Not even her marriage with the Marquis de Montespan some three years after her coming to Court sufficed to overcome the longings born of her covetousness and ambition. And then, when the Sun-King looked with favour upon her opulent charms, when at last she saw the object of her ambition within reach, that husband of hers went very near to wrecking everything by his unreasonable behaviour. This preposterous marquis had the effrontery to dispute his wife with Jupiter, was so purblind as not to appreciate the honour the Sun-King proposed to do him.
In putting it thus, I but make myself the mouthpiece of the Court.
When Montespan began to make trouble by railing furiously against the friendship of the King for his wife, his behaviour so amazed the King’s cousin, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, that she called him “an extravagant and extraordinary man.” To his face she told him that he must be mad to behave in this fashion; and so incredibly distorted were his views, that he did not at all agree with her. He provoked scenes with the King, in which he quoted Scripture, made opposite allusions to King David which were in the very worst taste, and even ventured to suggest that the Sun-King might have to reckon with the judgment of God. If he escaped a lettre de cachet and a dungeon in the Bastille, it can only have been because the King feared the further spread of a scandal injurious to the sacrosanctity of his royal dignity.
The Marchioness fumed in private and sneered in public. When Mademoiselle de Montpensier suggested that for his safety’s sake she should control her husband’s antics, she expressed her bitterness.
“He and my parrot,” she said, “amuse the Court to my shame.”
In the end, finding that neither by upbraiding the King nor by beating his wife could he prevail, Monsieur de Montespan resigned himself after his own fashion. He went into widower’s mourning, dressed his servants in black, and came ostentatiously to Court in a mourning coach to take ceremonious leave of his friends. It was an affair that profoundly irritated the Sun-King, and very nearly made him ridiculous.
Thereafter Montespan abandoned his wife to the King. He withdrew first to his country seat, and, later, from France, having received more than a hint that Louis was intending to settle his score with him. By that time Madame de Montespan was firmly established as maitresse en titre, and in January of 1669 she gave birth to the Duke of Maine, the first of the seven children she was to bear the King. Parliament was to legitimize them all, declaring them royal children of France, and the country was to provide titles, dignities, and royal rent-rolls for them and their heirs forever. Do you wonder that there was a revolution a century later, and that the people, grown weary of the parasitic anachronism of royalty, should have risen to throw off the intolerable burden it imposed upon them?
The splendour of Madame de Montespan in those days was something the like of which had never been seen at the Court of France. On her estate of Clagny, near Versailles, stood now a magnificent chateau. Louis had begun by building a country villa, which satisfied her not at all.
“That,” she told him, “might do very well for an opera-girl”; whereupon the infatuated monarch had no alternative but to command its demolition, and call in the famous architect, Mansard, to erect in its place an ultraroyal residence.
At Versailles itself, whilst the long-suffering Queen had to be content with ten rooms on the second floor, Madame de Montespan was installed in twice that number on the first; and whilst a simple page sufficed to carry the Queen’s train at Court, nothing less than the wife of a marshal of France must perform the same office for the favourite. She kept royal state as few queens have ever kept it. She was assigned a troop of royal bodyguards for escort, and when she travelled there was a never-ending train to follow her six-horse coach, and officers of State came to receive her with royal honours wherever she passed.
In her immeasurable pride she became a tyrant, even over the King himself.
“Thunderous and triumphant,” Madame de Sevigne describes her in those days when the Sun-King was her utter and almost timid slave.
But constancy is not a Jovian virtue. Jupiter grew restless, and then, shaking off all restraint, plunged into inconstancy of the most scandalous and flagrant kind. It is doubtful if the history of royal amours, with all its fecundity, can furnish a parallel. Within a few months, Madame de Soubise, Mademoiselle de Rochefort-Theobon, Madame de Louvigny, Madame de Ludres, and some lesser ones passed in rapid succession through the furnace of the Sun-King’s affection — which is to say, through the royal bed — and at last the Court was amazed to see the Widow Scarron, who had been appointed governess to Madame de Montespan’s royal children, empanoplied in a dignity and ceremony that left no doubt on the score of her true position at Court.
