Henriette died at three in the morning of June 30, and Louis was told three hours later. He took the news badly, and his grief at Henriette’s death was profound. When the queen and Mademoiselle came to accompany him to mass, they found him still in his robe de chambre. “I dare not show myself before my cousin,” he said. “He shed tears for the loss of Madame,” wrote Mademoiselle, “and after mass he spoke to me of her death.”46
The following morning, Louis and Marie-Thérèse drove out to Saint-Cloud, “where they alighted to sprinkle the body of Madame with holy water.”47 At the beginning of her final illness, Henriette thought she had been poisoned, and as the rumors persisted, Louis ordered a postmortem in order to establish the truth. Court physicians, “several able surgeons,” and the English ambassador, Ralph Montagu, attended as the body was opened. No signs of poison were found, and the cause of death was unanimously agreed to have been “an overflow of bile,” or, as it was explained to Montagu, “the Princess had died of colic, or cholera morbus.”48 Henriette’s heart was sent to the Val-de-Grâce and placed next to that of Anne of Austria. Her funeral was held at Saint-Denis, although strict royal etiquette forbade Louis and Philippe to take part.
SIXTEEN
Marriages and Intrigues
Cousin, here is an unexpected alliance for you, should you like to form it?” Louis made this offer to Mademoiselle within hours of the death of Henriette, and her response was nothing less than Louis would have expected: “You are the master,” she told him. “I can have no other will but yours.”1
As it happened, Mademoiselle’s response reflected her own feelings. She did not wish to marry Philippe, although her reluctance was no reflection on her cousin. While they were friends, she was adamant that she would never marry the newly widowed prince, declaring herself “indifferent to all the advantages and honor of the connection,” for Philippe “was much younger than myself, and . . . I was not of a sufficient submissive spirit to allow of our being happy together.”2
It was true that Mademoiselle was almost thirteen years older than Philippe, but that did not seem to worry either of them. Indeed, Philippe declared himself “ardently desirous” to marry her and wished to sign the contract straightaway so that the wedding could take place as soon as possible. He saw the proposed marriage as an excellent opportunity, and he explained his well-developed plans to Louis. He would marry Mademoiselle, he said, but they would have no children because of her age. Her immense fortune would, therefore, go to his eldest daughter, who would in her turn marry the dauphin and, in due course, become queen of France. When Louis told Mademoiselle this, she replied, “I suppose this article would form part of the contract, though it seems to me that the son of Your Majesty is hardly one that need look to a wife for a fortune.”3
Louis had not taken his brother’s design seriously and had told him not to count on it. The king, if not Philippe, had more eligible ladies in mind for the dauphin than his niece. At present, he was seriously considering marrying his son to one of the daughters of Ferdinand Maria, elector of Bavaria.
Philippe was, of course, still in mourning for Henriette, and the court, which continued to miss her sparkling personality, remained in a somber mood. Louis decided that a ball would be the best way to lift everyone’s spirits, and he arranged an especially lavish occasion to be held on Shrove Tuesday before the austerities of Lent began. To his chagrin, even this happy announcement failed to enliven his courtiers; such was his disappointment that he almost postponed the ball. In the end, it did go ahead, but when Louis stepped onto the dance floor, he did so without either Louise or Athénaïs on his arm, while Philippe naturally stayed away.
