Lamoignon’s involvement was particularly important because he was a member of a secretive and very influential masonic organization called the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement. The compagnie had known about Tartuffe since at least the previous April, when, at a secret meeting, they had agreed to work for the play’s suppression. How they had learned about it is not certain, but their advance knowledge demonstrated their wide infiltration into all sections of society.12 On April 30, Molière had travelled to Versailles, where he had read his work to Louis. The king had enjoyed it so much that he had immediately placed it on the program for the fête, where it made its début on May 12.
Anne and her supporters brought Tartuffe to the attention of Péréfixe, Louis’s former tutor, who was now archbishop of Paris. Péréfixe had a private word with Louis, and although he very much admired the play, the king reluctantly agreed to ban all public performances of it. The Gazette praised Louis, who was “enlightened in all things,” for banning a play that was “injurious to religion and likely to exercise a harmful influence.”13
The curé of Saint-Barthélemy, Pierre Roullé, went further, saying that Louis’s decision to ban Tartuffe was a “heroic act worthy of his greatness of heart and respect for God and the church.”14 So angry was Roullé that he thought Molière ought to be “burned at the stake as a foretaste of the fires of hell in expiation of a crime which is treason against heaven and calculated to ruin the Catholic religion.”15
Molière had anticipated a hostile reaction to Tartuffe and had written his own defense into the text of act 1, scene 4:
Devotion, like courage, has its pretenders; and in the same way that the truly brave are not those who make the most noise where honor leads them, so the real and truly pious men whose example we ought to follow, are not those who affect such grimaces. What! will you make no distinction between hypocrisy and true religion? Will you call them both by the same name, and render the same homage to the mask as to the face? Will you put on the same level falsehood and sincerity, and confound appearance with reality? Will you esteem the shadow as much as the substance, and false coin as much as good?16
When he read Roullé’s letter, he was so afraid that he appealed to the king for protection. Louis, who thought that Roullé was taking things too far, scolded the curé. Even so, he felt the need to clarify his own position towards Tartuffe in the official protocol to the fête at Versailles:
This evening His Majesty had a comedy entitled Tartuffe performed which the Sieur de Molière had written against the hypocrites. Although His Majesty found it extremely diverting, he felt that there was so great a resemblance between those whom a sincere devotion put in the way of heaven and those whom a vain ostentation of good works did not prevent from achieving bad ones, that in his extreme care for matters pertaining to religion he could not permit this resemblance between vice and virtue, which might be mistaken one for the other; and although he did not doubt the good intentions of the author, he prohibited the public performance of the play and deprived himself of this pleasure in order that it should not be abused by others who might be less capable of a just discrimination.17
Despite the pleading of Molière, who stood to lose income because of the ban, Louis stood firm. He announced that there would be no further public performances of Tartuffe, but his interdiction did not extend to private performances. The idea of presenting a banned play proved very appealing, and several people invited Molière to read or perform it in their homes. The most prestigious private performance took place in July at the home of the duc and duchesse d’Orléans. The following year, Louis would take over as Molière’s official patron, with the new Troupe du Roy receiving an annual allowance of 6 thousand livres.18
The visit to Versailles had been a great success, despite the differences of opinion over Tartuffe. Not only had Louis entertained his court in grand style but he had also established Versailles as a place of work; council meetings and other business continued to take place amid the festivities. The court had not long been back in Paris, however, when a most unpleasant incident occurred.
It had always been the custom that out of respect for the two queens, the ladies of the court would not attend on any of the king’s mistresses. This rule was broken by Mme de Brancas, the wife of the queen mother’s chevalier d’honneur, who accompanied Louise on some of her excursions.19 This upset Anne of Austria, who reprimanded Mme de Brancas. In her turn, Mme de Brancas complained to Louis, adding that the comtesse de Flex and the duchesse de Navailles had turned the queen mother against her. Louis took Mme de Brancas at her word and was angry that she had been badly treated. This caused much ill feeling between Louis and his mother.
As to the duchesse de Navailles, she had incurred Louis’s wrath over the La Motte-Houdancourt affair, so he was already ill disposed towards her and her husband. This new incident hardened his heart still further, although he took no further action, at least for now. Shortly afterwards, he took the court to Fontainebleau, where he intended to spend part of the summer.
It was while the court was at Fontainebleau that Louis played host to Cardinal Chigi. He was sent by Pope Alexander to attempt to smooth relations between Louis and the Vatican, which had deteriorated markedly since the incident with the Corsican guards. When Louis seized the papal state of Avignon in 1663, Alexander realized that the king would have no hesitation in going to war. The pope backed down on that occasion, and on February 12, 1664, the Treaty of Pisa was signed.
