First proceedings of the council—The dauphin receives theprelates with great coolness—Situation of the archbishop ofParis—Richelieu evades the project for confessing the king—The friends of madame du Barry come forward—The Englishphysician—The abbé Terray—Interview with the prince deSoubise—The prince and the courtiers—La Martinière informsthe king of France the true nature of his complaint—Consequences of this disclosure
The different members of thisconcile impromptudeclared themselves in favour of this advice, much to the grief and chagrin of the princess Adélaïde. She easily perceived by this proposition that the court would very shortly change masters, and could she hope to preserve the same influence during the reign of her nephew she had managed to obtain whilst her father held the sceptre? However, she made no opposition to the resolution of the prelates, who forthwith proceeded to the dauphin, who received them with considerable coolness. As yet, but ill-assured in the new part he had to play, the prince showed himself fearful and embarrassed. The dauphiness would willingly have advised him, but that prudence would not permit her to do, so that the dauphin, left wholly to himself, knew not on what to determine.
This was precisely what the grand almoner had hoped and expected, and he laughed in his sleeve at the useless trouble taken by the archbishop; and whilst he openly affected to promote his desires as much as was in his power, he secretly took measures to prevent their success. M. de Beaumont, who was of a most open and upright nature, was far from suspecting these intrigues; indeed, his simple and pious character but ill-qualified him for the corrupt and deceitful atmosphere of a court, especially such a one as Versailles. His situation now became one of difficulty; abandoned by the bishops and the grand almoner, disappointed in his hopes of finding a supporter in the dauphin, what could he do alone with the princesses, who, in their dread of causing an emotion, which might be fatal to their parent, knew not what to resolve upon. As a last resource, they summoned the abbé Mandaux, the king’s confessor. The prelate excited his zeal in all its fervour, and this simple and obscure priest determined to undertake that which many more eminent personages had shrunk from attempting.
He therefore sought admittance into the chamber of the king, where he found the ducs de Duras and de Richelieu, to whom he communicated the mission upon which he was come.
At this declaration, the consequences of which he plainly foresaw, the duc de Duras hesitated to reply, scarcely knowing how to ward off a blow the responsibility of which must fall upon him alone. The duc de Richelieu, with greater self-command, extricated him from his difficulty.
“Sir,” said he to the abbé, “your zeal is highly praise-worthy, both the duke and myself are aware of all that should be done upon such an occasion as the present; and although I freely admit that the sacred act you speak of is of an imperative nature, yet I would observe, that the king being still in ignorance of his fatal malady, neither your duties nor ours can begin, until the moment when the physicians shall have thought proper to reveal the whole truth to his majesty. This is a matter of form and etiquette to which all must submit who have any functions to fulfil in the château.”
The duc de Duras could have hugged his colleague for this well-timed reply. The abbé Mandaux felt all the justness of the observation, yet with all the tenacity of his profession, he replied,
“That since it rested with the physicians to apprize the king of his being ill with the small-pox, they ought to be summoned and consulted as to the part to take.”
At these words the duc de Duras slipped away from the group, and went himself in search of Doctor Bordeu, whom he brought into an angle of the chamber out of sight of the king’s bed. The duc de Duras having explained to him what the abbé had just been saying to them, as well as the desire he had manifested of preparing the king to receive the last sacraments, the doctor regarded the abbé fixedly for some instance, and asked in a severe tone, “Whether he had promised any person to murder the king?”
This abrupt and alarming question made the priest change colour, whilst he asked for an explanation of such a singular charge.
“I say, sir,” replied Bordeu, “that whoever speaks at present to his majesty of small-pox, confession, or extreme unction, will have to answer for his life.”
“Do you, indeed, believe,” asked the duc de Richelieu, “that the mention of these things would produce so fatal a result?”
“Most assuredly I do; and out of one hundred sick persons it would have the same effect upon sixty, perhaps eighty; indeed, I have known the shock produce instantaneous death. This I am willing to sign with my own blood if it be necessary, and my professional brother there will not dispute its truth.”
At these words he made a sign for Lemonnier to advance, and after having explained to him the subject of conversation, begged of him to speak his opinion openly and candidly. Lemonnier was somewhat of a courtier, and one glance at the two noblemen before whom he stood, was sufficient to apprize him what opinion was expected from him. He, therefore, fully and unhesitatingly confirmed all that Bordeu had previously advanced.
Strong in these decisions, the duc de Duras expressed his regret to the confessor at being unable to accord his request. “But,” added he, “You perceive the thing is impossible, unless to him who would become a regicide.”
This terrible expression renewed the former terror of the abbé, who, satisfied with having shown his zeal, was, perhaps, not very sorry for having met with such insurmountable obstacles. He immediately returned to the apartment of madame Sophie, where the council was still assembled, and related the particulars of his visit; whilst the poor archbishop of Paris, thus foiled in every attempt, was compelled to leave Versailles wholly unsuccessful.
I heard all these things from the duc de Richelieu; he told me that nothing could have been more gratifying than the conduct of Bordeu and Lemonnier, and that I had every reason for feeling satisfied with the conduct of all around me. “It is in the moment of peril,” said he, “that we are best able to know our true friends.”
