to have Mr. Law troubled, and so quitted her. Having, however, ascertained the dinner-hour, Madame de Bouchu passed before the house in her coach, and made her coachman and footman call out “Fire!” Immediately all the company quitted the table to know where the fire was, and among them Mr. Law appeared. As soon as Madame de Bouchu saw him, she jumped out of her carriage to speak to him; but he, guessing the trick, instantly disappeared.
Another woman, who followed him everywhere, heard that he was at Madame de Simiane’s and immediately asked her if she could join her for dinner. Madame de Simiane told her she had to decline for that day because Mr. Law was dining with her. Madame de Bouchu replied that she wanted to be invited specifically for that reason. Madame de Simiane simply repeated that she didn’t want to bother Mr. Law and left her. However, after finding out the dinner time, Madame de Bouchu drove by the house in her carriage and had her driver and footman shout “Fire!” Immediately, all the guests left the table to see where the fire was, and Mr. Law was among them. As soon as Madame de Bouchu saw him, she jumped out of her carriage to talk to him, but he, realizing the trick, instantly disappeared.
Another lady ordered her carriage to be driven opposite to Mr. Law’s hotel and then to be overturned. Addressing herself to the coachman, she said, “Overturn here, you blockhead—overturn!” Mr. Law ran out to her assistance, when she confessed to him that she had done this for the sole purpose of having an interview with him.
Another woman had her carriage pulled up in front of Mr. Law’s hotel and then instructed the driver to tip it over. She shouted to the coachman, “Tip it over here, you fool—tip it over!” Mr. Law rushed out to help her, and she admitted that she had done this just to get a chance to talk to him.
A servant had gained so much in the Rue de Quincampoix, that he was enabled to set up his equipage. When his coach was brought home, he forgot who he was, and mounted behind. His servant cried out, “Ah, sir! what are you doing? this is your own carriage.”
A servant made so much money on Rue de Quincampoix that he was able to get his own carriage. When his coach was delivered, he forgot who he was and got in the back. His servant shouted, “Oh, sir! What are you doing? This is your own carriage.”
“That is true,” said the quondam servant; “I had forgotten.”
"That's true," said the former servant; "I had forgotten."
Mr. Law’s coachman having also made a very considerable sum, demanded permission to retire from his service. His master gave it him, on condition of his procuring him another good coachman. On the next day, the wealthy coachman made his appearance with two persons, both of whom were, he said, good coachmen; and that Mr. Law had only to choose which of them he liked, while he, the coachman, would take the other.
Mr. Law’s coachman, having earned a pretty good amount, asked to leave his job. His boss agreed, but only if he could find a replacement. The next day, the wealthy coachman returned with two guys, both of whom he claimed were good coachmen. He said Mr. Law could pick whichever one he preferred, and he would take the other.
People of all nations in Europe are daily coming to Paris; and it has been remarked that the number of souls in the capital has been increased by 250,000 more than usual. It has been necessary to make granaries into bedrooms; there is such a profusion of carriages that the streets are choked up with them, and many persons run great danger.
People from all over Europe are coming to Paris every day; it's been noted that the population in the city has increased by an extra 250,000 people. They've had to convert granaries into bedrooms; there are so many carriages that the streets are congested, putting many people at risk.
Some ladies of quality seeing a well-dressed woman covered with diamonds, and whom nobody knew, alight from a very handsome carriage, were curious to know who it was, and sent to enquire of the lackey. He replied, with a sneer, “It is a lady who has recently tumbled from a garret into this carriage.” This lady was probably of the same sort as Madame Bejon’s cook. That lady, being at the opera, some days back, saw a person in a costly dress, and decorated with a great quantity of jewels, but very ugly, enter the theatre. The daughter said, “Mamma, unless I am very much deceived, that lady so dressed out is Mary, our cook-maid.”
Some well-dressed women, seeing a woman covered in diamonds who no one recognized getting out of a beautiful carriage, were curious about her identity and asked the servant. He replied with a smirk, “She’s a lady who just fell from a garret into this carriage.” This lady was probably just like Madame Bejon’s cook. A few days ago, that cook went to the opera and saw someone in an expensive outfit, adorned with a lot of jewels, but very unattractive, enter the theater. The daughter said, “Mom, unless I’m mistaken, that woman all dressed up is Mary, our cook.”
“Hold your tongue, my dear,” said the mother, “and don’t talk such nonsense.”
“Hold your tongue, my dear,” said the mother, “and don’t talk like that.”
Some of the young people, who were in the amphitheatre, began to cry out, “Mary, the cook-maid! Mary, the cook-maid!”
Some of the young people in the amphitheater started shouting, “Mary, the cook! Mary, the cook!”
The lady in the fine dress rose and said, “Yes, madam, I am Mary, the cook-maid; I have gained some money in the Rue de Quincampoix; I like to be well-dressed; I have bought some fine gowns, and I have paid for them. Can you say so much for your own?”
The woman in the elegant dress stood up and said, “Yes, ma’am, I’m Mary, the cook; I’ve made some money on Rue de Quincampoix; I enjoy dressing well; I’ve bought some beautiful gowns, and I’ve paid for them. Can you say the same for yourself?”
Mr. Law is not the only person who has bought magnificent jewels and extensive estates. The Duke, too, has become immensely rich, as well as all those who have held stock. Mr. Law has made his abjuration at Melun; he has embraced the Catholic religion, with his children, and his wife is in utter despair at it.
Mr. Law isn't the only one who has purchased amazing jewels and large estates. The Duke has also become incredibly wealthy, along with everyone who has owned stock. Mr. Law has renounced his previous beliefs at Melun; he has converted to Catholicism, along with his children, and his wife is completely distraught over it.
[The abjuration did not take place at Paris, because the jokes of
the Parisians were to be dreaded. The Abbe Tencin was so fortunate
as to have the office of converting Mr. Law. “He gained by this
pious labour,” says Duclos, “a large sum in bank-notes and stock.”]
[The rejection didn’t happen in Paris because the jokes from the Parisians were to be feared. The Abbe Tencin was lucky enough to have the task of converting Mr. Law. “He profited from this holy work,” says Duclos, “a considerable amount in banknotes and stocks.”]
It is amusing enough to see how the people run after him in crowds only to be looked at by him or his son. He has had a terrible quarrel with the Prince de Conti, who wished Mr. Law to do at the bank a thing which my son had forbidden. The Prince de Conti said to Mr. Law, “Do you know who I am?”
It’s quite funny to see how people chase after him in crowds just to be noticed by him or his son. He’s had a huge argument with the Prince de Conti, who wanted Mr. Law to do something at the bank that my son had banned. The Prince de Conti asked Mr. Law, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, Prince,” replied Law, “or I should not treat you as I have done.”
“Yes, Prince,” Law replied, “or I wouldn’t have treated you the way I have.”
“Then,” said the Prince, “you ought to obey me.”
“Then,” said the Prince, “you should listen to me.”
“I will obey you,” replied Law, “when you shall be Regent;” and he withdrew.
“I will obey you,” Law replied, “when you become Regent;” and he walked away.
The Princesse de Leon would be taken to the bank, and made her footmen cry out, “Room for the Princesse de Lion.” At the same time she, who is very little, slipped into the place where the bankers and their clerks were sitting.
The Princesse de Leon was taken to the bank, and her footmen shouted, “Make way for the Princesse de Lion.” At the same time, she, who is very small, slipped into the area where the bankers and their clerks were sitting.
“I want some stock,” said she.
“I want some stock,” she said.
The clerk replied, “You must have patience, madame, the certificates are delivered in rotation, and you must wait until those who applied before you are served.”
The clerk replied, “You need to be patient, ma'am; the certificates are handed out in order, and you have to wait until those who applied before you are taken care of.”
At the same time he opened the drawer where the stock-papers were kept; the Princess snatched at them; the clerk tried to prevent her, and a fight ensued. The clerk was now alarmed at having beaten a lady of quality, and ran out to ask the servants who the Princesse de Leon was. One of the footmen-said, “She is a lady of high rank, young and beautiful.”
At the same time, he opened the drawer where the stock papers were stored; the Princess reached for them; the clerk tried to stop her, and a struggle broke out. The clerk, now worried about having hit a woman of high standing, ran out to ask the servants who the Princess de Leon was. One of the footmen said, “She's a woman of high rank, young and beautiful.”
“Well, then,” said the clerk, “it cannot be she.”
“Well, then,” said the clerk, “it can’t be her.”
Another footman said, “The Princesse de Leon is a little woman with a hunch before and another behind, and with arms so long that they nearly reach the ground.”
Another footman said, “The Princesse de Leon is a short woman with a hunch in front and another behind, and her arms are so long that they almost touch the ground.”
“Then,” replied the clerk, “that is she.”
“Then,” replied the clerk, “that’s her.”
Mr. Law is not avaricious; he gives away large soma in charity, and assists many indigent people.
Mr. Law isn't greedy; he donates a lot to charity and helps many needy people.
When my son wanted some Duchess to accompany my daughter to Geneva, some one, who heard him speaking about it, said, “if, Monsieur, you would like to select from a number of Duchesses, send to Mr. Law’s; you will find them all there.”
When my son wanted a Duchess to accompany my daughter to Geneva, someone who overheard him said, “If you’d like to choose from a number of Duchesses, send a message to Mr. Law; you’ll find them all there.”
Lord Stair cannot conceal his hatred of Mr. Law, and yet he has gained at least three millions by him.
Lord Stair can't hide his hatred for Mr. Law, yet he's made at least three million from him.
Mr. Law’s son was to have danced in the King’s ballet, but he has been attacked by the small-pox (9th Feb., 1720).
Mr. Law’s son was supposed to dance in the King’s ballet, but he has come down with smallpox (9th Feb., 1720).
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My son has been obliged to displace Mr. Law. This person, who was formerly worshipped like a god, is now not sure of his life; it is astonishing how greatly terrified he is. He is no longer Comptroller-General, but continues to hold the place of Director-General of the Bank and of the East India Company; certain members of the Parliamentary Council have, however, been joined with him to watch over the business of the Bank.
My son has had to replace Mr. Law. This person, who was once adored like a god, is now completely unsure for his safety; it's astonishing how frightened he is. He is no longer the Comptroller-General but still holds the position of Director-General of the Bank and the East India Company. However, some members of the Parliamentary Council have been brought in to oversee the operations of the Bank along with him.
[In the Council of the Regency, the Duc d’Orleans was obliged to:
admit that Law issued papers to the amount of 1,200 millions above
the legal sum; and that he (the Regent) had protected him from all
responsibility by decrees of the Council which had been ante-dated.
The total, amount of bank-notes in circulation was 2,700,000,000
livres.]
[In the Council of the Regency, the Duc d'Orleans had to: admit that Law issued notes totaling 1,200 million beyond the legal limit; and that he (the Regent) had shielded him from any responsibility through council decrees that were backdated. The total amount of banknotes in circulation was 2,700,000,000 livres.]
His friend, the Duc d’Antin wanted to get the place of Director.
His friend, the Duke of Antin, wanted to get the position of Director.
The Duke at first spoke strongly against Law; but it is said that a sum of four millions, three of which went to him and one to Madame de Prie, has engaged him to undertake Law’s defence. My son is not timid, although he is threatened on all sides, and is very much amused with Law’s terrors (25th June, 1720).
The Duke initially spoke out strongly against Law; however, it's rumored that a payment of four million, three of which went to him and one to Madame de Prie, has convinced him to take on Law’s defense. My son isn’t afraid, even though he’s facing threats from all directions, and he finds Law’s fears quite entertaining (25th June, 1720).
At length the latter is somewhat recovered, and continues to be great friends with the Duke: this is very pleasant to the Duc de Conti, and makes him behave so strangely that his infirmity is observed by the people. It is fortunate for us that Law is so great a coward, otherwise he would be very troublesome to my son, who, learning that he was joining in a cabal against him, told his wife of it. “Well, Monsieur,” said she, “what would you have him do? He likes to be talked of, and he has no other way of accomplishing it. What would people have to say of him if he did not?”
Eventually, the latter starts to recover somewhat and maintains a good friendship with the Duke. This pleases the Duc de Conti, leading him to act so strangely that people notice his odd behavior. It’s lucky for us that Law is such a coward; otherwise, he would be a real nuisance for my son. Upon hearing that Law was involved in a plot against him, my son told his wife about it. “Well, Monsieur,” she said, “what do you expect him to do? He likes to be the center of attention, and this is the only way he knows how to do it. What would people say about him if he didn’t?”
On the 17th of June, while I was at the Carmelites, Madame de Chateau-Thiers came to me in my chamber, and said, “M. de Simiane is just come in from the Palais Royal, and he thinks it fit you should know that upon your return you will find the court of the Palais Royal filled with people, who, though they do not say anything, will not disperse.”
On June 17th, while I was at the Carmelites, Madame de Chateau-Thiers came to my room and said, “M. de Simiane has just returned from the Palais Royal, and he believes you should know that when you come back, you'll find the court of the Palais Royal crowded with people who, although they’re not saying anything, won’t leave.”
At six o’clock this morning they brought in three dead bodies, which M. Le Blanc ordered to be carried away immediately.
At six this morning, they brought in three dead bodies, which M. Le Blanc ordered to be taken away right away.
Mr. Law has taken refuge in the Palais Royal. The populace have done him no harm, but his coachman has been pelted on his return, and the carriage broken to pieces. It was the coachman’s own fault, who said aloud that the people were rabble, and ought to be all hanged. I saw immediately that it would not do to display any fear, and I set off. There was such a stoppage of the carriages that I was obliged to wait half an hour before I could get into the Palais Royal. During this time I heard the people talking; they said nothing against my son, and bestowed benedictions upon me, but they all wished Law to be hanged. When I reached the Palais Royal all was calm again; my son came to me immediately, and, notwithstanding the alarm I had felt, he made me laugh; as for himself, he had not the least fear. He told me that the first president had made a good impromptu upon this affair. Having occasion to go down into the court, he heard what the people had done with Law’s carriage, and, upon returning to the Salon, he said with great gravity:
Mr. Law has taken refuge in the Palais Royal. The crowds haven’t harmed him, but his driver was attacked on his way back, and the carriage was destroyed. It was the driver’s fault for loudly claiming that the people were just a mob and should all be hanged. I quickly realized that showing fear wouldn’t help, so I left. There was such a traffic jam that I had to wait half an hour before I could finally get into the Palais Royal. During that time, I overheard conversations; they didn’t say anything bad about my son and wished me well, but everyone wanted Law to be executed. When I got to the Palais Royal, everything was calm again; my son came to see me right away, and despite the worry I had felt, he made me laugh. He, on the other hand, wasn’t scared at all. He told me that the first president made a clever remark about the situation. When he had to go down to the courtyard, he saw what the crowd did to Law’s carriage, and when he returned to the Salon, he said seriously:
“Messieurs, bonne nouvelle,
Le carrosse de Law est en canelle.”
“Gentlemen, good news,
Law's carriage is in the canal.”Is not this a becoming jest for such serious personages? M. Le Blanc went into the midst of the people with great firmness, and made a speech to them; he afterwards had Law escorted home and all became tranquil.
Isn't this a fitting joke for such serious people? Mr. Le Blanc stepped into the crowd confidently and gave them a speech; afterward, he had Law taken home, and everything settled down.
It is almost impossible that Law should escape, for the same soldiers who protect him from the fury of the people will not permit him to go out of their hands. He is by no means at his ease, and yet I think the people do not now intend to pursue him any farther, for they have begun to make all kinds of songs about him.
It’s nearly impossible for Law to get away, because the same soldiers who protect him from the anger of the crowd won’t let him slip out of their control. He’s definitely not comfortable, but I believe the crowd isn’t planning to chase him anymore, since they’ve started making all sorts of songs about him.
Law is said to be in such an agony of fear that he has not been able to venture to my son’s at Saint Cloud, although he sent a carriage to fetch him. He is a dead man; he is as pale as a sheet, and it is said can never get over his last panic. The people’s hatred of the Duke arises from his being the friend of Law, whose children he carried to Saint Maur, where they are to remain.
Law is described as being so overwhelmed with fear that he hasn't dared to go to my son’s place in Saint Cloud, even though he sent a carriage to pick him up. He looks like a dead man; he's as pale as a ghost, and people say he may never recover from his last scare. The public's hatred for the Duke comes from his association with Law, whose kids he took to Saint Maur, where they will stay.
M. Boursel, passing through the Rue Saint Antoine in his way from the Jesuits’ College, had his carriage stopped by a hackney coachman, who would neither come on nor go back. M. Boursel’s footman, enraged at his obstinacy, struck the coachman, and, M. Boursel getting out of his coach to restrain his servant’s rage, the coachman resolved to be avenged of both master and man, and so began to cry out, “Here is Law going to kill me; fall upon him.”
M. Boursel, walking through Rue Saint Antoine on his way from the Jesuits’ College, had his carriage halted by a stubborn cab driver who refused to move forward or backward. M. Boursel’s footman, furious at the driver’s refusal, hit him, and when M. Boursel got out of his carriage to calm his servant’s anger, the driver decided to take revenge on both of them and started shouting, “Here’s Law trying to kill me; attack him!”
The people immediately ran with staves and stones, and attacked Boursel, who took refuge in the church of the Jesuits. He was pursued even to the altar, where he found a little door opened which led into the convent. He rushed through and shut it after him, by which means he saved his life.
The crowd quickly grabbed sticks and stones and went after Boursel, who sought safety in the Jesuit church. They chased him all the way to the altar, where he noticed a small door ajar that led into the convent. He hurried through and closed it behind him, which is how he saved his life.
M. de Chiverni, the tutor of the Duc de Chartres, was going into the Palais Royal in a chair, when a child about eight years old cried out, “There goes Law!” and the people immediately assembled. M. Chiverni, who is a little, meagre-faced, ugly old man, said pleasantly enough, “I knew very well I had nothing to fear when I should show them my face and figure.”
M. de Chiverni, the tutor of the Duc de Chartres, was on his way into the Palais Royal in a chair when a child about eight years old shouted, “There goes Law!” and people quickly gathered around. M. Chiverni, who is a small, thin-faced, not-so-handsome old man, smiled and said, “I knew I had nothing to worry about when I showed them my face and figure.”
As soon as they saw him they suffered him to get quietly into his chair and to enter the gates of the palace.
As soon as they saw him, they let him calmly take his seat and enter the palace gates.
On the 10th of December (1720), Law withdrew; he is now at one of his estates about six miles from Paris. The Duke, who wished to visit him, thought proper to take Mdlle. de Prie’s post-chaise, and put his footman into a grey livery, otherwise the people would have known and have maltreated him.
On December 10th, 1720, Law stepped back; he is currently at one of his estates about six miles from Paris. The Duke, who wanted to see him, decided to take Mdlle. de Prie’s carriage and dressed his footman in a grey uniform, otherwise the locals would have recognized him and treated him poorly.
Law is gone to Brussels; Madame de Prie lent him her chaise. When he returned it, he wrote thanking her, and at the same time sent her a ring worth 100,000 livres. The Duke provided him with relays, and made four of his own people accompany him. When he took leave of my son, Law said to him, “Monsieur, I have committed several great faults, but they are merely such as are incident to humanity; you will find neither malice nor dishonesty in my conduct.” His wife would not go away until she had paid all their debts; he owed to his rotisseur alone 10,000 livres.
Law went to Brussels; Madame de Prie lent him her carriage. When he returned it, he wrote her a thank-you note and also sent her a ring worth 100,000 livres. The Duke arranged for relays and had four of his own people accompany him. When he said goodbye to my son, Law told him, “Monsieur, I have made several serious mistakes, but they're just part of being human; you will find no malice or dishonesty in my actions.” His wife wouldn’t leave until she had settled all their debts; he owed his rotisseur alone 10,000 livres.
[Mr. Law retired to Venice, and there ended his days. Some memoirs
state that he was not married to the Englishwoman who passed for his
wife.]
[Mr. Law retired to Venice, where he spent his final days. Some memoirs claim that he wasn't actually married to the Englishwoman who was known as his wife.]
BOOK 4.
Victor Amadeus II. The Grand Duchess, Consort of Cosimo II. of Florence The Duchesse de Lorraine, Elizabeth-Charlotte d’Orleans The Duc du Maine The Duchesse du Maine Louvois Louis XV. Anecdotes and Historical Particulars of Various Persons Explanatory Notes
Victor Amadeus II. The Grand Duchess, Consort of Cosimo II. of Florence The Duchesse de Lorraine, Elizabeth-Charlotte d’Orleans The Duc du Maine The Duchesse du Maine Louvois Louis XV. Anecdotes and Historical Particulars of Various Persons Explanatory Notes
SECTION XXXV.—VICTOR AMADEUS, KING OF SICILY.
It is said that the King of Sicily is always in ill humour, and that he is always quarrelling with his mistresses. He and Madame de Verrue have quarrelled, they say, for whole days together. I wonder how the good Queen can love him with such constancy; but she is a most virtuous person and patience itself. Since the King had no mistresses he lives upon better terms with her. Devotion has softened his heart and his temper.
It’s said that the King of Sicily is always in a bad mood and is constantly arguing with his mistresses. He and Madame de Verrue have reportedly fought for days at a time. I wonder how the good Queen can love him so faithfully; she is a truly virtuous person and incredibly patient. Since the King has had no mistresses, he gets along better with her. His devotion has softened both his heart and his temperament.
Madame de Verrue is, I dare say, forty-eight years of age (1718). I shared some of the profits of her theft by buying of her 160 medals of gold, the half of those which she stole from the King of Sicily. She had also boxes filled with silver medals, but they were all sold in England.
Madame de Verrue is, I would guess, forty-eight years old (1718). I benefited a bit from her theft by buying 160 gold medals from her, which is half of what she took from the King of Sicily. She also had boxes full of silver medals, but those were all sold in England.
[The Comtesse de Verrue was married at the age of thirteen years.
Victor Amadeus, then King of Sardinia, fell in love with her. She
would have resisted, and wrote to her mother and her husband, who
were both absent. They only joked her about it. She then took that
step which all the world knows. At the age of eighteen, being at a
dinner with a relation of her husband’s, she was poisoned. The
person she suspected was the same that was dining with her; he did
not quit her, and wanted to have her blooded. Just at this time the
Spanish Ambassador at Piedmont sent her a counter-poison which had a
happy effect: she recovered, but never would mention whom she
suspected. She got tired of the King, and persuaded her brother,
the Chevalier de Lugner, to come and carry her off, the King being
then upon a journey. The rendezvous was in a chapel about four
leagues distant from Turin. She had a little parrot with her. Her
brother arrived, they set out together, and, after having proceeded
four leagues on her journey, she remembered that she had forgotten
her parrot in the chapel. Without regarding the danger to which she
exposed her brother, she insisted upon returning to look for her
parrot, and did so. She died in Paris in the beginning of the reign
of Louis XV. She was fond of literary persons, and collected about
her some of the best company of that day, among whom her wit and
grace enabled her to cut a brilliant figure. She was the intimate
friend of the poet La Faye, whom she advised in his compositions,
and whose life she made delightful. Her fondness for the arts and
pleasure procured for her the appellation of ‘Dame de Volupte’, and
she wrote this epitaph upon herself:
“Ci git, dans un pais profonde,
Cette Dame de Volupte,
Qui, pour plus grande surete,
Fit son Paradis dans ce monde.”]
[The Comtesse de Verrue got married when she was just thirteen. Victor Amadeus, the King of Sardinia at the time, fell in love with her. She tried to resist and wrote to both her mother and her husband, who were both away. They made light of her situation. She then took the well-known step. At eighteen, while having dinner with a relative of her husband’s, she was poisoned. The person she suspected was the one dining with her; he stayed by her side and tried to bleed her. Around this time, the Spanish Ambassador in Piedmont sent her a counter-poison that worked, and she recovered but never revealed whom she suspected. She grew tired of the King and convinced her brother, the Chevalier de Lugner, to come and rescue her while the King was away on a trip. They agreed to meet in a chapel about four leagues from Turin. She brought her pet parrot with her. When her brother arrived, they set off together, but after traveling four leagues, she remembered she had left her parrot behind in the chapel. Ignoring the risk to her brother, she insisted on going back to find her parrot, and she did. She died in Paris at the start of Louis XV’s reign. She loved literary figures and surrounded herself with some of the best people of her time, where her wit and charm made her stand out. She was a close friend of the poet La Faye, whom she advised on his works and who found joy in her company. Her passion for the arts and enjoyment of life earned her the nickname ‘Dame de Volupte’, and she wrote this epitaph for herself:
“Here lies, in a deep peace,
This Lady of Pleasure,
Who, for greater safety,
Made her Paradise in this world.”]SECTION XXXVI.—THE GRAND DUCHESS, WIFE OF COSMO II. OF FLORENCE.
The Grand Duchess has declared to me, that, from the day on which she set out for Florence, she thought of nothing but her return, and the means of executing this design as soon as she should be able.
The Grand Duchess has told me that ever since she left for Florence, she has thought only about her return and how she could make that happen as soon as possible.
No one could approve of her deserting her husband, and the more particularly as she speaks very well of him, and describes the manner of living at Florence as like a terrestrial paradise.
No one could support her leaving her husband, especially since she speaks so highly of him and describes life in Florence as like a paradise on Earth.
She does not think herself unfortunate for having travelled, and looks upon all the grandeur she enjoyed at Florence as not to be compared with the unrestrained way of living in which she indulges here. She is very amusing when she relates her own history, in the course of which she by no means flatters herself.
She doesn't feel unlucky for having traveled and sees all the luxury she experienced in Florence as nothing compared to the free lifestyle she enjoys here. She's quite entertaining when she shares her own story, during which she definitely doesn't brag about herself.
“Indeed, cousin,” I say to her often, “you do not flatter yourself, but you really tell things which make against you.”
“Definitely, cousin,” I often say to her, “you’re not flattering yourself, but you really say things that go against you.”
“Ah, no matter,” she replies, “I care not, provided I never see the Grand Duke again.”
“Ah, it doesn’t matter,” she replies, “I don’t care, as long as I never have to see the Grand Duke again.”
She cannot be accused of any amorous intrigue.
She can't be accused of any romantic involvement.
Her husband furnishes her with very little money; and at this moment (April, 1718) he owes her fifteen months of her pension. She is now really in want of money to enable her to take the waters of Bourbon. The Grand Duke, who is very avaricious, thinks she will die soon, and therefore holds back the payments that he may take advantage of that event when it shall happen.
Her husband gives her very little money, and right now (April 1718), he owes her fifteen months of her pension. She is actually in need of money to be able to go to Bourbon for treatment. The Grand Duke, who is quite greedy, thinks she will die soon, so he is delaying the payments to benefit from that situation when it occurs.
SECTION XXXVII.—THE DUCHESSE DE LORRAINE, ELIZABETH-CHARLOTTE PHILIPPINE D’ORLEANS, CONSORT OF LEOPOLD JOSEPH-CHARLES DE LORRAINE.
