* This wretch, whom the comtesse du Barry loaded with herfavours and benefits, conducted her to the scaffold.—EDITOR(i.e., author)
There was one member of my establishment, however, whom I preferred to either Dorine or Zamor and this was Henriette, who was sincerely attached to me, and who, for that very reason, was generally disliked throughout the castle. I bad procured a good husband for her, on whom I bestowed a post which, by keeping both himself and his wife in the close vicinity of the castle, prevented my kind friend from quitting me. However, my poor Henriette was not fated to enjoy a long connubial felicity, for her husband, being seized with a violent fever, in a fit of delirium threw himself from a window into the court below, and was taken up dead. Slander availed herself even of this fatal catastrophe to whisper abroad, that the death of the unhappy man arose from his deep sense of his wife’s misconduct and infidelity. This I can positively assert was not the case, for Henriette was warmly and truly attached to him, and conducted herself as a wife with the most undeviating propriety. The fact was, that Henriette had drawn upon herself a general hatred and ill will, because she steadily refused all gossiping invitations, where my character would have been pulled to pieces, and the affairs of my household discussed and commented upon: there, indeed, she had sinned beyond all hope of pardon.
She it was who pointed out to me the perfidious conduct of the duc de Villeroi. This gentleman, from the very beginning of my rise in the royal favour, had demonstrated the most lively friendship for me, of which he sought to persuade me by the strongest protestations, which, weak and credulous as I was, I implicitly believed, until one day that Henriette, availing herself of my being quite alone, let me into the secrets of my establishment and furnished me with a key to the assiduities of M. de Villeroi.
Amongst the females in my service was one named Sophie, young, beautiful both in face and form, of a sweet disposition, and every way calculated to inspire the tender passion. M. de Villeroi felt the full force of her charms, and became the whining, sighing lover—her very shadow. Up to this period I had had no cause of complaint against M. de Villeroi; and certainly I should not have interfered with his plebeian flame had he not thought proper, when questioned by my enemies as to his continual presence at the castle, and great assiduities there, to protest that his visits thither were not in honour of my charms, but for those of my waiting-maid. However, my vanity had rendered me his constant dupe. I felt perfectly astonished as I listened to Henriette’s recital; and when she had ceased, I conjured her to tell me candidly, whether she had not invented the whole tale either out of spite to Sophie or with a design to make me break off further friendship with the duke. This she most solemnly denied, and recommended me to make inquiries amongst my friends, who would be compelled to bear testimony to the truth of all she had asserted. I determined to do so; and the first person whom I was enabled to interrogate respecting the affair was the bishop de Senlis. This prelate came frequently to see me, and I found his society each day more pleasing. He served me as a kind of gazette of all that passed with the princesses, in whose opinion I had still the misfortune not to be in the very highest estimation. When occasion required it, M. de Roquelaure would venture to take my part, and that without making a single enemy; for who could be offended with one so affable, so good, so full of kindness towards all? In fact, the worthy bishop was so fortunate as to obtain the love of every person who knew him; and, in the most select society of opposing parties, each would reserve a place for good M. de Roquelaure.
When I questioned him as to his knowledge of the affair, his embarrassment was evident.
“What a world is this!” cried he. “Why, let me ask, do you listen to those who repeat such mortifying tales to you?”
“Because, my lord, my friends will not see me made the sport of a heartless and perfidious friend; and, if you entertain the slightest regard for me, I conjure you to tell me all you know upon the subject.”
“And do you, my good madam, conceive that it would become my sacred calling to speak ill of my neighbour? besides, surely you would not attach any belief to the idle reports spread about the castle by ill-disposed persons?”
“All this has nothing to do with my question, my lord,” resumed I. “I ask you once again, whether you ever heard the duc de Villeroi assign his passion for one of my women as the reason for his visits to me? Have you, my lord bishop? I entreat you to answer.”
“Madam, I have not,” said the good prelate, colouring deeply.
“Ah, monsieur de Roquelaure,” cried I, “you must not say mass to-morrow, for I greatly fear you have just committed a certain fault which is styled fibbing.”
The bishop made no reply, and his silence spoke volumes of confirmation.
Scarcely had he quitted me than the duc d’Aiguillon entered, to whom I put the same question; and he frankly confessed, that the excuse alleged to have been used by the duc de Villeroi was strictly the expression of that gentleman.
“I was wrong,” said the duke, “not to have mentioned it to you, but I was silent from a desire to preserve peace between you. Now that the affair has been revealed to you, I will not sully my lips with a falsehood for the pleasure of upholding an unprincipled man.”
“I will not ask you to tell me more,” replied I. “I know enough to make me despise the cowardly spirit of him whom I reject as unworthy of my friendship.” So saying, I ran to my writing-table, and wrote to the duc de Villeroi the following note:—
“MONSIEUR LE DUC,—I love my friends with all their faults, but I cannot pardon their perfidy; and, since from what I have heard I am left to conclude, that but for the charms of my attendant Sophie, I should not have been favoured with so many of your visits, I now write to warn you, that I this day dismiss the unfortunate object of your admiration from my service, and therefore recommend you to cease all further communication. Your presence in my house would be any thing but agreeable to me; and since the fair object which has hitherto attracted you will no longer dwell under my roof, I presume your presenting yourself before me would only be more painful than you have hitherto found it. The frankness of my conduct may offend you, but it cannot surprise or grieve you more than your duplicity has me.