The Gazette20 noted that Alexander made reparation proportionate to the insult offered to Louis, whose glory was such that one could not injure him without being obliged to make full atonement. In this case, the full atonement demanded by Louis required the Italians to build a pyramid opposite the Corsican barracks where the incident had occurred in commemoration of the event. The pyramid would bear a detailed inscription describing exactly what had taken place. Now Cardinal Chigi had come to France with a full apology from the pope, but there was a problem: Chigi had envisaged a magnificent reception in Paris, complete with a parade through the streets and a public welcome from the king. When he learned that Louis was at Fontainebleau, the cardinal was outraged. He felt it was beneath his dignity to be received in the king’s country palace and wrote to ask Louis if he could be welcomed in Paris instead. Louis refused. Chigi would meet Louis at Fontainebleau or not at all. As it was, Louis received the papal envoy in his bedroom, where Chigi read aloud the pope’s letter of apology. With the formalities out of the way, Louis introduced Chigi to his master of the revels for the occasion. This was Molière, and Louis treated the cardinal with a special performance of Tartuffe. It had long been the maxim in the government of France to look upon the pope “as a sacred but overreaching person, whose feet one must kiss, but whose hands one must sometimes bind,”21 and nobody demonstrated this more effectively than Louis XIV. As the first son of the church, Louis was obliged to obey the Holy Father in spiritual affairs, but he was not subordinate to him politically.22
Louis had not long triumphed over the papal nuncio when he was dragged into a domestic incident, this time involving the duc and duchesse de Navailles. The duc was in command of the light horse, and upon his arrival at Fontainebleau, he requisitioned quarters for his regiment. When Louis told him he must pay for them himself, Navailles remarked, “Your Majesty’s servants are very unfortunate to be treated in this way.”23 As so often on occasions such as this, Louis did not answer, but it was clear to all who witnessed the scene that he was angry. Retribution came heavily and swiftly when Louis ordered the duc de Navailles to resign his position of governor of Havre-de-Grâce and give up his lieutenancy of the light horse, while the duchesse was dismissed from her post as lady-of-honor. Louis gave them 900 thousand livres as compensation for their loss of income, but in fact their office and income had been worth much more. The duchesse de Navailles was replaced by Julie, duchesse de Montausier, who had been serving as governess of the children of France.
Louis’s vengeance de
eply wounded Marie-Thérèse, for she was fond of Mme de Navailles. The tearful queen spoke to Louis in a bid to make him change his mind, but he refused to listen to reason. As Mme de Navailles left the court, the queen embraced her and assured her that she would never forget her.
Anne of Austria, whom the faithful Mme de Motteville said seldom shed tears, also wept for the duc and duchesse de Navailles, for they were good people and did not deserve such treatment. The queen mother tried to intervene with Louis on their behalf, but he would have none of it. For some time, Louis had been slipping away from his mother’s influence, and now she was beginning to see all too clearly how far.
The coldness between the king and his mother had not yet thawed when they had another confrontation; this time it concerned religious affairs and an allegedly broken promise, and it almost broke up their relationship for good.24 The abbé de Prière wanted to transform his order and had placed his plans before the royal council. Anne of Austria took an interest in the reforms the abbé wanted to implement, and Louis apparently promised her that she would be pleased with his decision when it came. As he awaited the king’s verdict, the abbé became ill and asked Louis to postpone making a decision until after he had recovered. When Louis made his pronouncement anyway, his mother was appalled. Not only did she think he was wrong to do so but she also thought his decision was not the one he had promised her. To make matters worse, Louis defended himself before the comtesse de Soissons and others, saying that his mother “had not told the truth, or something to that effect, which did not seem respectful to her.”
Anne was deeply hurt by Louis’s words, which, when taken together with their earlier argument, further saddened and distressed her. As the chill silence between them deepened, she made up her mind to withdraw from the court and retire to the Val-de-Grâce. Le Tellier and others tried to reconcile the two, but all their attempts failed. “These two royal persons were both angry, and neither could resolve to speak to the other.”
One day when Louis was in his mother’s apartments, Philippe and Henriette withdrew to allow them the privacy to resolve their differences, but Louis, “after standing for some time looking out of the window, made a low bow to the queen mother and went away without saying a word.” Anne went to find Philippe and said, “You see how he treats me!” Philippe led her away onto a terrace so she could avoid the eyes of the courtiers and there she wept, saying to Doña Molina, “Do you think we spoke together, the king and I, in the cabinet? I assure you no; we came out in the same state in which we went in.”
The queen mother was so upset by Louis’s behavior that she decided not to take supper with her family that evening. As Louis made his way to her apartments, he met Marie-Thérèse coming the other way and asked her why she was returning before supper. Marie-Thérèse answered that the queen mother had sent her away because she could not eat. Louis, now pale and confused, went to take his supper with the queen, but it was clear that he was troubled. His conscience was pricking him over the way he was treating his mother, but he still could not bring himself to reconcile with her.
Anne was at prayer in her oratory the next day when Doña Molina came in. When she saw the queen mother in tears, she discreetly turned to leave, but Anne bid her stay and kneel down beside her. Doña Molina asked Anne what was the matter, but all Anne managed to say was, “Ay, Molina, estos hijos!” “Ah, Molina, these children!”
Later that day, as Anne was making her devotions, her confessor ordered her to speak to Louis first “and to listen no longer to her vexation or her sorrow.” Although she feared that Louis might heap further humiliations upon her, Anne resolved to talk to him and to “sacrifice her feelings to God.”