My daughter is ugly; even more so than she was, for the fine complexion which she once had has become sun-burnt. This makes a great difference in the appearance, and causes a person to look old. She has an ugly round nose, and her eyes are sunken; but her shape is preserved, and, as she dances well, and her manners are easy and polished, any one may see that she is a person of breeding. I know many people who pique themselves upon their good manners, and who still have not so much reason as she has. At all events I am content with my child as she is; and I would rather see her ugly and virtuous than pretty and profligate like the rest.
My daughter is unattractive; even more so than before, since the nice complexion she used to have has become sunburned. This changes a person’s appearance a lot and can make them look older. She has a round nose that isn’t appealing, and her eyes are sunken; but her figure is nice, and because she dances well and has graceful and polished manners, anyone can see that she comes from a good background. I know many people who pride themselves on their good manners, yet they don’t have as much to offer as she does. Regardless, I’m happy with my child just the way she is; I’d rather have her be unattractive and virtuous than beautiful and immoral like many others.
Whenever the time of her accouchement approaches, she never fails to bid her friends adieu, in the notion that she will die. Fortunately she has hitherto always escaped well.
Whenever her due date comes around, she always says goodbye to her friends, thinking that she might die. Fortunately, she has always gotten through it okay.
When jealousy is once suffered to take root, it is impossible to extirpate it—therefore it is better not to let it gain ground. My daughter pretends not to be affected by hers, but she often suffers great affliction from it. This is not astonishing, because she is very fond of her children; and the woman with whom the Duke is infatuated, together with her husband, do not leave him a farthing; they completely ruin his household. Craon is an accursed cuckold and a treacherous man. The Duc de Lorraine knows that my daughter is acquainted with everything, and I believe he likes her the better that she does not remonstrate with him, but endures all patiently. He is occasionally kind to her, and, provided that he only says tender things to her, she is content and cheerful.
When jealousy takes hold, it's impossible to get rid of it, so it's better not to let it take root in the first place. My daughter acts like she's not affected by her jealousy, but she often feels very distressed because of it. This isn't surprising, since she cares deeply for her children. The woman the Duke is in love with, along with her husband, is draining his finances and ruining his household. Craon is a cursed cuckold and a deceitful man. The Duc de Lorraine knows my daughter is aware of everything, and I think he appreciates that she doesn't challenge him but instead bears it all quietly. He is sometimes kind to her, and as long as he only speaks sweetly to her, she feels content and happy.
I should almost believe that the Duke’s mistress has given him a philtre, as Neidschin did to the Elector of Saxony. When he does not see her, it is said he perspires copiously at the head, and, in order that the cuckold of a husband may say nothing about the affair, the Duke suffers him to do whatever he pleases. He and his wife, who is gouvernante, rule everything, although neither the one nor the other has any feeling of honour. She is to come hither, it seems, with the Duke and Duchess.
I almost have to think that the Duke's mistress gave him a love potion, like Neidschin did to the Elector of Saxony. When he doesn't see her, it's said he sweats a lot, and to keep the cuckolded husband quiet about the whole thing, the Duke lets him do whatever he wants. He and his wife, who is the governess, control everything, even though neither of them has any sense of honor. It seems she's coming here with the Duke and Duchess.
The Duc de Lorraine is here incog.
The Duke of Lorraine is here incognito.
[He came to Paris for the purpose of soliciting an arrondissement in
Champagne and the title of Royal Highness. Through the influence of
his mother-in-law he obtained both the one and the other. By virtue
of a treaty very disadvantageous for France, but which was
nevertheless registered by the Parliament, he increased his states
by adding to them a great number of villages.]
[He went to Paris to secure a region in Champagne and the title of Royal Highness. Thanks to his mother-in-law's influence, he managed to get both. Through a treaty that was very unfavorable for France, but was still approved by Parliament, he expanded his territory by adding many villages.]
under the title of the Comte de Blamont. Formerly the chase was his greatest passion; but now, it seems, the swain is wholly amorous. It is in vain for him to attempt to conceal it; for the more he tries, the more apparent it becomes. When you would suppose he is about to address you, his head will turn round, and his eyes wander in search of Madame Craon; it is quite diverting to see him. I cannot conceive how my daughter can love her husband so well, and not display more jealousy. It is impossible for a man to be more amorous than the Duke is of Craon (19th of April, 1718).
under the title of the Count of Blamont. Once, hunting was his biggest passion; but now, it seems, he's completely in love. It's pointless for him to try to hide it; the more he attempts to, the more obvious it becomes. When you think he’s about to speak to you, his head will turn, and his eyes will search for Madame Craon; it's quite amusing to watch him. I can't understand how my daughter can love her husband so much and not show more jealousy. No man could be more infatuated than the Duke is with Craon (19th of April, 1718).
It cannot be denied that she (Madame de Craon) is full of agreeable qualities. Although she is not a beauty, she has a good shape, a fine skin, and a very white complexion; but her greatest charms are her mouth and teeth. When she laughs it is in a very pleasing and modest manner; she behaves properly and respectfully in my daughter’s presence; if she did the same when she is not with her, one would have nothing to complain of. It is not surprising that such a woman should be beloved; she really deserves it. But she treats her lover with the utmost haughtiness, as if she were the Duchesse de Lorraine and he M. de Luneville. I never saw a man more passionately attached than he appears to be; when she is not present, he fixes his eyes upon the door with an expression of anxiety; when she appears, he smiles and is calm; it is really very droll to observe him. She, on the contrary, wishes to prevent persons from perceiving it, and seems to care nothing about him. As the Duke was crossing a hall here with her upon his arm, some of the people said aloud, “That is the Duc de Lorraine with his mistress.” Madame Craon wept bitterly, and insisted upon the Duke complaining of it to his brother. The Duke did in fact complain; but my son laughed at him, and replied, “that the King himself could not prevent that; that he should despise such things, and seem not to hear them.”
It’s clear that she (Madame de Craon) has a lot of appealing qualities. Even though she isn’t a classic beauty, she has a nice figure, great skin, and a very fair complexion; but her biggest virtues are her mouth and teeth. When she laughs, it’s in a very charming and modest way; she behaves properly and respectfully in my daughter’s presence; if only she did the same when my daughter isn’t around, there would be nothing to complain about. It’s no wonder she is loved; she truly deserves it. But she treats her lover with a lot of arrogance, as if she were the Duchesse de Lorraine and he M. de Luneville. I’ve never seen a man more passionately devoted than he seems to be; when she isn’t around, he stares at the door with a worried look; when she shows up, he smiles and relaxes; it’s honestly quite amusing to watch him. She, on the other hand, tries to hide this and seems completely indifferent to him. As the Duke was walking through a hall with her on his arm, some people loudly commented, “That’s the Duc de Lorraine with his mistress.” Madame Craon cried bitterly and insisted that the Duke tell his brother about it. The Duke did complain, but my son just laughed at him and replied, “The King himself couldn’t stop that; you should ignore such things and pretend you didn’t hear them.”
Madame Craon was my daughter’s fille d’honneur; she was then called Mademoiselle de Ligneville, and there it was that the Duke fell in love with her. M. Craon was in disgrace with the Duke, who was about to dismiss him as a rascal, for having practised a sharping trick at play; but, as he is a cunning fellow, he perceived the Duke’s love for Mademoiselle de Ligneville, although he pretended to make a great mystery of it. About this time Madame de Lenoncourt, my daughter’s dame d’atour, happened to die. The Duke managed to have Mademoiselle de Ligneville appointed in her room; and Craon, who is rich, offered to marry this poor lady. The Duke was delighted with the plan of marrying her to one who would lend himself to the intrigue; and thus she became Madame de Craon, and dame d’atour. The old gouvernante dying soon afterwards, my daughter thought to gratify her husband, as well as Madame de Craon, by appointing her dame d’honneur; and this it is that has brought such disgrace upon her.
Madame Craon was my daughter’s maid of honor; back then, she went by Mademoiselle de Ligneville, and it was there that the Duke fell in love with her. M. Craon had fallen out of favor with the Duke, who was about to dismiss him as a scoundrel for using a cheating trick at cards; but since he’s a clever guy, he noticed the Duke’s feelings for Mademoiselle de Ligneville, even though he pretended it was a big secret. Around this time, Madame de Lenoncourt, my daughter’s lady of the bedchamber, happened to pass away. The Duke arranged for Mademoiselle de Ligneville to take her place; and Craon, who is wealthy, offered to marry her. The Duke was thrilled at the idea of marrying her off to someone who would go along with the plan; and that’s how she became Madame de Craon and lady of the bedchamber. Shortly after the old governess died, my daughter thought it would please both her husband and Madame de Craon to appoint her as lady of honor; and this decision is what has brought such disgrace upon her.
My daughter is in despair. Craon and his wife want to take a journey of ten days, for the purpose of buying a marquisate worth 800,000 livres. The Duke will not remain during this time with his wife, but chooses it for an opportunity to visit all the strong places of Alsatia. He will stay away until the return of his mistress and her husband; and this it is which makes my poor daughter so unhappy. The Duke now neither sees nor hears anything but through Craon, his wife, and their creatures.
My daughter is heartbroken. Craon and his wife want to go on a ten-day trip to buy a marquisate worth 800,000 livres. The Duke won't stay with his wife during this time; instead, he plans to visit all the strongholds in Alsatia. He’ll be gone until his mistress and her husband come back, and that’s what’s making my poor daughter so miserable. The Duke now only sees and hears things through Craon, his wife, and their associates.
I do not think that my daughter’s attachment to her husband is so strong as it used to be, and yet I think she loves him very much; for every proof of fondness which he gives her rejoices her so much that she sends me word of it immediately. He can make her believe whatever he chooses; and, although she cannot doubt the Duke’s passion for Madame de Craon, yet, when he says that he feels only friendship for her, that he is quite willing to give up seeing her, only that he fears by doing so he would dishonour her in the eyes of the public, and that there is nothing he is not ready to do for his wife’s repose, she receives all he says literally, beseeches him to continue to see Madame de Craon as usual, and fancies that her husband is tenderly attached to her, while he is really laughing at her. If I were in my daughter’s place, the Duke’s falsehood would disgust me more than his infidelity.
I don't think my daughter's attachment to her husband is as strong as it used to be, but I believe she loves him very much. Every sign of affection he shows her makes her so happy that she immediately lets me know about it. He can make her believe whatever he wants; and even though she can’t doubt the Duke’s feelings for Madame de Craon, when he claims that he only feels friendship for her and that he’s willing to stop seeing her because he doesn’t want to dishonor her publicly, and that he’s ready to do anything for his wife's peace of mind, she takes everything he says at face value. She pleads with him to keep seeing Madame de Craon as usual and believes her husband is genuinely devoted to her, while he’s actually laughing at her. If I were in my daughter’s situation, the Duke’s lies would disgust me more than his cheating.
What appears to me the most singular in this intrigue is that the Duke is as fond of the husband as of the wife, and that he cannot live without him. This is very difficult to comprehend; but M. de Craon understands it well, and makes the most of it; he has already bought an estate for 1,100,000 livres.
What stands out to me the most in this situation is that the Duke cares just as much for the husband as he does for the wife, and he can't live without him. This is really hard to understand, but M. de Craon gets it completely and takes full advantage of it; he has already purchased a property for 1,100,000 livres.
[The Marquis de Craon was Grand Chamberlain and Prime Minister of
the Duc de Lorraine; who, moreover, procured for him from the
Emperor of Germany the title of Prince. This favourite married one
of his daughters to the Prince de Ligin, of the House of Lorraine.]
[The Marquis de Craon was the Grand Chamberlain and Prime Minister of the Duke of Lorraine; who also secured from the Emperor of Germany the title of Prince for him. This favorite arranged for one of his daughters to marry the Prince de Ligin, from the House of Lorraine.]
The burning of Lundville was not the effect of an accident; it is well known that some of the people stopped a woman’s mouth, who was crying out “Fire!” A person was also heard to say, “It was not I who set it on fire.” My daughter thinks that Old Maintenon would have them all burnt; for the person who cried out has been employed, it seems, in the house of the Duc de Noailles. For my part, I am rather disposed to believe it was the young mistress, Madame de Craon, who had a share in this matter; for Luneville is my daughter’s residence and dowry.
The burning of Lundville wasn’t just an accident; it’s known that some people covered a woman’s mouth who was shouting “Fire!” Someone was also heard saying, “I didn’t set it on fire.” My daughter thinks that Old Maintenon wants to see them all punished; the person who shouted has apparently worked in the house of the Duc de Noailles. As for me, I’m more inclined to believe that the young mistress, Madame de Craon, had a hand in this because Luneville is my daughter’s home and inheritance.
SECTION XXXVIII.—THE DUC DU MAINE, LOUIS-AUGUSTUS.
The Duc du Maine flattered himself that he would marry my daughter. Madame de Maintenon and Madame de Montespan were arranging this project in presence of several merchants, to whom they paid no attention, but the latter, engaging in the conversation, said, “Ladies, do not think of any such thing, for it will cost you your lives if you bring about that marriage.”
The Duke of Maine convinced himself that he would marry my daughter. Madame de Maintenon and Madame de Montespan were planning this scheme in front of several merchants, whom they ignored. However, one of the merchants, joining the conversation, said, “Ladies, don’t even think about it, because it will cost you your lives if you try to make that marriage happen.”
Madame de Maintenon was dreadfully frightened at this, and immediately went to the King to persuade him to relinquish the affair.
Madame de Maintenon was really scared by this, and she immediately went to the King to convince him to back out of the situation.
The Duc du Maine possesses talent, which he displays particularly in his manner of relating anything. He knows very well who is his mother, but he has never had the least affection for any one but his gouvernante, against whom he never bore ill-will, although she displaced his mother and put herself in her room. My son will not believe that the Duc du Maine is the King’s son. He has always been treacherous, and is feared and hated at Court as an arch tale-bearer. He has done many persons very ill offices with the King; and those in particular to whom he promised most were those who have had the greatest reason to complain of him. His little wife is worse even than he, for the husband is sometimes restrained by fear; but she mingles the pathetic occasionally in her comedies. It is certain that there does not exist a more false and wicked couple in the whole world than they are.
The Duc du Maine has talent, especially when it comes to storytelling. He knows who his mother is, but has never felt any affection for anyone except for his governess, whom he never resented, even though she took his mother’s place. My son won’t believe that the Duc du Maine is the King’s son. He’s always been treacherous and is feared and disliked at Court as a notorious gossip. He has done many people wrong with the King, especially those to whom he made the biggest promises, and they have the most reason to complain about him. His little wife is even worse than he is, as the husband is sometimes held back by fear; but she occasionally adds drama to her antics. It’s clear that there isn’t a more deceitful and wicked couple in the whole world than they are.
I can readily believe that the Comte de Toulouse is the King’s son; but I have always thought that the Duc du Maine is the son of Terme, who was a false knave, and the greatest tale-bearer in the Court.
I can easily believe that the Comte de Toulouse is the King’s son; but I’ve always thought that the Duc du Maine is the son of Terme, who was a deceitful scoundrel and the biggest gossip at Court.
That old Maintenon had persuaded the King that the Duc du Maine was full of piety and virtue. When he reported evil tales of any persons, she pretended that it was for their good, and to induce the King to correct them. The King was, therefore, induced to fancy everything he did admirable, and to take him for a saint. The confessor, Le Pere Letellier, contributed to keep up this good opinion in order to pay court to the old woman; and the late Chancellor, M. Voisin, by her orders continued to aid the King’s delusion.
That old Maintenon convinced the King that the Duc du Maine was all about piety and virtue. When she reported negative stories about people, she acted like it was for their own good and to persuade the King to set them straight. As a result, the King started to believe that everything he did was admirable, viewing him as a saint. The confessor, Le Pere Letellier, played his part in maintaining this positive image to curry favor with the old woman, and the former Chancellor, M. Voisin, followed her orders to keep the King’s delusion going.
The Duc du Maine fancied that, since he had succeeded in getting himself declared a Prince of the blood, he should not find it difficult on that account to attain the royal dignity, and that he could easily arrange everything with respect to my son and the other Princes of the blood. For this reason he and the old woman industriously circulated the report that my son had poisoned the Dauphine and the Duc de Berri. The Duc du Maine was instigated by Madame de Montespan and Madame de Maintenon to report things secretly to the King; at first for the purpose of making him bark like a cur at all whom they disliked, and afterwards for the King’s diversion, and to make themselves beloved by him.
The Duc du Maine thought that since he had managed to declare himself a Prince of the blood, he wouldn't have a hard time reaching royal status, and that he could easily handle things regarding my son and the other Princes of the blood. For this reason, he and the old woman actively spread the rumor that my son had poisoned the Dauphine and the Duc de Berri. The Duc du Maine was encouraged by Madame de Montespan and Madame de Maintenon to share things privately with the King; initially to get him to lash out at everyone they didn’t like, and later for the King’s entertainment, hoping to win his affection.
These bastards are of so bad a disposition that God knows who was their father.
These guys are so messed up that only God knows who their dad is.
Yesterday the Parliament presented its remonstrance to my son. It is not difficult to guess whence this affair proceeds. They were closeted for four hours together with the Duc and Duchesse du Maine, who had the Councillors brought thither in their coach, and attended by their own livery servants (20th June, 1718).
Yesterday, Parliament presented its complaint to my son. It's not hard to figure out where this is coming from. They were shut away for four hours with the Duke and Duchess of Maine, who had the Councillors brought over in their carriage, accompanied by their own servants. (20th June, 1718).
I believe that my son is only, restrained from acting rigorously against the Duc du Maine because he fears the tears and anger of his wife; and, in the second place, he, has an affection for his other brother-in-law, the Comte de Toulouse.
I think my son is only holding back from taking strong action against the Duc du Maine because he's worried about his wife's tears and anger; and, additionally, he has a bond with his other brother-in-law, the Comte de Toulouse.
That old woman must surely think herself immortal, for she still hopes to reign, though at the age of eighty-three years. The Duc du Maine’s affair is a severe blow for her. She is, nevertheless, not without hope, and it is said not excessively grieved. This fills me with anxiety, for I know too well how expert the wicked old hussy is in the use of poison.
That old woman must think she's invincible, since she still hopes to rule, even at eighty-three. The Duc du Maine’s situation is a big setback for her. However, she still has some hope and isn’t said to be overly upset. This worries me because I know how skilled that wicked old lady is with poison.
The first President of Mesmes ought to be friendly towards the Duc du Maine, to whom he is indebted for the office he holds. The Duke keeps all his places; as to that of Grand Master of Artillery, they could not take it away unless they had proceeded to extremities with him.
The first President of Mesmes should be friendly to the Duc du Maine, who he owes his position to. The Duke maintains all his positions; regarding the Grand Master of Artillery role, they couldn't remove it unless they took extreme measures against him.
The Duke became so devout in his prison, and during Passion week he fasted so rigorously, that he fell sick in consequence. He says that he is innocent and that he has gained heaven by the purity of his conduct; this renders him gay and contented. He is not, besides, of a sorrowful temper, but, on the contrary, is fond of jests and merry tales. He does not speak ill of persons publicly; it was only to the King he used to denounce them.
The Duke became very religious while in prison, and during Passion Week he fasted so intensely that he got sick as a result. He claims to be innocent and believes he has earned a place in heaven due to his pure behavior; this makes him cheerful and satisfied. He’s not a gloomy person; on the contrary, he enjoys jokes and funny stories. He doesn’t publicly speak badly about others; he only used to criticize them to the King.
Yesterday my son was requested to permit the Duc du Maine to be reconciled with his wife. His answer was, “They might have been reconciled without speaking to me about it, for whether they become friends again or not, I know what to think of them.”
Yesterday, my son was asked to allow the Duc du Maine to make up with his wife. His response was, “They could have sorted things out without involving me, because whether they become friends again or not, I already know what I think of them.”
SECTION XXXIX.—THE DUCHESSE DU MAINE, LOUISE-BENOITE, DAUGHTER OF HENRI-JULES DE CONDE.
Madame du Maine is not taller than a child ten years old, and is not well made. To appear tolerably well, it is necessary for her to keep her mouth shut; for when she opens it, she opens it very wide, and shows her irregular teeth. She is not very stout, uses a great quantity of paint, has fine eyes, a white skin, and fair hair. If she were well disposed, she might pass, but her wickedness is insupportable.
Madame du Maine is about the height of a ten-year-old child and doesn't have a great figure. She needs to keep her mouth closed to look decent; when she opens it, she does so wide and reveals her crooked teeth. She's not very heavy, uses a lot of makeup, has beautiful eyes, a fair complexion, and light hair. If she were nicer, she could be attractive, but her evil nature is unbearable.
She has good sense, is accomplished, and can talk agreeably on most subjects. This brings about her a host of learned men and wits. She flatters the discontented very adroitly, and says all ill things of my son. This is the secret by which she has made her party. Her husband is fond of her, and she in turn piques herself upon her love for him; but I should be sorry to swear to her sincerity. This at least is certain, that she rules the Duc du Maine absolutely. As he holds several offices, he can provide for a great number of persons, either in the regiment of Guards, of which he is General; or in the Artillery, of which he is Grand Master; or in the Carabineers, where he appoints all the officers; without reckoning his regiments, by which he attracts a great number of persons.
She has good sense, is skilled, and can engage in pleasant conversation on most topics. This attracts a crowd of knowledgeable men and clever people. She flatters those who are unhappy very skillfully and speaks poorly of my son. This is the trick that has built her alliance. Her husband cares for her, and she takes pride in her love for him; however, I would hesitate to vouch for her honesty. One thing’s for sure: she completely controls the Duc du Maine. Since he holds several positions, he can support a large number of people, whether in the Guards, where he is General; in the Artillery, where he is Grand Master; or in the Carabineers, where he appoints all the officers; not to mention his regiments, which draw in many individuals.
Madame du Maine’s present lover is the Cardinal de Polignac; but she has, besides, the first Minister and some young men. The Cardinal is accused of having assisted in the refutation of Fitz-Morris’s letters, although he has had this very year (1718) a long interview with my son, and has sworn never to engage in anything against his interests, notwithstanding his attachment to the Duchesse du Maine.
Madame du Maine's current lover is Cardinal de Polignac; however, she also has the Prime Minister and some younger men. The Cardinal is accused of helping to disprove Fitz-Morris's letters, even though he had a lengthy meeting with my son earlier this year (1718) and has promised never to act against his interests, despite his relationship with the Duchesse du Maine.
The Comte d’Albert, who was here last winter, took some pains to make himself agreeable to Madame du Maine, and succeeded so well as to make the Cardinal de Polignac very jealous. He followed them masked to a ball; but upon seeing the Duchess and the Count tete-a-tete, he could not contain his anger this betrayed him; and when the people learned that a Cardinal had been seen at a masked ball it caused them great diversion.
The Comte d’Albert, who was here last winter, made an effort to charm Madame du Maine and succeeded so well that it made Cardinal de Polignac very jealous. He followed them in disguise to a ball; however, upon seeing the Duchess and the Count alone together, he couldn't hide his anger and it showed. When people found out that a Cardinal had been spotted at a masked ball, it caused them a lot of amusement.
Her being arrested threw Madame du Maine into such a transport of rage that she was near choking, and only recovered herself by slow degrees.
Her arrest sent Madame du Maine into such a frenzy of rage that she almost choked, and she only calmed down gradually.
[The Marquis d’Ancenis, Captain of the Guards, who came early in the
morning to arrest the Princess, had supped with her on the preceding
evening, when he entered, the Duchess cried out to him, “Mon Dieu!
what have I done to you, that you should wake me so early?” The
chief domestics of the household were taken to the Bastille or to
Vincennes; the Prince of Dombes and the Comte d’Eu were carried to
Eu.]
[The Marquis d’Ancenis, Captain of the Guards, who came early in the morning to arrest the Princess, had dinner with her the night before. When he entered, the Duchess exclaimed, “Oh my God! What have I done to you that you should wake me so early?” The main staff of the household were taken to the Bastille or to Vincennes; the Prince of Dombes and the Comte d’Eu were taken to Eu.]
She is now said to be quite calm, and, it is added, she plays at cards all day long. When the play is over, she grows angry again, and falls upon her husband, his children, or her servants, who do not know how to appease her. She is dreadfully violent, and, it is said, has often beaten her husband.
She is now said to be pretty calm, and it's noted that she plays cards all day long. When the game ends, she becomes angry again and takes it out on her husband, his kids, or her servants, who don’t know how to calm her down. She is extremely violent and reportedly has often hit her husband.
All the time of her residence at Dijon she was playing the Orlando Furioso: sometimes she was not treated with the respect due to her rank; sometimes she complains of other things; she will not understand that she is a prisoner, and that she has deserved even a worse fate. She had flattered herself that when she should reach Chalons-sur-Saone she would enjoy more liberty, and have the whole city for her prison; but when she learnt that she was to be locked up in the citadel, as at Dijon, she would not set out. Far from repenting her treason, she fancies she has done something very praiseworthy.
During her time in Dijon, she was acting out the role of Orlando Furioso: sometimes she wasn't treated with the respect her status deserved; other times, she complained about various issues. She refused to accept that she was a prisoner and that she deserved an even worse fate. She had convinced herself that once she reached Chalons-sur-Saone, she would have more freedom and the entire city would be her prison. But when she found out she would be locked up in the citadel, just like in Dijon, she refused to leave. Instead of regretting her betrayal, she believed she had accomplished something commendable.
Melancholy as I am, my son has made me laugh by telling me what has been found in Madame du Maine’s letters, seized at the Cardinal de Polignac’s. In one of her letters, this very discreet and virtuous personage writes, “We are going into the country tomorrow; and I shall so arrange the apartments that your chamber shall be next to mine. Try to manage matters as well as you did the last time, and we shall be very happy.”
Melancholy as I am, my son has made me laugh by sharing what was discovered in Madame du Maine’s letters, which were taken at the Cardinal de Polignac’s place. In one of her letters, this very discreet and virtuous individual writes, “We are going to the countryside tomorrow; and I will arrange the rooms so that your room is next to mine. Try to handle things as well as you did last time, and we will be very happy.”
The Princess knows very well that her daughter has had an intrigue with the Cardinal, and has endeavoured to break it off. For this purpose she has convinced her by the Cardinal’s own letters that he is unfaithful to her, and prefers a certain Montauban to her. This, however, has had no effect. The Duc du Maine has been informed of everything, and he writes to her sister, “I ought not to be put into prison, but into petticoats, for having suffered myself to be so led by the nose.”
The Princess is well aware that her daughter has been involved with the Cardinal and has tried to put an end to it. To do this, she has persuaded her, using the Cardinal’s own letters, that he is cheating on her and favors someone named Montauban over her. However, this has had no impact. The Duc du Maine has been informed about everything, and he writes to her sister, “I shouldn’t be locked up; I should be in a dress for letting myself be so easily manipulated.”
He has resolved never to see his wife again, although he does not yet know of the Duchess’s letter to the Cardinal, nor of the other measures she has taken for the purpose of decorating her husband’s brows.
He has decided never to see his wife again, even though he doesn't yet know about the Duchess's letter to the Cardinal or the other steps she has taken to honor her husband.