“I remain with befitting sentiments, monsieur le duc,
“Your most humble and obedient servant.”
When I had completed my letter, I rang, and a footman attended. “Go,” said I to him, “carry this note immediately to the duc de Villeroi, and wait, if it be necessary, the whole day, until you can return with the assurance that you have delivered it into his own hand.”
Whilst I was thus speaking to the man, who had been engaged by my steward, and very recently entered into my service, I chanced to look at him inadvertently, when my attention was arrested by seeing him rapidly change colour. I could not at the moment conceive what could thus agitate him, and making a sign for him to depart immediately upon his commission, he slowly left the room, regarding me as he went in such a manner, that I could not fail recognising him: and here, my friend, I must lay aside every particle of self-love and vanity ere I can make you a complete confession; the retrospect of my life brings many events, of which the remembrance is indeed painful to me, and only the solemn promise I am under to conceal nothing restrains me from consigning many particulars to oblivion. I am once more about to incur the chance of drawing down your contempt by my candour, but before I enter upon the subject, permit me to conclude my affair with the duc de Villeroi.
My letter was a thunderbolt to the duke. He better than any one knew the extent of my credit, which he dreaded, lest I might employ it to his injury; he therefore hastened to reply to me in the following words:—
“MADAME LA COMTESSE,—I am a most unhappy, or rather a vilely calumniated man; and my enemies have employed the most odious means of making me appear despicable in your eyes. I confess, that not daring to aspire to you, I stopped at the footstool of your throne, but I wholly deny the words which have been laid to my charge. I venture to expect from your justice that you will grant me the favour of an opportunity of exculpating myself from so black a charge. It would be cruel indeed to condemn a man without hearing him.
“I am with the most profound respect, &c.”
To this hypocritical epistle I replied by another note as follows:—
“Every bad and unfavourable case may be denied, monsieur le duc, therefore I am not astonished at your seeking to repel the charge of having uttered the disrespectful words laid to your charge. As for the explanations you offer me they would be fruitless; I will have none with those who have either been my friends or appeared to be such. I must therefore beg you will cease all attempts at a correspondence which can lead to no good results.
“I have the honour to remain, &c., &c.”
After this business was despatched, I caused Sophie to be sent for to attend me.
“Well, Sophie,” said I, “you perceive the confusion you have occasioned through your folly. Is it then true that the duc de Villeroi has spoken of love to you?”
“Yes, indeed, madam,” replied the poor girl, weeping bitterly.
“And you return his passion.”
“I believe so, madam.”
Thisnaïfconfession made me smile. I continued—
“Then you are not quite sure of the fact?”
“No, madam; for when I do not see him I forget all about it; but when he is before me, so handsome and so generous, so full of love, I try to make myself equally fond of him; but somehow I cannot help preferring his courier, M. l’Eclair.”
These last words completely destroyed all attempts at preserving my gravity, and I burst into the most uncontrollable laughter, which, however, soon gave place to a painful recollection of how soon this young and artless creature, as simple as she was beautiful, was likely to lose this open-heartedness in the hands of her seducer.
“Sophie,” said I to her at last, “this unfortunate affair forbids my retaining you any longer in my service; I am compelled to send you from me. I trust this noble lover of yours will never forsake you; have a care only to conceal from him, should you persist in encouraging his addresses, that he has a rival in the person of his courier, l’Eclair.”
Sophie threw herself weeping at my feet. I raised and encouraged her by the kindest words to pursue the right path, but I remained steady in my determination of sending her from me.
I was not mistaken. The duc de Villeroi became the possessor of poor Sophie, and publicly boasted of having her under his protection. He did not, however, proceed to these extreme measures until he had essayed every possible means of effecting a reconciliation with me, and he employed more than a hundred persons in the vain attempt of inducing me to pardon him. With this view the maréchale de Mirepoix, whose succour he had implored, observed to me that it was sometimes necessary to feign to overlook an insult; I replied, that dissimulation was an art I knew nothing of, nor did I wish ever to acquire it.
“Really, my dear countess,” cried she, “you should not live at court, you are absolutely unfit for it.”
“It may be so,” replied I; “but I would rather quit Versailles altogether than be surrounded by false and perfidious friends.”
All the remonstrances of the good-natured maréchale were fruitless, I could not bring myself to pardon a man who had so openly outraged my friendship.
Directly I saw the king, I related the whole affair to him.
“It must be confessed,” said he, “that the duke has behaved very ill towards you, but he has certainly shown his taste as far as regards Sophie. She is a sweet creature.”
“Ah! you are all alike,” cried I. “You gentlemen think a pretty face an excuse for every fault; and he only deserves blame who can attach himself where beauty is wanting.”
“Because he is a simpleton for so doing,” said Louis XV with the utmost gravity, giving me at the same time an affectionate embrace.