“I see it,” replied I; “and since our danger is a mutual one ought we not to forget our old subjects of dispute?”
“For my own part, madam,” returned he, “I do not remember that any ever existed; besides, is not my cause yours likewise? A new reign will place me completely in the background. The present king looks upon me as almost youthful; while, on the contrary, his grandson will consider me as a specimen of the days of Methuselah. The change of masters can be but to my disadvantage; let us, therefore, stand firmly together, that we may be the better enabled to resist the attacks of our enemies.”
“Do you consider,” inquired I, “that we may rely upon the firmness of the duc de Duras?”
“As safely as you may on mine,” answered he, “so long as he is not attacked face to face; but if they once assail him with the arms of etiquette, he is a lost man, he will capitulate. It is unfortunate for him that I am not likely to be near him upon such an occasion.”
Comte Jean, who never left me, then took up the conversation, and advised M. de Richelieu to leave him to himself as little as possible; it was, therefore, agreed that we should cause the duc de Duras to be constantly surrounded by persons of our party, who should keep those of our adversaries at a distance.
We had not yet lost all hope of seeing his majesty restored to health; nature, so languid and powerless in the case of poor Anne, seemed inclined to make a salutary effort on the part of the king.
Every instant of this day and the next, that I did not spend by the sick-bed of Louis XV, were engrossed by most intimate friends, the ducs d’Aiguillon, de Cossé, etc., mesdames de Mirepoix, de Forcalquier, de Valentinois, de l’Hôpital, de Montmorency, de Flaracourt, and others. As yet, none of my party had abandoned me; the situation of affairs was not, up to the present, sufficiently clear to warrant an entire defect. Mathon, whom chance had conducted to Versailles during the last week, came to share with Henriette, my sisters-in-law, and my niece, the torments and uncertainties which distracted my mind. We were continually in a state of mortal alarm, dreading every instant to hear that the king was aware of his malady, and the danger which threatened, and our fears but too well proclaimed our persuasion that such a moment would be the death-blow to our hopes. It happened that in this exigency, as it most commonly occurs in affairs of great importance, all our apprehensions had been directed towards the ecclesiastics, while we entirely overlooked the probability that the abrupt la Martinière might, in one instant, become the cause of our ruin. All this so entirely escaped us, that we took not the slightest precaution to prevent it.
No sooner was the news of the king being attacked with small-pox publicly known, than a doctor Sulton, an English physician, the pretended professor of an infallible cure for this disease, presented himself at Versailles, and tendered his services. The poor man was simple enough to make his first application to those medical attendants already intrusted with the management of his majesty, but neither of them would give any attention to his professions of skill to overcome so fatal a malady. On the contrary, they treated him as a mere quack, declared that they would never consent to confide the charge of their august patient to the hands of a stranger whatever he might be. Sulton returned to Paris, and obtaining an audience of the duc d’Orleans, related to him what had passed between himself and the king’s physicians. The prince made it his business the following day to call upon the princesses, to whom he related the conversation he had held with doctor Sulton the preceding evening.
In their eagerness to avail themselves of every chance for promoting the recovery of their beloved parent, the princesses blamed the duke for having bestowed so little attention upon the Englishman, and conjured him to return to Paris, see Sulton, and bring him to Versailles on the following day. The duc d’Orleans acted in strict conformity with their wishes; and although but little satisfied with the replies made by Sulton to many of his questions relative to the measures he should pursue in his treatment of the king, he caused him to accompany him to Versailles, in order that the princesses might judge for themselves. The task of receiving him was undertaken by madame Adélaïde. Sulton underwent a rigorous examination, and was offered an immense sum for the discovery of his secret, provided he would allow his remedy to be subjected to the scrutiny of some of the most celebrated chemists of the time. Sulton declared that the thing was impossible; in the first place, it was too late, the disease was too far advanced for the application of the remedy to possess that positive success it would have obtained in the earlier stage of the malady; in the next place, he could not of himself dispose of a secret which was the joint property of several members of his family.
Prayers, promises, entreaties were alike uselessly employed to change the resolution of Sulton; the fact was evidently this, he knew himself to be a mere pretender to his art, for had he been certain of what he advanced, had he even conceived the most slender hopes of saving the life of the king, he would not have hesitated for a single instant to have done all that was asked.
This chance of safety was, therefore, at an end, and spite of the opinion I entertained of Sulton, I could not but feel sorry Bordeu had not given him a better reception when he first made known his professed ability to surmount this fatal disorder. However, I was careful not to express my dissatisfaction, for it was but too important for me to avoid any dispute at a time when the support of my friends had become so essentially necessary to me.
In proportion as the king became worse, my credit also declined. Two orders, addressed to the comptroller-general and M. de la Borde, for money, met with no attention. The latter replied, with extreme politeness, that the 100,000 francs received by comte Jean a few days before the king was taken ill, and the 50,000 paid to madame de Mirepoix recently, must be a convincing proof, in my eyes, of his friendly intentions towards me, but that he had no money at present in his possession, the first he received should be at my disposal.
