Part 13 (1/2)
Now that I am upon the subject of anonymous letters to the King, I must just mention that it is impossible to conceive how frequent they were. People were extremely a.s.siduous in telling either unpleasant truths, or alarming lies, with a view to injure others.
As an instance, I shall transcribe one concerning Voltaire, who paid great court to Madame de Pompadour when he was in France.
This letter was written long after the former.
”Madame--M. de Voltaire has just dedicated his tragedy of _Tancred_ to you; this ought to be an offering of respect and grat.i.tude; but it is, in fact, an insult, and you will form the same opinion of it as the public has done if you read it with attention. You will see that this distinguished writer appears to betray a consciousness that the subject of his encomiums is not worthy of them, and to endeavour to excuse himself for them to the public.
These are his words: 'I have seen your graces and talents unfold themselves from your infancy. At all periods of your life I have received proofs of your uniform and unchanging kindness. If any critic be found to censure the homage I pay you, he must have a heart formed for ingrat.i.tude. I am under great obligations to you, Madame, and these obligations it is my duty to proclaim.'
”What do these words really signify, unless that Voltaire feels it may be thought extraordinary that he should dedicate his work to a woman who possesses but a small share of the public esteem, and that the sentiment of grat.i.tude must plead his excuse? Why should he suppose that the homage he pays you will be censured, whilst we daily see dedications addressed to silly gossips who have neither rank nor celebrity, or to women of exceptional conduct, without any censure being attracted by it? ”
M. de Marigny, and Colin, Madame de Pompadour's steward, were of the same opinion as Quesnay, that the author of this letter was extremely malicious; that he insulted Madame, and tried to injure Voltaire; but that he was, in fact, right. Voltaire, from that moment, was entirely out of favour with Madame, and with the King, and he certainly never discovered the cause.
The King, who admired everything of the age of Louis XIV., and recollected that the Boileaus and Racines had been protected by that monarch, who was indebted to them, in part, for the l.u.s.tre of his reign, was flattered at having such a man as Voltaire among his subjects. But still he feared him, and had but little esteem for him. He could not help saying, ”Moreover, I have treated him as well as Louis XIV. treated Racine and Boileau. I have given him, as Louis XIV. gave to Racine, some pensions, and a place of gentleman in ordinary. It is not my fault if he has committed absurdities, and has had the pretension to become a chamberlain, to wear an order, and sup with a King. It is not the fas.h.i.+on in France; and, as there are here a few more men of wit and n.o.blemen than in Prussia, it would require that I should have a very large table to a.s.semble them all at it.” And then he reckoned upon his fingers, Maupertuis, Fontenelle, La Mothe, Voltaire, Piron, Destouches, Montesquieu, the Cardinal Polignac. ”Your Majesty forgets,” said some one, ”D'Alembert and Clairaut.” ”And Crebillon,” said he. ”And la Chaussee, and the younger Crebillon,” said some one. ”He ought to be more agreeable than his father.” ”And there are also the Abbes Prevot and d'Olivet.”
”Pretty well,” said the King; ”and for the last twenty years _all that (tout cela)_ would have dined and supped at my table.”
Madame de Pompadour repeated to me this conversation, which I wrote down the same evening. M. de Marigny, also, talked to me about it. ”Voltaire,” said he, ”has always had a fancy for being Amba.s.sador, and he did all he could to make the people believe that he was charged with some political mission, the first time he visited Prussia.”
The people heard of the attempt on the King's life with transports of fury, and with the greatest distress. Their cries were heard under the windows of Madame de Pompadour's apartment. Mobs were collected, and Madame feared the fate of Madame de Chateauroux.
Her friends came in, every minute, to give her intelligence.
Her room was, at all times, like a church; everybody seemed to claim a right to go in and out when he chose. Some came, under pretence of sympathising, to observe her countenance and manner.
She did nothing but weep and faint away. Doctor Quesnay never left her, nor did I. M. de St. Florentin came to see her several times, so did the Comptroller-General, and M. Rouille; but M.
de Machault did not come. The d.u.c.h.esse de Brancas came very frequently. The Abbe de Bernis never left us, except to go to enquire for the King. The tears came in his eyes whenever he looked at Madame. Doctor Quesnay saw the King five or six times a day. ”There is nothing to fear,” said he to Madame. ”If it were anybody else, he might go to a ball.” My son went the next day, as he had done the day the event occurred, to see what was going on at the Castle. He told us, on his return, that the Keeper of the Seals was with the King. I sent him back, to see what course he took on leaving the King. He came running back in half an hour, to tell me that the Keeper of the Seals had gone to his own house, followed by a crowd of people. When I told this to Madame, she burst into tears, and said, ”_Is that a friend?_”
The Abbe de Bernis said, ”You must not judge him hastily, in such a moment as this.” I returned into the drawing-room about an hour after, when the Keeper of the Seals entered. He pa.s.sed me, with his usual cold and severe look. ”How is Madame de Pompadour?” said he. ”Alas!” replied I, ”as you may imagine!”