The prince des Deux Ponts—Prince Max—The dauphin and MarieAntoinette—The comtesse du Barry and Bridget Rupert—Thecountess and Geneviève Mathon—Noël—Fresh amours—Nocturnaladventure—Conclusion of this intrigue
All my friends were not treacherous as the duc de Villeroi; and I may gratefully assert I have possessed many true and sincere ones who have ever faithfully adhered to my fortunes. One in particular I shall mention here, that I may recommend him to your warmest esteem; for, although of high and distinguished rank, he did not despise the good opinion of the meanest citizen. I speak of the prince de Deux Ponts, Charles Auguste Christian. This prince, who chanced to visit France during the zenith of my court favour, was very desirous of seeing me, and both he and his brother were presented to me by the comte de la Marche, their friend, and they quickly requested the honor of my friendship. Auguste Christian pleased me most by his gentle and amiable manners, although most persons gave the preference to his brother, Maximilian Joseph, better known by the name of prince Max. Auguste Christian, in the fervour of his attachment, speaking openly to me of the delicacy of the situation, proposed to me, in case of any reverse, that I should seek an asylum in his dominions; and I must do him the justice to say, that at the death of the king, far from forgetting his proffer, he lost no time in reminding me of it. Fidelity and attachment such as his, is sufficiently rare to merit a place in my journal. The prince des Deux Pouts was presumptive heir to an immense inheritance, that of the electorate of Bavaria, and the electorate Palatine, to the latter of which he was direct heir after the decease of his cousin, the present elector. I could almost wish that he had already succeeded to these possessions: he can never reign too soon for the happiness of his subjects.
Prince Max had served in France; he was extremely well looked upon at court both by the king and the princesses. As for the dauphiness, prejudiced against him as she was by her mother, she naturally regarded him with an eye of cool mistrust, and manifested her open dislike by never inviting him to any of her parties. Prince Max spoke of this pointed neglect to the king, who immediately summoned the dauphin. “My son,” said he to him, “I see with regret that prince Max is never an invited guest at any of your balls and fêtes. Remember, he belongs to a family which has been our most ancient ally, and do not take up the quarrels of a house which, until your marriage, has ever been disposed in deadly hatred to us.”
If the dauphin was not gifted with a very extensive capacity, he was possessed of sufficient plain sense to comprehend, and to enter into the views of his grandfather, to whom he pledged his word, that henceforward prince Max should be treated with more respect; and he kept his word, for the instant he returned to his apartments, he commanded the duc de la Vauguyon to add the name of prince Max to the list of invited persons. When the paper was drawn out it was carried to the dauphiness, who was with her husband. She read on till she came to the name of prince Max, which she desired might be erased; but the dauphin interfered. “Oblige me,” cried he, “by suffering this name to remain; his ancestors have for ages been the friends of our family, and his alliance may one day be useful to us in Germany.”
The dauphiness comprehended the signification of these words, and her fine eyes were filled with tears. However, she no longer insisted upon the erasure, when her husband, who most tenderly loved her, further declared it to be the king’s desire that nothing should be done which could in any way displease the prince des Deux Ponts. He was, therefore, from that period invited to the house of Marie Antoinette, who indemnified herself for this compulsory civility, by refusing to bestow upon him one single smile or gracious word. It must indeed be agreed that the dauphiness had brought with her into France too many Austrian notions, which she was long in losing for those of a wife and mother; but now at the moment of my writing this, she is much changed, and is as true a French woman as though she had been born and bred in Paris. Unfortunately, the people appear slow in giving her credit for her altered opinions, and to this mistake will she owe the loss of that general love and popularity to which she has such just claims.
Prince Auguste Christian entertained for me a sincere regard, which I returned with the truest friendship. My feelings were as pure and simple as his own, spite of the odious calumnies with which my enemies have attacked this harmless acquaintance; but their slander in this matter was no worse than the manner in which they spoke of every person who visited me. According to their report, I was the mistress of all who presented themselves. ‘Tis well for you, ye courtly dames, that you may convert friends into lovers with impunity; be the number ever so large none dares arraign your conduct; but for those of more humble pretensions it is indeed considered atrocious to number more than two admirers; should we ask to swell the list to a third—what comments, what scandal, what vilifying reports are in circulation! In this letter, my friend, I shall speak to you exclusively of myself. You will find little in my conduct to praise, and I fear, much to blame. You will easily perceive my heart was better than my head; and dear as your opinion is to me, I write on in the hope, that should my candid avowal lose me any portion of your esteem, it will yet obtain me a larger share of your friendship. The dismissal of Sophie from my service occasioned a vacancy in my household. Immediately her departure was known, I received numberless solicitations from all who heard of it. Three days afterwards, Henriette came to inform me that the wife of an attorney of Chatelet solicited the task of serving me in Sophie’s stead; that she was a well-looking and respectable person, and might very probably suit me.
“Will you see her, madam?” continued Henriette. “She is recommended by the marchioness de Montmorency.”
“Willingly,” answered I; “desire her to come in.” Henriette left me and quickly returned, introducing the new candidate.
At the first glimpse I recognised Brigitta Rupert, that haughty girl, who had been my early friend and companion at Saint Aure, but who found it impossible to continue her friendship and favour to a humble milliner’s girl. The sight of her occasioned me a surprise by no means of a pleasing nature; and the involuntary start I gave, evidently recalled me to her recollection. In a moment her cheeks assumed the paleness of death, and her self-love seemed to suffer the most horrible torments at the light in which our rencontre mutually placed us. As soon as she could command herself sufficiently to speak, she cried,
“Ah! madam, do I then appear in your presence?”
“Yes,” replied I, “before the poor and humble milliner to whom you so harshly refused your friendship.”
“Fortune has well avenged you, madam,” said Brigitta, in a melancholy tone; “and as I can easily imagine how unpleasant the sight of me must be, I will hasten to relieve you from it.”
