An air of despondency now began to stalk the gilded corridors of Versailles. The war was not going well, taxes had to be raised to finance it, Louis’s subjects were plunged into deeper poverty than ever before, and now the weather turned. The winter of 1708–9 was particularly hard. Frost gripped the land for two months, rivers froze their entire length, and even coastal waters froze to such a depth that the ice could support fully laden carts.31 A false thaw melted the snow but quickly froze once more.
The second frost proved more disastrous than the first. At Versailles, bottles holding wines and liqueurs froze and burst, while ice formed in water decanters, even in chambers where fires blazed. People died of the cold, including Louis’s confessor, Père de La Chaise, and his former mistress, the princesse de Soubise. Crops were destroyed, seeds rotted, trees perished, and gardens were ruined. People began to hoard what little grain they had, pushing up prices as the harvest failed. In March 1709, Liselotte wrote of the tragedy that befell a family in Paris. A woman had stolen a loaf from a baker’s shop and the baker wanted to have her arrested:
She wept and said, “If you only knew my misery you would not take the bread away from me. I have three small children without any clothes, and they are crying for food. I couldn’t endure it any longer, and that is why I stole this loaf.” The magistrate before whom the woman was brought told her to take him to her home. He went thither with her and found three little children bundled up in rags sitting in a corner shivering with cold as if they had a fever. He asked the eldest, “Where is your father?” and the child replied, “He is behind the door.” The magistrate went to see what the man was doing behind the door and fell back horror-stricken. The poor wretch had hanged himself in a fit of despair. Such things are happening every day.32
Wheat was sold at the same price in the provinces, but in Paris the prices were higher. Meanwhile, returns from customs duties and the rentes from the Hôtel de Ville were suspended. Taxes were raised and multiplied, inflation rose; cattle owners, unable to buy food for their stocks, saw them die of starvation. Even people who had assisted the poor in previous years now found themselves in need, and some even took to begging for alms. A blasphemous parody of the Lord’s Prayer did the rounds:
Our father, who is in Versailles,
Your name is not glorified,
Your kingdom is not great,
Your will is not done on earth or on the waves.
Forgive our enemies who beat us,
And not our generals who let them to do it.33
In spite of this, Louis remained “determined to go on with the war,” wrote Liselotte. He did contribute towards the cost when, as he had done in 1689, he sacrificed his treasured possessions. Liselotte noted that he “replaced his golden service with one of porcelain, and he sent everything golden he possesses to the Mint to be converted into louis.”34 Other members of the royal family followed suit, as did many of the courtiers, but when Louis found that some were cheating and holding back some of their pieces, he was uncharacteristically sharp, although his complaints had no effect. While the cold never bothered him, he refrained from taking his usual daily walks out of consideration for others.
With France reduced to such a wretched state, Louis barely registered news of the death of Louise de La Vallière, who died in her cell at the Carmelites at midday on June 7. She was sixty-five years and ten months old and had taken the veil as Louise de la Miséricorde some thirty-six years previously. The king’s reaction was that from the day she had given herself to God, she was dead to him.35
Louis made a difficult decision. At the end of April, he sent Torcy to The Hague to solicit a peace agreement. The allies drew up a list of requirements: Louis must agree to abandon the causes of Philippe V and the Old Pretender; guarantee a strong barrier between France and the Spanish Netherlands; relinquish the French possession of Newfoundland to the English; demolish his fortifications at Dunkirk; surrender Strasbourg and interpret the Treaty of Westphalia in the “German” sense, that is, to restore most of Alsace. While Louis was prepared to consider these demands, the allies added one more clause that the king simply could not accept: to assist the allies in the expulsion of Philippe V from Spain. Louis announced that he preferred to make war on his enemies and not his relatives, upon which the negotiations broke down.36
Louis now took the unprecedented step of appealing directly to his people. On June 12, 1709, he addressed a letter to his subjects, which was to be disseminated to every part of the kingdom.37 In it, Louis acknowledged that his people were harboring hopes of a widespread peace, but he felt he owed it to them to explain why this had not yet come about. Peace had been offered on terms that would have compromised the security of his frontier provinces, and the more he showed himself willing and desirous to allay the suspicions of the enemy, the more they multiplied their demands. These demands, he explained, were not prompted by a wish for lasting peace or international stability but by the desire to surround France and the intention to dismember the kingdom. Louis defended his decision to refuse to remove his grandson from the throne of Spain. He added that he relied upon the support of his subjects, assuring them that he was soliciting the prayers of all the archbishops and bishops throughout the realm. He closed with the assurance that had it been up to himself, his people would now be enjoying the peace that they so much desired, “but which must be acquired by renewed efforts,” since the great conditions that he had agreed “are of no use for the reestablishment of public tranquillity.”