The abbé Terray acted with less ceremony, for he came himself to say, that, so long as the king remained ill, he would pay no money without his majesty’s signature, for which my brother-in-law might either ask or wait till there no longer existed any occasion for such a precaution; and that, for his own part, he could not conceive how he could have consumed the enormous sums he had already drawn from the treasury.
This manner of speaking stung me to the quick.
“I find you,” said I to him, “precisely the mean, contemptible wretch you were described to me; but you are premature. I am not yet an exile from court, and yet you seem already to have forgotten all you owe to me.”
“I have a very good memory, madam,” replied he, “and if you wish it, I can count upon my fingers the money you and your family have received of me. You will see—”
“What shall I see?” interrupted I, “unless, indeed, it be an amount of your regrets that such a sum was not left in your hands to be pillaged by your mistresses and their spurious offspring. Really, to hear you talk, any one would suppose you a Sully for integrity, and a Colbert in financial talent.”
This vigorous reply staggered the selfish and coarse-minded abbé, who easily perceived that he had carried matters too far, and had reckoned erroneously upon the feebleness and timidity of my natural disposition; he attempted to pacify me, but his cowardly insolence had exasperated me too highly to admit of any apology or peace-making.
“Have a care what you do,” said I, “or rather employ yourself in packing up whatever may belong to you, for you shall quit your post whatever may befall. In the event of the king’s death you will certainly be turned out by his successor, and if he regain his health, he must then choose between you and me, there can be no medium. Henceforward, you may consider me only in the light of your mortal enemy.”
He wished to insist upon my hearing him, but I exclaimed, “Quit the room, I wish neither to see nor hear more of you.”
The abbé saw that it was necessary to obey, he therefore bowed and retired. Two hours afterwards he sent me the sum which I had asked of him for my brother-in-law, accompanied by a most humble and contrite letter. Certainly, had I only listened to the inspiration of my heart, I should have sent back the money without touching it, and the epistle without reading it; but my heroism did not suit comte Jean, who chanced to be present. “Take it, take it,” cried he; “the only way of punishing a miscreant, is to break his purse-strings. He would, indeed, have the laugh on his side were your fit of anger to change into a fit of generosity; besides, this may be the last we shall ever see.”
My brother-in-law and the comptroller-general were an excellent pair. I treated the latter with silent contempt, not even replying to his letter; this was, however, my first and only stroke of vengeance, the disastrous events which followed did not permit me to pursue my plans for revenging this treacherous and contemptible conduct.
This quarrel, and the defection of theworthyabbé, had the effect of rendering me much indisposed. My illness was attributed to an excess of sorrow for the dangerous condition of his majesty, nor did I contradict the report; for, in truth, I did most sincerely lament the malady with which the king was suffering, and my regrets arose far more from a feeling of gratitude and esteem, than any self-interested calculations. It was, therefore, in no very excellent humour that I saw the prince de Soubise enter my apartment. You may remember that this nobleman had quitted Trianon without saying one word to me, and since that period I had never seen him, although he had punctually made his inquiries after the king. When I perceived him, I could not help inquiring, with something of a sarcastic expression, whether his majesty had been pronounced convalescent? The prince comprehended the bitterness of the question.
“You are severe, madam,” replied he, “yet I can solemnly affirm that circumstances, and not inclination, have kept me from your presence until now.”
“May I believe you?” said I. “Are you quite sure you have not been imitating the policy of the abbé Terray?” Upon which I related the behaviour of the comptroller-general.
“Priest-like,” answered the prince.
“And is it notcourtier-like also?” inquired I.
“Perhaps it may,” rejoined M. de Soubise; “for the two species of priest and courtier so nearly resemble each other in many particulars, as to have become well nigh amalgamated into one; but I claim your indulgence to make me an exception to the general rule, and to class me as a soldier and a man of honour; besides which, you are too lovely ever to be forgotten, and your past goodness to me will ensure you my services let what may occur.”
“Well, then,” said I, extending my hand, “as a reward for your candour, which I receive as genuine, I will request your forgiveness for any annoyance I may have caused you on your family’s account, I ought never to have resented any thing they have done. My presence here could not fail of being highly disagreeable to them; however, they will soon be relieved from that source of uneasiness, my stay draws rapidly to a close.”
The prince de Soubise, with a ready grace and obliging manner, for which I shall ever remember him with a grateful recollection, endeavoured to dispel my apprehensions as to the state of the king; but whilst I acknowledged the kindness of his intention, my heart refused all comfort in a case, which I too well knew was utterly hopeless.
The state of affairs was now so manifest, that already an obsequious crowd beseiged the doors of the dauphin, anxious to be first in the demonstration of their adoration of the rising sun; but the young prince, aided by the clear-minded advice of his august spouse, refused, with admirable prudence, to receive such premature homage; and since he was interdicted by the physicians from visiting the royal invalid, he confined himself within his apartments, admitting no person but a select few who possessed his confidence.