These last words touched me, and restored me in a degree to my natural good temper.
“Brigitta,” said I to her, “after the little affection you have ever manifested for me, it would be impossible as well as unwise to take you into my service; but let me know in what way I can best promote the interest of yourself and husband, and I pledge myself to accomplish it for you.”
“I thank you, madam,” answered she, resuming her accustomed haughtiness, “I came to solicit a situation near the person of the comtesse du Barry. Since that is refused me, I have nothing more to request.”
“Be it as you please,” replied I. Brigitta made a low courtesy, and quitted the room.
Henriette, who had been the witness of this scene, expressed her apprehensions that I should be displeased with her for introducing an unwelcome visitor to me. “No,” cried I, “‘tis not with you I am vexed., but myself.”
“And why so, dear madam?”
“Because I reproach myself with having in my own prosperity forgotten one of my earliest and dearest friends, who loved me with the tenderest affection. Possibly she may now be in trouble or difficulties, from which I might have a thousand ways of relieving her; but it is never too late to do good. To-morrow, early, you shall set out for Paris; when there, go to the rue Saint Martin, inquire for the sign of la Bonne Foi; it is kept by a pastrycook, named M. Mathon, of whom I wish you to learn every particular relative to his daughter Geneviève.”
My wishes were laws to Henriette, who instantly retired to prepare for her journey. I had not ventured to desire her to glean any information concerning the brother of Geneviève, and yet at the recollection of the handsome Nicolas my heart beat impetuously. With what impatience did I await the return of Henriette! at length she came.
“Well!” said I.
“I have found out M. Mathon,” answered Henriette.
“Which, the father?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And what is his present occupation?”
“As usual, madam, superintending his kitchen and shop.”
“Is he alone in his business?”
“Oh, no! madam; he is assisted by his son, a fine dark handsome young man.”
“His son then lives with him?”
“Yes, madam, and he is married.”
“Married!—but it is not of this young man I wish to speak, but of his sister, of Geneviève; tell me of her.”
“I only learned, madam, that she had married a tailor, named Guérard—who, after having been very unsuccessful in business, died suddenly, leaving her wholly destitute with two young children.”
I immediately wrote the following note to my early friend:—
“The comtesse du Barry having heard of the misfortunes of madame Guérard, and knowing how much she is deserving of a better fate, is desirous of being useful to her. She therefore requests madame Guérard will call next Monday, at two o’clock, on her at her hotel, rue de la Pussienne.”
Poor Geneviève nearly fainted when she received this note, which was conveyed to her by a footman wearing my livery. She could not imagine to whom she was indebted for procuring her such exalted patronage, and she and her family spent the intervening hours before her appointed interview in a thousand conjectures on the subject. On Monday, punctually at two o’clock, she was at the hotel dressed in her best, her lovely countenance setting off the humble style of even her holiday garb. She knew me the instant she saw me; and, in the frank simplicity of her own heart imagining she could judge of mine, she ran to me, and threw herself into my arms, exclaiming,
“Oh, my dear Jeannette, what pleasure does it afford me to meet you again. Oh! I see how it is; you are the friend of the comtesse du Barry, and it is to you I shall owe my future good fortune, as I do this present mark of her favor.”
“No, my good Geneviève,” cried I, weeping for joy, “she who now embraces you is the comtesse du Barry.”
After we had a little recovered ourselves, I took my friend by the hand, and led her to a sofa, where we seated ourselves side by side. Returning to the scenes of our early youth, I related to Geneviève all that had occurred since—my adventures, faults, and favour. When I had concluded my recital, Geneviève commenced hers, but it was soon told. There is little to relate in the life of a woman who has passed her days in the virtuous discharge of her duties.
Our mutual confidences being over, and having again exchanged a most affectionate embrace, I put into the hands of my companion a portfolio, containing 30,000 livres in bank bills. I promised her likewise to obtain for her some lucrative situation. “Do more than this for me!” cried Geneviève. “Since you will still grant me your friendship, secure for me the happiness of occasionally meeting you. I can with truth declare, that of all your proofs of kindness and regard, that which I prefer is the pleasure of seeing you.”
This ingenuous request touched my heart, and I replied to it by fondly caressing the warm-hearted Geneviève, and assuring her that my purse and my house should be ever open to her. We then resumed our interesting reminiscences, and Geneviève was the first to speak of her brother. At the name of Nicolas I felt the blood mount to my very forehead, and an indefinable sensation passed over me at the mention of him who had possessed my virgin love. I strove, however, to conceal from my friend the powerful emotion which agitated me, and I replied, with apparent tranquillity, that I should be happy to assist her brother with the best of my credit and influence; and I kept my word by obtaining for him, at the solicitation, of his sister, some lucrative situation, the exact nature of which I do not now recollect, where they resided together in ease and comfort. I had only to recommend them to the notice of M. de Boulogne, who felt himself much flattered at being selected by me to make the fortunes of my two friends.
From this time Geneviève visited me as frequently as she could, and her society delighted me; whilst, in her conversation I found a frankness and sincerity which I had vainly sought for at court. She had loved me when a simple milliner, and she cherished the same fond regard for me in my improved situation. Her friendship has not forsaken me in my reverses; and I feel quite assured that death only will dissolve the tender friendship which still subsists between us. As for her brother, he spared me much shame and confusion by never seeking my presence; a meeting with him would indeed have overwhelmed me with painful recollections.