Madame du Maine will eventually become really crazy, for she is dreadfully troubled with the vapours. Her mother has entreated my son to let her daughter be brought to her house at Anet, where she will be answerable for her conduct and suffer her to speak with no one.
Madame du Maine is going to go completely insane eventually, because she is extremely troubled by her anxieties. Her mother has asked my son to bring her daughter to their home in Anet, where she will take responsibility for her behavior and won't let her talk to anyone.
My son replied, “that if Madame du Maine had only conspired against his life, he would have pardoned her with all his heart; but that, as her offence had been committed against the State, he was obliged, in spite of himself, to keep her in prison.”
My son replied, "that if Madame du Maine had just plotted against his life, he would have forgiven her wholeheartedly; but since her offense was against the State, he was forced, despite himself, to keep her in prison."
It is not true that the Duc du Maine has permission to hunt; he is only allowed to ride upon a hired horse round the citadel, to take the air, in the company of four persons.
It’s not true that the Duc du Maine has permission to hunt; he’s only allowed to ride a rented horse around the citadel to get some fresh air, accompanied by four people.
The Abbe de Maulevrier and Mademoiselle de Langeron persuaded the Princess that Madame du Maine was at the point of death, and was only desirous of seeing her dear mother before she expired, to receive her last benediction, as she should die innocent. The Princess immediately set out in great anxiety and with deep grief; but was strangely surprised, on arriving at her daughter’s house, to see her come to meet her in very good health. Mademoiselle de Langeron said that the Duchess concealed her illness that she might not make her mother unhappy.
The Abbe de Maulevrier and Mademoiselle de Langeron convinced the Princess that Madame du Maine was on her deathbed and just wanted to see her dear mother to receive her last blessing before she died innocent. The Princess quickly left in great anxiety and deep sorrow, but was very surprised when she arrived at her daughter's house to find her in perfect health. Mademoiselle de Langeron explained that the Duchess hid her illness to avoid making her mother unhappy.
After the confession which Madame du Maine thought proper to make, which she has confirmed by writing, my son has set her at liberty, and has permitted her to come to Sceaux. She is terribly mortified at her letter being read in the open Council. As she has declared in her confession that she had done everything without her husband’s knowledge, although in his name, he, too, has been permitted to return to his estate of Chavigny, near Versailles.
After the confession that Madame du Maine chose to make, which she has confirmed in writing, my son has freed her and allowed her to come to Sceaux. She is extremely embarrassed about having her letter read in the open Council. Since she stated in her confession that she acted without her husband's knowledge, even though it was in his name, he has also been allowed to return to his estate in Chavigny, near Versailles.
Madame du Maine had written to my son that, in the event of her having omitted anything in her declaration, he would only have to ask Mademoiselle de Launay about it. He sent in consequence for that lady, to ask her some questions. Mademoiselle de Launay replied: “I do not know whether her imprisonment may have turned my mistress’s brain, but it has not had the same effect upon me; I neither know, nor will I say anything.”
Madame du Maine had written to my son that, if she had missed anything in her statement, he just needed to ask Mademoiselle de Launay about it. He then called for that lady to ask her some questions. Mademoiselle de Launay replied, “I’m not sure if her imprisonment has affected my mistress’s mind, but it hasn’t had the same effect on me; I neither know, nor will I say anything.”
Madame du Maine had gained over certain gentlemen in all the Provinces, and had tampered with them to induce them to revolt; but none of them would swallow the bait excepting in Brittany.
Madame du Maine had won over some gentlemen in all the provinces and had tried to persuade them to rebel; however, none of them would take the bait except in Brittany.
She has not been at the theatre yet; meaning, by this, to intimate that she is still afflicted at lying under her husband’s displeasure. It is said that she has written to him, but that he has returned her letter unopened.
She hasn’t been to the theater yet; this suggests that she is still struggling with her husband’s anger. It’s said that she wrote to him, but he sent her letter back unopened.
She came some days ago to see my son, and to request him not to oppose a reconciliation between herself and her husband. My son laughed and said, “I will not interfere in it; for have I not learned from Sganarelle that it is not wise to put one’s finger between the bark and the tree?” The town says they will be reconciled. If this really should take place, I shall say as my father used: “Agree together, bad ones!”
She came a few days ago to see my son and asked him not to oppose a reconciliation between her and her husband. My son laughed and said, “I won’t get involved; haven’t I learned from Sganarelle that it’s not smart to stick your finger between the bark and the tree?” People in town say they will get back together. If that actually happens, I’ll say what my father used to say: “Make peace, you troublemakers!”
My son tells me that the little Duchess has again besought him to reconcile her with her husband. My son replied, “that it depended much more upon herself than upon him.” I do not know whether she took this for a compliment, or what crotchet she got in her head, but she suddenly jumped up from the sofa, and clung about my son’s neck, kissing him on both cheeks in spite of himself (18th June, 1720).
My son tells me that the little Duchess has asked him again to help her make up with her husband. My son replied, “that it depends much more on her than on him.” I don’t know if she took this as a compliment, or what idea she got in her head, but she suddenly jumped up from the sofa and hugged my son, kissing him on both cheeks against his will (18th June, 1720).
The Duc du Maine is entirely reconciled to his dear moiety. I am not surprised, for I have been long expecting it.
The Duke of Maine is completely back on good terms with his dear half. I’m not surprised, as I’ve been expecting it for a while now.
SECTION XL.—LOUVOIS
M. de Louvois was a person of a very wicked disposition; he hated his father and brother, and, as they were my very good friends, this minister made me feel his dislike of them. His hatred was also increased, because he knew that I was acquainted with his ill-treatment of my father, and that I had no reason in the world to like him. He feared that I should seek to take vengeance upon him, and for this reason he was always exciting the King against me. Upon this point alone did he agree with that old, Maintenon.
M. de Louvois was a really awful person; he despised his father and brother, and since they were my close friends, this minister made it clear that he didn't like them. His hatred grew because he knew I was aware of how poorly he treated my father and that I had no reason to like him at all. He worried that I might try to get back at him, and because of that, he constantly stirred up the King against me. This was the only thing he had in common with that old Maintenon.
I believe that Louvois had a share in the conspiracy by which Langhans and Winkler compassed my poor brother’s death. When the King had taken the Palatinate, I required him to arrest the culprits; the King gave orders for it, and they were in fact seized, but afterwards liberated by a counter-order of Louvois. Heaven, however, took care of their punishment for the crime which they had committed upon my poor brother; for Langhans died in the most abject wretchedness, and Winkler went mad and beat his own brains out.
I believe that Louvois was involved in the conspiracy that resulted in my poor brother’s death, orchestrated by Langhans and Winkler. After the King took the Palatinate, I demanded that he arrest those responsible. The King ordered their capture, and they were indeed taken into custody, but Louvois later issued a counter-order that set them free. However, justice was served by a higher power for the crime they committed against my brother; Langhans died in complete misery, and Winkler lost his mind and ended up taking his own life.
There is no doubt that the King spoke very harshly to Louvois, but certainly he did not treat him as has been pretended, for the King was incapable of such an action. Louvois was a brute and an insolent person; but he served the King faithfully, and much better than any other person. He did not, however, forget his own interest, and played his cards very well. He was horribly depraved, and by his impoliteness and the grossness of his replies made himself universally hated. He might, perhaps, believe in the Devil; but he did not believe in God. He had faith in all manner of predictions, but he did not scruple to burn, poison, lie and cheat.
There's no doubt that the King was really harsh with Louvois, but he definitely didn't treat him as has been claimed, because the King was incapable of such behavior. Louvois was rude and arrogant; however, he served the King loyally, and better than anyone else. He didn't forget his own interests, though, and played his cards wisely. He was incredibly corrupt, and his rudeness and the crudeness of his responses made him universally disliked. He might have believed in the Devil, but he didn't believe in God. He had faith in all kinds of predictions, but he didn't hesitate to burn, poison, lie, and cheat.
If he did not love me very well, I was at least even with him; and, for the latter part of his time, he conducted himself somewhat better. I was one of the last persons to whom he spoke, and I was even shocked when it was announced that the man with whom I had been conversing a quarter of an hour before, and who did not look ill, was no more.
If he didn't love me a lot, I was at least on equal terms with him; and towards the end of his life, he behaved a little better. I was one of the last people he talked to, and I was even shocked when it was announced that the guy I had been chatting with a quarter of an hour earlier, and who didn't seem sick, was gone.
They have not yet learnt, although I have resided so long in France, to respect my seal. M. de Louvois used to have all my letters opened and read; and M. Corey, following his noble example, has not been more courteous to me. Formerly they used to open them for the purpose of finding something to my prejudice, and now (1718) they open them through mere habit.
They still haven't learned, even after I've lived in France for so long, to respect my seal. M. de Louvois used to have all my letters opened and read; and M. Corey, following his fine example, hasn’t been any more polite to me. In the past, they would open them to find something against me, and now (1718) they open them out of habit.
SECTION XLI.—LOUIS XV.
It is impossible for any child to be more agreeable than our young King; he has large, dark eyes and long, crisp eyelashes; a good complexion, a charming little mouth, long and thick dark-brown hair, little red cheeks, a stout and well-formed body, and very pretty hands and feet; his gait is noble and lofty, and he puts on his hat exactly like the late King. The shape of his face is neither too long nor too short; but the worst thing, and which he inherits from his mother, is, that he changes colour very frequently. Sometimes he looks ill, but in half an hour his colour will have returned. His manners are easy, and it may be said, without flattery, that he dances very well. He is quick and clever in all that he attempts; he has already (1720) begun to shoot at pheasants and partridges, and has a great passion for shooting.
It’s impossible for any child to be more charming than our young King; he has big, dark eyes and long, thick eyelashes; a good complexion, a lovely little mouth, long and thick dark-brown hair, rosy cheeks, a sturdy and well-proportioned body, and very nice hands and feet; his walk is stately and dignified, and he puts on his hat just like the late King. The shape of his face is neither too long nor too short; but the worst part, which he inherited from his mother, is that he frequently changes color. Sometimes he looks unwell, but in half an hour his color will return. His manners are relaxed, and it can honestly be said that he dances very well. He is quick and smart in everything he tries; he has already (1720) started shooting at pheasants and partridges, and he has a strong passion for shooting.
He is as like his mother as one drop of water is to another; he has sense enough, and all that he seems to want is a little more affability. He is terribly haughty, and already knows what respect is. His look is what may be called agreeable, but his air is milder than his character, for his little head is rather an obstinate and wilful one.
He is just like his mother, as similar as one drop of water is to another; he’s sensible enough, and all he seems to need is a bit more friendliness. He’s extremely proud and already understands what respect is. His appearance is what you would call pleasant, but his demeanor is softer than his true nature, as his small head is quite stubborn and willful.
The young King was full of grief when Madame de Ventadour quitted him. She said to him, “Sire, I shall come back this evening; mind that you behave very well during my absence.”
The young King was overwhelmed with sadness when Madame de Ventadour left him. She said to him, “Sire, I’ll be back this evening; make sure you behave yourself while I’m gone.”
“My dear mamma,” replied he, “if you leave me I cannot behave well.”
“My dear mom,” he replied, “if you leave me, I can't behave properly.”
He does not care at all for any of the other women.
He doesn’t care at all about any of the other women.
The Marechal de Villeroi teases the young King sometimes about not speaking to me enough, and sometimes about not walking with me. This afflicts the poor child and makes him cry. His figure is neat, but he will speak only to persons he is accustomed to.
The Marechal de Villeroi often jokes with the young King about not talking to me enough and about not taking walks with me. This bothers the poor child and makes him upset. He has a tidy appearance, but he only talks to people he's used to.
On the 12th August (1717), the young King fell out of his bed in the morning; a valet de chambre, who saw him falling, threw himself adroitly on the ground, so that the child might tumble upon him and not hurt himself; the little rogue thrust himself under the bed and would not speak, that he might frighten his attendants.
On August 12th, 1717, the young King fell out of bed in the morning. A servant, who saw him fall, quickly threw himself to the ground so that the child would land on him and not get hurt. The little rascal crawled under the bed and stayed quiet, trying to scare his attendants.
The King’s brother died of the small-pox in consequence of being injudiciously blooded; this one, who is younger than his brother, was also attacked, but the femme de chambre concealed it, kept him warm, and continued to give him Alicant wine, by which means they preserved his life.
The King’s brother died from smallpox because of a poorly judged bloodletting; this younger brother also got sick, but the maid kept it a secret, kept him warm, and continued giving him Alicant wine, which saved his life.
The King has invented an order which he bestows: upon the boys with whom he plays. It is a blue and white ribbon, to which is suspended an enamelled oval plate, representing a star and the tent or pavilion in which he plays on the terrace (1717).
The King has created an order that he gives to the boys he plays with. It's a blue and white ribbon, with an enamel oval badge hanging from it, depicting a star and the tent or pavilion where he plays on the terrace (1717).
SECTION XLII.—ANECDOTES AND HISTORICAL PARTICULARS RELATING TO VARIOUS PERSONS.
Some horrible books had been written against Cardinal Mazarin, with which he pretended to be very much enraged, and had all the copies bought up to be burnt. When he had collected them all, he caused them to be sold in secret, and as if it were unknown to him, by which contrivance he gained 10,000 crowns. He used to laugh and say, “The French are delightful people; I let them sing and laugh, and they let me do what I will.”
Some terrible books had been written against Cardinal Mazarin, which he claimed to be very angry about, and he had all the copies bought up to be burned. Once he had gathered them all, he had them sold off secretly, acting as if he didn’t know about it, which allowed him to pocket 10,000 crowns. He would laugh and say, “The French are wonderful people; I let them sing and laugh, and they let me do whatever I want.”
In Flanders it is the custom for the monks to assist at all fires. It appeared to me a very whimsical spectacle to see monks of all colours, white, black and brown, running hither and thither with their frocks tucked up and carrying pails.
In Flanders, it's customary for the monks to help out at all fires. It seemed to me like a very odd sight to see monks of all colors—white, black, and brown—running around with their robes raised and carrying buckets.
The Chevalier de Saint George is one of the best men in the world, and complaisance itself. He one day said to Lord Douglas, “What should I do to gain the good-will of my countrymen?” Douglas replied, “Only embark hence with twelve Jesuits, and as soon as you land in England hang every one of them publicly; you can do nothing so likely to recommend you to the English people.”
The Chevalier de Saint George is one of the greatest guys around, always so accommodating. One day he asked Lord Douglas, “What can I do to win over my fellow countrymen?” Douglas responded, “Just set sail with twelve Jesuits, and as soon as you arrive in England, hang each of them publicly; there’s nothing that would make you more popular with the English people.”
It is said that at one of the masked balls at the opera, a mask entered the box in which were the Marechals de Villars and d’Estrees. He said to the former, “Why do you not go below and dance?” The Marshal replied, “If I were younger I could, but not crippled as you see I am.”—“Oh, go down,” rejoined the mask, “and the Marechal d’Estrees too; you will cut so brilliant a figure, having both of you such large horns.” At the same time he put up his fingers in the shape of horns. The Marechal d’Estrees only laughed, but the other was in a great rage and said, “You are a most insolent mask, and I do not know what will restrain me from giving you a good beating.”—“As to a good beating;” replied the mask, “I can do a trifle in that way myself when necessary; and as for the insolence of which you accuse me, it is sufficient for me to say that I am masked.” He went away as he said this, and was not seen again.
It’s said that at one of the masked balls at the opera, a masked figure entered the box where the Marechals de Villars and d’Estrees were seated. He asked the former, “Why don’t you go down and dance?” The Marshal replied, “If I were younger, I could, but as you can see, I’m not exactly in great shape.” “Oh, just go down,” the masked figure countered, “and bring Marechal d’Estrees with you; you’ll both look so impressive, considering the big horns you have.” As he said this, he raised his fingers to mimic horns. Marechal d’Estrees just laughed, but the other was furious and stated, “You’re a rude mask, and I’m not sure what’s stopping me from giving you a good beating.” The masked figure replied, “As for a good beating, I can handle that myself when needed; and as for the insolence you accuse me of, all I need to say is that I’m wearing a mask.” He then left and was never seen again.
The King of Denmark has the look of a simpleton; he made love to my daughter while he was here. When they were dancing he used to squeeze her hand, and turn up his eyes languishingly. He would begin his minuet in one corner of the hall and finish it in another. He stopped once in the middle of the hall and did not know what to do next. I was quite uneasy at seeing him, so I got up and, taking his hand, led him away, or the good gentleman might have strayed there until this time. He has no notion of what is becoming or otherwise.
The King of Denmark looks like a fool; he made advances on my daughter while he was here. When they danced, he would squeeze her hand and gaze at her with longing eyes. He’d start his minuet in one corner of the hall and finish it in another. He even stopped in the middle of the hall once, completely unsure of what to do next. I was quite worried watching him, so I got up, took his hand, and led him away, or else the poor guy might still be wandering around there. He has no idea what’s appropriate or not.
The Cardinal de Noailles is unquestionably a virtuous man; it would be a very good thing if all the others were like him. We have here four of them, and each is of a different character. Three of them resemble each other in a certain particular—they are as false as counterfeit coin; in every other respect they are directly opposite. The Cardinal de Polignac is well made, sensible, and insinuating, and his voice is very agreeable; but he meddles too much with politics, and is too much occupied with seeking favour. The Cardinal de Rohan has a handsome face, as his mother had, but his figure is despicable. He is as vain as a peacock, and fancies that there is not his equal in the whole world. He is a tricking intriguer, the slave of the Jesuits, and fancies he rules everything, while in fact he rules nothing. The Cardinal de Bissi is as ugly and clumsy as a peasant, proud, false and wicked, and yet a most fulsome flatterer; his falsehood may be seen in his very eyes; his talent he turns to mischievous purposes. In short, he has all the exterior of a Tartuffe. These Cardinals could, if they chose, sell the Cardinal de Noailles in a sack, for they are all much more cunning than he is.
The Cardinal de Noailles is definitely a good man; it would be great if all the others were like him. Here we have four others, each with a different personality. Three of them have one thing in common—they’re as deceitful as fake money; in every other way, they are completely different. Cardinal de Polignac is well-built, sensible, and charming, with a pleasant voice; but he meddles too much in politics and is overly focused on gaining favor. Cardinal de Rohan has a handsome face, like his mother, but his body is unimpressive. He’s as vain as a peacock and believes there’s no one better than him. He’s a scheming trickster, controlled by the Jesuits, convinced he orchestrates everything, when in reality, he controls nothing. Cardinal de Bissi is as unattractive and clumsy as a farmer, proud, deceitful, and cruel, yet he’s an excessive flatterer; his dishonesty is clear in his eyes, and he uses his talents for malicious purposes. In short, he has all the traits of a Tartuffe. These Cardinals could easily betray Cardinal de Noailles for personal gain, as they are all much sharper than he is.
With respect to the pregnancy of the Queen of England, the consort of James II., whom we saw at Saint-Germain, it is well known that her daughter-in-law maintains that she was not with child; but it seems to me that the Queen might easily have taken measures to prove the contrary. I spoke about it to Her Majesty myself. She replied “that she had begged the Princess Anne to satisfy herself by the evidence of her own senses, and to feel the motion of the child;” but the latter refused, and the Queen added “that she never could have supposed that the persons who had been in the habit of seeing her daily during her pregnancy could doubt the fact of her having been delivered.”
Regarding the pregnancy of the Queen of England, the wife of James II, whom we saw at Saint-Germain, it's well known that her daughter-in-law claims she wasn't pregnant; however, it seems to me that the Queen could have easily taken steps to prove otherwise. I spoke to Her Majesty about it myself. She replied that she had asked Princess Anne to confirm for herself by sensing the baby’s movements, but the latter refused. The Queen added that she never would have thought that those who saw her every day during her pregnancy could doubt that she had given birth.
[On the dethronement of James II., the party of William, Prince of
Orange, asserted that the Prince of Orange was a supposititious
child, and accused James of having spirited away the persona who
could have proved the birth of the Queen’s child, and of having made
the midwife leave the kingdom precipitately, she being the only
person who had actually seen the child born.]
[After James II was overthrown, supporters of William, Prince of Orange, claimed that the Prince of Orange was an illegitimate child. They accused James of having taken away the person who could have confirmed the Queen's child's birth and of hurriedly sending the midwife out of the country, as she was the only person who had actually witnessed the birth.]
A song has been made upon Lord Bolingbroke on the subject of his passion for a young girl who escaped from her convent. Some persons say that the girl was a professed nun. She ran after the Duke Regent a long time, but could not accomplish her intention.
A song has been created about Lord Bolingbroke and his feelings for a young girl who escaped from her convent. Some people claim that the girl was a committed nun. She pursued the Duke Regent for a long time but couldn't achieve her goal.
Lady Gordon, the grandaunt of Lord Huntley, was my dame d’atour for a considerable period. She was a singular person, and always plunged into reveries. Once when she was in bed and going to seal a letter, she dropped the wax upon her own thigh and burnt herself dreadfully. At another time, when she was also in bed and engaged in play, she threw the dice upon the ground and spat in the bed. Once, too, she spat in the mouth of my first femme de chambre, who happened to be passing at the moment. I think if I had not interposed they would have come to blows, so angry was the femme de chambre. One evening when I wanted my head-dress to go to Court, she took off her gloves and threw them in my face, putting on my head-dress at the same time with great gravity. When she was speaking to a man she had a habit of playing with the buttons of his waistcoat. Saving one day some occasion to talk to the Chevalier Buveon, a Captain in the late Monsieur’s Guard, and he being a very tall man, she could only reach his waistband, which she began to unbutton. The poor gentleman was quite horror-stricken, and started back, crying, “For Heaven’s sake, madame, what are you going to do?” This accident caused a great laugh in the Salon of Saint Cloud.
Lady Gordon, the grandaunt of Lord Huntley, was my lady-in-waiting for quite a while. She was a unique person, often lost in her own thoughts. Once, when she was in bed about to seal a letter, she accidentally dropped the wax on her thigh and burned herself badly. Another time, while also in bed and playing, she threw the dice on the floor and spat in the bed. Once, she even spat in the mouth of my first maid, who happened to be walking by at that moment. I think if I hadn’t stepped in, they would have gotten into a fight because my maid was so upset. One evening, when I needed my hairpiece to go to Court, she took off her gloves and threw them in my face while putting on my hairpiece with a serious look. When she spoke to a man, she had a habit of fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat. One day, she had a chance to talk to Chevalier Buveon, a Captain in the late Monsieur’s Guard, and since he was very tall, she could only reach his waistband, which she started to unbutton. The poor guy was totally stunned and stepped back, shouting, “For Heaven’s sake, madame, what are you doing?” This incident caused a big laugh in the Salon of Saint Cloud.
They say that Lord Peterborough, speaking of the two Kings of Spain, said, “What fools we are to cut each other’s throats for two such apes.”
They say that Lord Peterborough, talking about the two Kings of Spain, said, “What fools we are to kill each other over two such fools.”
Monteleon has good reason to be fond of the Princesse des Ursins, for she made his fortune: he was an insignificant officer in the troop, but he had talents and attached himself to this lady, who made of him what he now is (1716).
Monteleon has every reason to appreciate the Princesse des Ursins, as she significantly improved his life: he was just a low-ranking officer in the army, but he had skills and connected with this woman, who transformed him into who he is now (1716).
The Abbess of Maubuisson, Louise Hollandine, daughter of Frederic V., Elector-Palatine of the days of Henri IV., had had so many illegitimate children, that she commonly swore by her body, which had borne fourteen children.
The Abbess of Maubuisson, Louise Hollandine, daughter of Frederic V, Elector-Palatine during the time of Henri IV, had so many illegitimate children that she often swore by her body, which had given birth to fourteen children.
Cardinal Mazarin could not bear to have unfortunate persons about him. When he was requested to take any one into his service, his first question was, “Is he lucky?”
Cardinal Mazarin couldn't stand having unfortunate people around him. When he was asked to take someone into his service, his first question was, "Is he lucky?"
My son has never assisted the Pretender (Prince Edward Stuart), either publicly or privately; and if my Lord Stair had chosen to contract a more close alliance, as my son wished, he would have prevented the Pretender’s staying in France and collecting adherents; but as that alliance was declined, he merely confined himself to the stipulations contained in the treaty of peace. He neither furnished the Pretender with arms nor money. The Pope and some others gave him money, but my son could not, for he was too much engaged in paying off the late King’s debts, and he would not on account of that treaty. There can be no doubt that an attempt has been made to embroil my son with the King of England; for, at the same time that they were making the King believe my son was sustaining the Pretender’s cause, they told my son that Lord Stair had interviews with M. Pentenriedez, the Emperor’s Envoy, as well as with the Sicilian Ambassador, the object of which was to make a league with those powers to drive out the King of Spain and to set up the King of France in his place, at the same time that Sicily should be given up to the Emperor—in short, to excite all Europe against France. My son said himself, that, since he was to confine himself to the articles of the treaty of peace, he did not think he had any right to prevent the Pretender’s passage through his kingdom; and as the army had been reduced, he could not hinder the disbanded soldiers from taking service wherever they chose. My son had no intention whatever to break with England, although he has been told that there was a majority of two voices only in that nation against declaring it at war with France. He thinks Lord Stair is not his friend, and that he has not faithfully reported to his monarch the state of things here, but would rather be pleased to kindle the flames of a war. If that Minister had honestly explained to the King my son’s intentions, the King would not have refused to agree with them.
My son has never supported the Pretender (Prince Edward Stuart), either openly or secretly; and if my Lord Stair had chosen to form a closer alliance, as my son wanted, he could have stopped the Pretender from staying in France and gathering followers. But since that alliance was turned down, he stuck to the terms laid out in the peace treaty. He didn’t provide the Pretender with weapons or money. The Pope and a few others gave him money, but my son couldn’t, because he was too busy paying off the late King’s debts, and he wouldn’t do it because of that treaty. There’s no doubt that an attempt has been made to involve my son with the King of England; at the same time they were convincing the King that my son was supporting the Pretender, they told my son that Lord Stair was meeting with M. Pentenriedez, the Emperor’s Envoy, along with the Sicilian Ambassador, to create a coalition to remove the King of Spain and replace him with the King of France, while Sicily would be handed over to the Emperor—in short, to stir up all of Europe against France. My son said that, since he was going to stick to the articles of the peace treaty, he didn’t think he had the right to stop the Pretender from passing through his kingdom; and since the army had been reduced, he couldn’t prevent the disbanded soldiers from joining whichever side they wanted. My son had no intention of breaking ties with England, even though he’s been told there was only a two-vote majority in that country against declaring war on France. He believes Lord Stair is not his friend and hasn’t accurately informed his king about the situation here, but would rather ignite the flames of war. If that Minister had honestly explained my son’s intentions to the King, the King would have agreed with them.
It is said here that the present Queen of Spain (1716), although she is more beloved by her husband than was the last, has less influence over him. The Abbe Alberoni has them both in his power, and governs them like two children.
It’s said that the current Queen of Spain (1716), even though she is more loved by her husband than the last one, has less influence over him. The Abbe Alberoni has control over both of them and manages them like two kids.