The war, therefore, had to continue. Louis now removed the duc de Vendôme38 from his command and replaced him with Villars. In late August 1709, the new commander positioned 100,000 men before the small hamlet of Malplaquet on the French border with the Low Countries. In the ensuing battle, Villars was wounded and had to be stretchered off the battlefield, leaving the command to the seventy-year-old maréchal de Boufflers.39 At three in the afternoon, the French center collapsed and Boufflers sounded the retreat.40 The victorious allies allowed the French to withdraw in relatively good order, but their own side had sustained heavy losses. Malplaquet, although an allied victory, could be considered a draw because it left both sides so weak that enemy gains could not be followed up.
Françoise saw in all this the hand of God, who appeared to be punishing Louis just as he had reformed his life and turned away from sin. “The designs of God are incomprehensible,” she wrote. “Three Christian kings—namely Louis, the Pretender, James Edward, and Philippe V—appear to be abandoned and heresy and injustice triumph. Let us hope it will not be for long.”41
Despite her sympathies for Philippe V, Françoise nevertheless thought Louis ought to sacrifice him in order to secure peace. Astonishingly, Louis, who at first rejected the idea, began to view it as a viable option. In the end, he decided to support his grandson, and his decision was vindicated when Philippe V took Vendôme out of retirement and appointed him commander of his armies. The two victories that followed, at Brihuega and Villaviciosa, in December 1710, marked the turning of the tide. Louis’s foreign minister, Torcy,42 was so excited that in a massive breach of protocol, he broke into Louis’s cabinet to announce the news. It looked as though Françoise’s assessment of God’s hand in Louis’s affairs had been wrong.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Gathering Twilight
Many years earlier, Mme de Motteville had wondered if Louis had ever considered “how fragile is the grandeur of the great of this earth?”1 If not, fate was about to ensure that such thoughts never left his mind.
As the enemies of France stood ready to attack, Louis prepared to send forces to meet them. There had been some discussion over whether or not the dauphin should lead the army in Flanders, but Louis decided against it. The dauphin was his only surviving child by Queen Marie-Thérèse, and he was special. The life of the heir to the throne was too valuable to risk on the battlefield.
The dauphin, or Monseigneur, to give him his honorific title, had set up home at Meudon, a little way from
Versailles.2 Following the death of his wife in 1690, he had secretly married Mlle de Choin,3 a lady-in-waiting to the princesse de Conti.4 They were happy together, but his eye strayed from time to time. On one occasion he became involved with a Mme de Roure, who, in August 1694, was said to have made certain remarks in Paris that had not gone down too well, and she was ordered to return to her father’s estates. Louis, knowing she was not a wealthy woman, gave her two hundred livres to help pay for her journey. The real reason for her dismissal, however, was to get her away from the dauphin.