And now, my friend, I am about to relate to you an adventure, the bare mention of which covers my cheek with guilty blushes; fain would I conceal it from you, but my promise is given to lay my whole heart before you, and it shall be done, cost what it may.
I know not why it should ever have been permitted you gentlemen to frame laws, which, while they permit you, in the gratification of your passions, to descend ever so low in the scale of society without any disgrace attaching itself to you from the obscure condition of the object of your search, to us females it is prohibited, under penalty of incurring the utmost degradation, to gratify the inclination of our hearts when awakened by one of more humble rank than our own. A great lord may love a kitchen maid, a noble duke, like M. de Villeroi, may indulge his fancy for a waiting-woman, and yet lose no portion of his dignity, or of the esteem in which the world holds him; but, on the other hand, woe to the high-born dame who should receive the homage of an obscure citizen, or the noble countess who should lend a favourable ear to the sighs of hervalet de chambre; the public voice would loud and angrily inveigh against so flagrant a breach of decorum. And why should this be? But, my friend, do you not see in my seeking to defend so weak a cause sufficient intimation that such a justification involves a consciousness of requiring it? Alas! I plead guilty, and will no longer delay the painful confession I have to make.
Do you remember a singularly handsome young man, who, during my abode with madame Lagarde, fascinated me till my very senses seemed bewildered by my passion. You know how he betrayed me, and how, through him, I was expelled the house, as well as the termination of this foolish adventure. You are now to pass over seven or eight years, and take your place with me in the drawing-room, in which I stood when I rang to summon a servant to convey a letter to the duc de Villeroi. You may remember what I told you in the last chapter of the person who entered, of his agitation and his blushes, and of his fixing his eyes with deep meaning upon me till he quitted the room-this servant was Noël!
Had I listened to the dictates of prudence, I should, without loss of time, have obtained against him alettre de cachet, which would have freed me from all chance of discovery through his means; but I could not listen to such cool-blooded, though cautious, suggestions. One idea only took possession of my mind—the absurd desire to know what had become of Noël since we separated, and by what accident I now found him wearing my livery in the castle. With this intent I availed myself of the first moment I was secure from interruption, to summon him to my presence. He threw himself at my feet, imploring of me to pardon his audacity. “Alas, madam!” said he, “I am more unfortunate than guilty. I saw you walking some time since, and I could obtain no rest or peace till I was fortunate enough to obtain admission to your establishment. Punish me for my temerity if you will; expel me from the castle, have me confined in a prison, I deserve it all; but, voluntarily, I cannot leave this house; and if you will only permit my stay, I solemnly vow you shall see nothing in my conduct but the zeal of an attached and respectful servant.”
I was weak enough to pardon Noël and shortly after to raise him to the rank ofvalet de chambre, which brought him infinitely too much about me.
Yes, my friend, the woman is, after all attempts to excuse it, blamable for bestowing her affection on one below herself in the scale of society. Nature herself appears to have planted in our bosoms a kind of instinct, which warns us from it, and a prejudice against all those who so degrade themselves. It is different with men; they can confer rank and elevation on the beloved object. A woman should always have reason to look up to and feel proud of the man to whom she consigns her heart; this species of vanity is mixed with the noblest love, and the woman who can overlook it, acts from passion of the lowest, basest kind. How easy is it to reason! Alas! Why have I not always acted as well as I speak.
I was thus again a second time enthralled by Noël, and much more so, too, than I will now tell you. My faithful Henriette, whose devoted attachment for me kept her ever watchful of my safety and reputation, was thunderstruck at perceiving what I vainly strove to conceal from her; and, as she has since told me, was long in deciding whether to speak to me of the affair, when an unexpected incident arose, which determined her, at every risk of my displeasure, to use her endeavors to put an end to so disgraceful a connexion, which must infallibly have ended in my disgrace.
One night, or rather midnight, all was at rest in the castle, and I was sleeping peacefully in the arms of Noël, when all at once I was awakened by the sudden opening of an outer door, which announced to me the approach of the king, who had merely one more door to open ere he would be in my apartment. Noël, terrified, leaped quickly out of bed, and ran to seek refuge in a small chamber adjoining where Henriette slept. Happily she was yet awake; and, by the light of a night-lamp orveilleuserecognized Noël, who, with clasped hands, conjured her to take pity upon him. Henriette saw the danger, and putting out her hand, seized him, and drawing him rapidly towards her, made him lie down beside her. Noël, struck with her goodness, was preparing to offer her the same marks of his gratitude he had shown me of his respect; but repulsing him, she said in a low voice, “Wretch, think not it is on your account I thus expose my reputation; ‘tis to save that of my beloved mistress; either conduct yourself with silent respect or you are lost.” At this threat Noël ‘s courage melted away and he lay still as a frightened child. “Listen,” said Henriette, “if you do not quit this place to-morrow at break of day, without seeking to see madame again, I will denounce you to the king, who will inflict upon you the most dreadful punishment.”
Whilst these things were passing in the chamber of Henriette, I did not feel perfectly at ease on my side, and many were the wise reflections I made upon my folly, as well as the promises I gave never again to expose myself to such imminent danger. Nor did my terrors abate till after the king had quitted me. At the sound of my bell Henriette hastened to my bed-side.