The English gentlemen and ladies who are here tell horrible stories of Queen Anne. They say she gets quite drunk, and that besides but that she is inconstant in her affections, and changes often. Lady Sandwich has not told this to me, but she has to my son. I have seen her but seldom, on account of the repugnance I felt at learning she had confessed she had been present at such orgies.
The English gentlemen and ladies here share shocking tales about Queen Anne. They say she gets pretty drunk and that she's fickle in her relationships, constantly changing her affections. Lady Sandwich hasn’t shared this with me directly, but she has with my son. I’ve only seen her a few times because I was so put off by the fact that she admitted to being at those wild parties.
I do not know whether it is true that Louvois was poisoned by that old Maintenon, but it is quite certain that he was poisoned, as well as his physician who committed the crime, and who said when he was dying, “I die by poison, but I deserve it, for having poisoned my master, M. de Louvois; and I did this in the hope of becoming the King’s physician, as Madame de Maintenon had promised me.” I ought to add that some persons pretend to think this story of Doctor Seron is a mere invention. Old Piety (Maintenon) did not commit this crime without an object; but if she really did poison Louvois, it was because he had opposed her designs and endeavoured to undeceive the King. Louvois, the better to gain his object, had advised the King not to take her with him to the army. The King was weak enough to repeat this to her, and this it was that excited her against Louvois. That the latter was a very bad man, who feared neither heaven nor hell, no man can deny; but it must be confessed that he served his King faithfully.
I don’t know if it’s true that Louvois was poisoned by that old Maintenon, but it’s definitely clear he was poisoned, along with his physician who committed the act. As he was dying, he said, “I’m dying from poison, but I deserve it for having poisoned my master, M. de Louvois; I did this hoping to become the King’s physician, as Madame de Maintenon promised me.” I should mention that some people think this story about Doctor Seron is just a fabrication. Old Piety (Maintenon) wouldn’t have committed this crime without a reason; but if she really did poison Louvois, it was because he had thwarted her plans and tried to open the King’s eyes. Louvois, wanting to achieve his goal, advised the King not to take her with him to the army. The King was naive enough to repeat this to her, which turned her against Louvois. It’s undeniable that Louvois was a very bad man, who didn’t fear heaven or hell, but it must be acknowledged that he served his King loyally.
The Duke de Noailles’ grandfather was one of the ugliest men in the world. He had one glass eye, and his nose was like an owl’s, his mouth large, his teeth ugly and decayed, his face and head very small, his body long and bent, and he was bitter and ill-tempered. His name was Gluinel. Madame de Cornuel one day was reading his grandson’s genealogy, and, when she came to his name, exclaimed, “I always suspected, when I saw the Duc de Noailles, that he came out of the Book of the Lamentations of Jeremiah!”
The Duke de Noailles’ grandfather was one of the ugliest men in the world. He had a glass eye, his nose was shaped like an owl's, his mouth was large, his teeth were crooked and decayed, and his face and head were very small. His body was long and hunched, and he had a bitter, bad-tempered personality. His name was Gluinel. One day, Madame de Cornuel was reading his grandson's family tree, and when she got to his name, she exclaimed, “I always suspected, when I saw the Duc de Noailles, that he came straight out of the Book of Lamentations of Jeremiah!”
When James II. took refuge in France from England, Madame de Cornuel went to Saint-Germain to see him. Some time afterwards, she was told of the pains our King was taking to procure his restoration to the throne. Madame de Cornuel shook her head, and said, “I have seen this King James; our monarch’s efforts are all in vain; he is good for nothing but to make poor man’s sauce. (La sauce au pauvre homme.)”
When James II took refuge in France from England, Madame de Cornuel went to Saint-Germain to see him. Some time later, she heard about the efforts our King was making to restore him to the throne. Madame de Cornuel shook her head and said, “I have seen this King James; our monarch’s efforts are all in vain; he is good for nothing but to make poor man’s sauce.”
She went to Versailles to see the Court when M. de Torcy and M. de Seignelay, both very young, had just been appointed Ministers. She saw them, as well as Madame de Maintenon, who had then grown old. When she returned to Paris, some one asked her what remarkable things she had seen. “I have seen,” she said, “what I never expected to see there; I have seen love in its tomb and the Ministry in its cradle.”
She went to Versailles to check out the Court when M. de Torcy and M. de Seignelay, both very young, had just been made Ministers. She saw them along with Madame de Maintenon, who had grown old by then. When she got back to Paris, someone asked her what interesting things she had seen. “I’ve seen,” she said, “what I never expected to see there; I’ve seen love in its tomb and the Ministry in its cradle.”
The elder Margrave of Anspach was smitten with Mademoiselle d’Armagnac, but he would not marry her, and said afterwards that he had never intended to do so, because the familiarities which had passed between her and the Marquis de Villequier (1716) had disgusted him. The lady’s mother would have liked nothing better than to surprise the Margrave with her daughter in some critical situation: for this purpose he had sufficient opportunities given him, but he was prudent, and conducted himself with so much modesty, that he avoided the snare. To tell the truth, I had given him a hint on the subject, for I was too well acquainted with the mother, who is a very bad woman.
The older Margrave of Anspach was infatuated with Mademoiselle d’Armagnac, but he refused to marry her and later claimed he never planned to because he was put off by the close relationship she had with the Marquis de Villequier (1716). The lady’s mother would have loved nothing more than to catch the Margrave in a compromising situation with her daughter: she provided him with plenty of opportunities, but he was careful and behaved with such modesty that he avoided the trap. To be honest, I had hinted to him about it, as I knew the mother well, and she is a very bad person.
The Cardinal de Richelieu, notwithstanding his wit, had often fits of distraction. Sometimes he would fancy himself a horse, and run jumping about a billiard-table, neighing and snorting; this would last an hour, at the end of which his people would put him to bed and cover him up closely to induce perspiration; when he awoke the fit had passed and did not appear again.
The Cardinal de Richelieu, despite being clever, often had episodes of distraction. Sometimes he would imagine he was a horse and would run around a billiard table, neighing and snorting; this would go on for an hour, after which his staff would tuck him into bed and cover him tightly to make him sweat; when he woke up, the episode had passed and didn’t happen again.
The Archbishop of Paris reprimanded the Bishop of Gap on the bad reputation which he had acquired in consequence of his intercourse with women. “Ah, Monseigneur,” replied the Bishop of Gap, “if you knew what you talk of, you would not be astonished. I lived the first forty years of my life without experiencing it; I don’t know what induced me to venture on it, but, having done so, it is impossible to refrain. Only try it for once, Monseigneur, and you will perceive the truth of what I tell you.”
The Archbishop of Paris scolded the Bishop of Gap for the bad reputation he had gained because of his relationships with women. “Ah, Your Excellency,” replied the Bishop of Gap, “if you understood what you’re talking about, you wouldn’t be so surprised. I lived the first forty years of my life without it; I don’t know what made me take the plunge, but once I did, it’s impossible to stop. Just try it once, Your Excellency, and you’ll see the truth in what I’m saying.”
[This Bishop, whose name was Herve, had lived in prudence and
regularity up to the age of fifty, when he began, on a sudden, to
lead a very debauched life. They compelled him to give up his
Bishopric, which he did on condition of being allowed to stay at
Paris as much as he chose. He continued to live in perpetual
pleasure, but towards the close of his career he repented of his
sins and engaged with the Capuchin missionaries.]
[This bishop, named Herve, had lived wisely and consistently until he turned fifty, at which point he suddenly started leading a highly indulgent life. He was forced to resign from his bishopric, but he agreed to do so on the condition that he could stay in Paris as much as he wanted. He continued to indulge in constant pleasure, but towards the end of his life, he regretted his sins and joined the Capuchin missionaries.]
This Bishop is now living in the village of Boulogne, near Paris: he is a little priest, very ugly, with a large head and fiery red face.
This bishop is now living in the village of Boulogne, near Paris: he is a small priest, quite unattractive, with a big head and a bright red face.
Our late King said, “I am, I confess, somewhat piqued to see that, with all the authority belonging to my station in this country, I have exclaimed so long against high head-dresses, while no one had the complaisance to lower them for me in the slightest degree. But now, when a mere strange English wench arrives with a little low head-dress, all the Princesses think fit to go at once from one extremity to another.”
Our late King said, “I admit, I’m a bit annoyed to see that, with all the power that comes with my position in this country, I’ve complained for so long about high head-dresses, yet no one has bothered to lower them for me even a little. But now, when an unfamiliar English girl shows up with a simple low head-dress, all the Princesses decide to immediately switch from one extreme to the other.”
A Frenchman who had taken refuge in Holland informed me by letter of what was passing with respect to the Prince of Orange. Thinking that I should do the King a service by communicating to him these news, I hastened to him, and he thanked me for them. In the evening, however, he said to me, smiling, “My Ministers will have it that you have been misinformed, and that your correspondent has not written you one word of truth.” I replied, “Time will show which is better informed, your Majesty’s Ministers or my correspondent. For my own part, Sire, my intention at least was good.”
A Frenchman who had sought safety in Holland wrote to me about what was happening regarding the Prince of Orange. Thinking I could do the King a favor by sharing this news, I rushed to inform him, and he thanked me for it. However, later that evening, he said to me with a smile, “My Ministers believe you’ve been misled and that your contact hasn’t told you the truth at all.” I replied, “Time will reveal whether your Majesty’s Ministers or my contact is better informed. As for me, Sire, my intention was at least a good one.”
Some time afterwards, when the report of the approaching accession of William to the throne of England became public, M. de Torcy came to me to beg I would acquaint him with my news. I replied, “I receive none now; you told the King that what I formerly had was false, and upon this I desired my correspondents to send me no more, for I do not love to spread false reports.” He laughed, as he always did, and said, “Your news have turned out to be quite correct.” I replied, “A great and able Minister ought surely to have news more correct than I can obtain; and I have been angry with myself for having formerly acquainted the King with the reports which had reached me. I ought to have recollected that his clever Ministers are acquainted with everything.” The King therefore said to me, “You are making game of my Ministers.”—“Sire,” I replied, “I am only giving them back their own.”
Some time later, when the news about William becoming the king of England became public, M. de Torcy came to me asking if I could share my insights with him. I replied, “I’m not getting any updates now; you told the King that what I had before was false, so I told my contacts to stop sending me information because I don’t want to spread false reports.” He laughed, as always, and said, “Your news turned out to be completely correct.” I replied, “A competent and skilled Minister should definitely have better information than I can get, and I’ve been frustrated with myself for previously informing the King about the reports I received. I should have remembered that his smart Ministers know everything.” The King then said to me, “You’re making fun of my Ministers.” — “Sire,” I replied, “I’m just giving them back their own medicine.”
M. de Louvois was the only person who was well served by his spies; indeed, he never spared his money. All the Frenchmen who went into Germany or Holland as dancing or fencing-masters, esquires, etc., were paid by him to give him information of whatever passed in the several Courts. After his death this system was discontinued, and thus it is that the present Ministers are so ignorant of the affairs of other nations.
M. de Louvois was the only one who truly benefited from his spies; he never hesitated to spend money. All the Frenchmen who traveled to Germany or Holland as dance or fencing instructors, or as gentlemen, received payment from him to report on what was happening in the various courts. After he died, this system ended, which is why the current ministers are so uninformed about other countries' affairs.
Lauzun says the drollest things, and takes the most amusing, roundabout way of intimating whatever he does not care to say openly. For example, when he wished the King to understand that the Count de Marsan, brother of M. Legrand, had attached himself to M. Chamillard, the then Minister, he took the following means: “Sire,” said he, with an air of the utmost simplicity, as if he had not the least notion of malice, “I wished to change my wigmaker, and employ the one who is now the most in fashion; but I could not find him, for M. de Marsan has kept him shut up in his room for several days past, making wigs for his household, and for M. de Chamillard’s friends.”
Lauzun says the funniest things and has the most entertaining, roundabout way of hinting at things he doesn’t want to say directly. For instance, when he wanted the King to know that Count de Marsan, M. Legrand’s brother, had allied himself with M. Chamillard, the Minister at the time, he took the following approach: “Sire,” he said, with the utmost simplicity, as if he had no idea of any malicious intent, “I wanted to change my wigmaker and use the one who is currently the most in style; but I couldn’t find him, because M. de Marsan has been keeping him locked up in his room for several days, making wigs for his household and for M. de Chamillard’s friends.”
The adventures of Prince Emmanuel of Portugal are a perfect romance. His brother, the King, was desirous, it is said, at first, to have made a priest and a Bishop of him; to this, however, he had an insuperable objection, for he was in love. The King sent for him, and asked him if it was true that he had really resolved not to enter the Church. On the Prince’s replying in the affirmative, the King, his brother, struck him. The Prince said, “You are my King and my brother, and therefore I cannot revenge myself as I ought upon you; but you have put an insult upon me which I cannot endure, and you shall never again see me in the whole course of your life.” He is said to have set out on that very night. His brother wrote to him, commanding his return from Paris to Holland; as he made no reply to this command, his Governor and the Ambassador had no doubt that it was his intention to obey it. In the course of last week he expressed a desire to see Versailles and Marly. The Ambassador made preparations for this excursion, and together with his wife accompanied the Prince, whose Governor and one of his gentlemen were of the party. Upon their return from Versailles, when they reached the courtyard, the Prince called out to stop, and asked if there were any chaises ready:
The adventures of Prince Emmanuel of Portugal are a classic romance. His brother, the King, initially wanted him to become a priest and a bishop; however, the Prince had a strong objection to this because he was in love. The King summoned him and asked if it was true that he had really decided not to enter the Church. When the Prince confirmed this, the King struck him. The Prince replied, “You are my King and my brother, so I can’t take the revenge I should on you; but you have disrespected me in a way I can't tolerate, and you will never see me again for the rest of your life.” It’s said that he left that very night. His brother wrote to him, ordering him to return from Paris to Holland; since he didn’t respond to this order, his Governor and the Ambassador were sure that he planned to comply. Last week, he expressed a desire to visit Versailles and Marly. The Ambassador made arrangements for this trip, and along with his wife, accompanied the Prince, whose Governor and one of his aides were also part of the group. On their way back from Versailles, when they got to the courtyard, the Prince called out to stop and asked if there were any carriages ready:
“Yes, Monseigneur,” replied a voice, “there are four.”—“That will be sufficient,” replied the Prince. Then addressing the Ambassador, he expressed his warmest thanks for the friendly attention he had shown him, and assured him that he desired nothing so much as an opportunity to testify his gratitude. “I am now going to set out,” he added, “for Vienna; the Emperor is my cousin; I have no doubt he will receive me, and I shall learn in his army to become a soldier in the campaign against the Turks.” He then thanked the Governor for the pains he had bestowed upon his education; and promised that, if any good fortune should befall him, his Governor should share it with him. He also said something complimentary to his gentleman. He then alighted, called for the post-chaises, and took his seat in one of them; his favourite, a young man of little experience, but, as it is said, of considerable talent, placed himself in another, and his two valets de chambre into the third and fourth. That nothing may be wanting to the romantic turn of his adventures, it is said, besides, that Madame de Riveira was the object of his affection in Portugal before she was married; that he even wished to make her his wife, but that his brother would not permit it. A short time before his departure, the husband, who is a very jealous man, found him at his wife’s feet; and this hastened the Prince’s departure.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” replied a voice, “there are four.” —“That will be enough,” replied the Prince. Then, addressing the Ambassador, he expressed his heartfelt thanks for the kindness he had shown him and assured him that he longed for the chance to show his appreciation. “I’m about to leave,” he added, “for Vienna; the Emperor is my cousin, and I’m sure he will welcome me. I will learn to be a soldier in his army for the campaign against the Turks.” He then thanked the Governor for the effort he had put into his education and promised that if any good fortune came his way, his Governor would share in it. He also mentioned something polite to his attendant. He then got down, called for the post chaises, and took his seat in one of them; his favorite, a young man with little experience but reportedly a lot of talent, got into another one, and his two personal assistants took the third and fourth. To add a romantic twist to his adventures, it’s said that Madame de Riveira was the object of his affection in Portugal before she got married; he even wanted to make her his wife, but his brother wouldn’t allow it. Shortly before his departure, her husband, who is quite jealous, found him at her feet, which sped up the Prince’s leaving.
Henri IV. had been one day told of the infidelity of one of his mistresses. Believing that the King had no intention of visiting her, she made an assignation with the Duc de Bellegarde in her own apartment. The King, having caused the time of his rival’s coming to be watched, when he was informed of his being there, went to his mistress’s room. He found her in bed, and she complained of a violent headache. The King said he was very hungry, and wanted some supper; she replied that she had not thought about supper, and believed she had only a couple of partridges. Henri IV. desired they should be served up, and said he would eat them with her. The supper which she had prepared for Bellegarde, and which consisted of much more than two partridges, was then served up; the King, taking up a small loaf, split it open, and, sticking a whole partridge into it, threw it under the bed. “Sire,” cried the lady, terrified to death, “what are you doing?”—“Madame,” replied the merry monarch, “everybody must live.” He then took his departure, content with having frightened the lovers.
Henri IV had one day heard about the unfaithfulness of one of his mistresses. Thinking the King wouldn't visit her, she arranged a meeting with Duc de Bellegarde in her apartment. The King had the timing of his rival’s arrival watched, and when he learned he was there, he went to his mistress’s room. He found her in bed, and she complained of a severe headache. The King mentioned he was very hungry and wanted some dinner; she replied that she hadn’t thought about dinner and only had a couple of partridges. Henri IV asked for them to be served and said he would eat them with her. The dinner she had prepared for Bellegarde, which included much more than just two partridges, was then brought out; the King picked up a small loaf, split it open, and stuffed a whole partridge into it, tossing it under the bed. “Sire,” the lady cried, terrified, “what are you doing?”—“Madame,” replied the cheerful monarch, “everyone has to eat.” He then left, satisfied with having startled the lovers.
I have again seen M. La Mothe le Vayer; who, with all his sense, dresses himself like a madman. He wears furred boots, and a cap which he never takes off, lined with the same material, a large band, and a black velvet coat.
I have seen M. La Mothe le Vayer again; he’s got a lot of smarts, but he dresses like a lunatic. He wears fur-lined boots and a cap that he never takes off, made of the same material, with a big band, and a black velvet coat.
We have had few Queens in France who have been really happy. Marie de Medicis died in exile. The mother of the King and of the late Monsieur was unhappy as long as her husband was alive. Our Queen Marie-Therese said upon her death-bed, “that from the time of her becoming Queen she had not had a day of real happiness.”
We’ve had very few Queens in France who were truly happy. Marie de Medicis died in exile. The mother of the King and the late Monsieur was unhappy for as long as her husband was alive. Our Queen Marie-Therese said on her deathbed, “that since she became Queen, she hadn’t had a single day of real happiness.”
Lauzun sometimes affects the simpleton that he may say disagreeable things with impunity, for he is very malicious. In order to hint to Marechal de Tesse that he did wrong in being so familiar with the common people, he called out to him one night in the Salon at Marly, “Marshal, pray give me a pinch of snuff; but let it be good—that, for example, which I saw you taking this morning with Daigremont the chairman.”
Lauzun sometimes pretends to be a fool so he can say unpleasant things without any consequences because he's quite spiteful. To suggest to Marechal de Tesse that he made a mistake in being so friendly with ordinary people, he called out to him one night in the Salon at Marly, “Marshal, please give me a pinch of snuff; but make it good—like the one I saw you taking this morning with Daigremont the chairman.”
In the time of Henri IV. an Elector-Palatine came to France; the King’s household was sent to meet him. All his expenses were paid, as well as those of his suite; and when he arrived at the Court he entered between the Dauphin and Monsieur and dined with the King. I learned these particulars from the late Monsieur. The King, under the pretence of going to the chase, went about a league from Paris, and, meeting the Elector, conducted him in his carriage. At Paris he was always attended by the King’s servants. This treatment is somewhat different from that which, in my time, was bestowed upon Maximilian Maria, the Elector of Bavaria. This Elector often enraged me with the foolish things that he did. For example, he went to play and to dine with M. d’Antin, and never evinced the least desire to dine with his own nephews. A sovereign, whether he be Elector or not, might with propriety dine either at the Dauphin’s table or mine; and, if the Elector had chosen, he might have come to us; but he was contented to dine with M. d’Antin or M. de Torcy, and some ladies of the King’s suite. I am angry to this day when I think of it. The King used often to laugh at my anger on this subject; and, whenever the Elector committed some new absurdity, he used to call to me in the cabinet and ask me, “Well, Madame, what have you to say to that?” I would reply, “All that the Elector does is alike ridiculous.” This made the King laugh heartily. The Elector had a Marshal, the Count d’Arco, the brother of that person who had married in so singular a manner the Prince’s mistress, Popel, which marriage had been contracted solely upon his promise never to be alone with his wife. The Marshal, who was as honest as his brother was accommodating, was terribly annoyed at his master’s conduct; he came at first to me to impart to me his chagrin whenever the Elector committed some folly; and when he behaved better he used also to tell me of it. I rather think he must have been forbidden to visit me, for latterly I never saw him. None of the Elector’s suite have visited me, and I presume they have been prevented. This Prince’s amorous intrigues have been by no means agreeable to the King. The Elector was so fond of grisettes that, when the King was giving names to each of the roads through the wood, he was exceedingly anxious that one of them should be called L’Allee des Grisettes; but the King would not consent to it. The Elector has perpetuated his race in the villages; and two country girls have been pointed out to me who were pregnant by him at his departure.
In the time of Henri IV, an Elector-Palatine visited France, and the King’s household was sent to greet him. All his expenses, along with those of his entourage, were covered, and upon arriving at the Court, he was seated between the Dauphin and Monsieur for dinner with the King. I learned these details from the late Monsieur. The King pretended to go hunting and traveled about a league from Paris, where he met the Elector and brought him back in his carriage. In Paris, the Elector was always accompanied by the King’s servants. This treatment differs quite a bit from what Maximilian Maria, the Elector of Bavaria, received during my time. This Elector often frustrated me with his foolishness. For instance, he went out to play and dine with M. d’Antin and never showed the slightest interest in dining with his own nephews. A ruler, whether an Elector or not, could appropriately dine either at the Dauphin’s table or mine; and if the Elector had chosen, he could have joined us; instead, he settled for dining with M. d’Antin or M. de Torcy and some ladies from the King’s entourage. I still feel angry when I think about it. The King often laughed at my frustration over this, and whenever the Elector did something absurd, he would call me into his office and ask, “So, Madame, what do you think of that?” I would reply, “Everything the Elector does is equally ridiculous.” This would make the King laugh heartily. The Elector had a Marshal, Count d’Arco, the brother of the man who married the Prince’s mistress, Popel, under very unusual circumstances, which involved a promise never to be alone with his wife. The Marshal, who was as honest as his brother was accommodating, was greatly annoyed by his master’s behavior; he initially came to me to share his frustrations whenever the Elector acted foolishly, and when he behaved better, he would let me know. I think he must have been told not to visit me, as I didn’t see him much towards the end. None of the Elector’s entourage came to see me, and I assume they were kept away. This Prince’s romantic escapades were not at all pleasing to the King. The Elector had such a fondness for young women that when the King was naming the paths through the woods, he was eager for one to be called L’Allee des Grisettes, but the King refused. The Elector has continued his lineage in the villages, and I was pointed out two country girls who were pregnant with his child when he left.
His marriage with a Polish Princess is a striking proof that a man cannot avoid his fate. This was not a suitable match for him, and was managed almost without his knowledge, as I have been told. His Councillors, having been bought over, patched up the affair; and when the Elector only caused it to be submitted for their deliberation, it was already decided on.
His marriage to a Polish princess is a clear indication that a man can't escape his destiny. This match wasn't right for him and was arranged almost without his awareness, as I've been informed. His advisers, having been bribed, put the deal together; and by the time the Elector submitted it for their discussion, it had already been decided.
This Elector’s brother must have been made a Bishop of Cologne and Munster without the production of proof of his nobility being demanded; for it is well known that the King Sobieski was a Polish nobleman, who married the daughter of Darquin, Captain of our late Monsieur’s Swiss Guards. Great suspicions are entertained respecting the children of the Bavaria family, that is, the Elector and his brothers, who are thought to have been the progeny of an Italian doctor named Simoni. It was said at Court that the doctor had only given the Elector and his wife a strong cordial, the effect of which had been to increase their family; but they are all most suspiciously like the doctor.
This elector’s brother must have become a Bishop of Cologne and Munster without having to prove his noble status; it's well-known that King Sobieski was a Polish nobleman who married the daughter of Darquin, the captain of our late Monsieur’s Swiss Guards. There are serious doubts about the children of the Bavaria family, specifically the elector and his brothers, who are believed to be the offspring of an Italian doctor named Simoni. Rumor has it at Court that the doctor merely gave the elector and his wife a strong tonic, which led to an increase in their family, but they all suspiciously resemble the doctor.
I have heard it said that in England the people used to take my late uncle, Rupert, for a sorcerer, and his large black dog for the Devil; for this reason, when he joined the army and attacked the enemy, whole regiments fled before him.
I’ve heard that in England, people used to think my late uncle, Rupert, was a sorcerer, and his big black dog was the Devil. Because of this, when he joined the army and went into battle, entire regiments ran away from him.
A knight of the Palatinate, who had served many years in India, told me at Court in that country the first Minister and the keeper of the seals hated each other mortally. The latter having one day occasion for the seals, found they had been taken from the casket in which they were usually kept. He was of course greatly terrified, for his head depended upon their production. He went to one of his friends, and consulted with him what he should do. His friend asked him if he had any enemies at Court. “Yes,” replied the keeper of the seals, “the chief Minister is my mortal foe.”—“So much the better,” replied his friend; “go and set fire to your house directly; take out of it nothing but the casket in which the seals were kept, and take it directly to the chief Minister, telling him you know no one with whom you can more safely deposit it; then go home again and save whatever you can. When the fire shall be extinguished, you must go to the King, and request him to order the chief Minister to restore you the seals; and you must be sure to open the casket before the Prince. If the seals are there, all will be explained; if the Minister has not restored them, you must accuse him at once of having stolen them; and thus you will be sure to ruin your enemy and recover your seals.” The keeper of the seals followed his friend’s advice exactly, and the seals were found again in the casket.
A knight from the Palatinate, who had spent many years in India, told me at the court in that country that the first Minister and the keeper of the seals hated each other deeply. One day, when the keeper needed the seals, he discovered they had been taken from the casket where they were usually stored. Naturally, he was extremely worried since his life depended on producing them. He went to one of his friends and asked for advice on what to do. His friend asked if he had any enemies at court. “Yes,” replied the keeper of the seals, “the chief Minister is my sworn enemy.” “That’s actually good,” his friend said; “go set fire to your house right away; take out nothing but the casket with the seals, and bring it straight to the chief Minister, telling him you can trust no one more than him to keep it safe; then go back home and save whatever you can. Once the fire is out, go to the King and ask him to tell the chief Minister to give you back the seals; and make sure to open the casket in front of the King. If the seals are in there, everything will be cleared up; if the Minister hasn’t returned them, immediately accuse him of stealing them; this way, you’ll ruin your enemy and get your seals back.” The keeper of the seals followed his friend's advice exactly, and the seals were found again in the casket.