For his part, Louis continued to be distressed at the discord between himself and his mother, and he made his way to her chamber with the intention of reaching rapprochement with her. However, as soon as he stepped through the door, Anne, who was resolved to speak first, poured out everything she had intended to say to him. Louis replied in a manner “both affectionate and submissive,” and, kneeling before her, he begged her forgiveness and wept for having “failed in his duty towards her.” He told her that he had not slept all night; he said that Le Tellier had told him of her desire to retire to the Val-de-Grâce; he begged her earnestly not to leave the court and asked her to promise him that she would never leave him.
Now that Louis had realized the error of his ways, Anne felt emboldened to tell him a few things she believed he ought to hear. She began by telling him that he was “too intoxicated with his own greatness” and that he “set no limits to either his desires or his vengeance.” She pointed out the “peril in which he stood as regarded his salvation,” and she “said all she could to bring him back to his own self, and to oblige him to at least desire to break the chains that bound him to sin.”
Louis’s tearful reply was sincere. He knew he had done wrong and said that “he felt at times the pain and shame of it.” He admitted that although he had tried to “restrain himself from offending God, and from giving way to his passions,” he had failed, because they “had now become stronger than his reason; that he could no longer resist their violence, nor did he even feel the desire to do so.” He returned to the subject of the ladies of quality attending on Louise de La Vallière but said that “as she had desired it, it must be done, and he begged his mother not to oppose it.”
Anne was satisfied that Louis at least knew he had done wrong, for it showed her that God had not entirely abandoned him, but she urged Louis not to displease God any more than he had done. Mother and son spoke about the dismissal of the duc and duchesse de Navailles and about the things Mme de Brancas had said. In the end, they resolved their differences and were reunited. This whole chapter of troubles inspired Mme de Motteville to make an observation about Louis:
The things that I have just told will show that the king had great contradictions within him; that his virtues were mingled with much that opposed them; and that, bearing in himself the common nature of human frailty, he was not always virtuous nor always just. Nevertheless, I cannot avoid saying that, to my mind, there was strength in the acknowledgment he made of his weakness, and much Christian humility in blaming himself for his injustices.25
She added that no man who would be placed in the ranks of heroes “should be exempt from faults”; for it was true that Louis had a dark side, and it was about to make its devastating appearance.
THIRTEEN
The Dark Side of the Sun
It was eight o’clock in the evening when Louis took to his horse and rode through the October darkness towards Paris. He was going to see his mother. She had gone the day before to visit the Carmelites, but she had taken ill and had been obliged to spend the night at the Val-de-Grâce. Louis was anxious, and his desire to see her was born of the great affection in which he held her, but his worries were happily misplaced, for Anne recovered enough to be able to return to Vincennes a short while later.1
Anne kept to her room for a time, and one day when Louis came to visit her, he brought Louise with him. Anne received the young woman in what was a major victory for Louis, for it implied that Anne had accepted the royal mistress and implicitly approved of her. Louis and Louise played cards with Philippe and Henriette, but if the king was happy with the situation, Marie-Thérèse absolutely was not. The queen, who was pregnant at the time, was also keeping to her rooms that night, and when she heard about what was going on in the queen mother’s chambers, she became very distressed. She commanded Mme de Motteville, who was attending her, to speak to Anne about it.
As Mme de Motteville made her way to her mistress’s apartments, she encountered Mme de Montausier, who seemed very pleased that Louise had been received. “Do you see, Madame,” she said, “what an admirable action the queen mother has done in being willing to receive La Vallière? That is the action of a very clever woman and a politician. But, she is so weak that we can scarcely hope she will sustain her action as she ought.” Mme de Motteville w
as astonished by these words, and she hurried on without making an answer. When she found Anne in her oratory, one look told her that all was not well and that the queen mother had only pretended, for the king’s sake, to accept Louise. Mme de Motteville went to Paris to spend the night. She felt she had failed in her duty to bring comfort to the queen, and instead “trusted in the prudence of the queen mother”, whom she knew “too well to doubt that she would employ it fully.”2
Louis’s love for the arts was such that he wanted to reward those whose work he adored. He ordered Colbert to draw up a list of savants and men of letters, both French and foreign, who were to receive a royal grant. The first list, which appeared in 1662, is lost, but the lists from 1664 to 1683 survive and include the illustrious names of Molière, Pierre and Thomas Corneille, Jean Racine, and Charles Perrault. They each received a silk purse containing gold coins every year from the king. The value of these gifts varied, with Molière and Corneille receiving a thousand livres each. Racine received six hundred, while Perrault was given fifteen hundred.3
There was one very important omission from the list: Jean de la Fontaine, who had found himself out of favor for writing in defense of his former patron, Nicolas Foucquet. He had composed the famous Élégie,4 a poem brimming over with sadness, sentiment, and regret at Foucquet’s fate:
Fill the air with your plaints in your grottos deep,
Weep, Nymphs of Vaux—and swell your streams,
And let o’erflowing Anqueil5 ravage the treasures
With which Flora’s glances have adorned your banks.
No one shall blame your innocent tears,
Louis XIV Page 19