“My good Henriette,” said I to her, trembling from head to foot, “what a night of anxiety have I passed, I must indeed confess—”
“Fear not, my beloved mistress,” replied she; “I will watch over your safety, and trust to be enabled fully to provide for it.”
I durst not then ask for any further explanation of her words, for such was the ascendancy her good and steady conduct had given her over me, that she would certainly have blamed me for my glaring imprudence. I pressed her hand in mute thankfulness; she comprehended my silence and left me to myself.
At the end of some days, seeing nothing of Noël, I ventured to question her as to his fate: she then related to me all you have been told, and added, that the day following this shameful and unfortunate night she had lost no time in apprizing the comte Jean of all that had occurred, who had quickly despatched Noël out of the kingdom, furnishing him with a purse of ten thousand livres to defray his travelling expenses. Such was the fortunate termination of this disgraceful affair; and now, having completed my painful confession, I will change the subject to others doubtless more calculated to interest you than the recital of such lapses.
Madame du Barry succeeds in alienating Louis XV from the ducde Choiseul—Letter from madame de Grammont—Louis XV—Thechancellor and the countess—Louis XV and the abbé de laVille—The maréchale de Mirepoix and madame du Barry
Matters now assumed an air of importance. My struggle with the des Choiseuls had become a deadly war, which could only be terminated either by his downfall or my dismissal from court; this latter measure was not very probable; an old man is not easily detached from a woman whom he loves, and each day only added to my ascendancy over the mind of the king. It is true, that the same force of habit which enchained Louis XV to me bound him likewise to M. de Choiseul. The idea of change terrified him; and so great was his dread of fresh faces, that he would have preferred dying with his old minister, to creating a younger one who might witness his end. Happily the duke himself brought on the crisis of his fate; his power was cramped on all sides, yet, resolved not to lay it down till the last extremity, he sought to stay his failing credit with the rising influence of the dauphiness. His enemies were not slow in pointing out to the king his minister’s frequent visits and great assiduities to a foreign princess, and enlarged upon the fatal effects this new alliance might produce to the monarchy.
Meanwhile the chancellor, threatened by the parliaments, saw only one way of averting the storm which was about to burst on his head. This was to introduce into the cabinet persons entirely devoted to himself; but to accomplish his purpose, it was necessary to exclude the duc de Choiseul and his party. M. de Maupeou came to me in December, and after having gently scolded me for what he termed my carelessness, he showed me a letter from the duchesse de Grammont, which, he said, would wonderfully aid our plans. This letter was written to one of the presidents of the parliament of Toulous, M. de ——. I cannot give you his name; for, although I have preserved the original of the letter, I have mislaid the envelope on which the address was written. I here give you a copy of this curious and important production:—
“MONSIEUR LE PRESIDENT,—I promised to give you the exact details of all that passed in this gay metropolis, and ‘tis with much pleasure I sit down to fulfill my engagement. Things go on much as usual, or, perhaps, I should be speaking more correctly, were I to say they are rapidly progressing from bad to worse. We have no longer a king in France; all power is lodged in the hands of one sprung from the most infamous origin; who, in conjunction with others as intriguing as herself, seeks only to ruin the kingdom, and to degrade it in the eyes of other nations.
“The noble firmness of sovereign courts is odious to people of this class; thus you may imagine the detestation in which they regard the candid and loyal conduct of the duke. I n the hopes of procuring the dismissal of my brother, they have chosen for his successor wretch loaded with crimes, a coward, an extortioner, a murderer—the duc d’Aiguillon. As for you gentlemen, who now constitute our parliament, your places will soon be filled by a magistracy drawn from the dregs of society; a troop of slaves, deaf and blind, except as he who pays them best will have them exercise those powers.
“This is no time for indolent repose; we must at once courageously and unanimously defeat the guilty schemes of our enemies. So long as my brother retains his present post he will support you with his best interest; but, should he be dismissed, your business will soon be finished.
“I beg my best remembrances, first, to your excellent lady, and after her, to madame B. and madame L., not forgetting the marquise de Chalret, whose wit is truly Attic; nor the marquise de P—s, who conceals beneath the graceful exterior of a Languedocian the soul of one of Corneille’s Roman matrons. For yourself rely upon my warmest friendship and endeavours to serve you. My brother is most anxious to know you, after the flattering manner in which I have mentioned you to him. When will you gratify us both by visiting Paris?
“Ever yours,”
Nothing could have arrived moreà proposfor our purpose than this letter. I was still engaged in its perusal when the king was announced; I wished to hurry it back into the hands of M. de Maupeou; but he, more crafty than I, requested I would keep it.
“It is fitting,” said he, “that it should be seen by the right person.”
Louis XV, astonished at the strange scene, inquired what it meant.
“A most shameful piece of scandal, sire,” replied I.
“An infamous epistle,” added the chancellor, “which one of my friends managed to abstract from the post-office, and forwarded to me: I brought it to madame la comtesse, that she might admire the determined malice of our enemies.”
“You excite my curiosity,” cried Louis XV. “Madame, have the kindness to allow me to see this paper.”
“Indeed, sire,” exclaimed I, “I know not whether I ought to obey your majesty, so entirely has the writer of the letter forgotten the respect duc to your sacred person.”
“Oh,” said the king, “I do not fear that; I am but too well used to the offence to feel astonishment at its occurrence.”