The disappointed satellites, frustrated in their endeavours to in gratiate themselves with the dauphin, turned their thoughts towards the comte de Provence, imagining that this prince, spite of his extreme youth, might have considerable influence over the mind of his brother, the dauphin. But this idea, however plausible, was by no means correct; it was too much the interest of ambitious and mercenary men to create a want of harmony between the royal pair, and up to the moment in which I am writing, no attempts have been made to produce a kinder and more fraternal feeling between two such near relatives.
I quitted the king as little as possible, watching with deep concern the progress of a malady, the nature of which was a secret to himself alone; for, in the dread of incurring my displeasure, no person had ventured to acquaint him with the awful fact. By the aid of the grand almoner, I had triumphed over the wishes of the archbishop of Paris, and those of the confessor. The princes and princesses awaited the event; all was calm composure; when, all at once, the barriers I had been so carefully erecting were crushed beneath my feet, at one sudden and unexpected blow.
The king was by no means easy in his own mind with regard to his illness. The many messages that were continually whispered around him, the remedies administered, and, above all, the absence of his grandsons, all convinced him that something of a very unusual and alarming nature was progressing. His own feelings might, likewise, well assure him that he was attacked by an illness of no ordinary nature. Tortured beyond further bearing by the suggestions of his fancy, Louis XV at length resolved to ascertain the truth, and, with this intent, closely questioned Bordeu and Lemonnier, who did their best to deceive him. Still, dissatisfied with their evasive replies, he watched an opportunity, when they were both absent, to desire La Martinière would at once explain the true malady with which he was then suffering. La Martinière puzzled and confused, could only exclaim,
“I entreat of you, sire, not to fatigue yourself with conversation; remember how strongly you have been forbidden all exertion.”
“I am no child, La Martinière,” cried Louis XV, his cheeks glowing with increased fire; “and I insist upon being made acquainted with the precise nature of my present illness. You have always served me loyally and faithfully, and from you I expect to receive that candid statement every one about me seems bent upon concealing.”
“Endeavour to get some sleep, sire,” rejoined La Martinière, “and do not exhaust yourself by speaking at present.”
“La Martinière, you irritate me beyond all endurance. If you love me, speak out, I conjure you, and tell me, frankly, the name of my complaint.”
“Do you insist upon it, sire?”
“I do, my friend, I do.”
“Then, sire, you have the small-pox; but be not alarmed, it is a disease as frequently cured as many others.”
“The small-pox!” exclaimed the king, in a voice of horror; “have I indeed that fatal disease? and do you talk of curing it?”
“Doubtless, sire; many die of it as well as other disorders, but we are sanguine in our hopes and expectations of saving your majesty.”
The king made no reply, but, turned heavily in his bed and threw the coverlet over his face. A silence ensued, which lasted until the return of the physicians, when, finding they made no allusion to his condition, the king addressed them in a cool and offended tone.
“Why,” said he, “have you concealed from me the fact of my having the small-pox?” This abrupt inquiry petrified them with astonishment, and unable to frame a proper reply, they stood speechless with alarm and apprehension. “Yes,” resumed the king, “but for La Martinière, I should have died in ignorance of my danger. I know now the state in which I am, and before long I shall be gathered to my forefathers.”
All around him strove to combat this idea, and exerted their utmost endeavours to persuade the royal patient that his disorder had assumed the most favourable shape, and that not a shadow of danger was perceptible, but in vain; for the blow had fallen, and the hapless king, struck with a fatal presentiment of coming ill, turned a deaf ear to all they could advance.
Bordeu, deeply concerned for what had transpired, hastened to announce to the duc de Richelieu the turn which had taken place in the face of affairs. Nothing could exceed the rage with which the news was received. The duke hurried to the king’s bedside.
“Is it, indeed, true, sire,” inquired he, “that your majesty doubts of your perfect restoration to health? May I presume to inquire whether any circumstance has occurred to diminish your confidence in your medical attendants?”
“Duc de Richelieu,” replied the king, looking as though he would search into his very soul, “I have the small-pox.”
“Well,” returned the duke, “and, as I understand, of a most favourable sort; perhaps, it might have been better that La Martinière had said nothing about it. However, it is a malady as readily subdued by art as any other; you must not allow yourself to feel any uneasiness respecting it, science has now so much improved in the treatment of this malady.”
“I doubt not its ability to cure others, but me! Indeed, duc de Richelieu, I would much rather face my old parliament than this inveterate disease.”
“Your majesty’s being able to jest is a good sign.”
At this moment, ignorant of all that had taken place, I entered the room; for, in the general confusion, no person had informed me of it. The moment Louis XV perceived me, he exclaimed in a hollow tone,
“Dearest countess, I have the small-pox.”
At these words a cry of terror escaped me.
“Surely, sire,” exclaimed I, “this is some wandering of your imagination, and your medical attendants are very wrong to permit you to indulge it for a minute.”
“Peace!” returned Louis XV; “you know not what you say. I have the small-pox, I repeat; and, thanks to La Martinière, I now know my real state.”
I now perceived whose hand had dealt the blow, and seeing at once all the consequences of the disclosure, exclaimed in my anger, turning towards La Martinière,
“You have achieved a noble work, indeed, sir; you could not restrain yourself within the bounds of prudence, and you see the state to which you have reduced his majesty.”