As soon as a royal child, which they call here un Enfant de France, is born, and has been swaddled, they put on him a grand cordon; but they do not create him a knight of the order until he has communicated; the ceremony is then performed in the ordinary manner.
As soon as a royal child, referred to here as un Enfant de France, is born and wrapped up, they put a grand cordon on him; however, they don’t make him a knight of the order until he has taken communion; the ceremony is then carried out in the usual way.
The ladies of chancellors here have the privilege of the tabouret when they come to the toilette; but in the afternoon they are obliged to stand. This practice began in the days of Marie de Medicis, when a chancellor’s wife happened to be in great favour. As she had a lame foot and could not stand up, the Queen, who would have her come to visit her every morning, allowed her to sit down. From this time the custom of these ladies sitting in the morning has been continued.
The wives of chancellors here have the privilege of using a stool when they come to get ready in the morning; however, in the afternoon, they have to stand. This practice started back in the days of Marie de Medicis when a chancellor’s wife was in high favor. Since she had a lame foot and couldn’t stand, the Queen, who wanted her to visit every morning, allowed her to sit down. Since then, the custom of these ladies sitting in the morning has continued.
In the reign of Henri IV. the King’s illegitimate children took precedence of the Princes of the House of Lorraine. On the day after the King’s death, the Duc de Verneuil was about to go before the Duc de Guise, when the latter, taking him by the arm, said, “That might have been yesterday, but to-day matters are altered.”
During the reign of Henri IV, the King’s illegitimate children ranked higher than the Princes of the House of Lorraine. The day after the King died, the Duc de Verneuil was about to approach the Duc de Guise, when the latter took him by the arm and said, “That may have been true yesterday, but today things have changed.”
Two young Duchesses, not being able to see their lovers, invented the following stratagem to accomplish their wishes. These two sisters had been educated in a convent some leagues distant from Paris. A nun of their acquaintance happening to die there, they pretended to be much afflicted at it, and requested permission to perform the last duties to her, and to be present at her funeral. They were believed to be sincere, and the permission they asked was readily granted them. In the funeral procession it was perceived that, besides the two ladies, there were two other persons whom no one knew. Upon being asked who they were, they replied they were poor priests in need of protection; and that, having learnt two Duchesses were to be present at the funeral, they had come to the convent for the purpose of imploring their good offices. When they were presented to them, the young ladies said they would interrogate them after the service in their chambers. The young priests waited upon them at the time appointed, and stayed there until the evening. The Abbess, who began to think their audience was too long, sent to beg the priests would retire. One of them seemed very melancholy, but the other laughed as if he would burst his sides. This was the Duc de Richelieu; the other was the Chevalier de Guemene, the younger son of the Duke of that name. The gentlemen themselves divulged the adventure.
Two young Duchesses, unable to see their lovers, came up with a clever plan to get what they wanted. These two sisters had been raised in a convent several miles away from Paris. When a nun they knew passed away, they acted like they were deeply saddened by it and asked for permission to perform her last rites and attend her funeral. Everyone believed they were being genuine, and the permission was quickly granted. During the funeral procession, it was noticed that, in addition to the two ladies, there were two other people nobody recognized. When asked who they were, they claimed to be poor priests seeking protection; they explained that upon hearing two Duchesses would be at the funeral, they had come to the convent to seek their help. When introduced to the ladies, the young women said they would question them later in their chambers. The priests showed up at the scheduled time and stayed until evening. The Abbess, thinking their meeting was dragging on, sent a message for the priests to leave. One of them appeared quite gloomy while the other laughed as if he would burst. This was the Duc de Richelieu; the other was the Chevalier de Guemene, the younger son of the Duke of that name. The men themselves shared the story of the adventure.
The King’s illegitimate children, fearing that they should be treated in the same way as the Princes of the blood, have for some months past been engaged in drawing a strong party of the nobility to their side, and have presented a very unjust petition against the Dukes and Peers. My son has refused to receive this petition, and has interdicted them from holding assemblies, the object of which he knows would tend to revolt. They have, nevertheless, continued them at the instigations of the Duc du Maine and his wife, and have even carried their insolence so far as to address a memorial to my son and another to the Parliament, in which they assert that it is within the province of the nobility alone to decide between the Princes of the blood and the legitimated Princes. Thirty of them have signed this memorial, of whom my son has had six arrested; three of them have been sent to the Bastille, and the other three to Vincennes; they are MM. de Chatillon, de Rieux, de Beaufremont, de Polignac, de Clermont, and d’O. The last was the Governor of the Comte de Toulouse, and remains with him. Clermont’s wife is one of the Duchesse de Berri’s ladies. She is not the most discreet person in the world, and has been long in the habit of saying to any one who would listen to her, “Whatever may come of it, my husband and I are willing to risk our lives for the Comte de Toulouse.” It is therefore evident that all this proceeds from the bastards. But I must expose still further the ingratitude of these people. Chatillon is a poor gentleman, whose father held a small employment under M. Gaston, one of those offices which confer the privilege of the entree to the antechambers, and the holders of which do not sit in the carriage with their masters. The two descendants, as they call themselves, of the house of Chatillon, insist that this Chatillon, who married an attorney’s daughter, is descended from the illegitimate branches of that family. His son was a subaltern in the Body Guard. In the summer time, when the young officers went to bathe, they used to take young Chatillon with them to guard their clothes, and for this office they gave him a crown for his supper. Monsieur having taken this poor person into his service, gave him a cordon bleu, and furnished him with money to commence a suit which he subsequently gained against the House of Chatillon, and they were compelled to recognize him. He then made him a Captain in the Guards; gave him a considerable pension, which my son continued, and permitted him also to have apartments in the Palais Royal. In these very apartments did this ungrateful man hold those secret meetings, the end of which was proposed to be my son’s ruin. Rieux’s grandfather had neglected to uphold the honour to which he was entitled, of being called the King’s cousin. My son restored him to this honour, gave his brother a place in the gendarmerie, and rendered him many other services. Chatillon tried particularly to excite the nobility against my son; and this is the recompense for all his kindness. My son’s wife is gay and content, in the hope that all will go well with her brothers.
The King’s illegitimate children, worried about being treated like the royal princes, have been working for months to gather support from the nobility. They’ve submitted a very unfair petition against the Dukes and Peers. My son has refused to accept this petition and has banned them from holding meetings, knowing these would lead to unrest. Despite this, they have continued their gatherings, incited by Duc du Maine and his wife, and have even gone so far as to send a memorial to my son and another to Parliament, claiming that only the nobility can decide between the royal and legitimized princes. Thirty of them have signed this memorial, and my son has had six arrested; three are in the Bastille and the other three in Vincennes. They are MM. de Chatillon, de Rieux, de Beaufremont, de Polignac, de Clermont, and d’O. The last one is the Governor of Comte de Toulouse and stays with him. Clermont’s wife is one of the ladies-in-waiting to Duchesse de Berri. She isn’t very discreet and has often told anyone who would listen, “No matter what happens, my husband and I are ready to risk our lives for Comte de Toulouse.” It’s clear that all this is instigated by the illegitimate children. But I must further expose their ingratitude. Chatillon is a poor gentleman whose father held a minor position under M. Gaston, one of those roles that allow entry to the antechambers, and those who hold such roles do not ride in the carriage with their masters. The two descendants, as they call themselves, of the Chatillon family, insist that this Chatillon, who married an attorney’s daughter, comes from the illegitimate branches of that family. His son was a junior officer in the Body Guard. In the summer, when the young officers went swimming, they’d bring young Chatillon along to watch their clothes, and for that, they’d give him a crown for his supper. Monsieur took this poor man into his service, awarded him a cordon bleu, and gave him money to start a lawsuit, which he won against the House of Chatillon, forcing them to recognize him. He then made him a Captain in the Guards, granted him a sizable pension—which my son continued—and allowed him to have apartments in the Palais Royal. In those very apartments, this ungrateful man held secret meetings that aimed to ruin my son. Rieux’s grandfather had failed to uphold the honor of being recognized as the King’s cousin. My son restored this honor, gave his brother a position in the gendarmerie, and provided many other favors. Chatillon specifically tried to stir the nobility against my son; this is the reward for all his kindness. My son’s wife is cheerful and hopeful that everything will turn out well for her brothers.
That old Maintenon has continued pretty tranquil until the termination of the process relating to the legitimation of the bastards. No one has heard her utter a single expression on the subject. This makes me believe that she has some project in her head, but I cannot tell what it is.
That old Maintenon has remained quite calm until the end of the process regarding the legitimation of the illegitimate children. No one has heard her say anything about it. This leads me to think that she has some plan in mind, but I can't figure out what it is.
A monk, who was journeying a few days ago to Luzarche, met upon the road a stranger, who fell into conversation with him. He was an agreeable companion, and related various adventures very pleasantly. Having learned from the monk that he was charged with the rents of the convent, to which some estates in the neighbourhood of Luzarche belonged, the stranger told him that he belonged to that place, whither he was returning after a long journey; and then observing to the monk that the road they were pursuing was roundabout, he pointed out to him a nearer one through the forest. When they had reached the thickest part of the wood, the stranger alighted, and, seizing the bridle of the monk’s horse, demanded his money. The monk replied that he thought he was travelling with an honest man, and that he was astonished at so singular a demand. The stranger replied that he had no time for trifling, and that the monk must either give up his money or his life. The monk replied, “I never carry money about me; but if you will let me alight and go to my servant, who carries my money, I will bring you 1,000 francs.”
A monk, who was traveling a few days ago to Luzarche, met a stranger on the road and struck up a conversation with him. He was a pleasant companion and shared various adventures in an enjoyable way. After learning from the monk that he was responsible for collecting the rents of the convent, which included some properties near Luzarche, the stranger revealed that he was from that area and was returning after a long journey. Noticing that the path they were on was longer than necessary, he pointed out a shorter route through the forest. Once they reached the densest part of the woods, the stranger got off his horse and grabbed the monk’s horse's bridle, demanding his money. The monk replied that he believed he was traveling with an honest person and was shocked by such an unusual demand. The stranger insisted he had no time for games, stating that the monk had to either surrender his money or his life. The monk responded, “I never carry money with me; but if you let me get down and go to my servant, who has my money, I’ll bring you 1,000 francs.”
The robber suffered the monk to alight, who went to his servant, and, taking from him the 1,000 francs which were in a purse, he at the same time furnished himself with a loaded pistol which he concealed in his sleeve. When he returned to the thief, he threw down the purse, and, as the robber stooped to pick it up, the monk fired and shot him dead; then, remounting his horse, he hastened to apply to the police, and related his adventure. A patrole was sent back with him to the wood, and, upon searching the robber, there were found in his pockets six whistles of different sizes; they blew the largest of the number, upon which ten other armed robbers soon afterwards appeared; they defended themselves, but eventually two of them were killed and the others taken.
The robber let the monk get down, who then went to his servant and took the 1,000 francs from a purse. At the same time, he grabbed a loaded pistol and hid it in his sleeve. When he returned to the robber, he tossed the purse down, and as the thief bent down to pick it up, the monk shot him dead. After that, he got back on his horse and rushed to the police to share what had happened. A patrol was sent back with him to the woods, and when they searched the robber, they found six whistles of different sizes in his pockets. They blew the largest whistle, and soon after, ten other armed robbers showed up. They fought back, but in the end, two of them were killed and the others were captured.
The Chevalier Schaub, who was employed in State affairs by Stanhope, the English Minister, brought with him a secretary, to whom the Prince of Wales had entrusted sixty guineas, to be paid to a M. d’Isten, who had made a purchase of some lace to that amount for the Princess of Wales; the brother of M. d’Isten, then living in London, had also given the same secretary 200 guineas, to be delivered to his brother at Paris. When the secretary arrived he enquired at the Ambassador’s where M. d’Isten lived, and, having procured his address, he went to the house and asked for the German gentleman. A person appeared, who said, “I am he.” The secretary suspecting nothing, gave him the Prince of Wales’ letter and the sixty guineas. The fictitious d’Isten, perceiving that the secretary had a gold watch, and a purse containing fifty other guineas, detained him to supper; but no sooner had the secretary drank some wine than he was seized with an invincible desire to go to sleep. “My good friend,” said his host, “your journey has fatigued you; you had better undress and lie down on my bed for a short time.” The secretary, who could not keep his eyes open, consented; and no sooner had he lain down than he was asleep. Some time after, his servant came to look for him, and awoke him; the bottles were still standing before the bed, but the poor secretary’s pockets were emptied, and the sharper who had personated M. d’Isten had disappeared with their valuable contents.
The Chevalier Schaub, who worked in state affairs for Stanhope, the English Minister, brought along a secretary. The Prince of Wales had entrusted this secretary with sixty guineas to pay M. d’Isten, who had bought some lace worth that amount for the Princess of Wales. M. d’Isten’s brother, living in London, had also given the secretary 200 guineas to be delivered to him in Paris. When the secretary arrived, he asked the Ambassador where M. d’Isten lived, got the address, and went to the house to ask for the German gentleman. Someone came out and said, “I am he.” The secretary, suspecting nothing, handed him the Prince of Wales’ letter and the sixty guineas. The fake d’Isten noticed that the secretary had a gold watch and a purse with fifty more guineas, so he invited him to dinner. But as soon as the secretary had some wine, he felt an overwhelming urge to sleep. “My good friend,” said his host, “you must be tired from your journey; you should undress and lie down on my bed for a little while.” The secretary, unable to keep his eyes open, agreed, and as soon as he lay down, he fell asleep. Some time later, his servant came to find him and woke him up; the bottles were still in front of the bed, but the poor secretary’s pockets were empty, and the scammer who pretended to be M. d’Isten had vanished with all their valuables.
The Princesse Maubuisson was astonishingly pleasant and amiable. I was always delighted to visit her, and never felt myself tired in her society. I soon found myself in much greater favour than any other of her nieces, because I could converse with her about almost everybody she had known in the whole course of her life, which the others could not. She used frequently to talk German with me, which she knew very well; and she told me all her adventures. I asked her how she could accustom herself to the monastic life. She laughed and said, “I never speak to the nuns but to give orders.” She had a deaf nun with her in her own chamber, that she might not feel any desire to speak. She told me that she had always been fond of a country life, and that she still could fancy herself a country girl. “But,” I asked her, “how do you like getting up and going to church in the middle of the night?” She replied that she did as the painters do, who increase the splendour of their light by the introduction of deep shadows. She had in general the faculty of giving to all things a turn which deprived them of their absurdity.
The Princesse Maubuisson was incredibly charming and friendly. I always looked forward to visiting her and never felt tired in her company. I quickly found that I was favored more than her other nieces since I could chat with her about almost everyone she had known throughout her life, which they couldn’t. She often spoke German with me, which she was very good at; and she shared all her stories with me. I asked her how she managed to adapt to the monastic life. She laughed and said, “I only talk to the nuns to give orders.” She had a deaf nun in her room so she wouldn’t feel the urge to chat. She told me that she had always loved country life and could still imagine herself as a country girl. “But,” I asked her, “how do you feel about getting up and going to church in the middle of the night?” She replied that she did it like painters, who enhance the beauty of their light by using deep shadows. Generally, she had a knack for giving every situation a twist that made it less ridiculous.
I have often heard M. Bernstorff spoken of by a person who was formerly very agreeable to him; I mean the Duchess of Mecklenbourg, the Duc de Luxembourg’s sister. She praised his talents very highly, and assured me that it was she who gave him to the Duke George William.
I’ve often heard M. Bernstorff mentioned by someone who used to be quite fond of him; I’m talking about the Duchess of Mecklenbourg, the Duc de Luxembourg’s sister. She praised his talents highly and told me it was she who introduced him to Duke George William.
The wife of the Marechal de Villars is running after the Comte de Toulouse. My son is also in her good graces, and is not a whit more discreet. Marechal de Villars came one day to see me; and, as he pretends to understand medals, he asked to see mine. Baudelot, who is a very honest and clever man, and in whose keeping they are, was desired to show them; he is not the most cautious man in the world, and is very little acquainted with what is going on at Court. He had written a dissertation upon one of my medals, in which he proved, against the opinion of other learned men, that the horned head which it displayed was that of Pan and not of Jupiter Ammon. Honest Baudelot, to display his erudition, said to the Marshal, “Ah, Monseigneur, this is one of the finest medals that Madame possesses: it is the triumph of Cornificius; he has, you see, all sorts of horns. He was like you, sir, a great general; he wears the horns of Juno and Faunus. Cornificius was, as you probably well know, sir, a very able general.” Here I interrupted him. “Let us pass on,” I said, “to the other medal; if you stop in this manner at each, you will not have time to show the whole.”
The wife of the Marechal de Villars is chasing after the Comte de Toulouse. My son is also in her favor and isn’t being any more discreet. One day, Marechal de Villars came to visit me; since he claims to know about medals, he asked to see mine. Baudelot, who is a very honest and smart guy and is in charge of them, was asked to show them; he’s not the most careful person and doesn't really know what's happening at Court. He had written a paper on one of my medals where he argued, against the views of other experts, that the horned head depicted was that of Pan and not Jupiter Ammon. Honest Baudelot, wanting to show off his knowledge, said to the Marshal, “Ah, Monseigneur, this is one of the finest medals that Madame owns: it represents the triumph of Cornificius; you see, he has all sorts of horns. Like you, sir, he was a great general; he wears the horns of Juno and Faunus. Cornificius was, as you probably know, sir, a very capable general.” At this point, I interrupted him. “Let’s move on,” I said, “to the next medal; if you linger like this at each one, we won’t have time to see them all.”
But he, full of his subject, returned to it. “Ah, Madame,” he went on, “this is worthy of more attention than perhaps any other; Cornificius is, indeed, one of the most rare medals in the world. Look at it, Madame; I beg you to observe it narrowly; here, you see, is Juno crowned, and she is also crowning this great general.” All that I could say to him was not sufficient to prevent Baudelot talking to the Marshal of horns. “Monseigneur,” he said, “is well versed in all these matters, and I want him to see that I am right in insisting that these horns are those of Faunus, not those of Jupiter Ammon.”
But he, fully immersed in his topic, went back to it. “Ah, Madame,” he continued, “this deserves more attention than perhaps anything else; Cornificius is truly one of the rarest medals in the world. Look at it, Madame; I urge you to examine it closely; here, you see, is Juno wearing a crown, and she is also crowning this great general.” Everything I said to him wasn't enough to stop Baudelot from discussing horns with the Marshal. “Monseigneur,” he said, “is very knowledgeable about all this, and I want him to see that I'm correct in insisting that these horns are those of Faunus, not Jupiter Ammon.”
All the people who were in the chamber, with difficulty refrained from bursting into a loud laugh. If the plan had been laid for the purpose, it could not have succeeded better. When the Marshal had gone, I, too, indulged myself by joining in the laugh. It was with great difficulty that I could make Baudelot understand he had done wrong.
All the people in the room barely held back their laughter. If the plan had been intended for that, it couldn't have worked out better. After the Marshal left, I also joined in the laughter. It was really hard to get Baudelot to understand that he had messed up.
The same Baudelot, one day at a masked ball, had been saying a great many civil things to the Dowager Madame, who was there masked, and whom, therefore, he did not know. When he came and saw that it was Madame, he was terrified with affright: the Princess laughed beyond measure at it.
The same Baudelot, one day at a masked ball, was saying a lot of nice things to the Dowager Madame, who was there in disguise, and whom he didn’t recognize. When he realized it was Madame, he was completely shocked: the Princess found it hilarious.
Our Princes here have no particular costume. When they go to the Parliament they wear only a cloak, which, in my opinion, has a very vulgar appearance; and the more so, as they wear the ‘collet’ without a cravat. Those of the Royal Family have no privileges above the other Dukes, excepting in their seats and the right of crossing over the carpet, which is allowed to none but them. The President, when he addresses them, is uncovered, but keeps his hat on when he speaks to everybody else. This is the cause of those great disputes which the Princes of the blood have had with the bastards, as may be seen by their memorial. The Presidents of the Parliament wear flame-coloured robes trimmed with ermine at the neck and sleeves.
Our princes here don’t have a specific uniform. When they go to Parliament, they just wear a cloak, which, in my opinion, looks quite common; it’s even more so since they wear the ‘collet’ without a tie. The members of the Royal Family don’t have any privileges over the other dukes, except for their seating and the right to walk on the carpet, which is something only they can do. The President, when speaking to them, doesn’t wear a hat, but keeps it on when addressing everyone else. This is the reason behind the major conflicts that the princes of the blood have had with the illegitimate offspring, as noted in their memorial. The Presidents of the Parliament wear bright red robes trimmed with ermine at the neck and sleeves.
The Comtesse de Soissons, Angelique Cunegonde, the daughter of Francois-Henri de Luxembourg, has, it must be confessed, a considerable share of virtue and of wit; but she has also her faults, like the rest of the world. It may be said of her that she is truly a poor Princess. Her husband, Louis-Henri, Chevalier de Soissons, was very ugly, having a very long hooked nose, and eyes extremely close to it. He was as yellow as saffron; his mouth was extremely small for a man, and full of bad teeth of a most villanous odour; his legs were ugly and clumsy; his knees and feet turned inwards, which made him look when he was walking like a parrot; and his manner of making a bow was bad. He was rather short than otherwise; but he had fine hair and a large quantity of it. He was rather good-looking when a child. I have seen portraits of him painted at that period. If the Comtesse de Soissons’ son had resembled his mother, he would have been very well, for her features are good, and nothing could be better than her, eyes, her mouth, and the turn of her face; only her nose was too large and thick, and her skin was not fine enough.
The Countess de Soissons, Angelique Cunegonde, the daughter of Francois-Henri de Luxembourg, has, to be honest, quite a bit of virtue and wit; however, she has her flaws, like everyone else. It can be said that she is genuinely an unfortunate Princess. Her husband, Louis-Henri, Chevalier de Soissons, was very unattractive, having a long hooked nose and eyes set extremely close to it. He was as yellow as saffron; his mouth was quite small for a man and filled with bad teeth that had a terrible smell; his legs were awkward and clumsy; his knees and feet turned inwards, making him look like a parrot when he walked; and his way of bowing was poor. He was shorter than average; however, he had nice hair and a lot of it. He was somewhat good-looking as a child. I have seen portraits of him from that time. If the Countess de Soissons’ son had taken after his mother, he would have turned out very well, as her features are lovely, and her eyes, mouth, and face shape are nothing short of excellent; only her nose was too large and thick, and her skin could have been finer.
Whoever is like the Prince Eugene in person cannot be called a handsome man; he is shorter than his elder brother, but, with the exception of Prince Eugene, all the rest of them are good for nothing. The youngest, Prince Philippe, was a great madman, and died of the small-pox at Paris. He was of a very fair complexion, had an ungraceful manner, and always looked distracted. He had a nose like a hawk, a large mouth, thick lips, and hollow cheeks; in all respects I thought he was like his elder brother. The third brother, who was called the Chevalier de Savoie, died in consequence of a fall from his horse. The Prince Eugene was a younger brother: he had two sisters, who were equally ugly; one of them is dead, and the other is still living (1717) in a convent in Savoy. The elder was of a monstrous shape, but a mere dwarf. She led a very irregular life. She afterwards ran away with a rogue, the Abbe de la Bourlie, whom she obliged to marry her at Geneva; they used to beat each other. She is now dead.
Whoever resembles Prince Eugene doesn’t really qualify as handsome; he’s shorter than his older brother, but aside from Prince Eugene, the rest of them are pretty useless. The youngest, Prince Philippe, was quite mad and died of smallpox in Paris. He had a very fair complexion, an awkward demeanor, and always looked unfocused. He had a hawk-like nose, a big mouth, thick lips, and sunken cheeks; in every way, I thought he resembled his older brother. The third brother, known as the Chevalier de Savoie, died after falling from his horse. Prince Eugene was a younger brother; he had two sisters, who were equally unattractive; one of them is dead, and the other is still alive (1717) in a convent in Savoy. The older sister had a grotesque figure but was just a dwarf. She led a very chaotic life. Later, she eloped with a scoundrel, the Abbe de la Bourlie, whom she forced to marry her in Geneva; they regularly fought each other. She’s now dead.
Prince Eugene was not in his younger days so ugly as he has become since; but he never was good-looking, nor had he any nobility in his manner. His eyes were pretty good, but his nose, and two large teeth which he displayed whenever he opened his mouth, completely spoilt his face. He was besides always very filthy, and his coarse hair was never dressed.
Prince Eugene wasn't as unattractive in his youth as he has become over time; however, he was never good-looking and lacked any grace in his demeanor. His eyes were relatively nice, but his nose and the two large teeth that he showed every time he spoke completely ruined his appearance. Additionally, he was always very unkempt, and his coarse hair was never styled.
This Prince is little addicted to women, and, during the whole time that he has been here, I never heard one mentioned who has pleased him, or whom he has distinguished or visited more than another.
This prince doesn't have much interest in women, and during his whole time here, I haven't heard of anyone who has caught his attention or whom he has favored or visited more than others.
His mother took no care of him; she brought him up like a scullion, and liked better to stake her money at play than to expend it upon her youngest son. This is the ordinary practice of women in this country.
His mother didn't take care of him; she raised him like a servant and preferred to gamble her money rather than spend it on her youngest son. This is common behavior among women in this country.
They will not yet believe that the Persian Ambassador was an impostor;
They still won't believe that the Persian Ambassador was a fraud;
[This embassy was always equivocal, and even something more. From
all that can be understood of it, it would seem that a Minister of
one of the Persian provinces, a sort of Intendant de Languedoc, as
we might say, had commissioned this pretended Ambassador to manage
for him some commercial affairs with certain merchants, and that for
his own amusement the agent chose to represent the Persian
Ambassador. It is said, too, that Pontchartrain, under whose
department this affair fell, would not expose the trick, that the
King might be amused, and that he might recommend himself to His
Majesty’s favour by making him believe that the Sophy had sent him
an Ambassador.—Notes to Dangeau’s Journal.]