As had been the case when Louis was a child, the dauphin was a child of France, but this did not mean that there was no affection between father and son. In August 1694, Louis wrote, “I was at Marly today to arrange the accommodation; I hope that when you come back you will be happy with yours.”5 Two weeks later, he wrote to say that he had “not yet come to a decision about the journey to Fontainebleau.” He added: “I could not bring myself to pass Choisy6 while you are not there; but upon your return, I will have the greatest pleasure in staying there for as long as you wish. I shall find myself very lonely at Fontainebleau without you.”7
One spring day in 1711, as he was returning to his château after Easter, the dauphin encountered a priest carrying the Holy Sacraments. He and the duchesse de Bourgogne, who was travelling with him, got out of the coach and knelt to pay their respects. When the dauphin asked to whom he was taking the sacrament, the priest told him that it was for a man who was dying of smallpox. The dauphin had had smallpox as a child, but it had been a mild case, and he lived in fear of catching it again. He was very alarmed by what the priest told him, and he confided to his chief physician, Boudin,8 that he would not be surprised if he caught the illness again.
The following day, April 9, the dauphin had planned to go hunting, but as he was dressing he suddenly began to feel very weary and slumped over his chair. Boudin ordered him back to bed and sent a message to Louis, but the incident was related in such a nonchalant manner to the king that he thought little of it and went to Marly as expected after dinner. He was kept informed of his son’s progress by Mme la duchesse,9 who nursed the patient and sent regular reports to Marly.
Although the illness had not yet shown itself, smallpox was suspected, and Louis arranged to go to Meudon the next day. All those who had not had the disease were told to stay away, and Louis took with him only a few necessary personal attendants and ministers so he could continue to work. He visited his son every morning and evening, as well as the occasional afternoon, which he would spend sitting by the patient’s bed.
At first it looked as though the fears for the dauphin were ill-founded; he was ill, certainly, but his life did not appear to be in danger. The fishwomen of Paris, who were devoted to him, arrived at Meudon in hired carriages, and he insisted that they should be allowed to enter his chamber. They flooded in and knelt at the foot of his bed, kissing the covers. When they learned that he was expected to make a full recovery, they cheered and promised to spread the good news in Paris and to have Te Deums sung in every church. The dauphin replied, “It is too soon yet, wait until I am quite better.”10 He then ordered his servants to show the women his house, give them dinner, and send them back to Paris with gifts of money.
Louis was in good humor, and he reproved Liselotte for having grumbled so much when she had smallpox. The dauphin does not feel ill at all, he told her. Liselotte replied that he would feel ill when the spots became inflamed, which would be painful.11 Sure enough, the king’s optimism soon gave way to despair when he noticed that his son’s face and head had become swollen. Louis was so badly shaken that he stayed only a few minutes, and when he left the room, he could not stop his tears.
The royal physicians, Boudin and Fagon, had no direct experience with infectious diseases, but even as the dauphin’s condition worsened, they refused to consult other doctors for advice. Instead, they assaulted their patient with one treatment after another without waiting to see what effects each one might have had. All the while, no one explained the situation to Louis, and although he had been concerned earlier in the day, the absence of further news lulled him into a false sense of hopefulness. He calmly went to supper believing that all would be well, or at least that the condition of his son and heir would not worsen.
As he finished eating and rose from the table, he was astonished to see the distraught Fagon come before him crying that all was lost. Louis rushed to the dauphin’s chamber, shoving aside all who stood in his way. As he reached the door, Mme la princesse de Conti barred his way, and, pushing him back with both hands, urged him to think only of himself now. He was kept out of his son’s room, said Liselotte, because otherwise “he would only arrive in time to see him die.”12
Louis was shocked by the sudden change. He sat down in an anteroom, and as each person came out of the sick room, he asked them for news, but no one had the courage to tell him anything; only Mme la duchesse and Mme la princesse de Conti kept him informed of his son’s condition. Père Le Tellier was summoned, but the dauphin had lapsed into a coma by the time he arrived. Le Tellier nevertheless assured Louis that he was still able to give absolution. At this moment Françoise came to Louis’s side and tried to persuade him to leave Meudon, but, of course, Louis would not go. The dauphin’s coma lasted almost an hour; finally Fagon came out and broke the news to Louis that his son was dead.