La Martinière knew not what to reply; the king undertook his defence.
“Blame him not,” said he; “but for him I should have quitted this world like a heathen, without making my peace with an offended God.”
At these words I fainted in the arms of doctor Bordeu, who, with the aid of my attendants, carried me to my chamber, and, at length, succeeded in restoring me. My family crowded around me, and sought to afford me that consolation they were in equal need of themselves.
Spite of the orders I had given to admit no person, the duc d’Aiguillon would insist upon seeing me. He exerted his best endeavours to persuade me to arm myself with courage, and, like a true and attached friend, appeared to lose sight of his own approaching fall from power in his ardent desire to serve me.
In this mournful occupation an hour passed away, and left my dejected companions sighing over the present, and, anticipating even worse prospects than those now before them.
Terror of the king—A complication—Filial piety of theprincesses—Last interview between madame du Barry and LouisXV—Conversation with the maréchale de Mirepoix—Thechancellor Maupeou—The fragment—Comte Jean
Perhaps no person ever entertained so great a dread of death as Louis XV, consequently no one required to be more carefully prepared for the alarming intelligence so abruptly communicated by La Martinière, and which, in a manner, appeared to sign the king’s death-warrant.
To every person who approached him the despairing monarch could utter only the fatal phrase, “I have the small-pox,” which, in his lips, was tantamount to his declaring himself a dead man. Alas! had his malady been confined to the small-pox, he might still have been spared to our prayers; but, unhappily, a complication of evils, which had long been lurking in his veins, burst forth with a violence which, united to his cruel complaint, bade defiance to surgical or medical skill.
Yet, spite of the terror with which the august sufferer contemplated his approaching end, he did not lose sight of the interests of the nation as vested in the person of the dauphin, whom he positively prohibited, as well as his other grandsons, from entering his chamber or even visiting the part of the château he occupied. After this he seemed to divest himself of all further care for sublunary things; no papers were brought for his inspection, nor did he ever more sign any official document.
The next request made by Louis XV was for his daughters, who presented themselves bathed in tears, and vainly striving to repress that grief which burst forth in spite of all their endeavours. The king replied to their sobs, by saying, “My children, I have the small-pox; but weep not. These gentlemen [pointing towards the physicians] assure me they can cure me.” But, while uttering this cheerful sentence, his eye caught the stern and iron countenance of La Martinière, whose look of cool disbelief seemed to deny the possibility of such an event.
With a view to divert her father from the gloom which all at once came over his features, the princess Adélaïde informed him that she had a letter addressed to him by her sister, madame Louise.
“Let me hear it,” cried the king; “it is, no doubt, some heavenly mission with which she is charged. But who knows?” He stopped, but it was easy to perceive that to the fear of death was added a dread of his well-being in another world. Madame Adélaïde then read the letter with a low voice, while the attendants retired to a respectful distance. All eyes were directed to the countenance of the king, in order to read there the nature of its contents; but already had the ravages of his fatal disease robbed his features of every expression, save that of pain and suffering.
The princesses now took their stations beside their parent, and established themselves as nurses, an office which, I can with truth affirm, they continued to fill unto the last with all the devotion of the purest filial piety.
On this same day Louis XV caused me to be sent for. I ran to his bedside trembling with alarm. The various persons engaged in his apartment retired when they saw me, and we were left alone.
“My beloved friend,” said the king, “I have the small-pox; I am still very ill.”
“Nay, sire,” interrupted I, “you must not fancy things worse than they are; you will do well, depend upon it, and we shall yet pass many happy days together.”
“Do you indeed think so?” returned Louis XV. “May heaven grant your prophecy be a correct one. But see the state in which I now am; give me your hand.”
He took my hand and made me feel the pustules with which his burning cheeks were covered. I know not what effect this touch of my hand might have produced, but the king in his turn patted my face, pushed back the curls which hung negligently over my brow; then, inclining me towards him, drew my head upon his pillow. I submitted to this whim with all the courage I could assume; I even went so far as to be upon the point of bestowing a gentle kiss upon his forehead. But, stopping me, with a mournful air, he said, “No, my lovely countess; I am no longer myself, but here is a miniature which has not undergone the same change as its unfortunate master.”
I took the miniature, which I placed with respectful tenderness in my bosom, nor have I ever parted with it since.
This scene lasted for some minutes, after which I was retiring, but the king called me back, seized my hand, which he tenderly kissed, and then whispered an affectionate “Adieu.” These were the last words I ever heard from his lips.
Upon re-entering my apartments I found madame de Mirepoix awaiting me, to whom I related all that had taken place, expressing, at the same time, my earnest hope of being again summoned, ere long, to the presence of my friend and benefactor.
“Do not deceive yourself, my dear,” said she; “depend upon it you have had your last interview; you should have employed it more profitably. His portrait! why, if I mistake not, you havefivealready. Why did you not carry about with you some deed of settlement ready for signature? he would have denied you nothing at such a moment, when you may rest assured he knew himself to be taking his last farewell.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed I. “And can you really suppose the king believed he spoke to me for the last time?”