I placed the paper in the hand of Louis XV, whose eye easily recognised the handwriting of madame de Grammont. “Ah, ah!” cried he, “is it so? let us see what this restless lady has to say of us all.” I watched the countenance of the king as he read, and saw the frown that covered it grow darker and darker; nevertheless he continued to read on without comment till he had reached the end; then sitting down and looking full at the chancellor, he exclaimed,
“Well, M. de Maupeou, and what do you think of this business?”
“I am overwhelmed with consternation, sire,” replied he, “when I think that one of your majesty’s ministers should be able to conspire thus openly against you.”
“Stay,” cried Louis hastily, “that fact is by no means proved. The duchesse de Grammont is a mad woman, who involves the safety of her brother; if I only believed him capable of such treachery, he should sleep this night in the Bastille, and to-morrow the necessary proceedings should be commenced against him: as for his sister, I will take care of her within four good walls, and avenge myself for her past misconduct, by putting it out of her power to injure me further.”
“Sire,” said I, in my turn, “remember she is a woman; I beseech you to pardon her, and let the weight of your just indignation fall upon her brother.”
“Chancellor,” cried the king, “this business must not be lightly passed over.”
“Nor without due consideration,” replied M. de Maupeou, “your majesty may look upon this letter as the basis of a secret plot: as for the duchess, I am of my cousin’s opinion; despise her audacious attempts, but spare not her brother; he alone is the guilty as well as dangerous person.”
The king made no answer, but rose, and crushing the letter in his hand, threw it from him.
“Would,” exclaimed he at last, “that the fiends had those who take such delight in disgusting me with my very existence. Heavens! how justly may I say I despise all men; nor have I a much better opinion of your sex, madame la comtesse, I must warn you.”
“Much obliged, sire,” cried I; “really I was not prepared for such gallantry. It is rather hard that you should quarrel with me because this disagreeable duchess behaves ill! Upon my word it is very unpleasant!”
“Come, come,” said Louis XV, kissing my cheek, “don’t you be a naughty child; if I had not you, where should I turn for consolation amidst the torments by which I am surrounded? Shall I tell you? In the midst of all these perplexing affairs, there are moments in which I fear I may not be promoting the happiness of my people.”
“Your majesty is greatly mistaken,” replied the chancellor; “the nation in general must esteem themselves most happy under your reign; but it will always happen that ill-disposed persons seek to pervert the public opinion, and to lead men’s minds astray. The duchess, when travelling, was the faithful and active agent of her brother. The duke, to secure his stay in the ministry, will eagerly avail himself of every adventitious aid; within your kingdom he seeks the support of the parliaments and philosophers; without, he claims the succour of Germany and Spain. Your majesty is certainly master of your own will, and it would ill become me to point out the path you should tread; but my duty compels me to say, that the duc de Choiseul is the greatest enemy of the royal house: of this he gave me a convincing proof in the case of your august son; and now, if he fancied he should find it more advantageous to have the dauphin for his master—”
“Chancellor of France,” cried Louis, much agitated, “do you know what you are asserting?”
“The truth, sire,” I exclaimed. “The public voice accuses the duc de Choiseul of the death of your son; they declare—”
“How! you, too, madam!” exclaimed the king looking at me fixedly.
“And why not, sire? I am merely repeating what is in every one’s mouth.”
“I have heard this horrible charge before,” added the king; “the Jesuits informed me of it, but I could not give credit to such a monstrosity.”
“So much the worse,” replied I; “in the world in which we live we should always be on our guard.”
“Sire,” added the chancellor, with the most diabolical address, “I am persuaded that M. de Choiseul is the most honourable man in the world, and that he would shudder at the bare idea of any attempt upon the life of your majesty; but his relations, friends, and creatures believe, that, supported by the dauphiness, he would continue in office under your successor. Who can answer for their honour? Who can assure you, that some one among them may not do that for the duke which he would never venture to attempt himself?
“This is the personal danger your majesty runs so long as M. de Choiseul continues in office; were he dismissed, the world would soon abandon the disgraced minister, and the dauphiness be amongst the first to forget him.”
The king was pale with agitation, and for some minutes continued traversing the apartment with hasty strides; then he suddenly stopped.
“You are then convinced, M. de Maupeou,” cried he, “that the duke is leagued with the parliaments to weaken my authority?”
“There are palpable proofs to that effect,” replied the chancellor; “your majesty may recollect the skilful manner in which, on the 3d of last September, he avoided attending you to parliament; most assuredly, had he not been the friend of rebels, he would not have shrunk from evincing by his presence how fully he shared your just indignation.”
“That is but too true,” cried Louis XV; “and I felt much annoyed at the time, that he preferred going to amuse himself at the house of M. de Laborde, when his duty summoned him to my side.”
“Your majesty cannot fail to perceive how everything condemns him; his personal conduct, equally with that of his sister, proves how little he regards his royal master’s interest; and should your clemency resolve upon sparing him now, you may find your mercy produce fatal effects to yourself.”
“His dismissal,” resumed the king, “would disorganize all my political measures. Who could I put in his place? I know no one capable of filling it.”
“Your majesty’s wisdom must decide the point,” replied the chancellor. “My duty is to lay before you the true state of things; this I have done, and I know myself well enough not to intrude my counsel further. Nevertheless, I cannot help remarking, that in your majesty’s court there are many as capable as M. de Choiseul of directing affairs—M. d’Aiguillon, for example.”
