Matthioli requested writing materials, but what he wanted to say is not known. Louvois, nevertheless allowed Saint-Mars to “give paper and ink to the Sieur de Lestang, with the understanding that he is to put into writing whatever he wishes to say; which you will send to me, and I will let you know whether it deserves any consideration.”44
Unlike Saint-Mars’s other two high-ranking prisoners, Foucquet and Lauzun—both Matthioli and Lauzun were counts, while Foucquet was a marquis—Matthioli was treated with the strictest severity and was denied the privileges and comforts deemed necessary for a man of his rank. He was given no books, was deprived of all contact with anyone other than Saint-Mars or his lieutenants and his own valet, and he was even denied medical treatment unless Saint-Mars deemed it absolutely necessary that he should be attended by a physician. In short, his treatment was similar to that of the low-ranking prisoners, with the exception now, of course, of Eustache, who enjoyed the comforts that came with being employed as Foucquet’s valet.
In time, the ill-treatment received by Matthioli took its effect. Saint-Mars wrote to Louvois informing him that it had made the prisoner “like the monk I have the care of,”45 that is, Matthioli was now mentally ill. He is “subject to fits of raving madness,” continued Saint-Mars, “from which the Sieur Dubreuil also is not exempt.” Matthioli complained that he was not being treated with the respect due to “a man of his quality and the minister of a great prince ought to be.”46 Saint-Mars assured Louvois, however, that he was following his orders regarding his newest prisoner to the letter, adding, “I think he is deranged by the way he talks to me.” Matthioli spoke to God and his angels every day, and they had told him that the both duke of Mantua and the duke of Lorraine had died; “and as an additional proof of his madness,” Saint-Mars continued, “he says that he has the honor of being the near relation of the King, to whom he wishes to write, to complain of the way I treat him.” Naturally, Saint-Mars did not consider it appropriate to allow Matthioli to do this, and he refused to give him the paper and ink he had asked for, especially as the prisoner was not “in his right senses.” Such was the fate and the punishment of those who dared to betray the trust of Louis XIV.
SEVEN Stat spes
Many years previously, when Nicolas Foucquet was still awaiting trial, he was held for a short time in the tower of the Château de Moret while the court stayed at nearby Fontainebleau. His troubles were such that he came to understand that hope would not always spring eternal, and yet, as he was led out of the door to begin the return journey to Paris, had he looked up at the lintel, he would have seen the words carved into the stone: Stat spes, hope remains.1
Now, after so many years in prison, that promise looked close to being fulfilled. On April 18, 1679, Foucquet was given the freedom to write letters whenever he wished. They were still to be sent to Louvois, who would pass them on to their respective addressees, but this newfound freedom was significant. No longer was his correspondence subject to the scrutiny of officialdom. Instead, Saint-Mars was told to provide Foucquet with Spanish wax so that he could seal the letters before handing them over to his jailer to be sent on to Louvois.2
Now, barely a month later, Louvois wrote to Saint-Mars to inform him that Louis had granted permission for Foucquet’s family—his wife, Madame Foucquet, their children, and Gilles Foucquet, Foucquet’s brother—to come to Pignerol to visit Nicolas. During this visit, the entire family was to enjoy an extraordinary level of freedom. Mme Foucquet could see her husband any time she liked, and she would be allowed to stay in his chamber and even sleep there whenever she wished to. The whole family was allowed to keep Nicolas company and to talk freely with him without Saint-Mars or his officers being present. The one caveat was that, if they were to walk in the citadel, the usual security precautions were to be observed while Foucquet was out of his chamber.3
In the same packet of letters was another in which Louis gave permission for a man named Louis Gervais de Salvert to accompany the Foucquet party to Pignerol. Monsieur Salvert was described as “un homme d’affaires,” a businessman. Madame Foucquet had been left to look after the family’s affairs alone following the arrest of her husband. This included administering Foucquet’s debts and running the estate of Vaux-le-Vicomte, which had been returned to the family once Louis had taken as much as he wanted from it. One of Mme Foucquet’s priorities was to protect her own fortune from her husband’s creditors, thereby preserving as much of it as possible for the couple’s eldest son and heir. He was to be permitted to speak to Foucquet as necessary.4
Louvois announced the news to Madame Foucquet in a letter dated May 20. She was told that she could embark upon her journey without first stopping off at Saint-Germain to thank Louis, as she had initially proposed to do.5 As the party made its slow and winding way toward Piedmont, Foucquet’s eldest son, Louis Nicolas, vicomte de Vaux, rode on ahead carrying letters from the king to Saint-Mars.6 How proud Nicolas must have been when he saw this young man enter his chamber, his eldest son and heir to the Foucquet name. The vicomte had been only eight years old at the time of his father’s arrest. Now here he was, an officer in the royal army, handsome and smiling in his bright uniform, taking his weeping father in his arms. Father and son had so much to talk about.
Soon they were soon joined by Madame Foucquet. Now aged forty-three, the fear, the worry, and the hardship of the past eighteen years had all made their mark on her still beautiful face. Marie-Madeleine, Foucquet’s daughter by this second marriage, was twenty-three and unmarried, her life put on hold by her family’s circumstances. Foucquet’s youngest son, Louis, future marquis de Belle-Isle, had been only two months old when disaster had struck his family, and was now a handsome eighteen-year-old, but there were two members of the family missing. Foucquet’s second son, Charles Armand, was, at the time permission was given to journey to Pignerol, preparing to join the Oratorians, a congregation of secular priests whose spiritual life centered upon the human aspect of Jesus. Charles Armand would travel to see his father in the autumn. Foucquet’s mother, Marie de Maupeou, was eighty-nine and too old to make the journey, but there is no record that she had been given permission to go.