“I have not the slightest doubt of it; I have known him for many a day. He remembers the scene of Metz, and looks upon you as forming the second edition of the poor duchesse de Chateauroux, who, by the by, was not equal to you in any respect.”
I burst into a fit of tears, but not of regret for having allowed my late interview with the king to pass in so unprofitable a manner. However, the maréchale, misconceiving the cause of this burst of grief, exclaimed, “Come, come; it is too late now, and all your sorrow cannot recall the last half-hour. But, mademoiselle du Barry,” continued she, “I advise you to commence your packing up at once, that when the grand move comes you may not in your hurry, leave anything behind you.”
These remarks increased my affliction, but the maréchale had no intention of wounding my feelings, and worldly-minded as she was, considered all that could be saved out of the wreck as the only subject worthy attention. Meanwhile, comte Jean, with a gloomy and desponding air, continued silently with folded arms to pace the room, till all at once, as if suddenly struck by the arguments of madame de Mirepoix, he exclaimed,
“The maréchale is right”; and abruptly quitted the apartment, as if to commence his own preparations.
Ere madame de Mirepoix had left me and she remained till a late hour, the ducs d’Aiguillon and de Cossé arrived, who, although less experienced in their knowledge of the king’s character, were yet fully of her opinion respecting my last visit to him.
Scarcely had these visitors withdrawn, than I was apprized that the chancellor of France desired to see me. He was admitted, and the first glance of the countenance of M. de Maupeou convinced me that our day of power was rapidly closing.
“Your servant, cousin,” said he, seating himself without the smallest ceremony; “at what page of our history have we arrived?”
“By the unusual freedom and effrontery of your manner,” answered I, “I should surmise that we have reached the wordfinis.”
“Oh,” replied the chancellor, “I crave your pardon for having omitted my best bow; but, my good cousin, my present visit is a friendly one, to advise you to burn your papers with as little delay as possible.”
“Thank you for your considerate counsel,” said I, coolly, “but I have no papers to destroy. I have neither mixed with any state intrigue, nor received a pension from the English government. Nothing will be found in my drawers but some unanswered billets-doux.”
“Then as I can do nothing for you, my good cousin, oblige me by giving this paper to the duc d’Aiguillon.”
“What is it?” inquired I, with much curiosity.
“Have you forgotten our mutual engagement to support each other, and not to quit the ministry until the other retired also? I have lately been compelled (from perceiving how deeply the duke was manoeuvering against me) to send him a copy of this agreement. Under other circumstances I might have availed myself of this writing, but now it matters not; the blow which dismisses me proceeds from other hands than his, and I am willing to leave him the consolation of remaining in power a few days after myself. Give him, then, this useless document; and now, farewell, my pretty cousin, let us take a last embrace.”
Upon which the chancellor, presuming until the last upon our imaginary relationship, kissed my cheek, and having put into my hands the paper in question, retired with a profound bow.
This ironical leave taking left me stupefied with astonishment, and well I presaged my coming disgrace from the absurd mummery the chancellor had thought fit to play off.
Comte Jean, who had seen M. de Maupeou quit the house, entered my apartment to inquire the reason of his visit. Silent and dejected, I allowed my brother-in-law to take up the paper, which he read without any ceremony. “What is the meaning of this scrawl?” cried comte Jean, with one of his usual oaths; “upon my word our cousin is a fine fellow,” continued he, crushing the paper between his fingers. “I’ll engage that he still hopes to keep his place; however, one thing consoles me, and that is, that both he and his parliament will soon be sent to the right about.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Chamilly, who came to acquaint me that the king was sleeping, and did not wish to be again disturbed that night. Remembering my usual omnipotence in the château, I was about, like a true idiot, to prove to Chamilly that the king’s interdict did not extend to me, when I was stopped in my purpose by the appearance of the duc d’Aiguillon; and as it was now nearly eleven o’clock at night, I could scarcely doubt his being the bearer of some extraordinary message.
The duc d’Aiguillon brings an order for the immediatedeparture of madame du Barry—The king’s remarksrecapitulated—The countess holds a privy council—Letter tomadame de Mirepoix and the ducs de Cossé and d’Aiguillon—Night of departure—Ruel—Visit from madame de Forcalquier
I said I did not expect the duc d’Aiguillon; and the grief which was spread over his features, and the large tears which stood in his eyes, persuaded me but too plainly that all hope was at an end.
“Is the king dead?” cried I, in a stifled voice.
“No, madam,” replied he, “Louis XV still lives, nor is it by any means certain that the misfortune you apprehend is in store for us.”
“He sends me from him, then,” exclaimed I, with a convulsive cry, “and my enemies have triumphed.”
“His majesty is but of human nature, madam,” replied the duke; “he feels himself dangerously ill, dreads the future, and believes that he owes his people a sort of reparation for past errors.”
“How, my lord duke,” interrupted I, “this grave language in your lips—but no matter. Inform me only at whose desire you state these melancholy facts; speak, I am prepared for your mission, be it what it may.”