“Ah!” answered Louis XV; “this is not the moment, when M. d’Aiguillon is smarting from his severe contest with the long robes, to elevate him over the head of my hitherto-esteemed minister.”
M. de Maupeou and myself perceived that we should best serve my friend’s cause by refraining from pressing the matter further, and we therefore changed the conversation. Nevertheless, as what had already passed had taken its full effect upon the king’s mind, he suggested an idea which I should never have dreamed of recommending; and that was to consult the abbé de la Ville on the subject.
The abbé de la Ville, head clerk of foreign affairs, was a man who, at the advanced period of fourscore, preserved all the fire and vivacity of youth; he was acquainted with ministerial affairs even better than M. de Choiseul himself. Having formerly belonged to the Jesuits, to whom he was entirely devoted, he had appeared to accelerate the period of their destruction; never had he been able to pardon his patron the frightful part he had compelled him to enact in the business. Years had not weakened his ancient rancour, and it might be said, that he had clung to life with more than natural pertinacity, as unwilling to lay it down till he had avenged himself on de Choiseul. Louis XV wrote to him, desiring he would avail himself of the first pretext that occurred to request an audience. This note was forwarded by a footman, the good abbé easily divined that this mystery concealed some great design; he therefore hastened to solicit an audience as desired. When introduced into the cabinet of the king, his majesty inquired at once,
“Monsieur l’ abbé, can I depend upon your discretion?”
“Sire,” replied the abbé, with a blunt frankness, “I am sorry your majesty can doubt it.”
“Be satisfied, sir,” replied the king, “I had no intention to offend you; but I wish to consult you upon a point, the importance of which you will fully appreciate; answer me without disguise. Do you believe that the services of the duc de Choiseul are useful to my kingdom, and that my interests would suffer were I to dismiss him?”
“Sire,” replied M. de la Ville, without hesitation, “I protest to you, as a man of honour, that the presence of the duc de Choiseul is by no means essential to the ministry, and that your majesty’s interests would sustain not the slightest injury by his absence.”
After this the abbé de la Ville entered into particulars unnecessary to repeat here; it is sufficient to say, that all he advanced materially aided our wishes. He afterwards reaped the reward of his friendly services, for when the duc d’Aiguillon had displaced the duc de Choiseul, he bestowed on M. de la Ville the title ofdirector of foreign affairs, an office created for him, and the bishopricin partibusof Tricomie. The good abbé did not, however, long enjoy his honours, but ended his career in 1774.
This conversation had been repeated to me; and, on my side, I left no means untried of preventing Louis XV from placing further confidence in his minister; but, feeble and timid, he knew not on what to determine, contenting himself with treating the duke coolly; he sought, by continual rebuffs and denials to his slightest request, to compel him to demand that dismissal he had not the courage to give.
Whilst these things were in agitation, madame de Mirepoix, who had been for some days absent from Versailles, came to call upon me. This lady possessed a considerable share of wit; and, although on the most intimate terms with me, had not altogether broken off with the des Choiseuls, to whom she was further bound on account of the prince de Beauvau, her brother. It therefore excited in me no surprise, when I heard that the des Choiseuls had called on her to ascertain, whether it would not be possible, through her mediation, to come to some terms with me.
“And you must not be angry with me,” continued she, “for undertaking thenegotiation; I well foresaw all the difficulties, and entertained no hopes of its success, but upon second thoughts, I considered it better I should accept the mission; for, in case of a negative being returned, it will be safe in my keeping, and I will not add to the chagrin of a failure the shame of a defeat.”
“It is my opinion,” replied I, “that all propositions coming from these people should be rejected; they have compelled me to raise between them and myself an immense wall of hatred, not less difficult to surmount than the grand wall of China.”
“Yet,” replied the maréchale, smiling, “they are disposed to pay any price for so doing.”
“I have friends,” said I, “from whom I can never separate myself.”
“They are willing that your friends shall be theirs likewise,” cried she, “for they see that M. de Maupeou, the duc de la Vrillière, and the abbé Terray, are provided for, and that the duc d’Aiguillon alone remains to be suitably established; M. de Choiseul would be happy to aid him in obtaining the post of minister of naval affairs.”
“Well, and the duchesse de Grammont,” inquired I, “would she visit me?”
“Oh, as to that, I know nothing about it, and can venture no opinion; my commission does not extend so far.”
“I understand you,” said I; “she seeks for peace only as it would enable her the better to carry on her hostilities against me. I am sorry, madame la maréchale, that I cannot accept your terms for a reconciliation.”
“Remember, I pray of you, that I have been an ambassadress, and nothing more,” said madame de Mirepoix; “recollect I have spoken to you in the words of others, not my own. I must beg of you to be secret; if you divulge the particulars of this morning’s conversation, it is I who will suffer by it: your friends will be displeased with me for my interference; and I have no inclination to provoke the anger of a party so powerful as yours.”
I promised the maréchale to observe an inviolable secrecy; and, so well have I kept my promise, that you are the first person to whom I ever breathed one syllable of the affair. I must own, that it struck me as strange, that the duc de Choiseul should abandon his cousin, and consent to take his seat beside the duc d’Aiguillon, whom he detested: perhaps he only sought to deceive us all by gaining time, till the death of the king. But what avails speculation upon the words and actions of a courtier, whose heart is an abyss too deep for gleam of light to penetrate?