And so, after seven years of absolute sway in which homage had been paid her almost in awe by noble and simple alike, Madame de Montespan, neglected now by Louis, moved amid reflections of that neglect, with arrogantly smiling lips and desperate rage in her heart. She sneered openly at the royal lack of taste, allowed her barbed wit to make offensive sport with the ladies who supplanted her; yet, ravaged by jealousy, she feared for herself the fate which through her had overtaken La Valliere.
That fear was with her now as she sat in the window embrasure, hell in her heart and a reflection of it in her eyes, as, fallen almost to the rank of a spectator in that comedy wherein she was accustomed to the leading part, she watched the shifting, chattering, glittering crowd. And as she watched, her line of vision was crossed to her undoing by the slender, wellknit figure of de Vanens, who, dressed from head to foot in black, detached sharply from that dazzling throng. His face was pale and saturnine, his eyes dark, very level, and singularly piercing. Thus his appearance served to underline the peculiar fascination which he exerted, the rather sinister appeal which he made to the imagination.
This young Provencal nobleman was known to dabble in magic, and there were one or two dark passages in his past life of which more than a whisper had gone abroad. Of being a student of alchemy, a “philosopher” — that is to say, a seeker after the philosopher’s stone, which was to effect the transmutation of metals — he made no secret. But if you taxed him with demoniacal practices he would deny it, yet in a way that carried no conviction.
To this dangerous fellow Madame de Montespan now made appeal in her desperate need.
Their eyes met as he was sauntering past, and with a lazy smile and a languid wave of her fan she beckoned him to her side.
“They tell me, Vanens,” said she, “that your philosophy succeeds so well that you are transmuting copper into silver.”
His piercing eyes surveyed her, narrowing; a smile flickered over his thin lips.
“They tell you the truth,” he said. “I have cast a bar which has been purchased as good silver by the Mint.”
Her interest quickened. “By the Mint!” she echoed, amazed. “But, then, my friend—” She was breathless with excitement. “It is a miracle.”
“No less,” he admitted. “But there is the greater miracle to come — the transmutation of base metal into gold.”
“And you will perform it?”
“Let me but conquer the secret of solidifying mercury, and the rest is naught. I shall conquer it, and soon.”
He spoke with easy confidence, a man stating something that he knew beyond the possibility of doubt. The Marquise became thoughtful. She sighed.
“You are the master of deep secrets, Vanens. Have you none that will soften flinty hearts, make them responsive?”
He considered this woman whom Saint-Simon has called “beautiful as the day,” and his smile broadened.
“Look in your mirror for the alchemy needed there,” he bade her.
Anger rippled across the perfect face. She lowered, “I have looked — in vain. Can you not help me, Vanens, you who know so much?”
“A love-philtre?” said he, and hummed. “Are you in earnest?”
“Do you mock me with that question? Is not my need proclaimed for all to see?”
&nbs
p; Vanens became grave.
“It is not an alchemy in which myself I dabble,” he said slowly. “But I am acquainted with those who do.”
She clutched his wrist in her eagerness.
“I will pay well,” she said.
“You will need to. Such things are costly.” He glanced round to see that none was listening, then bending nearer: “There is a sorceress named La Voisin in the Rue de la Tannerie, well known as a fortuneteller to many ladies of the Court, who at a word from me will do your need.”
La Montespan turned white. The piety in which she had been reared — the habits of which clung to her despite the irregularity of her life — made her recoil before the thing that she desired. Sorcery was of the Devil. She told him so. But Vanens laughed.
“So that it be effective. . .” said he with a shrug.
And then across the room floated a woman’s trilling laugh. She looked in the direction of the sound and beheld the gorgeous figure of the King bending — yet haughty and condescending even in adoration — over handsome Madame de Ludres. Pride and ambition rose up in sudden fury to trample on religious feeling. Let Vanens take her to this witch of his, for be the aid what it might, she must have it.