“You shall hear everything, madam,” replied the duke, leading me to an arm-chair. I seated myself; my sisters-in-law, my niece, and comte Jean stood around me, eagerly waiting the duke’s communication. “A few hours after you had been removed from his chamber, the king inquired of the princess Adélaïde whether it were generally known at Paris that he had the small-pox. The princess replied in the affirmative, adding:
“‘The archbishop of Paris was here twice during yesterday to inquire after you.’
“‘Yet I belong more properly to the diocese of Chartres,’ returned the king, ‘and surely M. de Fleury would not interest himself less about me than M. de Beaumont.’
“‘They are both truly anxious about you, my dearest father, and if you would only see them—’
“‘No, no,’ answered Louis XV; ‘they must not be taken from the duties of their respective dioceses; besides, in case of need, I have my grand almoner.’
“Madame Adélaïde did not venture to urge the matter further just then, and, after a short interval of silence, a message was brought from you, inquiring whether you could see the king, to which he himself replied, that he felt inclined to sleep, and would rather not see any person that night. I was in the chamber, and he very shortly called me to him, and said:
“‘Duc d’Aiguillon, I have the small-pox; and you are aware that there is a sort of etiquette in my family which enjoins my immediately discharging my duties as a Christian.’
“‘Yes, sire, if the malady wore a serious aspect; but in your case—’
“‘May God grant,’ replied he, ‘that my disorder be not dangerous; however, it may become so, if it is as yet harmless, and I would fain die as a believer rather than an infidel. I have been a great sinner, doubtless; but I have ever observed Lent with a most scrupulous exactitude. I have caused more than a hundred thousand masses to be said for the repose of unhappy souls; I have respected the clergy, and punished the authors of all impious works, so that I flatter myself I have not been a very bad Christian.’
“I listened to his discourse with a heavy heart, yet I still strove to reassure the king respecting his health, of which, I assured him, there was not the slightest doubt.
“‘There is one sacrifice,’ said the king, in a low and hurried tone, ‘that my daughter Louise, her sisters, and the clergy, will not be long in exacting from me in the name of etiquette. I recollect the scene of Metz, and it would be highly disagreeable to me to have it repeated at Versailles; let us, therefore, take our precautions in time to prevent it. Tell the duchesse d’Aiguillon that she will oblige me by taking the comtesse du Barry to pass two or three days with her at Ruel.’
“‘How, sire!’ exclaimed I, ‘send your dearest friend from you at a time when you most require her cares?’
“‘I do not send her away,’ answered the king, with mournful tenderness, ‘I but yield to present necessity; let her submit as she values my happiness, and say to her, that I hope and believe her absence will be very short.’”
The duke here ceased his recital, which fully confirmed all my previous anticipations. My female relatives sobbed aloud, while comte Jean, compressing his lips, endeavoured to assume that firmness he did not really possess. By a violent effort I forced myself to assume a sort of resignation.
“Am I required to depart immediately?” inquired I.
“No,” said the duke; “to leave the château in the middle of the night would be to assume the air of a flight, we had better await the coming day; it will, besides, afford time to apprize the duchess.”
While the duc d’Aiguillon was thus gone to arrange for my departure, I requested to be left alone. My heart was oppressed, and I felt the need of venting my grief upon some friendly bosom. After a few moments, spent in collecting my thoughts, I addressed two letters, one to the maréchale de Mirepoix, and the other to the duc de Cossé; to the former I wrote on account of my retirement to Ruel, bewailed the sad turn my prospects had assumed, expressed my deep concern for the severe illness of my excellent friend and benefactor, begging of her to defend my character from all unjust attacks, and to allow me to be blamed for no faults but such as I had really been guilty of. I concluded with these words, “I set out at seven o’clock to-morrow morning; the duchesse d’Aiguillon will conduct me to Ruel, where I shall remain until I am ordered elsewhere.”
To the duke I merely sent a short account of my present prospects, hour of departure, etc. And, my feelings somewhat relieved by the penning of these epistles, I threw myself upon a couch to await the morning. Upon awaking, I received the following note from the duchesse d’Aiguillon:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE,—I owe his majesty many thanks for the pleasing, yet mournful, task he has allotted me. Your kindness to my family, independently of my private regard for you, gives you the surest claim of my best services during this afflicting period. Let me beseech of you not to despair, but cheerfully anticipate brighter days.
“I will call for you at seven o’clock, and if you approve of it, we will use my carriage. Ruel is entirely at your disposal and that of your family.”
This note was truly characteristic of its amiable writer, who at court passed for a cold-hearted, frigid being, whilst, in reality, the warm feelings of her excellent heart were reserved for her chosen friends.
I have never admired those general lovers who profess to love every one, nor do I feel quite sure it is a very strong recommendation to say a person is beloved by all who know her. Read, now, a striking contrast to the short but sympathizing billet of madame d’Aiguillon, in the following heartless letter f rom the maréchale de Mirepoix, which was put into my hands as I was ascending the carriage.