Louis was in such a state of distress that he lashed out at Fagon, blaming him because the dauphin had not had the chance to make his final confession. He then allowed himself to be led away by Françoise and the two princesses. As Louis stepped out into the courtyard to enter his coach, he noticed the dauphin’s berlin standing in front of it. Upset by the sight of it, he signalled for the drivers to bring him another coach.
Despite his grief, the business of governance had to continue and Louis called out to Pontchartrain to notify his father and the other ministers to come later than usual to Marly the next day for the council. Pontchartrain thought it was not right that Louis should work when he had been so recently bereaved, and he said that since the council would be discussing current affairs, perhaps the meeting might be postponed until the king was less harassed. It was a measure of Louis’s grief that he gave his consent.
No one expected the king to travel to Marly that night, so nothing had been prepared for his arrival. The door keys were missing, there were no candles, and only a few nightlights pierced the darkness within the château. As the servants bustled about getting everything ready, Louis sat with Françoise in the anteroom of her chamber; there were some other ladies present also, but Louis was so lost in his grief that he might as well have been alone. “He is in such deep sorrow that his plight would melt a rock,” said Liselotte. “Nevertheless he does not spare himself. He speaks to everyone with great firmness, but every moment tears rise to his eyes and he chokes back his sobs. I am terribly afraid that he might fall ill himself,” she added, “because he looks very bad. I pity him from the bottom of my heart.”13 Louis wept for long periods at a time, and when at last the servants finished preparing the rooms, he went inside with Françoise and the two remained alone. An hour later, the grieving king finally retired to his bed. It was four in the morning.
When the postponed council meeting was eventually held, Louis asked his ministers in a voice breaking with emotion whether the title of dauphin could be given to the duc de Bourgogne. The request was exceptional because the title was strictly reserved for the king’s eldest son. Chancellor Pontchartrain, however, said that it should be permitted because Bourgogne was now Louis’s immediate heir.14
The duc de Bourgogne was still only twenty-eight years old, handsome and intelligent. He had outgrown a tempestuous youth to mellow into a kind and thoughtful young man who excelled in the sciences, philosophy, and Latin. A traditionalist, he believed in the preservation of rank and was incensed by what he saw as the ruin of the nobility, that is, the reduction of their power.15 Even so, he refused to take the honorific
title of Monseigneur, which his father had used, preferring instead to be addressed simply as Monsieur. He even refused the allowance of 12 thousand livres a month that had been offered to him, being content with the much smaller sum of 3 thousand each month.16 Since their marriage, the duc and duchesse de Bourgogne had gradually grown very close. Although both were still young—the duchesse was still only twenty-five—they evinced a sense of duty, compassion, and responsibility that belied their youth. Courtiers who dared to think such thoughts looked forward to the time when they would become the new king and queen of France.
Early in the morning of Monday, January 18, 1712, Louis travelled to Marly. Accompanying him was the new dauphine, Marie-Adélaïde, despite the fact that she was unwell.17 She was suffering from severe toothache and inflamed gums, which made her face swell. Upon her arrival at Marly, she went straight to bed, where she remained for most of the day. Louis, however, wanted her to preside over the entertainments in the drawing room that evening, so Marie-Adélaïde rose at seven to prepare. Her teeth were still bothering her, though, so she appeared in her morning dress and with her head wrapped in a hood. When at last the time came for her to retire, she went to see Louis and Françoise in their room before withdrawing to her own bedroom for the night.
Two days later, the dauphine’s condition had improved. The swelling had gone down and she began to feel much better. Then, on the night of Monday, February 8, she felt very drowsy. She had been in a high fever with periods of delirium that day, and Louis had been concerned enough to visit her several times. A rash appeared on her skin, and the measles, which were prevalent at that time, announced themselves. The dauphine was treated with an emetic, but it did nothing to help her. The dauphin, who had never left his wife’s side throughout, had to be persuaded to go outside into the garden and take some fresh air, but he was so anxious that he returned to his vigil almost at once.
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