And so, one dark night late in the year, Louis de Vanens handed a masked and muffled lady from a coach at the corner of the Rue de la Tannerie, and conducted her to the house of La Voisin.
The door was opened for them by a young woman of some twenty years of age — Marguerite Monvoisin, the daughter of the witch — who led them upstairs to a room that was handsomely furnished and hung with fantastic tapestry of red designs upon a black ground — designs that took monstrous shapes in the flickering light of a cluster of candles. Black curtains parted, and from between them stepped a short, plump woman, of a certain comeliness, with two round black beads of eyes. She was fantastically robed in a cloak of crimson velvet, lined with costly furs and closely studded with double-headed eagles in fine gold, which must have been worth a prince’s ransom; and she wore red shoes on each of which there was the same eagle design in gold.
“Ah, Vanens!” she said familiarly.
He bowed.
“I bring you,” he announced, “a lady who has need of your skill.”
And he waved a hand towards the tall cloaked figure at his side.
La Voisin looked at the masked face.
“Velvet faces tell me little, Madame la Marquise,” she said calmly. “Nor, believe me, will the King look at a countenance that you conceal from me.”
There was an exclamation of surprise and anger from Madame de Montespan. She plucked off her mask.
“You knew me?”
“Can you wonder?” asked La Voisin, “since I have told you what you carry concealed in your heart?”
Madame de Montespan was as credulous as only the very devout can be.
“Since that is so, since you know already what I seek, tell me can you procure it me?” she asked in a fever of excitement. “I will pay well.”
La Voisin smiled darkly.
“Obdurate, indeed, is the case that will not yield to such medicine as mine,” she said. “Let me consider first what must be done. In a few days I shall bring you word. But have you courage for a great ordeal?”
“For any ordeal that will give me what I want.”
“In a few days, then, you shall hear from me,” said the witch, and so dismissed the great lady.
Leaving a heavy purse behind her, as Vanens had instructed her, the Marchioness departed with her escort. And there, with that initiation, as far as we can ascertain, ended Louis de Vanens’s connection with the affair.
At Clagny Madame de Montespan waited for three days in a fever of impatience for the coming of the witch. But when at last La Voisin presented herself, the proposal that she had to make was one before which the Marchioness recoiled in horror and some indignation.
The magic that La Voisin suggested involved a coadjutor, the Abbe Guibourg, and the black mass to be celebrated by him. Madame de Montespan had heard something of these dread sacrificial rites to Satan; sufficient to fill her with loathing and disgust of the whitefaced, beady-eyed woman who dared to insult her by the proposal. She fumed and raged a while, and even went near to striking La Voisin, who looked on with inscrutable face and stony, almost contemptuous, indifference. Before that impenetrable, almost uncanny, calm, Madame de Montespan’s fury at last abated. Then the urgency of her need becoming paramount, she desired more clearly to be told what would be expected of her. What the witch told her was more appalling than anything she could have imagined. But La Voisin argued:
“Can anything be accomplished without cost? Can anything be gained in this life without payment of some kind?”
“But the price of this is monstrous!” Madame de Montespan protested.
“Measure it by the worldly advantages to be gained. They are not small, madame. To enjoy boundless wealth, boundless power, and boundless honour, to be more than queen — is not all this worth some sacrifice?”
To Madame de Montespan it must have been worth any sacrifice in this world or the next, since in the end she conquered her disgust, and agreed to lend herself to this horror.
Three masses, she was told, would be necessary to ensure success, and it was determined that they should be celebrated in the chapel of the Chateau de Villebousin, where Guibourg had been almoner, to which he had access, and which was at the time untenanted.