As she sat in her darkening apartments, a depressed Louise brooded upon her situation. She knew full well where Louis would go after the ball finished, and the thought of him spending the night hours in Athénaïs’s warm embrace was more than she could bear. She threw off her glittering court gown and put on the dull gray dress she had worn before her career as king’s mistress had begun. Then, at six in the morning of the day that ashes were imposed upon Christians as a sign of repentance, Louise slipped away from court without a word to anyone. Only in a letter that she left for Louis did she give any indication that she had gone to the convent of Sainte-Marie de Chaillot, which she reached just as the day was dawning.4
When news of Louise’s flight reached Louis, his reaction was initially one of indifference. He had planned to take the court to Versailles that morning, and he departed as expected, sharing his carriage with Athénaïs and Mademoiselle. His first inclination was to grant Louise the freedom she seemed so ardently to desire, but then he thought better of it. Louise had not outlived her usefulness at court, and the king realized that he was not prepared to let her go.5
The first time Louise fled, Louis ran after her himself, weeping with her on the cold floor of the convent as he urged her to return to him; this time, he sent the comte de Lauzun to retrieve her, but he was unable to coax the distraught lady out of her retreat. M. de Belle-fonds had no better luck, so Louis ordered the no-nonsense Colbert to bring her out, granting him permission to use the royal authority if necessary. Louise’s escape had lasted a total of twelve hours before she was back at Louis’s side. Louis, whose love for Louise had never fully diminished, wept, as did Athénaïs, but for entirely different reasons.
As for Philippe, he was still in want of a wife, and one of his friends, Anne de Gonzague de Clèves, princess Palatine, thought she knew the perfect match for him. She had several nieces, one of whom was the eighteen-year-old Elisabeth-Charlotte, daughter of Karl Ludwig von der Pfalz.6
Elisabeth-Charlotte, or Liselotte as she was known to those close to her, was born in Heidelberg on May 27, 1652 to a family of little importance. She was relatively poor and, by almost universal consensus, was not considered to be beautiful. As far as her dowry was concerned, her family could provide only a modest one at best. It would comprise jewelry, plate, and some money, all of which would amount to a total of 10,400 livres.7 Karl Ludwig promised to pay a further 64 thousand livres, although in the end this would not be paid.
Liselotte was unpretentious and possessed both a sparkling personality and a quick wit. Young, she promised to provide her husband with more children, perhaps even a brood of much-needed sons. As matters stood, Louis had two sons, although the youngest would die in July 1671, leaving only the dauphin. Philippe was the father of two daughters, but he had no sons. As usual with dynastic marriages, Liselotte was required to renounce her claims of inheritance, forfeiting all her lands and goods within Bavaria.8 She was also required to convert to Catholicism.
Philippe and Liselotte were married by proxy on November 16, 1671, shortly after which she began her journey towards her new home. Grieved at leaving her father, she admitted that she “cried all night from Strasbourg to Chalons.”9 Here, the marriage was formalized with a nuptial blessing and mass on November 21. Liselotte’s first impressions of her husband were good. “Monsieur is the best man in the world, and we get on very well together,” she wrote to her aunt, the Electress Sophia of Hanover. “None of his portraits are in the least like him.”10
Liselotte was not the only lady to be preoccupied with marriage. The reason why Mademoiselle did not want to marry Philippe, eligible catch though he was, was that she was in love with another man. The object of her affections was none other than the comte de Lauzun. Several years younger than Mademoiselle, short and ugly, fair and stocky, and as ill-favored as he was depraved, the term insolent seems to have been coined especially for him.
Antoine-Nompar de Caumont, comte de Lauzun, had arrived at court as a young Gascon of little wealth and fewer prospects. Lauzun was the third surviving son of Gabriel-Nompar de Caumont, comte de Lauzun, and Charlotte de Caumont, the daughter of Henry Nompar de Caumont, duc de La Force.11 Upon his arrival at court, he was still known as the marquis de Puyguilhem, and he took the title comte de Lauzun upon the death of his father when it was refused by his elder b
rother.12 Lauzun was taken under the wing of his father’s first cousin, the maréchal de Gramont, who introduced him at court. Louis was quite taken by him, and it is true to say that there was never a dull moment in his company. In time, the marquis became the closest any man ever did to being the king’s favorite, which was surprising, given the comte’s behavior.
As far back as April 1666, just after the queen’s near miss with death, Henriette had taken advantage of Louise’s pregnancy to promote her friend, Catherine de Gramont, princess de Monaco, as king’s mistress. For several months, Louis was infatuated by Catherine, although this did not go down well with her jealous cousin, Lauzun. He wanted to have his revenge, but he could not take out his anger on the king, whose person was sacred, so he punished Mme de Monaco instead. It was during the festivities at Versailles,13 and the ladies were sitting on the floor, where it was cooler. Lauzun came in and flirted awhile, but then he pressed his heel into the princess’s open palm, performed a neat pirouette, and promptly left the room.14 Only the lady’s self-command prevented her from crying out.