He pa.s.sed on to her closet. Everybody retired, and he remained for half an hour. The Abbe returned and Madame rang. I went into her room, the Abbe following me. She was in tears. ”I must go, my dear Abbe,” said she. I made her take some orange-flower water, in a silver goblet, for her teeth chattered. She then told me to call her equerry. He came in, and she calmly gave him her orders, to have everything prepared at her hotel, in Paris; to tell all her people to get ready to go; and to desire her coachman not to be out of the way. She then shut herself up, to confer with the Abbe de Bernis, who left her, to go to the Council. Her door was then shut, except to the ladies with whom she was particularly intimate, M. de Soubise, M. de Gontaut, the Ministers, and some others. Several ladies, in the greatest distress, came to talk to me in my room: they compared the conduct of M. de Machault with that of M. de Richelieu, at Metz. Madame had related to them the circ.u.mstances extremely to the honour of the Duke, and, by contrast, the severest satire on the Keeper of the Seals.
”He thinks, or pretends to think,” said she, ”that the priests will be clamorous for my dismissal; but Quesnay and all the physicians declare that there is not the slightest danger.” Madame having sent for me, I saw the Marechale de Mirepoix coming in.
While she was at the door, she cried out, ”What are all those trunks, Madame? Your people tell me you are going.” ”Alas! my dear friend, such is our Master's desire, as M. de Machault tells me.” ”And what does he advise?” said the Marechale. ”That I should go without delay.” During this conversation, I was undressing Madame, who wished to be at her ease on her chaise-longue. ”Your Keeper of the Seals wants to get the power into his own hands, and betrays you; he who quits the field loses it.” I went out. M.
de Soubise entered, then the Abbe and M. de Marigny. The latter, who was very kind to me, came into my room an hour afterwards.
I was alone. ”She will remain,” said he; ”but, hus.h.!.+--she will make an appearance of going, in order not to set her enemies at work. It is the little Marechale who prevailed upon her to stay: her keeper (so she called M. de Machault) will pay for it.” Quesnay came in, and, having heard what was said, with his monkey airs, began to relate a fable of a fox, who, being at dinner with other beasts, persuaded one of them that his enemies were seeking him, in order that he might get possession of his share in his absence. I did not see Madame again till very late, at her going to bed. She was more calm. Things improved, from day to day, and de Machault, the faithless friend, was dismissed.
The King returned to Madame de Pompadour, as usual. I learnt, by M. de Marigny, that the Abbe had been, one day, with M.
d'Argenson, to endeavour to persuade him to live on friendly terms with Madame, and that he had been very coldly received.
”He is the more arrogant,” said he, ”on account of Machault's dismissal, which leaves the field clear for him, who has more experience, and more talent; and I fear that he will, therefore, be disposed to declare _war till death_.” The next day, Madame having ordered her chaise, I was curious to know where she was going, for she went out but little, except to church, and to the houses of the Ministers. I was told that she was gone to visit M. d'Argenson. She returned in an hour, at farthest, and seemed very much out of spirits. She leaned on the chimney-piece, with her eyes fixed on the border of it. M. de Bernis entered.
I waited for her to take off her cloak and gloves. She had her hands in her m.u.f.f. The Abbe stood looking at her for some minutes; at last he said, ”You look like a sheep in a reflecting mood.” She awoke from her reverie, and, throwing her m.u.f.f on the easy-chair, replied, ”It is a wolf who makes the sheep reflect.” I went out: the King entered shortly after, and I heard Madame de Pompadour sobbing. The Abbe came into my room, and told me to bring some Hoffman's drops: the King himself mixed the draught with sugar, and presented it to her in the kindest manner possible. She smiled, and kissed the King's hands. I left the room. Two days after, very early in the morning, I heard of M. d'Argenson's exile.
It was her doing, and was, indeed, the strongest proof of her influence that could be given. The King was much attached to M. d'Argenson, and the war, then carrying on, both by sea and land, rendered the dismissal of two such Ministers extremely imprudent. This was the universal opinion at the time.
Many people talk of the letter of the Comte d'Argenson to Madame d'Esparbes. I give it, according to the most correct version: ”The doubtful is, at length, decided. The Keeper of the Seals is dismissed. You will be recalled, my dear Countess, and we shall be masters of the field.”