[This embassy was always ambiguous, and even more than that. From what can be understood, it seems that a Minister from one of the Persian provinces, kind of like an Intendant de Languedoc, had hired this so-called Ambassador to handle some business dealings with certain merchants. For his own entertainment, the agent decided to act like the Persian Ambassador. It’s also said that Pontchartrain, who was in charge of this matter, wouldn’t reveal the trick, so the King could be entertained, and he could win His Majesty’s favor by making him think that the Sophy had sent him an Ambassador.—Notes to Dangeau’s Journal.]
it is quite certain that he was a clumsy fellow, although he had some sense. There was an air of magnificence about the way in which he gave audience. He prevailed upon a married woman, who was pregnant by him, to abjure Christianity. It is true she was not a very respectable person, being the illegitimate daughter of my son’s chief almoner, the Abbe de Grancey, who always kept a little seraglio. In order to carry her away with him, the Ambassador had her fastened up in a box filled with holes, and then begged that no person might be allowed to touch it, being, as he said, filled with the sacred books written by Mahomet himself, which would be polluted by the contact of Christians. Upon this pretence the permission was given, and by these means the woman was carried off. I cannot believe the story which is told of this Ambassador having had 10,000 louis d’or given him.
he was definitely a clumsy guy, although he had some sense. There was a certain grandeur in how he held audiences. He convinced a married woman, who was pregnant with his child, to give up Christianity. To be fair, she wasn't exactly a respectable person, being the illegitimate daughter of my son's chief almoner, the Abbe de Grancey, who always kept a little harem. To take her away with him, the Ambassador had her locked in a box with holes in it and then requested that no one be allowed to touch it, claiming it was filled with sacred books written by Muhammad himself, which would be defiled by the touch of Christians. On that pretext, permission was granted, and that's how the woman was taken away. I find it hard to believe the story about this Ambassador receiving 10,000 louis d’or as a gift.
I had the misfortune to displease the Margrave John Frederic of Anspach. He brought me a letter from my brother and his wife, both of whom begged I would assist him with my advice. I therefore thought that by counselling him as I should have counselled my own brother I should be rendering him the best service. When he arrived he was in deep mourning for his first wife, who had then not been dead three months. I asked him what he proposed to do in France? He replied “that he was on his way to England, but that before his departure he should wish to pay his respects to the King.” I asked him if he had anything to solicit from the King or to arrange with him. He replied “he had not.”—“Then,” I said, “I would advise you, if you will permit me, to send the principal person of your suite to the King to make your compliments, to inform him that you are going to England, and that you would not have failed to wait upon him, but that, being in mourning for your wife, your respect for him prevented your appearing before him in so melancholy a garb.”—“But,” he rejoined, “I am very fond of dancing, and I wish to go to the ball; now I cannot go thither until I have first visited the King.”—“For God’s sake,” I said, “do not go to the ball; it is not the custom here. You will be laughed at, and the more particularly so because the Marechal de Grammont, who presented you to the King some years ago, said that you could find nothing to praise in the whole of France, with the exception of a little goldfinch in the King’s cabinet which whistled airs. I recommend you not to go to see the King, nor to be present at the ball.” He was angry, and said “he saw very well that I discountenanced German Princes, and did not wish them to be presented to the King.” I replied “that the advice I had given him sprang from the best intentions, and was such as I would have given to my own brother.” He went away quite angry to Marechal Schomberg’s, where he complained of my behaviour to him. The Marshal asked him what I had said, which he repeated word for word. The Marshal told him that I had advised him well, and that he was himself of my opinion. Nevertheless, the Margrave persisted on being presented to the King, whither he prevailed upon the Marshal to accompany him, and went the next day to the ball. He was extremely well dressed in half-mourning, with white lace over the black, fine blue ribands, black and white laces, and rheingraves, which look well upon persons of a good figure; in short, he was magnificently dressed, but improperly, for a widower in the first stage of his mourning. He would have seated himself within the King’s circle, where none but the members of the Royal Family and the King’s grandchildren are allowed to sit; the Princes of the blood even are not allowed to do so, and therefore foreign Princes can of course have no right. The Margrave then began to repent not having believed me, and early the next morning he set off.
I unfortunately upset Margrave John Frederic of Anspach. He brought me a letter from my brother and his wife, both of whom urged me to help him with my advice. I thought that by advising him as I would my own brother, I would be doing him a favor. When he arrived, he was in deep mourning for his first wife, who had passed away only three months earlier. I asked him what he planned to do in France. He replied, “I’m on my way to England, but I want to pay my respects to the King first.” I asked him if he had anything to ask or discuss with the King. He answered, “No.” I then suggested, “If you don’t mind, send your chief attendant to the King to make your compliments, let him know you’re going to England, and explain that you would have visited, but your mourning for your wife means you’d rather not appear before him in such a sad state.” He countered, “But I love to dance, and I want to go to the ball; I can’t go until I’ve visited the King.” I urged, “For heaven’s sake, don’t go to the ball; it’s not customary here. People will laugh at you, especially since Marechal de Grammont, who introduced you to the King years ago, said you couldn’t find anything to praise in France except for a little goldfinch in the King’s cabinet that whistles tunes. I advise you not to see the King or attend the ball.” He got upset and said, “Clearly, you don’t support German Princes and don’t want them presented to the King.” I responded, “My advice comes from good intentions, just as I would advise my own brother.” He left angry and went to see Marechal Schomberg, where he complained about my behavior. The Marshal asked him what I had said, and he repeated it verbatim. The Marshal told him I had given good advice and that he agreed with me. Nonetheless, the Margrave insisted on being introduced to the King, and he convinced the Marshal to accompany him and went to the ball the next day. He was dressed very well in half-mourning, with white lace over black, nice blue ribbons, and black and white laces, which look great on tall people; in short, he was elegantly dressed but inappropriately for a widower still in mourning. He attempted to sit within the King’s circle, where only the Royal Family and the King’s grandchildren are allowed; even Princes of the blood don’t have that right, so obviously, foreign Princes shouldn’t either. The Margrave then began to regret not having trusted my advice, and early the next morning, he set off.
Prince Ragotzky is under great obligations to his wife, who saved his life and delivered him from prison. Some person was repeating things to her disadvantage, but he interrupted them by saying, “She saved my head from the axe, and this prevents my having any right to reprove too strictly whatever she may choose to do; for this reason I shall not thank any person who speaks to me upon the subject.”
Prince Ragotzky owes a lot to his wife, who saved his life and got him out of prison. Someone was talking negatively about her, but he cut them off by saying, “She saved my life from the axe, and that gives me no right to criticize her too harshly for whatever she decides to do; for that reason, I won’t thank anyone who brings this up with me.”
[Louis XIV. gave to the Prince Ragotsky, who in France took the
title of Comte de Saaross, 200,000 crowns upon the Maison de Ville,
and a pension of 2,000 crowns per month besides.]
[Louis XIV. gave to the Prince Ragotsky, who in France took the
title of Comte de Saaross, 200,000 crowns upon the City Hall,
and a monthly pension of 2,000 crowns besides.]Beatrice Eleanora, the Queen of James II., was always upon such good terms with Maintenon that it is impossible to believe our late King was ever fond of her. I have seen a book, entitled “L’ancien Ward protecteur du nouveau,” in 12mo, in which is related a gallantry between the Queen and the Pere la Chaise. The confessor was then eighty years of age, and not unlike an ass; his ears were very long, his mouth very wide, his head very large, and his body very long. It was an ill-chosen joke. This libel was even less credible than what was stated about the King himself.
Beatrice Eleanora, the Queen of James II, always got along so well with Maintenon that it’s hard to believe our late King ever really liked her. I’ve come across a book called “L’ancien Ward protecteur du nouveau,” in 12mo, which talks about a romance between the Queen and Père la Chaise. The confessor was then eighty years old and looked quite ridiculous; he had very long ears, a wide mouth, a big head, and a long body. It was a poorly chosen joke. This slander was even less believable than the claims made about the King himself.
The Monks of Saint Mihiel possess the original manuscripts of the Memoirs of Cardinal Retz. They have had them printed and are selling them at Nancy; but in this copy there are many omissions. A lady at Paris, Madame Caumartin, has a copy in which there is not a word deficient; but she obstinately refused to lend it that the others may be made complete.
The Monks of Saint Mihiel have the original manuscripts of the Memoirs of Cardinal Retz. They've printed them and are selling them in Nancy, but this edition has many omissions. A woman in Paris, Madame Caumartin, has a copy that is complete, but she stubbornly refuses to lend it out so that the others can be made whole.
When an Ambassador would make his entry at Paris he has himself announced some days before by the officers whose duty it is to introduce Ambassadors, in order that the usual compliments may be paid him. To royal Ambassadors a chevalier d’honneur is sent, to those from Venice or Holland the first equerry, and when he is absent or unwell the chief Maitre d’Hotel, who is also sent to the Ambassador from Malta.
When an ambassador arrives in Paris, he is announced by the officers responsible for introducing ambassadors a few days in advance, so that the usual courtesies can be extended to him. For royal ambassadors, a chevalier d’honneur is sent, while for those from Venice or Holland, the first equerry is dispatched. If the first equerry is unavailable or unwell, the chief Maitre d’Hotel is also sent to the ambassador from Malta.
The English ladies are said to be much given to running away with their lovers. I knew a Count von Konigsmark, whom a young English lady followed in the dress of a page. He had her with him at Chambord, and, as there was no room for her in the castle, he lodged her under a tent which he had put up in the forest. When we were at the chase one day he told me this adventure. As I had a great curiosity to see her, I rode towards the tent, and never in my life did I see anything prettier than this girl in the habit of a page. She had large and beautiful eyes, a charming little nose, and an elegant mouth and teeth. She smiled when she saw me, for she suspected that the Count had told me the whole story. Her hair was a beautiful chestnut colour, and hung about her neck in large curls. After their departure from Chambord, while they were at an inn upon their way to Italy, the innkeeper’s wife ran to the Count, crying, “Sir, make haste upstairs, for your page is lying-in.” She was delivered of a girl, and the mother and child were soon afterwards placed in a convent near Paris. While the Count lived he took great care of her, but he died in the Morea, and his pretended page did not long survive him; she displayed great piety in the hour of death. A friend of the Count’s, and a nephew of Madame de Montespan, took care of the child, and after his death the King gave the little creature a pension. I believe she is still (1717) in the convent.
The English ladies are known for often running off with their lovers. I knew a Count von Konigsmark, whom a young English woman followed dressed as a page. He had her with him at Chambord, and since there was no room for her in the castle, he had her stay in a tent he set up in the forest. One day while we were out hunting, he told me about this adventure. Curious to see her, I rode over to the tent, and I had never seen anyone more beautiful than this girl in page's clothes. She had large, stunning eyes, a lovely little nose, and an elegant mouth with nice teeth. She smiled when she saw me because she suspected that the Count had told me everything. Her hair was a beautiful chestnut color and fell around her neck in big curls. After they left Chambord and while they were staying at an inn on their way to Italy, the innkeeper's wife ran to the Count, saying, “Sir, hurry upstairs, your page is in labor.” She gave birth to a girl, and soon after, both mother and child were placed in a convent near Paris. While the Count lived, he took great care of her, but he died in the Morea, and his supposed page didn't survive long after him; she showed great piety at the time of her death. A friend of the Count's, who was a nephew of Madame de Montespan, looked after the child, and after his death, the King granted the little one a pension. I believe she is still in the convent (1717).
The Abbe Perrault founded an annual funeral oration for the Prince de Conde in the Jesuits’ Church, where his heart is deposited. I shall not upon this occasion call to mind his victories, his courage in war, or his timidity at Court; these are things well known throughout France.
The Abbe Perrault established a yearly funeral speech for the Prince de Conde at the Jesuits' Church, where his heart is laid to rest. I won't go over his victories, his bravery in battle, or his nervousness at Court right now; these are widely recognized throughout France.
A gentleman of my acquaintance at Paris heard a learned Abbe, who was in the confidence of Descartes, say that the philosopher used often to laugh at his own system, and said, “I have cut them out some work: we shall see who will be fools enough to undertake it.”
A gentleman I know in Paris heard a knowledgeable Abbe, who was close with Descartes, say that the philosopher often laughed at his own theories and said, “I’ve given them some work to do: we’ll see who is foolish enough to take it on.”
That old Beauvais, the Queen-mother’s first femme de chambre, was acquainted with the secret of her marriage, and this obliged the Queen to put up with whatever the confidante chose to do. From this circumstance has arisen that custom which gives femmes de chambre so much authority in our apartments. The Queen-mother, the widow of Louis XIII., not contented with loving Cardinal Mazarin, went the absurd length of marrying him. He was not a priest, and therefore was not prevented by his orders from contracting matrimony. He soon, however, got very tired of the poor Queen, and treated her dreadfully ill, which is the ordinary result in such marriages. But it is the vice of the times to contract clandestine marriages. The Queen-mother of England, the widow of Charles II., made such an one in marrying her chevalier d’honneur, who behaved very ill to her; while the poor Queen was in want of food and fuel, he had a good fire in his apartment, and was giving great dinners. He called himself Lord Germain, Earl of St. Albans; he never addressed a kind expression to the Queen. As to the Queen-mother’s marriage, all the circumstances relating to it are now well enough known. The secret passage by which he went nightly to the Palais Royal may still be seen; when she used to visit him, he was in the habit of saying, “what does this woman want with me?” He was in love with a lady of the Queen’s suite, whom I knew very well: she had apartments in the Palais Royal, and was called Madame de Bregie. As she was very pretty, she excited a good deal of passion; but she was a very honest lady, who served the Queen with great fidelity, and was the cause of the Cardinal’s living upon better terms with the Queen than before. She had very good sense. Monsieur loved her for her fidelity to the Queen his mother. She has been dead now four-and-twenty years (1717).
That old Beauvais, the Queen-mother’s first lady-in-waiting, knew the secret of her marriage, which forced the Queen to tolerate whatever her confidante chose to do. This situation has led to the custom that gives ladies-in-waiting so much power in our households. The Queen-mother, the widow of Louis XIII., not satisfied with just loving Cardinal Mazarin, went so far as to marry him. He wasn’t a priest, so he wasn’t restricted by his orders from getting married. However, he quickly grew tired of the poor Queen and treated her horribly, which is usually how these marriages go. It’s common these days for people to enter into secret marriages. The Queen-mother of England, the widow of Charles II., also made a clandestine marriage by marrying her gentleman of honor, who treated her very poorly; while the poor Queen struggled for food and warmth, he had a nice fire going in his room and was hosting lavish dinners. He called himself Lord Germain, Earl of St. Albans, and never said a kind word to the Queen. As for the Queen-mother’s marriage, all the details are now pretty well known. The secret passage he used to enter the Palais Royal every night can still be seen; when she visited him, he would often say, “What does this woman want with me?” He was in love with a lady from the Queen’s court, whom I knew quite well: she had rooms in the Palais Royal and was known as Madame de Bregie. She was very beautiful and attracted a lot of attention; however, she was a very honorable woman who served the Queen loyally, which helped the Cardinal get along with the Queen better than before. She was quite sensible. Monsieur loved her for her loyalty to his mother, the Queen. She has been dead for twenty-four years now (1717).
The Princesse de Deux Ponts has recently furnished another instance of the misfortune which usually attends the secret marriages of ladies of high birth. She married her equerry, was very ill-treated by him, and led a very miserable life; but she deserved all she met with and I foresaw it. She was with me at the Opera once, and insisted at all events that her equerry should sit behind her. “For God’s sake,” I said to her, “be quiet, and give yourself no trouble about this Gerstorf; you do not know the manners of this country; when folks perceive you are so anxious about that man, they will think you are in love with him.” I did not know then how near this was to the truth. She replied, “Do people, then, in this country take no care of their servants?”—“Oh, yes,” I said, “they request some of their friends to carry them to the Opera, but they do not go with them.”
The Princesse de Deux Ponts has recently provided another example of the trouble that often comes with secret marriages of women from noble families. She married her equerry, was treated badly by him, and lived a very unhappy life; but she got what she deserved, and I had predicted it. She was with me at the Opera once, and insisted that her equerry should sit behind her. “For God’s sake,” I told her, “calm down, and don’t worry about this Gerstorf; you don’t know the customs of this country; when people see you so anxious about that man, they'll think you're in love with him.” I didn’t realize at that time how close that was to the truth. She replied, “Do people in this country really not care for their servants?”—“Oh, they do,” I said, “they have some friends take them to the Opera, but they don’t actually go with them.”
M. Pentenrieder is a perfect gentleman, extremely well-bred, totally divested of the vile Austrian manners, and speaks good German instead of the jargon of Austria. While he was staying here, the Fair of Saint-Germain commenced; a giant, who came to Paris for the purpose of exhibiting himself, having accidentally met M. Pentenrieder, said as soon as he saw him, “It’s all over with me: I shall not go into the fair; for who will give money to see me while this man shows himself for nothing?” and he really went away. M. Pentenrieder pleased everybody. Count Zinzendorf, who succeeded him, did not resemble him at all, but was a perfect Austrian in his manners and his language.
M. Pentenrieder is a true gentleman, very well-mannered, completely free of the distasteful Austrian habits, and speaks proper German instead of the Austrian slang. While he was here, the Fair of Saint-Germain started; a giant who came to Paris to showcase himself ran into M. Pentenrieder and immediately said, “It’s over for me: I won’t go to the fair; who would pay to see me when this man shows up for free?” and he actually left. M. Pentenrieder charmed everyone. Count Zinzendorf, who took his place, didn’t resemble him at all and was a complete Austrian in both his demeanor and speech.
I have heard that it was from the excitement of insulted honour that Ravaillac was induced to murder Henri IV.; for that the King had seduced his sister, and had abandoned her during her pregnancy: the brother then swore he would be avenged on the King. Some persons even accuse the Duc d’Epernon, who was seated in the coach in such a manner that he might have warded off the blow, but he is said to have drawn back and given the assassin an opportunity to strike.
I’ve heard that Ravaillac was driven to murder Henri IV. out of the anger of insulted honor; the King had seduced his sister and abandoned her while she was pregnant. The brother then vowed to take revenge on the King. Some people even blame the Duc d’Epernon, who was sitting in the coach in a position where he could have defended against the attack, but he reportedly stepped back and gave the assassin the chance to strike.
When I first came to France I found in it such an assemblage of talent as occurs but in few ages. There was Lulli in music; Beauchamp in ballets; Corneille and Racine in tragedy; Moliere in comedy; La Chamelle and La Beauval, actresses; and Baron, Lafleur, Toriliere, and Guerin, actors. Each of these persons was excellent in his way. La Ducloa and La Raisin were also very good; the charms of the latter had even penetrated the thick heart of our Dauphin, who loved her very tenderly: her husband was excellent in comic parts. There was also a very good harlequin, and as good a scaramouch. Among the best performers at the Opera were Clediere, Pomereuil, Godenarche, Dumenil, La Rochechouard, Maury, La Saint Christophe, La Brigogne, La Beaucreux. All that we see and hear now do not equal them.
When I first came to France, I encountered such a gathering of talent that happens only in a few eras. There was Lully in music; Beauchamp in ballets; Corneille and Racine in tragedy; Molière in comedy; La Chamelle and La Beauval, actresses; and Baron, Lafleur, Torilière, and Guérin, actors. Each of these individuals was exceptional in their own right. La Ducloa and La Raisin were also quite talented; the allure of the latter had even melted the heart of our Dauphin, who loved her deeply: her husband was outstanding in comedic roles. There was also a very good Harlequin and just as good a Scaramouche. Among the top performers at the Opera were Clediére, Pomereuil, Godenarche, Dumenil, La Rochechouard, Maury, La Saint Christophe, La Brigogne, and La Beaucreux. Everything we see and hear now doesn't compare to them.
That which pleased me most in Beauvernois’ life is the answer he made to the Prince of Vaudemont. When he was fleeing, and had arrived at Brussels, he gave himself out for a Prince of Lorraine. M. de Vaudemont sent for him, and, upon seeing him, said,—“I know all the Princes of Lorraine, but I do not know you.”—“I assure you, sir,” replied Beauvernois, “that I am as much a Prince of Lorraine as you are.”
That what I enjoyed most about Beauvernois' life is the response he gave to the Prince of Vaudemont. When he was on the run and had reached Brussels, he claimed to be a Prince of Lorraine. M. de Vaudemont called for him, and upon seeing him, said, “I know all the Princes of Lorraine, but I don’t know you.” “I assure you, sir,” Beauvernois replied, “I am just as much a Prince of Lorraine as you are.”
I like that Mercy who tricked his master, the Duc de Lorraine. When he reached Nancy he requested the Duke to recruit three regiments, which he said should be his own. The Duke did recruit them, fully persuaded they were to be his; but when the companies were filled, Mercy begged the Emperor to give them to him, and he actually obtained them; so that the Duke had not the appointment of a single officer.
I like that Mercy who outsmarted his boss, the Duke of Lorraine. When he got to Nancy, he asked the Duke to recruit three regiments, claiming they would be his. The Duke actually did recruit them, completely convinced they were for him; but when the companies were filled, Mercy asked the Emperor to give them to him, and he actually got them; so the Duke ended up with no say over a single officer.
The poor Duchess of Mecklenbourg, the wife of Christian Louis, was a very good woman when one was thoroughly acquainted with her. She told me the whole history of her intrigue with Bernstorff. She regulated her household very well, and had always two carriages. She did not affect the splendour of a sovereign; but she kept up her rank better than the other Duchesses, and I liked her the better for this. The husband, Christian Louis of Mecklenbourg, was a notable fool. He one day demanded an audience of the King, under the pretence of having something of importance to say to him. Louis XIV. was then more than forty years old. When the Duke found himself in the King’s presence, he said to him, “Sire, you seem to me to have grown.” The King laughed, and said, “Monsieur, I am past the age of growing.”—“Sire,” rejoined the Duke, “do you know everybody says I am very much like you, and quite as good-looking as you are?”—“That is very probable,” said the King, still laughing. The audience was then finished, and the Duke went away. This fool could never engage his brother-in-law’s favour, for M. de Luxembourg had no regard for him.
The unfortunate Duchess of Mecklenbourg, married to Christian Louis, was a genuinely good woman once you got to know her well. She shared the entire story of her affair with Bernstorff. She managed her household very well and always had two carriages. She didn't pretend to the grandeur of a monarch, but she upheld her status better than the other Duchesses, which I appreciated. Her husband, Christian Louis of Mecklenbourg, was quite foolish. One day, he requested a meeting with the King, claiming he had something important to discuss. Louis XIV was over forty at that time. When the Duke was finally in front of the King, he said, “Sire, you seem to have grown.” The King laughed and replied, “Monsieur, I am past the age of growing.” The Duke then said, “Sire, do you know everyone says I look a lot like you and am just as good-looking?” The King, still laughing, responded, “That is very probable.” The meeting ended, and the Duke left. This fool could never gain the favor of his brother-in-law, as M. de Luxembourg had no respect for him.
When the Queen had the government of the country, all the females of the Court, even to the very servants, became intriguers. They say it was the most ridiculous thing in the world to see the eagerness with which women meddled with the Queen-mother’s regency. At the commencement she knew nothing at all. She made a present to her first femme de chambre of five large farms, upon which the whole Court subsisted. When she went to the Council to propose the affair, everybody laughed, and she was asked how she proposed to live. She was quite astonished when the thing was explained to her, for she thought she had only given away five ordinary farms. This anecdote is very true and was related to me by the old Chancellor Le Tellier, who was present at the Council. She is said often to have laughed as she confessed her ignorance. Many other things of a similar nature happened during the regency.
When the Queen took control of the government, all the women in the Court, even the servants, became involved in schemes. It was said to be the most ridiculous sight to see how eager women were to interfere in the Queen-mother's regency. At the start, she didn't know anything at all. She gave her first lady-in-waiting a gift of five large farms, which supported the entire Court. When she went to the Council to discuss the matter, everyone laughed and asked her how she planned to live. She was completely shocked when it was explained to her, as she thought she had just given away five regular farms. This story is true and was shared with me by the old Chancellor Le Tellier, who was there at the Council. It's said she often laughed while admitting her lack of knowledge. Many other similar incidents occurred during the regency.
There is a Bishop of a noble family, tolerably young but very ugly, who was at first so devout that he thought of entering La Trappe; he wore his hair combed down straight, and dared not look a woman in the face. Having learned that in the city where he held his see there was a frail fair one, whose gallantries had become notorious, he felt a great desire to convert her and to make her come to the confessional. She was, it is said, a very pretty woman, and had, moreover, a great deal of wit.
There’s a bishop from a noble family who is fairly young but quite unattractive. At first, he was so devout that he considered joining La Trappe. He kept his hair straight and was too shy to look a woman in the eye. When he learned that in the city where he served, there was a beautiful woman known for her playful flings, he felt a strong urge to convert her and get her to come to confession. It’s said she was very attractive and also quite witty.
No sooner had the Bishop began to visit than he began to pay attention to his hair: first he powdered it, and then he had it dressed. At length he swallowed the bait so completely, that he neither quitted the fair siren by night nor by day. His clergy ventured to exhort him to put an end to this scandal, but he replied that, if they did not cease their remonstrances, he would find means of making them. At length he even rode through the city in his carriage with his fair penitent.
No sooner did the Bishop start visiting than he began to pay attention to his hair: first, he powdered it, and then he styled it. Eventually, he got so caught up in it that he didn’t leave the beautiful woman by night or day. His clergy tried to urge him to end the scandal, but he replied that if they didn’t stop their complaints, he would find a way to silence them. Eventually, he even drove through the city in his carriage with his lovely penitent.
The people became so enraged at this that they pelted him with stones. His relations repaired to his diocese for the purpose of exhorting him in their turn, but he would only receive his mother, and would not even follow her advice. His relations then applied to the Regent to summon the lady to Paris. She came, but her lover followed and recovered her; at length she was torn from him by a lettre-de-cachet, and taken from his arms to a house of correction. The Bishop is in a great rage, and declares that he will never forgive his family for the affront which has been put upon him (1718).
The people were so furious about this that they threw stones at him. His family went to his diocese to try to persuade him, but he would only meet with his mother and refused to listen to her advice. His relatives then asked the Regent to summon her to Paris. She came, but her lover followed and took her back. Eventually, she was forcibly removed from him by a lettre-de-cachet and taken to a reform school. The Bishop is extremely angry and says he will never forgive his family for the disrespect shown to him (1718).
The Queen-mother is said to have eaten four times a day in a frightful manner, and this practice is supposed to have brought on that cancer in the breast, which she sought to conceal by strong Spanish perfumes, and of which she died.
The Queen mother was said to eat four times a day in a terrible way, and this habit is thought to have caused the breast cancer she tried to hide with strong Spanish perfumes, which ultimately led to her death.
Those female branches of the French Royal Family, who are called Enfants de France, all bear the title of Madame. For this reason it is that in the brevets they are called Madame la Duchesse de Berri; Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans; but in conversation they are called the Duchesse de Berri, the Duchesse d’Orleans; or, rather, one should say, Madame de Berri will have it so with respect to herself. The title of Duchesse d’Orleans belongs to Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans, as granddaughter. Such is the custom prevalent here. The brother and the sister-in-law of the King are called simply Monsieur and Madame, and these titles are also contained in my brevets; but I suffer myself to be called commonly Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans. Madame de Berri will be called Madame la Duchess de Berri, because, being only an Enfant de France of the third descent, she has need of that title to set off her relationship. There is nothing to be said for this: if there were any unmarried daughters of the late King, each would be called Madame, with the addition of their baptismal name.