“MY LOVELY COUNTESS,—I am all astonishment! Can it be possible that you are to quit Versailles? You are right in saying you have been the friend of every one, and those who could speak ill of you are to be pitied for not having had better opportunities of understanding your real character. But fear not, the dauphiness is virtue personified, and the dauphin equally perfect. Every thing promises a peaceful and indulgent reign, should we have the misfortune to lose his present majesty. Still there will always be a great void left at Versailles; as far as I am concerned, I have passed so much of my time with you, that I cannot imagine what I shall do with my evenings; it will cost me much of my age to alter habits and customs now so long fixed and settled, but such is life; nothing certain, nothing stable. We should imitate cats in our attachments, and rather identify ourselves with the house than the possessor of it. I trust you have secured an ample provision for the future; neglect not the present, to-morrow may come in vain for you.
“Be sure you let me know the spot to which you permanently retire, and I will endeavour to see you as frequently as my engagements will admit of.”
“Adieu,ma belle petite.”
Spite of the bitterness of my feelings, this letter drew a smile to my lips; the allusion to cats which had escaped the maréchale exactly applied to her own character, of which I had been warned before I became acquainted with her; but her protestations of warm and unutterable attachment had gained my confidence, and I allowed myself to be guided implicitly by her.
The duchesse d’Aiguillon was waiting for me while I perused the above letter; at length, with a sigh, I prepared to quit that palace of delights where I had reigned absolute mistress. I cast a mournful look around me, on those splendid walks, fountains and statues, worthy the gardens of Armida, but where there reigned, at this early hour, a sort of gloomy silence; whilst, in that chamber where love had well nigh deified me and recognised me as queen of France, lay extended the monarch so lately my protector and friend.
It was the Wednesday of the fifth of May that I took my seat in the carriage of the duchesse d’Aiguillon accompanied by my sister-in-law and the vicomtesse Adolphe, who would not forsake me. Bischi remained with madame d’Hargicourt, whose duties detained her with the comtesse d’Artois. Her husband also remained at Versailles, while comte Jean and his son proceeded to Paris. I will not attempt to describe the emotions with which I quitted my magnificent suite of apartments, and traversed the halls and staircases already crowded by persons anxiously awaiting the first intimation of the king’s decease. I was wrapped in my pelisse, and effectually eluded observation. It has been said that I left Versailles at four o’clock in the morning, but that was a mere invention on the part of my servants to baffle the curiosity of those who might have annoyed me by their presence.
We pursued our way in mournful reflection, whilst madame d’Aiguillon, with her wonted goodness, sought by every means to distract me from the dejection in which I was buried. Her husband, who remained with the king, engaged to write me a true account of all that transpired during my absence, and I shall very shortly present you with a specimen of the fidelity with which he performed his promise. The duchess did the honours of Ruel.
“Here,” said she, “the great cardinal Richelieu loved to repose himself from the bustle and turmoil of a court.”
“I think,” answered I, “it would have been less a favourite with his eminence had it been selected for his abode on the eve of his disgrace.”
Immediately upon my arrival I retired to bed, for fatigue had so completely overpowered me that I fell into a heavy slumber, from which I did not awake till the following day; when I found the duchesse d’Aiguillon, my sister-in-law, Geneviève Mathon, and Henriette, seated by my bed: the sight of them was cheering and gratifying proof of my not being as yet abandoned by all the world.
I arose, and we were just about to take our places at table, when madame de Forcalquier arrived. I must confess that her presence was an agreeable surprise to me; I was far from reckoning on her constancy in friendship, and her present conduct proved her worthy of her excellent friend, madame Boncault, whose steady attachment I had so frequently heard extolled. The sight of her imparted fresh courage to me, and I even resumed my usual high spirits, and in the sudden turn my ideas had taken, was childish enough to express my regrets for the loss of my downy and luxurious bed at Versailles, complaining of the woful difference between it and the one I had slept on at Ruel.
The duchesse d’Aiguillon, who must have pitied the puerility of such a remark, gently endeavoured to reconcile me to it by reminding me that both the marquise de Pompadour and the cardinal de Richelieu had reposed upon that very couch.
I endeavoured to return some sportive reply, but my thoughts had flown back to Versailles, and my momentary exhilaration was at an end. Tears rose to my eyes and choked my attempts at conversation; I therefore begged the duchess would excuse me, and retired to my apartment until I could compose myself; but the kind and attentive friend to whose hospitality I was then confided needed no further mention of my hard couch, but caused the best bed Ruel contained to be prepared for me by the time I again pressed my pillow.
This same evening brought M. de Cossé, who could no longer repress his impatience to assure me of his entire devotion. He appeared on this occasion, if possible, more tender and more respectful in his manner of evincing it than ever.
We supped together without form or ceremony, the party consisting of mesdames d’Aiguillon, de Forcalquier, and myself, mademoiselle du Barry, and the vicomtesse Adolphe, the prince de Soubise and the duc de Cossé. But the meal passed off in sorrowful silence; each of us seemed to abstain from conversation as though the slightest remark might come fraught with some painful allusion. On the following day I received the letter from the duc d’Aiguillon which you will find in the following chapter.