It is much less generally known that Arboulin, whom Madame calls Bou-bou, was supposed to be the person who, on the very day of the dismissal of the Keeper of the Seals, bribed the Count's confidential courier, who gave him this letter. Is this report founded on truth? I cannot swear that it is; but it is a.s.serted that the letter is written in the Count's style. Besides, who could so immediately have invented it? It, however, appeared certain, from the extreme displeasure of the King, that he had some other subject of complaint against M. d'Argenson, besides his refusing to be reconciled with Madame. n.o.body dares to show the slightest attachment to the disgraced Minister. I asked the ladies who were most intimate with Madame de Pompadour, as well as my own friends, what they knew of the matter; but they knew nothing. I can understand why Madame did not let them into her confidence at that moment. She will be less reserved in time.
I care very little about it, since I see that she is well, and appears happy.
The King said a thing, which did him honour, to a person whose name Madame withheld from me. A n.o.bleman, who had been a most a.s.siduous courtier of the Count, said, rubbing his hands with an air of great joy, ”I have just seen the Comte d'Argenson's baggage set out.” When the King heard him, he went up to Madame, shrugged his shoulders, and said, ”And immediately the c.o.c.k crew.”
I believe this is taken from Scripture, where Peter denies Our Lord. I confess, this circ.u.mstance gave me great pleasure. It showed that the King is not the dupe of those around him, and that he hates treachery and ingrat.i.tude.
Madame sent for me yesterday evening, at seven o'clock, to read something to her; the ladies who were intimate with her were at Paris, and M. de Gontaut ill. ”The King,” said she, ”will stay late at the Council this evening; they are occupied with the affairs of the Parliament again.” She bade me leave off reading, and I was going to quit the room, but she called out, ”Stop.” She rose; a letter was brought in for her, and she took it with an air of impatience and ill-humour. After a considerable time she began to talk openly, which only happened when she was extremely vexed; and, as none of her confidential friends were at hand, she said to me, ”This is from my brother. It is what he would not have dared to say to me, so he writes. I had arranged a marriage for him with the daughter of a man of t.i.tle; he appeared to be well inclined to it, and I, therefore, pledged my word. He now tells me that he has made inquiries; that the parents are people of insupportable hauteur; that the daughter is very badly educated; and that he knows, from authority not to be doubted, that when she heard this marriage discussed, she spoke of the connection with the most supreme contempt; that he is certain of this fact; and that I was still more contemptuously spoken of than himself.
In a word, he begs me to break off the treaty. But he has let me go too far; and now he will make these people my irreconcilable enemies. This has been put in his head by some of his flatterers; they do not wish him to change his way of living; and very few of them would be received by his wife.” I tried to soften Madame, and, though I did not venture to tell her so, I thought her brother right. She persisted in saying these were lies, and, on the following Sunday, treated her brother very coldly. He said nothing to me at that time; if he had, he would have embarra.s.sed me greatly.
Madame atoned for everything by procuring favours, which were the means of facilitating the young lady's marriage with a gentleman of the Court. Her conduct, two months after marriage, compelled Madame to confess that her brother had been perfectly right.
I saw my friend, Madame du Chiron. ”Why,” said she, ”is the Marquise so violent an enemy to the Jesuits? I a.s.sure you she is wrong.
All-powerful as she is, she may find herself the worse for their enmity.” I replied that I knew nothing about the matter. ”It is, however, unquestionably a fact; and she does not feel that a word more or less might decide her fate.” ”How do you mean?”
said I.
”Well, I will explain myself fully,” said she. ”You know what took place at the time the King was stabbed: an attempt was made to get her out of the Castle instantly. The Jesuits have no other object than the salvation of their penitents; but they are men, and hatred may, without their being aware of it, influence their minds, and inspire them with a greater degree of severity than circ.u.mstances absolutely demand. Favour and partiality may, on the other hand, induce the confessor to make great concessions; and the shortest interval may suffice to save a favourite, especially if any decent pretext can be found for prolonging her stay at Court.” I agreed with her in all she said, but I told her that I dared not touch that string. On reflecting on this conversation afterwards, I was forcibly struck with this fresh proof of the intrigues of the Jesuits, which, indeed, I knew well already. I thought that, in spite of what I had replied to Madame du Chiron, I ought to communicate this to Madame de Pompadour, for the ease of my conscience; but that I would abstain from making any reflection upon it. ”Your friend, Madame du Chiron,” said she, ”is, I perceive, affiliated to the Jesuits, and what she says does not originate with herself. She is commissioned by some reverend father, and I will know by whom.” Spies were, accordingly, set to watch her movements, and they discovered that one Father de Saci, and, still more particularly, one Father Frey, guided this lady's conduct, ”What a pity,” said Madame to me, ”that the Abbe Chauvelin cannot know this.” He was the most formidable enemy of the reverend fathers. Madame du Chiron always looked upon me as a Jansenist, because I would not espouse the interests of the good fathers with as much warmth as she did.