The female members of the French Royal Family, known as Enfants de France, all hold the title of Madame. That's why in official documents they're referred to as Madame la Duchesse de Berri and Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans; however, in conversation, they're addressed as the Duchesse de Berri and the Duchesse d’Orleans. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that Madame de Berri prefers it that way concerning herself. The title of Duchesse d’Orleans is held by Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans, as she is a granddaughter. This is the custom here. The King’s brother and sister-in-law are simply referred to as Monsieur and Madame, and these titles are also included in my official documents; however, I usually allow myself to be referred to as Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans. Madame de Berri is called Madame la Duchesse de Berri because, as an Enfant de France of the third generation, she needs that title to highlight her lineage. There’s nothing more to say on this matter: if there were any unmarried daughters of the late King, each would simply be called Madame followed by their first name.
It seems that Queen Mary of England was something of a coquette in Holland. Comte d’Avaux, the French Ambassador, told me himself that he had had a secret interview with her at the apartments of one of the Queen’s Maids of Honour, Madame Treslane. The Prince of Orange, becoming acquainted with the affair, dismissed the young lady, but invented some other pretext that the real cause might not be known.
It seems that Queen Mary of England was quite the flirt in Holland. Comte d’Avaux, the French Ambassador, told me himself that he had a secret meeting with her at the apartment of one of the Queen’s Maids of Honour, Madame Treslane. The Prince of Orange, finding out about the affair, dismissed the young lady but made up another excuse so the real reason wouldn't be known.
Three footmen had a quarrel together; two of them refused to admit the third to their table, saying, “as he and his master only serve a president’s wife, he cannot presume to compare himself with us, who serve Princesses and Duchesses.” The rejected footman called another fellow to his aid, and a violent squabble ensued. The commissaire was called: he found that they served three brothers, the sons of a rich merchant at Rouen; two of them had bought companies in the French Guards; one of the two had an intrigue with the wife of Duc d’Abret, and the other with the Duchesse de Luxembourg, while the third was only engaged with the wife of a president. The two former were called Colande and Maigremont; and, as at the same time the Duc d’Abret, the son of the Duc de Bouillon, was in love with the lady of the President Savari.
Three footmen had an argument; two of them refused to let the third join their table, saying, “Since he and his master only serve a president’s wife, he can't compare himself to us, who serve princesses and duchesses.” The rejected footman called for help from another guy, and a big fight broke out. The officer was called in: he discovered that they served three brothers, the sons of a wealthy merchant from Rouen; two of them had bought commissions in the French Guards; one of those two was involved with the wife of Duc d’Abret, and the other with the Duchesse de Luxembourg, while the third was only involved with the wife of a president. The first two were named Colande and Maigremont; at the same time, Duc d’Abret, the son of Duc de Bouillon, was in love with the lady of President Savari.
The Envoy from Holstein, M. Dumont, was very much attached to Madame de La Rochefoucauld, one of Madame de Berri’s ‘dames du palais’. She was very pretty, but gifted with no other than personal charms. Some one was joking her on this subject, and insinuated that she had treated her lover very favourably. “Oh! no,” she replied, “that is impossible, I assure you, entirely impossible.” When she was urged to say what constituted the impossibility, she replied, “If I tell, you will immediately agree with me that it is quite impossible.” Being pressed still further, she said, with a very serious air, “Because he is a Protestant!”
The envoy from Holstein, M. Dumont, was very fond of Madame de La Rochefoucauld, one of Madame de Berri's ladies-in-waiting. She was very beautiful but had no charms beyond her looks. Someone joked with her about this and implied that she treated her lover quite well. "Oh! no," she replied, "that’s impossible, I assure you, completely impossible." When she was pushed to explain what made it impossible, she said, "If I tell you, you’ll immediately agree with me that it’s totally impossible." When pressed further, she replied, with a very serious expression, "Because he is a Protestant!"
When the marriage of Monsieur was declared, he said to Saint-Remi, “Did you know that I was married to the Princesse de Lorraine?”—
When Monsieur's marriage was announced, he said to Saint-Remi, “Did you know that I married the Princesse de Lorraine?”
“No, Monsieur,” replied the latter; “I knew very well that you lived with her, but I did not think you would have married her.”
“No, sir,” replied the latter; “I knew very well that you lived with her, but I didn’t think you would have married her.”
Queen Marie de Medicis, the wife of Henri IV., was one day walking at the Tuileries with her son, the Dauphin, when the King’s mistress came into the garden, having also her son with her. The mistress said very, insolently, to the Queen, “There are our two Dauphins walking together, but mine is a fairer one than yours.” The Queen gave her a smart box on the ear, and said at the same time, “Let this impertinent woman be taken away.” The mistress ran instantly to Henri IV. to complain, but the King, having heard her story, said, “This is your own fault; why did you not speak to the Queen with the respect which you owe to her?”
Queen Marie de Medicis, the wife of Henri IV, was walking in the Tuileries with her son, the Dauphin, one day when the King’s mistress entered the garden with her son. The mistress boldly told the Queen, “Look at our two Dauphins walking together, but mine is prettier than yours.” The Queen slapped her on the face and said, “Take this rude woman away.” The mistress immediately ran to Henri IV to complain, but the King, after hearing her side of the story, replied, “This is your own fault; why didn’t you show the Queen the respect she deserves?”
Madame de Fiennes, who in her youth had been about the Queen-mother, used always to say to the late Monsieur, “The Queen, your mother, was a very silly woman; rest her soul!” My aunt, the Abbess of Maubuisson, told me that she saw at the Queen’s a man who was called “the repairer of the Queen’s face;” that Princess, as well as all the ladies of the Court, wore great quantities of paint.
Madame de Fiennes, who had spent her youth around the Queen-mother, always used to say to the late Monsieur, “The Queen, your mother, was a very foolish woman; may she rest in peace!” My aunt, the Abbess of Maubuisson, told me that she saw a man at the Queen’s court who was known as “the repairer of the Queen’s face;” that Princess, along with all the ladies at Court, wore a lot of makeup.
On account of the great services which the House of Arpajon in France had rendered to the Order of Malta, a privilege was formerly granted that the second son of that family, should at his birth become a Knight of the Order without the necessity of any proof or any inquiry as to his mother.
Due to the significant contributions that the House of Arpajon in France made to the Order of Malta, it was previously granted a privilege allowing the second son of that family to become a Knight of the Order at birth, without needing any proof or inquiry regarding his mother.
The Czar Peter I. is not mad; he has sense enough, and if he had not unfortunately been so brutally educated he would have made a good prince. The way in which he behaved to his Czarowitz (Alexis) is horrible. He gave his word that he would do him no injury, and afterwards poisoned him by means of the Sacrament. This is so impious and abominable that I can never forgive him for it (1719).
The Czar Peter I is not insane; he is smart enough, and if he hadn't been raised so harshly, he could have been a good ruler. His treatment of his son, Czarowitz Alexis, is terrible. He swore he wouldn’t harm him, and then he poisoned him through the Sacrament. This is so wicked and despicable that I can never forgive him for it (1719).
The last Duc d’Ossuna had, it is said, a very beautiful, but at the same time a passionate and jealous wife. Having learnt that her husband had chosen a very fine stuff for the dress of his mistress, an actress, she went to the merchant and procured it of him. He, thinking it was intended for her, made no scruple of delivering it to her. After it was made up she put it on, and, showing it to her husband, said, “Do not you think it is very beautiful?” The husband, angry at the trick, replied, “Yes, the stuff is very beautiful, but it is put to an unworthy use.” “That is what everybody says of me,” retorted the Duchess.
The last Duc d’Ossuna is said to have had a very beautiful, but also passionate and jealous wife. When she found out that her husband had selected some fine fabric for his mistress, an actress, she went to the merchant and got it for herself. He, thinking it was for her, had no hesitation in giving it to her. After it was made into a dress, she put it on and showed it to her husband, saying, “Don’t you think it’s very beautiful?” The husband, upset by the trick, replied, “Yes, the fabric is beautiful, but it’s being used in an unworthy way.” “That’s what everyone says about me,” the Duchess shot back.
At Fontainebleau in the Queen’s cabinet may be seen the portrait of La Belle Terronniere, who was so much beloved by Francois I., and who was the unwitting cause of his death.
At Fontainebleau in the Queen’s cabinet, you can see the portrait of La Belle Terronniere, who was so deeply loved by François I and who unknowingly caused his death.
I have often walked at night in the gallery at Fontainebleau where the King’s ghost is said to appear, but the good Francois I. never did me the honour to show himself. Perhaps it was because he thought my prayers were not efficacious enough to draw him from purgatory, and in this I think he was quite right.
I have frequently walked at night in the gallery at Fontainebleau where the King’s ghost is rumored to show up, but the good François I never honored me with his presence. Maybe it was because he believed my prayers weren’t powerful enough to bring him back from purgatory, and in this, I think he was totally correct.
King James II. died with great firmness and resolution, and without any bigotry; that is to say, very differently from the manner in which he had lived. I saw and spoke to him four-and-twenty hours before his death. “I hope,” I said, “soon to hear of your Majesty’s getting better.” He smiled and said, “If I should die, shall I not have lived long enough?”
King James II died with great strength and conviction, and without any prejudice; in other words, very differently from how he had lived. I saw and spoke to him twenty-four hours before his death. “I hope,” I said, “to soon hear that Your Majesty is feeling better.” He smiled and replied, “If I die, haven’t I lived long enough?”
I hardly know how to rejoice at the accession of our Prince George to the Throne of England, for I have no confidence in the English people. I remember still too well the fine speeches which were made here not long ago by Lord Peterborough. I would rather that our Elector was Emperor of Germany, and I wish that the King who is here (James II.) was again in possession of England, because the kingdom belongs to him. I fear that the inconstancy of the English will in the end produce some scheme which may be injurious to us. Perhaps there was never in any nation a King who had been crowned with more eclat, or tumultuous joy than James II.; and yet the same nation since persecuted him in the most pitiless manner, and has so tormented his innocent son that he can scarcely find an asylum after all his heavy misfortunes.
I hardly know how to celebrate Prince George becoming the King of England because I don’t trust the English people. I still remember too well the impressive speeches made here not long ago by Lord Peterborough. I would prefer our Elector to be the Emperor of Germany, and I wish that King James II. was once again in control of England, since the kingdom rightfully belongs to him. I worry that the fickleness of the English will eventually lead to some plan that could harm us. It's possible that no other nation ever had a King crowned with as much glory and joyous celebration as James II.; yet, that same nation has since persecuted him cruelly and has tormented his innocent son so much that he can barely find a safe place to go after all his terrible misfortunes.
[The Duchesse D’Orleans was, by the mother’s side, granddaughter of
James I, which explains the interest she took in the fate of the
Stuart family.]
[The Duchesse D’Orleans was, on her mother’s side, the granddaughter of James I, which explains her interest in the fate of the Stuart family.]
If the English were to be trusted I should say that it is fortunate the Parliaments are in favour of George; but the more one reads the history of English Revolutions, the more one is compelled to remark the eternal hatred which the people of that nation have had towards their Kings, as well as their fickleness (1714).
If the English can be trusted, I’d say it’s a good thing that Parliament supports George; however, the more you read about the history of English revolutions, the more you notice the constant hatred that the people of that nation have had for their kings, as well as their unpredictability (1714).
Have I not reason to fear on George’s account since he has been made King of England, and knowing as I do the desire he had to be King of another country? I know the accursed English too well to trust them. May God protect their Majesties the Princes, and all the family, but I confess I fear for them greatly (1715).
Have I not reason to worry about George now that he’s become King of England, especially since I know how much he wanted to be King of another country? I know the cursed English too well to trust them. May God protect their Majesties the Princes and the entire family, but I admit I’m really worried about them. (1715)
The poor Princess of Wales
The unfortunate Princess of Wales
[Wilhelmina-Dorothea-Charlotte, daughter of John Frederick, Margrave
of Anspach, born in 1682, married to the Prince of Wales in 1706.
The particulars of the quarrel between George I. and his son, the
Prince of Wales, will be found in Cose’s “Memoirs of Sir Robert
Walpole.”]
[Wilhelmina-Dorothea-Charlotte, daughter of John Frederick, Margrave
of Anspach, born in 1682, married the Prince of Wales in 1706.
The details of the conflict between George I and his son, the
Prince of Wales, can be found in Cose’s “Memoirs of Sir Robert
Walpole.”]has caused me great uneasiness since her letter of the 3rd (15th) of February (1718). She has implored the King’s pardon as one implores the pardon of God, but without success. I know nothing about it, but dread lest the Prince should partake his mother’s disgrace. I think, however, since the King has declared the Prince to be his son, he should treat him as such, and not act so haughtily against the Princess, who has never offended him, but has always treated him with the respect due to a father. Nothing good can result from the present state of affairs; and the King had better put an end to a quarrel which gives occasion to a thousand impertinences, and revives awkward stories which were better forgotten.
has caused me a lot of anxiety since her letter dated February 3rd (15th) (1718). She has pleaded for the King’s forgiveness just as one would plead for God’s forgiveness, but with no success. I don’t know the details, but I fear that the Prince might share in his mother’s disgrace. However, now that the King has acknowledged the Prince as his son, he should treat him as such and not act so arrogantly toward the Princess, who has never wronged him and has always shown him the respect he deserves as a father. No good can come from the current situation; the King would be better off resolving a conflict that leads to endless insolence and brings back uncomfortable stories that are better left in the past.
The King of England has returned to London in good health (1719). The Prince of Wales causes me great anxiety. He thought he should do well to send one of his gentlemen to his father, to assure him in most submissive terms of the joy he felt at his happy return. The King not only would not receive the letter, but he sent back the gentleman with a very harsh rebuke, revoking at the same time the permission, which before his journey he had given to the Prince of Wales, to see his daughter, whom the Prince loves very tenderly; this really seems too severe. It may be said that the King is rather descended from the race of the Czar than from that of Brunswick and the Palatinate. Such conduct can do him no good.
The King of England has returned to London in good health (1719). The Prince of Wales is causing me a lot of worry. He thought it would be a good idea to send one of his attendants to his father to express, in the most humble terms, how happy he was about his safe return. Not only did the King refuse to accept the letter, but he also sent the attendant back with a very harsh reprimand, simultaneously revoking the permission he had previously granted to the Prince of Wales to see his daughter, whom the Prince loves very dearly; this really seems excessive. One could argue that the King is more like one of the Czars than a member of the Brunswick and Palatinate families. Such behavior isn’t going to benefit him at all.
M. d’Entremont, the last Ambassador from Sicily, was upon the point of departing, and had already had his farewell audience, when some circumstance happened which compelled him to stay some time longer. He found himself without a lodging, for his hotel had been already let. A lady seeing the embarrassment in which Madame d’Entremont was thus placed, said to her, “Madame, I have pleasure in offering you my house, my own room, and my own bed.” The Ambassador’s lady not knowing what to do, accepted the offer with great readiness. She went to the lady’s house, and as she is old and in ill health, she went to bed immediately. Towards midnight she heard a noise like that of some person opening a secret door. In fact, a door in the wall by the bedside was opened. Some one entered, and began to undress. The lady called out, “Who is there?” A voice replied, “It is I; be quiet.” “Who are you?” asked the lady. “What is the matter with you?” was the reply. “You were not wont to be so particular. I am undressing, and shall come to bed directly.” At these words the lady cried out, “Thieves!” with all her might, and the unknown person dressed himself quickly, and withdrew.
M. d’Entremont, the last Ambassador from Sicily, was about to leave and had already said his goodbyes when something happened that forced him to stay a bit longer. He found himself without a place to stay since his hotel was already booked. A woman, noticing the trouble that Madame d’Entremont was in, said to her, “Madame, I’d be happy to offer you my home, my room, and my bed.” The Ambassador’s wife, unsure of what else to do, quickly accepted the offer. She went to the woman’s house, and since she was old and not well, she went to bed right away. Around midnight, she heard a noise that sounded like someone opening a hidden door. Indeed, a door in the wall by the bedside was opened. Someone came in and started to undress. The lady called out, “Who’s there?” A voice replied, “It’s me; don’t worry.” “Who are you?” the lady asked. “What’s your problem?” came the response. “You weren’t usually this curious. I’m getting undressed and will be in bed soon.” At these words, the lady shouted, “Thieves!” at the top of her lungs, and the unknown person quickly got dressed and left.
When the Electoral Prince of Saxony came hither, he addressed a pretty compliment to the King, which we all thought was his own, and we therefore conceived a very favourable notion of his parts. He did not, however, keep up that good opinion, and probably the compliment was made for him by the Elector-Palatine. The King desired the Duchesse de Berri to show him about Marly. He walked with her for an hour without ever offering her his arm or saying one word to her. While they were ascending a small hill, the Palatine, his Governor, nodded to him; and as the Prince did not understand what he meant, he was at length obliged to say to him, “Offer your arm to the Duchesse de Berri.” The Prince obeyed, but without saying a word. When they reached the summit, “Here,” said the Duchesse de Berri, “is a nice place for blindman’s buff.” Then, for the first time, he opened his mouth, and said, “Oh, yes; I am very willing to play.” Madame de Berri was too much fatigued to play; but the Prince continued amusing himself the whole day without offering the least civility to the Duchess, who had taken such pains for him. This will serve to show how puerile the Prince is.
When the Electoral Prince of Saxony arrived here, he gave a nice compliment to the King, which we all assumed was his own, and because of that, we formed a very favorable opinion of him. However, he didn't maintain that good impression, and it’s likely the compliment was written for him by the Elector-Palatine. The King asked the Duchesse de Berri to show him around Marly. He walked with her for an hour without ever offering her his arm or saying a word. While they were walking up a small hill, the Palatine, his Governor, nodded at him; and since the Prince didn’t understand what he meant, he finally had to say, “Offer your arm to the Duchesse de Berri.” The Prince complied, but without saying anything. When they reached the top, the Duchesse de Berri said, “Here’s a nice spot for blindman’s buff.” That was the first time he spoke, and he said, “Oh, yes; I’m very willing to play.” Madame de Berri was too tired to join in, but the Prince spent the whole day entertaining himself without showing the slightest courtesy to the Duchess, who had gone out of her way for him. This goes to show how immature the Prince is.
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We have had here several good repartees of Duke Bernard von Weimar. One day a young Frenchman asked him, “How happened it that you lost the battle?”—“I will tell you, sir,” replied the Duke, coolly; “I thought I should win it, and so I lost it. But,” he said, turning himself slowly round, “who is the fool that asked me this question?”
We’ve had some great comebacks from Duke Bernard von Weimar. One day, a young Frenchman asked him, “How did you end up losing the battle?” “I’ll tell you, sir,” the Duke replied calmly, “I thought I would win it, and that’s why I lost. But,” he said, turning slowly, “who’s the idiot that asked me this question?”
Father Joseph was in great favour with Cardinal Richelieu, and was consulted by him on all occasions. One day, when the Cardinal had summoned Duke Bernard to the Council, Father Joseph, running his finger over a map, said, “Monsieur, you must first take this city; then that, and then that.” The Duke Bernard listened to him for some time, and at length said, “But, Monsieur Joseph, you cannot take cities with your finger.” This story always made the King laugh heartily.
Father Joseph was highly regarded by Cardinal Richelieu and was consulted by him on all occasions. One day, when the Cardinal had called Duke Bernard to the Council, Father Joseph ran his finger over a map and said, “Sir, you must first take this city; then that one, and then the next.” Duke Bernard listened to him for a while and finally said, “But, Father Joseph, you can't take cities with your finger.” This story always made the King laugh uproariously.
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M. de Brancas was very deeply in love with the lady whom he married. On his wedding-day he went to take a bath, and was afterwards going to bed at the bath-house. “Why are you going to bed here, sir?” said his valet de chambre; “do you not mean to go to your wife?”—“I had quite forgotten,” he replied. He was the Queen-mother’s chevalier d’honneur. One day, while she was at church, Brancas forgot that the Queen was kneeling before him, for as her back was very round, her head could hardly be seen when she hung it down. He took her for a prie-dieu, and knelt down upon her, putting his elbows upon her shoulders. The Queen was of course not a little surprised to find her chevalier d’honneur upon her back, and all the bystanders were ready to die with laughing.
M. de Brancas was deeply in love with the woman he married. On his wedding day, he went to take a bath and then was getting ready for bed at the bathhouse. “Why are you going to bed here, sir?” asked his valet; “aren’t you going to your wife?”—“I completely forgot,” he replied. He served as the Queen Mother’s chief gentleman. One day, while she was at church, Brancas didn’t realize the Queen was kneeling in front of him; since her back was very rounded, her head was barely visible when she bowed it down. He mistook her for a prayer stool and knelt on her, resting his elbows on her shoulders. The Queen was understandably surprised to find her chief gentleman on her back, and all the onlookers almost died laughing.
Dr. Chirac was once called to see a lady, and, while he was in her bedchamber, he heard that the price of stock had considerably decreased. As he happened to be a large holder of the Mississippi Bonds, he was alarmed at the news; and being seated near the patient, whose pulse he was feeling, he said with a deep sigh, “Ah, good God! they keep sinking, sinking, sinking!” The poor sick lady hearing this, uttered a loud shriek; the people ran to her immediately. “Ah,” said she, “I shall die; M. de Chirac has just said three times, as he felt my pulse, ‘They keep sinking!’” The Doctor recovered himself soon, and said, “You dream; your pulse is very healthy, and you are very well. I was thinking of the Mississippi stocks, upon which I lose my money, because their price sinks.” This explanation satisfied the sick lady.
Dr. Chirac was once called to see a woman, and while he was in her bedroom, he heard that the stock prices had dropped significantly. Since he owned a lot of Mississippi Bonds, he became worried about the news. Seated next to the patient, whose pulse he was checking, he sighed deeply and said, “Oh, good God! They keep going down, down, down!” The poor sick woman heard this and let out a loud scream; people rushed to her side immediately. “Oh,” she said, “I’m going to die; Dr. Chirac just said three times, while checking my pulse, ‘They keep going down!’” The doctor quickly regained his composure and said, “You’re mistaken; your pulse is very strong, and you’re quite well. I was actually thinking about the Mississippi stocks, which are losing value.” This clarification reassured the sick woman.
The Duc de Sully was subject to frequent fits of abstraction. One day, having dressed himself to go to church, he forgot nothing but his breeches. This was in the winter; when he entered the church, he said, “Mon Dieu, it is very cold to-day.” The persons present said, “Not colder than usual!”—“Then I am in a fever,” he said. Some one suggested that he had perhaps not dressed himself so warmly as usual, and, opening his coat, the cause of his being cold was very apparent.
The Duc de Sully often experienced moments of distraction. One day, after getting ready to go to church, he forgot to put on his breeches. It was winter, and when he walked into the church, he remarked, “Wow, it’s really cold today.” The people there responded, “Not colder than usual!” He replied, “Then I must be coming down with something.” Someone pointed out that he might not have dressed warmly enough, and when he opened his coat, it was clear why he felt so cold.
Our late King told me the following anecdote of Queen Christina of Sweden: That Princess, instead of putting on a nightcap, wrapped her head up in a napkin. One night she could not sleep, and ordered the musicians to be brought into her bedroom; where, drawing the bed-curtains, she could not be seen by the musicians, but could hear them at her ease. At length, enchanted at a piece which they had just played, she abruptly thrust her head beyond the curtains, and cried out, “Mort diable! but they sing delightfully!” At this grotesque sight, the Italians, and particularly the castrati, who are not the bravest men in the world, were so frightened that they were obliged to stop short.
Our late King told me this story about Queen Christina of Sweden: That princess, instead of wearing a nightcap, wrapped her head in a napkin. One night, unable to sleep, she had the musicians brought into her bedroom; by drawing the bed curtains, she couldn’t be seen by them but could listen comfortably. Eventually, enchanted by a piece they had just played, she suddenly popped her head out from behind the curtains and exclaimed, “Good grief! They sing beautifully!” At this ridiculous sight, the Italians, especially the castrati, who aren’t the bravest men, were so startled that they had to stop playing.
In the great gallery at Fontainebleau may still be seen the blood of the man whom she caused to be assassinated; it was to prevent his disclosing some secrets of which he was in possession that she deprived him of life. He had, in fact, begun to chatter through jealousy of another person who had gained the Queen’s favour. Christina was very vindictive, and given up to all kinds of debauchery.
In the grand gallery at Fontainebleau, you can still see the blood of the man she had murdered; she did it to stop him from revealing secrets he knew. He had actually started to talk due to jealousy over someone else who had won the Queen's favor. Christina was quite vengeful and indulged in all sorts of excesses.
Duke Frederick Augustus of Brunswick was delighted with Christina; he said that he had never in his life met a woman who had so much wit, and whose conversation was so truly diverting; he added that it was impossible to be dull with her for a moment. I observed to him that the Queen in her conversation frequently indulged in very filthy discussions. “That is true,” replied he, “but she conceals such things in so artful a manner as to take from them all their disgusting features.” She never could be agreeable to women, for she despised them altogether.
Duke Frederick Augustus of Brunswick was thrilled with Christina; he said that he had never met a woman who had so much wit and whose conversation was so genuinely entertaining. He added that it was impossible to be bored with her for even a moment. I pointed out to him that the Queen often engaged in very inappropriate discussions. “That's true,” he replied, “but she hides those topics in such a clever way that it removes all their unpleasant aspects.” She could never get along with women because she looked down on them completely.
Saint Francois de Sales, who founded the order of the Sisters of Saint Mary, had in his youth been extremely intimate with the Marechal de Villeroi, the father of the present Marshal. The old gentleman could therefore never bring himself to call his old friend a saint. When any one spoke in his presence of Saint Francois de Sales, he used to say, “I was delighted when I saw M. de Sales become a saint; he used to delight in talking indecently, and always cheated at play; but in every other respect he was one of the best gentlemen in the world, and perhaps one of the most foolish.”
Saint Francis de Sales, who founded the order of the Sisters of Saint Mary, had been very close friends with Marshal de Villeroi in his youth, the father of the current Marshal. Because of this, the old man could never bring himself to call his old friend a saint. When anyone mentioned Saint Francis de Sales in his presence, he would say, “I was pleased to see M. de Sales become a saint; he loved to talk indecently and always cheated at cards; but in every other way, he was one of the best gentlemen in the world, and maybe one of the most foolish.”
M. de Cosnac, Archbishop of Aix, was at a very advanced age when he
learnt that Saint Francois de Sales had been canonized. “What!”
cried he, “M. de Geneve, my old friend? I am delighted at his good
fortune; he was a gallant man, an amiable man, and an honest man,
too, although he would sometimes cheat at piquet, at which we have
often played together.”—“But, sir,” said some one present, “is it
possible that a saint could be a sharper at play?”—“No,” replied
the Archbishop, “he said, as a reason for it, that he gave all his
winnings to the poor.” [Loisirs d’un homme d’etat, et Dictionnaire
Historique, tom. vii. Paris, 1810.]
M. de Cosnac, Archbishop of Aix, was quite old when he found out that Saint Francois de Sales had been canonized. “What!” he exclaimed, “M. de Geneve, my old friend? I’m thrilled about his good fortune; he was a brave man, a nice guy, and an honest man, too, even though he would sometimes cheat at piquet, which we often played together.” — “But, sir,” someone present asked, “is it possible for a saint to be a cheat at cards?” — “No,” the Archbishop replied, “he said he cheated because he gave all his winnings to the poor.” [Loisirs d’un homme d’état, et Dictionnaire Historique, tom. vii. Paris, 1810.]