The chateau was a gloomy mediaeval fortress, blackened by age, and standing, surrounded by a moat, in a lonely spot some two miles to the south of Paris. Thither on a dark, gusty night of March came Madame de Montespan, accompanied by her confidential waiting-woman, Mademoiselle Desceillets. They left the coach to await them on the Orleans road, and thence, escorted by a single male attendant, they made their way by a rutted, sodden path towards the grim castle looming faintly through the enveloping gloom.
The wind howled dismally about the crenellated turrets; and a row of poplars, standing like black, phantasmal guardians of the evil place, bent groaning before its fury. From the running waters of the moat, swollen by recent rains, came a gurgling sound that was indescribably wicked.
Desocillets was frightened by the dark, the desolate loneliness and eeriness of the place; but she dared utter no complaint as she stumbled forward over the uneven ground, through the gloom and the buffeting wind, compelled by the suasion of her mistress’s imperious will. Thus, by a drawbridge spanning dark, oily waters, they came into a vast courtyard and an atmosphere as of mildew. A studded door stood ajar, and through the gap, from a guiding beacon of infamy, fell a rhomb of yellow light, suddenly obscured by a squat female figure when the steps of the Marchioness and her companions fell upon the stones of the yard.
It was La Voisin who stood on the threshold to receive her client. In the stone-flagged hall behind her the light of a lantern revealed her daughter, Marguerite Monvoisin, and a short, crafty-faced, misshapen fellow in black homespun and a red wig — a magician named Lesage, one of La Voisin’s coadjutors, a rogue of some talent who exploited the witches of Paris to his own profit.
Leaving Leroy — the Marchioness’s male attendant below in this fellow’s company, La Voisin took up a candle and lighted Madame de Montespan up the broad stone staircase, draughty and cold, to the ante-room of the chapel on the floor above. Mademoiselle Desceillets followed closely and fearfully, and Marguerite Monvoisin came last.
They entered the ante-room, a spacious chamber, bare of furniture save for an oaken table in the middle, some faded and mildewed tapestries, and a cane-backed settle of twisted walnut over against the wall. An alabaster lamp on the table made an island of light in that place of gloom, and within the circle of its feeble rays stood a gross old man of some seventy years of age in sacerdotal garments of unusual design: the white alb worn over a greasy cassock was studded with black fir-cones; the stole and maniple were of black satin, with fir-cones wrought in yellow thread.
His inflamed countenance
was of a revolting hideousness: his cheeks were covered by a network of blue veins, his eyes squinted horribly, his lips vanished inwards over toothless gums, and a fringe of white hair hung in matted wisps from his high, bald crown. This was the infamous Abbe Guibourg, sacristan of Saint Denis, an ordained priest who had consecrated himself to the service of the Devil.
He received the great lady with a low bow which, despite herself, she acknowledged by a shudder. She was very pale, and her eyes were dilating and preternaturally bright. Fear began to possess her, yet she suffered herself to be ushered into the chapel, which was dimly illumined by a couple of candles standing beside a basin on a table. The altar light had been extinguished. Her maid would have hung back, but that she feared to be parted from her mistress. She passed in with her in the wake of Guibourg, and followed by La Voisin, who closed the door, leaving her daughter in the ante-room.
Although she had never been a participant in any of the sorceries practised by her mother, yet Marguerite was fully aware of their extent, and more than guessed what horrors were taking place beyond the closed doors of the chapel. The very thought of them filled her with loathing and disgust as she sat waiting, huddled in a corner of the settle. And yet when presently through the closed doors came the drone of the voice of that unclean celebrant, to blend with the whine of the wind in the chimney, Marguerite, urged by a morbid curiosity she could not conquer, crept shuddering to the door, which directly faced the altar, and going down on her knees applied her eye to the keyhole.
What she saw may very well have appalled her considering the exalted station of Madame de Montespan. She beheld the white, sculptural form of the royal favourite lying at full length supine upon the altar, her arms outstretched, holding a lighted candle in each hand. Immediately before her stood the Abbe Guibourg, his body screening the chalice and its position from the eye of the watching girl.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 673