Lauzun’s mischief then took a different turn. He knew that Louis usually went to bed with his mistress in the afternoon, and that he was expecting to receive Mme de Monaco at a certain hour. The marquis waited until Louis posted the key to his office outside the door, stole it, and threw it down the privy. He then hid himself in the garderobe to await the afternoon’s delights. Sure enough, the lady arrived, swathed in a cloak and escorted by Bontemps.15 Surprised to find no key, Bontemps gently scratched16 on the door and asked Louis to open. Louis, puzzled, told him the key was outside as always. The valet searched, but the key was nowhere to be found. Louis, meanwhile, frantically tugged at the door in a bid to force it to open, but to no avail, and the tryst had to be postponed until another day.
Shortly after this, Lauzun and Mme de Monaco had a blazing row, upon which she ran to Louis for to defend her. Louis summoned Lauzun and ordered him to explain himself. Lauzun lost his temper and seized his sword, which he snapped in two, saying that he would not use it again in the service of a master who broke his word at the bidding of a whore.17 At this, Louis opened the window and flung out his cane with the words that he would have “regretted having struck a gentleman.”
In 1670, when Louis set out to inspect his new conquests in the Low Countries, he took the court with him to share in his triumphs. Lauzun, who was given the command of the expedition, acquitted himself admirably, especially in his care for the ladies. It was his gallantry and undoubted charm that seemed to have attracted him to Mademoiselle, and she soon fell hopelessly in love with him. He brought out the giddy schoolgirl in her, and she managed to persuade herself that he was just as amorous of her as she was of him. A fling, however, would not do. Mademoiselle, at forty-three, was not getting any younger, and she wanted to settle down to a life of married bliss; she, therefore, took it into her head that she and Lauzun would marry.
For his part, Lauzun showed every sign that he loved the besotted lady, while not daring to believe that he could be so lucky. “Which of two epithets suits me the best,” he wondered, “whether I am wise or foolish?” He went on, “Rather than that you should divert yourself by giving a truthful answer, perhaps it will be better that you should not reply at all.” That way, he could “carry away the remembrance of a vision” which will make him “at one time the happiest of men, and at another . . . overwhelmed with grief.”18
Mademoiselle certainly dazzled Lauzun, but it was not her beauty that attracted him. He had his sights firmly set upon her fortune, her vast estates, and her beautiful houses. More appealing even than these assets, wonderful though they were, was her close proximity to the king. “I have no pleasure in anything which does not enable me to be of service to the King,”19 he assured her, and in this he was perfectly sincere.
As always, nothing could be done without Louis’s consent. Mademoiselle spoke to him about her desire to marry Lauzun, but Louis had only warnings for her. “Think well of this affair before you carry it further,” he urged her, “for it is not one of those which should be lightly entered on.” He added that he could neither advise nor forbid her to proceed in the affair, but begged her to think carefully before she went through with the marriage. He then warned her to keep the matter secret until it had been resolved, for he had heard rumors concerning the proposed marriage, and “Monsieur de Lauzun has his enemies; therefore, take your measure accordingly.”20
Lauzun’s enemies were powerful indeed. Philippe thought Lauzun was not good enough to marry a cousin of the king.21 Louvois did not approve because Lauzun was an ally of Colbert, Louvois’s enemy. Queen Marie-Thérèse thought it better if Mademoiselle did not marry at all but instead kept her money for her son, the duc d’Anjou. She spoke against the marriage to Louis, but this only angered the king, and the two had an argument which left the queen in tears.22
In spite of all the opposition against it, formal permission for the marriage came several days later, when the couple presented their supplication to the king at parlement. The duc de Montausier, who had represented them, gave Mademoiselle the news she had been longing to hear: “The thing is settled,” he said, but he added a word of caution: “I advise you to delay no longer: if you take my advice, you will marry tonight.”23
It was whispered at court that Mademoiselle was claiming that Louis had advised her to marry Lauzun.24 When Louis asked her about it, she denied it and the king believed her. Nevertheless, there were dark forces at work, and Mademoiselle was warned once again not to delay the wedding. Colbert, one of the few who supported the marriage, offered to help with the contract, an easy task, since Mademoiselle intended to make over to Lauzun everything she owned.25 The couple chose to hold their wedding at Conflans, a house not too far away, so that Lauzun could be back in time to attend upon the king.