While Frederick Charles de Wurtemberg, the administrateur of that duchy, was staying at Paris, the Princesse Marianne de Wurtemberg, Duke Ulric’s daughter, was there also with her mother. Expecting then to marry her cousin,
While Frederick Charles de Wurtemberg, the administrator of that duchy, was in Paris, Princess Marianne de Wurtemberg, Duke Ulric’s daughter, was there too with her mother. They were expecting to marry her cousin,
[The learned Journal of Gottengin for the year 1789, No. 30,
observes there must be some mistake here, because in 1689, when this
circumstance is supposed to have occurred, the administrateur had
been married seven years, and had children at Stuttgard.]
[The esteemed Journal of Göttingen for the year 1789, No. 30, notes that there must be some mistake here, because in 1689, when this event is said to have happened, the administrator had been married for seven years and had children in Stuttgart.]
she had herself painted as Andromeda and her cousin as Perseus as the latter wore no helmet, everybody could of course recognize him. But when he went away without having married her, she had a casque painted, which concealed the face, and said she would not have another face inserted until she should be married. She was then about nineteen years old. Her mother said once at Court, “My daughter has not come with me to-day because she is gone to confess; but, poor child, what can she have to say to her confessor, except that she has dropped some stitches in her work.” Madame de Fiennes, who was present, whispered, “The placid old fool! as if a stout, healthy girl of nineteen had no other sins to confess than having dropped some stitches.”
she had herself painted as Andromeda and her cousin as Perseus. Since he wasn’t wearing a helmet, everyone could easily recognize him. But when he left without marrying her, she had a helmet painted that covered the face and said she wouldn’t have another face painted until she got married. At that time, she was around nineteen years old. Her mother once said at Court, “My daughter didn’t come with me today because she went to confess; but, poor child, what can she possibly have to say to her confessor, other than that she dropped some stitches in her work?” Madame de Fiennes, who was there, whispered, “That naive old fool! As if a strong, healthy girl of nineteen had only that to confess.”
A village pastor was examining his parishioners in their catechism. The first question in the Heidelberg catechism is this: “What is thy only consolation in life and in death?” A young girl, to whom the pastor put this question, laughed, and would not answer. The priest insisted. “Well, then,” said she at length, “if I must tell you, it is the young shoemaker who lives in the Rue Agneaux.”
A village pastor was testing his parishioners on their catechism. The first question in the Heidelberg catechism is, “What is your only comfort in life and death?” A young girl, to whom the pastor asked this question, laughed and refused to answer. The pastor pressed her. “Well, then,” she finally said, “if I have to tell you, it’s the young shoemaker who lives on Rue Agneaux.”
The late Madame de Nemours had charitably brought up a poor child. When the child was about nine years old, she said to her benefactress, “Madame, no one can be more grateful for your charity than I am, and I cannot acknowledge it better than by telling everybody I am your daughter; but do not be alarmed, I will not say that I am your lawful child, only your illegitimate daughter.”
The late Madame de Nemours had kindly raised a disadvantaged child. When the child was around nine years old, she said to her benefactor, “Madame, no one is more grateful for your kindness than I am, and I can’t acknowledge it better than by telling everyone I’m your daughter; but don’t worry, I won’t claim that I’m your legal child, just your illegitimate daughter.”
The Memoirs of Queen Margaret of Navarre are merely a romance compared with those of Mdlle. de La Force. The authoress’s own life was a romance. Being extremely poor, although of an ancient and honourable family, she accepted the office of demoiselle d’honneur to the Duchesse de Guise. Here the Marquis de Nesle, father of the present Marquis (1720), became enamoured of her, after having received from her a small bag to wear about his neck, as a remedy against the vapours. He would have married her, but his relations opposed this intention on the score of Mdlle. de La Force’s poverty, and because she had improperly quitted the Duchesse de Guise. The Great Conde, the Marquis de Nesle’s nearest relation, took him to Chattillon that he might forget his love for Mdlle. de La Force; all the Marquis’s relations were there assembled for the purpose of declaring to him that they would never consent to his marriage with Mdlle. de La Force; and he on his part told them that he would never while he lived marry any other person. In a moment of despair, he rushed out to the garden and would have thrown himself into the canal, but that the strings, with which Mdlle. de La Force had tied the bag about his neck, broke, and the bag fell at his feet. His thoughts appeared to undergo a sudden change, and Mdlle. de La Force seemed to him to be as ugly as she really is. He went instantly to the Prince and his other relations who were there, and told them what had just happened. They searched about in the garden for the bag and the strings, and, opening it, they found it to contain two toads’ feet holding a heart wrapped up in a bat’s wing, and round the whole a paper inscribed with unintelligible cyphers. The Marquis was seized with horror at the sight. He told me this story with his own mouth. Mdlle. de La Force after this fell in love with Baron, but as he was not bewitched, the intrigue did not last long: he used to give a very amusing account of the declaration she made to him. Then a M. Briou, the son of a Councillor of that name, became attached to her; his relations, who would by no means have consented to such a marriage, shut the young man up. La Force, who has a very fertile wit, engaged an itinerant musician who led about dancing bears in the street, and intimated to her lover that, if he would express a wish to see the bears dance in the courtyard of his, own house, she would come to him disguised in a bear’s skin. She procured a bear’s skin to be made so as to fit her, and went to M. Briou’s house with the bears; the young man, under the pretence of playing with this bear, had an opportunity of conversing with her and of laying their future plans. He then promised his father that he would submit to his will, and thus having regained his liberty he immediately married Mdlle. de La Force, and went with her to Versailles, where the King gave them apartments, and where Madame de Briou was every day with the Dauphine of Bavaria, who admired her wit and was delighted with her society. M. de Briou was not then five-and-twenty years of age, a very good-looking and well-bred young man. His father, however, procured a dissolution of the marriage by the Parliament, and made him marry another person. Madame de Briou thus became once more Mdlle. de La Force, and found herself without husband and money. I cannot tell how it was that the King and her parents, both of whom had consented to the marriage, did not oppose its dissolution. To gain a subsistence she set about composing romances, and as she was often staying with the Princesse de Conti, she dedicated to her that of Queen Margaret.
The Memoirs of Queen Margaret of Navarre are just a story compared to those of Mdlle. de La Force. The author’s own life was like a story. Despite being very poor, she came from an old and respectable family and took on the role of lady-in-waiting to the Duchesse de Guise. While there, the Marquis de Nesle, the father of the current Marquis (1720), fell in love with her after she gave him a small bag to wear around his neck as a remedy for his nerves. He wanted to marry her, but his family was against it because of Mdlle. de La Force's lack of wealth and the fact that she had improperly left the service of the Duchesse de Guise. The Great Conde, the Marquis de Nesle’s closest relative, took him to Châtillon to help him forget about Mdlle. de La Force; all of the Marquis’s relatives gathered there to tell him they would never agree to his marrying her. In response, he declared that he would never marry anyone else as long as he lived. In a moment of despair, he ran into the garden and almost jumped into the canal, but the strings Mdlle. de La Force had used to tie the bag around his neck broke, causing it to fall at his feet. Suddenly, his feelings changed, and he found Mdlle. de La Force as unattractive as she truly is. He quickly approached the Prince and his other relatives present and shared what had just happened. They searched the garden for the bag and the strings, and upon opening it, they discovered two toad's feet holding a heart wrapped in a bat's wing, accompanied by a piece of paper filled with incomprehensible symbols. The Marquis was horrified by the sight. He shared this story directly with me. After this incident, Mdlle. de La Force fell for Baron, but since he wasn’t spellbound, their affair didn’t last long; he amusingly recounted the time she confessed her feelings to him. Then a Mr. Briou, the son of a councillor, became interested in her; however, his family was strongly opposed to their marriage and locked him up. La Force, known for her clever wit, hired a wandering musician with dancing bears in the street and hinted to her lover that if he requested to see the bears dance in his courtyard, she would come to him dressed in a bear costume. She had a bear costume made just for her and went to Mr. Briou’s house with the bears; the young man, pretending to play with the bear, took the chance to talk with her and plan their future. He then promised his father he would comply with his wishes, and regaining his freedom, he quickly married Mdlle. de La Force and went with her to Versailles, where the King provided them with living quarters. Madame de Briou spent her days with the Dauphine of Bavaria, who admired her intellect and enjoyed her company. Mr. de Briou was not even twenty-five and was a handsome, well-mannered young man. However, his father had their marriage annulled by Parliament and arranged for him to marry someone else. As a result, Madame de Briou once again became Mdlle. de La Force and found herself without a husband or money. I can't explain why the King and her parents, who had both agreed to the marriage, did not oppose its annulment. To make a living, she began writing romances, and since she frequently stayed with the Princesse de Conti, she dedicated the work of Queen Margaret to her.
We have had four Dukes who have bought coffee, stuffs, and even candles for the purpose of selling them again at a profit. It was the Duke de La Force who bought the candles. One evening, very recently, as he was going out of the Opera, the staircase was filled with young men, one of whom cried out, as he passed, “His purse!”—“No,” said another, “there can be no money in it; he would not risk it; it must be candles that he has bought to sell again.” They then sang the air of the fourth act of ‘Phaeton’.
We’ve had four Dukes who have bought coffee, goods, and even candles to sell them again for a profit. It was the Duke de La Force who bought the candles. One night recently, as he was leaving the Opera, the staircase was crowded with young men, and one of them shouted as he walked by, “His purse!”—“No,” replied another, “there can’t be any money in it; he wouldn’t risk it; it must be candles he bought to resell.” They then sang the tune from the fourth act of ‘Phaeton’.
[The Duke, together with certain other persons, made considerable
purchases of spice, porcelain, and other merchandizes, for the
purpose of realizing the hope of Law’s Banks. As he was not held in
estimation either by the public or by the Parliament, the Duke was
accused of monopoly; and by a decree of the Parliament, in concert
with the Peers, he was enjoined “to use more circumspection for the
future, and to conduct himself irreproachably, in a manner as should
be consistent with his birth and his dignity as a Peer of France.”]
[The Duke, along with a few others, made significant purchases of spices, porcelain, and other goods to try to fulfill the ambitions of Law’s Banks. Since he wasn’t respected by the public or Parliament, the Duke was accused of having a monopoly; and by a decree from Parliament, in conjunction with the Peers, he was instructed “to be more careful in the future and to act in a way that is appropriate for his status and dignity as a Peer of France.”]
The Queen Catherine (de Medicis) was a very wicked woman. Her uncle, the Pope, had good reason for saying that he had made a bad present to France. It is said that she poisoned her youngest son because he had discovered her in a common brothel whither she had gone privately. Who can wonder that such a woman should drink out of a cup covered with designs from Aretino. The Pope had an object in sending her to France. Her son was the Duc d’Alencon; and as they both remained incog. the world did not know that they were mother and son, which occasioned frequent mistakes.
The Queen Catherine (de Medicis) was a very wicked woman. Her uncle, the Pope, had good reason to say he had given France a bad gift. It's said she poisoned her youngest son because he found her in a common brothel she had secretly visited. Who can be surprised that a woman like her would drink from a cup decorated with designs from Aretino? The Pope had a goal in sending her to France. Her son was the Duc d’Alencon, and since they both kept their identities hidden, the world didn't realize they were mother and son, which led to frequent misunderstandings.
The young Count Horn, who has just been executed here (1720), was descended from a well-known Flemish family; he was distinguished at first for the amiable qualities of his head and for his wit. At college he was a model for good conduct, application, and purity of morals; but the intimacy which he formed with some libertine young men during his stay at the Academy of Paris entirely changed him. He contracted an insatiable desire for play, and even his own father said to him, “You will die by the hands of the executioner.” Being destitute of money, the young Count took up the trade of a pickpocket, which he carried on in the pit of the theatres, and by which he made considerable gains in silver-hilted swords and watches. At length, having lost a sum of five-and-twenty thousand crowns at the fair of Saint-Germain, he was led to commit that crime which he has just expiated on the scaffold. For the purpose of discharging the debt he had contracted, he sent for a banker’s clerk to bring him certain bank bills, which he proposed to purchase. Having connected himself with two other villains, he attacked the clerk as soon as he arrived, and stabbed him with poniards which he had bought three days before on the Pont Neuf. Hoping to conceal the share which he had taken in this crime, he went immediately after its perpetration to the Commissaire du Quartier, and told him, with a cool and determined air, that he had been obliged, in his own defence, to kill the clerk, who had attacked him and put him in danger of his life. The Commissaire looking at him steadfastly, said, “You are covered with blood, but you are not even wounded; I must retain you in custody until I can examine this affair more minutely.” At this moment the accomplice entered the room. “Here, sir,” said the Count to the Commissaire, “is one who can bear testimony that the account I have given you of this business is perfectly true.” The accomplice was quite terrified at hearing this; he thought that Count Horn had confessed his crime, and that there could be no advantage in continuing to deny it; he therefore confessed all that had taken place, and thus the murder was revealed. The Count was not more than two-and-twenty years of age, and one of the handsomest men in Paris. Some of the first persons in France solicited in his favour, but the Duke Regent thought it necessary to make an example of him on account of the prevalent excess of crime. Horn was publicly broken on the wheel with his second accomplice; the other died just before: they were both gentlemen and of noble families. When they arrived at the place of punishment, they begged the people to implore the pardon of Heaven upon their sins. The spectators were affected to tears, but they nevertheless agreed in the just severity of their punishment. The people said aloud after the execution, “Our Regent has done justice.”
The young Count Horn, who was just executed here in 1720, came from a well-known Flemish family. At first, he stood out for his friendly nature and quick wit. In college, he was a model student known for his good behavior, hard work, and moral integrity; however, his friendship with some reckless young men during his time at the Academy of Paris completely changed him. He developed an insatiable gambling addiction, and even his father warned him, “You will die by the hands of the executioner.” With no money left, the young Count turned to pickpocketing, working the crowd in theaters, and he made quite a bit from stealing silver-hilted swords and watches. Eventually, after losing twenty-five thousand crowns at the Saint-Germain fair, he committed the crime that led to his execution. To pay off his debts, he called for a banker’s clerk to bring him certain banknotes that he planned to buy. Teaming up with two other criminals, he attacked the clerk as soon as he arrived and stabbed him with daggers he had bought just three days earlier on the Pont Neuf. Trying to cover up his involvement, he went straight to the Commissaire du Quartier and claimed, with a cool demeanor, that he had killed the clerk in self-defense after being attacked and put in danger. The Commissaire looked at him intently and said, “You’re covered in blood, but you’re not even injured; I must keep you in custody until I can investigate this matter further.” Just then, the accomplice entered the room. “Here, sir,” said the Count to the Commissaire, “is someone who can confirm that my account of this incident is completely true.” The accomplice was terrified at this; he thought Count Horn had confessed, and there was no point in denying it any longer, so he admitted everything that had happened, leading to the revelation of the murder. The Count was no more than twenty-two years old and one of the most handsome men in Paris. Some prominent people in France tried to advocate for him, but the Duke Regent felt it necessary to make an example of him due to the rampant crime at the time. Horn was publicly executed on the wheel along with his second accomplice, while the other had died just before. Both were gentlemen from noble families. When they reached the execution site, they asked the crowd to pray for forgiveness for their sins. The spectators were moved to tears but still agreed that their punishment was justified. After the execution, the people shouted, “Our Regent has done justice.”
One lady was blaming another, her intimate friend, for loving a very ugly man. The latter said, “Did he ever speak to you tenderly or passionately?”—“No,” replied the former. “Then you cannot judge,” said her friend, “whether I ought to love him or not.”
One woman was criticizing another, her close friend, for loving a really unattractive guy. The friend asked, “Has he ever spoken to you sweetly or passionately?”—“No,” replied the first woman. “Then you can’t judge,” said the friend, “whether I should love him or not.”
Madame de Nemours used to say, “I have observed one thing in this country, ‘Honour grows again as well as hair.’”
Madame de Nemours used to say, “I've noticed one thing in this country, ‘Honor grows back just like hair.’”
An officer, a gentleman of talent, whose name was Hautmont, wrote the following verses upon Cardinal Mazarin, for which he was locked up in the Bastille for eighteen months:
An officer, a talented gentleman named Hautmont, wrote the following verses about Cardinal Mazarin, for which he was imprisoned in the Bastille for eighteen months:
Creusons tous le tombeau
A qui nous persecute;
A ce Jules nouveauu
Cherchons un nouveau Brute.
Que le jour serait beau,
Si nous voyions sa chute!
Let’s all dig the grave
For those who persecute us;
For this new Julius,
Let’s look for a new Brutus.
How beautiful the day would be,
If we saw his downfall!The Queen-mother could not endure Boisrobert on account of his impiety; she did not like him to visit her sons, the King and Monsieur, in their youth, but they were very fond of him because he used to amuse them. When he was at the point of death, the Queen-mother sent some priests to convert him and to prepare him for confession. Boisrobert appeared inclined to confess. “Yes, mon Dieu,” said he, devoutly joining his hands, “I sincerely implore Thy pardon, and confess that I am a great sinner, but thou knowest that the Abbe de Villargeau is a much greater sinner than I am.”
The Queen-mother couldn't stand Boisrobert because of his irreverence; she didn't like him visiting her sons, the King and Monsieur, when they were young, but they really liked him because he entertained them. When he was about to die, the Queen-mother sent some priests to convert him and prepare him for confession. Boisrobert seemed ready to confess. “Yes, my God,” he said, devoutly bringing his hands together, “I sincerely ask for Your forgiveness and admit that I am a great sinner, but You know that Abbe de Villargeau is a much bigger sinner than I am.”
Cardinal Mazarin sent him once to compliment the English Ambassador on his arrival. When he reached the hotel, an Englishman said to him, “Milord, il est pret; my ladi, il n’est pas pret, friselire ses chevaux, prendre patience.” The late King used to relate stories of this same Boisrobert in a very whimsical manner.
Cardinal Mazarin once sent him to congratulate the English Ambassador on his arrival. When he got to the hotel, an Englishman said to him, “My lord, he is ready; my lady, she is not ready, brush her hair, have patience.” The late King used to tell stories about this same Boisrobert in a very funny way.
The life which folks lead at Paris becomes daily more scandalous; I really tremble for the city every time it thunders. Three ladies of quality have just committed a monstrous imprudence. They have been running after the Turkish Ambassador; they made his son drunk and kept him with them three days; if they go on in this way even the Capuchins will not be safe from them. The Turks must needs have a very becoming notion of the conduct of ladies of quality in a Christian country. The young Turk is said to have told Madame de Polignac, who was one of the three ladies, “Madame, your reputation has reached Constantinople, and I see that report has only done you justice.” The Ambassador, it is said, is very much enraged with his son, and has enjoined him to keep his adventure profoundly a secret, because he would risk the top of his head on his return to Constantinople if it were known that he had associated with Christian women. It is to be feared that the young man will get safely out of France. Madame de Polignac has fleeced all the young men of quality here. I do not know how her relations and those of her husband choose to suffer her to lead so libertine a life. But all shame is extinct in France, and everything is turned topsy-turvy.
The life people are living in Paris is getting more scandalous every day; I honestly worry for the city whenever there’s a thunderstorm. Three high-society ladies have just committed a huge mistake. They went after the Turkish Ambassador's son, got him drunk, and kept him with them for three days; if they keep this up, even the Capuchins won't be safe from them. The Turks must have a pretty interesting view of how ladies from a Christian country behave. It’s said that the young Turk told Madame de Polignac, one of the three ladies, “Madame, your reputation has made it all the way to Constantinople, and I see that the reports have only told the truth about you.” Apparently, the Ambassador is really angry with his son and has ordered him to keep this entire adventure a secret, because he would be risking his life when he returns to Constantinople if it were known that he mixed with Christian women. We have to worry that the young man will manage to leave France safely. Madame de Polignac has taken advantage of all the young noblemen here. I don’t understand why her family and her husband’s family allow her to live such a scandalous life. But all sense of shame has disappeared in France, and everything has become completely upside down.
It is very unfortunate that noblemen like the Elector-Palatine John William should suffer themselves to be governed by the priesthood; nothing but evil can result from it. He would do much better if he would follow the advice of able statesmen, and throw his priest into the Necker. I would advise him to do so, and I think I should advise him well.
It’s really unfortunate that nobles like Elector-Palatine John William let themselves be controlled by the clergy; only bad outcomes can come from it. He would be much better off if he listened to capable politicians and tossed his priest into the Necker. I recommend he do that, and I believe it would be good advice.
I cannot conceive why the Duke Maximilian (brother of George I. of England)
I can't understand why Duke Maximilian (brother of George I of England)
[Prince Maximilian of Hanover, the second brother of George I., had,
after the death of his brother, Frederick Augustus, certain rights
over the Bishopric of Osnaburgh; love and his monks caused him to
embrace the catholic faith.]
[Prince Maximilian of Hanover, the second brother of George I, had certain rights over the Bishopric of Osnaburgh after the death of his brother, Frederick Augustus; love and his monks led him to embrace the Catholic faith.]
changed his religion, for he had very little faith in general; none of his relations solicited him to do so, and he was induced by no personal interest.
changed his religion because he had very little faith overall; none of his family members urged him to do so, and he had no personal stake in the matter.
I have heard a story of this Prince, which does him little honour. I have been told that he complained to the Emperor of his mother, who bred him tenderly, but who had not sent him eight thousand crowns which he had asked her for. This is abominable, and he can hope for happiness neither in this nor in the next world; I can never forgive him for it. The first idea of this must have originated with Father Wolff, who has also excited him against Prince Edward Augustus.—[Maximilian contested the Bishopric of Osnaburgh with his younger brother.]—What angers me most with this cursed monk is, that he will not suffer Duke Maximilian to have a single nobleman about him; he will only allow him to be approached by beggars like himself.
I’ve heard a story about this Prince that doesn’t reflect well on him. I’ve been told he complained to the Emperor about his mother, who raised him with care, but didn’t send him the eight thousand crowns he asked for. That’s just awful, and he can’t expect happiness in this life or the next; I can never forgive him for that. The whole idea must have come from Father Wolff, who has also turned him against Prince Edward Augustus.—[Maximilian contested the Bishopric of Osnaburgh with his younger brother.]—What frustrates me the most about this wretched monk is that he won’t let Duke Maximilian have a single nobleman around him; he only allows him to associate with beggars like himself.
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A pious Capuchin explained her dream to her
Always has a fictitious malady in reserve
Art of satisfying people even while he reproved their requests
Asked the King a hundred questions, which is not the fashion
Bad company spoils good manners
Because the Queen has only the rinsings of the glass
But all shame is extinct in France
Duc de Grammont, then Ambassador, played the Confessor
Duplicity passes for wit, and frankness is looked upon as folly
Even doubt whether he believes in the existence of a God
Exclaimed so long against high head-dresses
Follies and superstitions as the rosaries and other things
Formerly the custom to swear horridly on all occasions
Frequent and excessive bathing have undermined her health
Great filthiness in the interior of their houses
Great things originated from the most insignificant trifles
He had good natural wit, but was extremely ignorant
He always slept in the Queen’s bed
He was a good sort of man, notwithstanding his weaknesses
Her teeth were very ugly, being black and broken (Queen)
Honour grows again as well as hair
I thought I should win it, and so I lost it
I never take medicine but on urgent occasions
I wished the husband not to be informed of it
I have seldom been at a loss for something to laugh at
I am unquestionably very ugly
I had a mind, he said, to commit one sin, but not two
I formed a religion of my own
If I should die, shall I not have lived long enough?
It is an unfortunate thing for a man not to know himself
It was not permitted to argue with him
Jewels and decoration attract attention (to the ugly)
Like will to like
Louis XIV. scarcely knew how to read and write
Made his mistresses treat her with all becoming respect
My husband proposed separate beds
No man more ignorant of religion than the King was
Nobility becoming poor could not afford to buy the high offices
Not lawful to investigate in matters of religion
Old Maintenon
Only your illegitimate daughter
Original manuscripts of the Memoirs of Cardinal Retz
Provided they are talked of, they are satisfied
Robes battantes for the purpose of concealing her pregnancy
Seeing myself look as ugly as I really am (in a mirror)
She never could be agreeable to women
Since becoming Queen she had not had a day of real happiness
So great a fear of hell had been instilled into the King
Soon tired of war, and wishing to return home (Louis XIV)
Stout, healthy girl of nineteen had no other sins to confess
Subject to frequent fits of abstraction
That what he called love was mere debauchery
The old woman (Madame Maintenon)
Throw his priest into the Necker
To tell the truth, I was never very fond of having children
To die is the least event of my life (Maintenon)
You never look in a mirror when you pass it
You are a King; you weep, and yet I go
A devout Capuchin shared her dream with her
Always has a fake illness ready
Skillfully pleasing people even while criticizing their requests
Asked the King a hundred questions, which isn't the norm
Bad company ruins good manners
Because the Queen has only the leftover water from the glass
But all sense of shame has disappeared in France
Duc de Grammont, then Ambassador, acted as the Confessor
Deception is seen as cleverness, and honesty is viewed as foolishness
Even doubted whether he believed in God
Complained for so long about tall hairstyles
Follies and superstitions like rosaries and other things
It used to be common to swear terribly on all occasions
Frequent and excessive bathing has harmed her health
Great messiness inside their houses
Big ideas often come from the smallest details
He had natural wit but was very uneducated
He always slept in the Queen's bed
He was a decent man despite his flaws
Her teeth were very unattractive, being black and broken (Queen)
Honor can grow back just like hair
I thought I would win it, and that's how I lost it
I only take medicine in urgent situations
I hoped the husband wouldn't find out about it
I usually have something to laugh at
I am undeniably very unattractive
I thought, he said, about committing one sin, but not two
I created my own religion
If I die, haven’t I lived long enough?
It's unfortunate for a man not to know himself
It wasn't allowed to argue with him
Jewelry and decorations draw attention (to the unattractive)
Like attracts like
Louis XIV. barely knew how to read and write
Made his mistresses treat her with all due respect
My husband suggested separate beds
No man was more ignorant about religion than the King
Poor nobility could not afford to buy the high offices
It's not lawful to question matters of religion
Old Maintenon
Just your illegitimate daughter
Original manuscripts of the Memoirs of Cardinal Retz
As long as they are talked about, they feel satisfied
Robes battantes to hide her pregnancy
Seeing myself look as unattractive as I actually am (in a mirror)
She could never get along with women
Since becoming Queen, she hadn't experienced a day of true happiness
The King had been instilled with such a great fear of hell
Soon grew tired of war and wanted to go home (Louis XIV)
A sturdy, healthy girl of nineteen had no other sins to confess
Prone to frequent daydreaming
What he called love was simply indulgence
The old woman (Madame Maintenon)
Throw his priest into the Necker
To be honest, I was never really fond of having children
Dying is the least significant event of my life (Maintenon)
You never look in a mirror as you pass it
You are a King; you cry, and still, I leave Download ePUB
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