The following day, Lauzun’s sister, Mme de Nogent, arrived with news that the contract was not yet completed; it would be necessary to postpone the wedding until the following day.26 The next day, however, was a Friday, and the superstitious Mademoiselle refused to be married on a Friday. Still, somewhat belatedly, the couple began to sense the need for urgency. Speaking alone later that day, they decided to drive to Charenton,27 where they would make their confessions and be married there after mass.
At eight the following morning, a messenger arrived from the king. Louis wished to speak to his cousin immediately. The situation was ominous, and Mademoiselle “set out in the greatest agitation.”28 As she entered the king’s chamber, Mademoiselle was struck by Louis’s sad expression, and his words confirmed her worst fears. “I am wretched at what I have to say to you,” he began, “but it is reported, and believed, in the world, that you are sacrificed to make the fortune of Monsieur de Lauzun. This would prejudice me in foreign countries. I therefore cannot permit the affair to be concluded.”29
Mademoiselle threw herself at Louis’s feet and cried, “I entreat you to kill me rather than prevent my marrying Monsieur de Lauzun!” Louis fell to his knees and embraced his cousin, mixing his tears with hers as he said, “Why did you give me time to consider of the matter? You ought to have permitted no delay.” Her reply was withering. “Helas, Sire! Your Majesty had never broken your word to anybody in the world; how could I believe that you would begin with myself and Monsieur de Lauzun?”30 The truth was that the couple should have heeded the warnings of their friends and married as soon as Louis had given his consent. The delay had allowed Lauzun’s enemies to persuade the king to change his mind.
Such was Lauzun’s devotion to Louis that he quickly recovered from his disappointment. He even reproached his grieving former fiancée for staying away from court, saying that she “did wrong in remaining so long away from the King.”31 If Mademoiselle is to be believed, this was simply a show of bravado on his part, and in his heart, he was as unhappy as she. If so, he rapidly recovered, and by the autumn of 1671, his thoughts were focused upon other matters.
In October
of that year, the duc de Mazarin resigned his post as grand master of the artillery.32 Lauzun eagerly wished to replace him, and after much persuasion, Louis finally promised the post to him on condition he keep it secret until the formal announcement could be made. Although Lauzun agreed to this, he nevertheless broke his promise, and word of the appointment reached Louvois. The minister could not countenance the idea of Lauzun, arrogant, capricious, and a close friend of Colbert’s, occupying such a position, and he spoke to Louis about it. When Louis learned that Lauzun had broken his word, he was furious. He assured Louvois that nothing had yet been settled.
When, after some time, Louis made no announcement of his new appointment, Lauzun at first became puzzled and then suspicious. He approached Louis, only to be dismissed. It was not yet time, Louis told him. Lauzun feared that the king had changed his mind and poured out his troubles to Athénaïs, who promised to speak to Louis on his behalf.
As the days went by, Lauzun still heard nothing, and he grew impatient. Still not realizing the reason for his disappointment, he decided upon a course “so rash that it would be unbelievable had it not been vouched for by the entire Court of the day.”33 Expecting Louis to visit Athénaïs that afternoon, he hid under her bed with the connivance of one of her maids. Louis duly arrived, and, after the couple had made love, they began to talk. Lauzun now learned the truth: his careless talk had prevented his appointment, and Louis was angry that he had not kept the secret. Moreover, far from representing his case to Louis as she had promised, Athénaïs spoke against Lauzun, rendering him a great disservice.
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