According to Saint-Simon, Foucquet spoke to his family about Lauzun, “whom he had left young and with so good a footing at Court for his age.” Lauzun, said Foucquet, “was now crazy and put away to conceal his madness in that very prison.” However, he was shocked to learn that everything Lauzun had told him had, in fact, been the truth. Astonished, Foucquet “could not get over it, and was inclined to believe the brains of all were deranged; it took some time to convince him” that this was not the case.7
The Foucquet family was not alone in its good fortune, for Lauzun also was the recipient of the royal clemency. His sister, Madame de Nogent, and his brother, the chevalier de Lauzun, arrived at Pignerol shortly after the Foucquet party. However, Lauzun’s request to see his old friend Barail was denied, at least at first.8 It would be several months before Barail would be allowed to visit, but when he received permission, he stayed for eight days. During this time, the two men were free to see each other whenever they liked, but their meetings were personally supervised by Saint-Mars.9
In contrast to Foucquet, Lauzun had not been granted permission to write letters freely, and all his correspondence was to pass unsealed through Saint-Mars’s hands before being sent on to Louvois. Any breach of the regulations would result in Lauzun’s writing privileges being rescinded.10 Moreover, Lauzun’s windows were still screened at this point despite earlier permission to open them up, although Saint-Mars was granted permission to open the screens during the day, as long as the usual precautions were observed. This suggests continuing fears surrounding Lauzun’s security, a concern that could only have increased given the great number of people who were now coming and going through the doors of the donjon.11
In an additional act of grace, Louis gave permission for Foucquet and Lauzun to have dinners brought in from the town if they wished
it,12 a concession they would have embraced eagerly. The prison apartment of Nicolas Foucquet in particular had now become a cheery place that spring. Along with the good food and the flowing wine was the sparkling conversation of happy people. Foucquet’s two valets, La Rivière and Eustache, mingled with his sons and daughter, his wife and her businessman, his brother, soldiers from the garrison, and well-heeled visitors from the town, as well as their servants, and even Madame de Saint-Mars came to socialize with Madame Foucquet.13
It was virtually open house, despite Saint-Mars’s best efforts to preserve security and keep track of people who slipped through the gate leading from the town to visit his illustrious prisoners. One unexpected but very welcome visitor was André Le Nôtre. Arguably the greatest landscape gardener of his age, Le Nôtre had designed the parks and gardens of Foucquet’s magnificent Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte and had since gone on to design the sumptuous gardens of Versailles. He had been traveling in Italy and decided to call in to see his old patron before making his way home to France.14
When Louis and Louvois found out about this, they expressed their disapproval, and although they allowed that Le Nôtre’s stopover was of no consequence, they warned Saint-Mars sternly that he was not at liberty to allow such visits. Instead, other than their families, prisoners should be allowed to entertain only the officers of the citadel and inhabitants of the town.15 This restriction was even applied to the abbé d’Estrades, who had apparently requested permission to see Foucquet and Lauzun during an impending journey to Pignerol. Louvois advised him, however, that the two prisoners were allowed to see their families and no one else. He added that, since they were free to walk within the confines of the donjon, d’Estrades should avoid going there.16
Louis and Louvois were clearly nervous about the number of people entering and leaving the donjon at will. When, in October, Madame d’Herleville, the wife of the governor-general of Pignerol, called on Foucquet and Lauzun, her visit was strictly supervised by Saint-Mars, who was required to ensure that no one present should be allowed to speak in a whisper.17 Two days later, the jailer was reminded that no one, with the exception of their respective families, should be allowed to speak to Foucquet and Lauzun except in his presence or that of his officers.18 Toward the end of October, Louvois wrote to say that, while Foucquet and Lauzun were allowed visitors other than members of their families, certain restrictions were to be imposed. Specifically, Monsieur d’Herleville and his wife were allowed to visit no more than three or four times a year.19
The constant reiteration of the rules suggests an apprehension that they were being, or might be, broken. Saint-Mars, however, was not the man to be found wanting when it came to obeying orders. He had noticed a Jesuit priest who was taking an interest in his prisoners, and he regarded him with suspicion. Louvois agreed that this priest should not to be allowed to enter the donjon at all, and if he insisted upon trying to come inside, Saint-Mars was ordered to turn him away, as he was to do with anyone else he distrusted.20 Saint-Mars would assure Louvois that he followed this order to the letter, pointing out that some strangers from the town of Pignerol had tried to pay a visit to the prisoners but he had sent them on their way.21 The security of the donjon would always remain a concern, and Saint-Mars would later be reminded to ensure that the doors to the citadel were firmly closed during the hours of darkness.22
As the summer began to mellow into autumn, Mme Foucquet left Pignerol to attend to her private affairs, taking the vicomte de Vaux with her. By this time, the couple’s second son, Charles Armand, had arrived, and he now remained at Pignerol with his father and his sister, Marie-Madeleine.23 Foucquet barely had time to lament their absence, however, because he was soon joined by another brother, Louis, bishop of Agde. This younger brother, who was permitted to visit “for the sake of his business,”24 was also Foucquet’s godson. He was granted leave to remain for four months, during which time the two of them would be free to see each other whenever they chose. At this point, Louvois passed on the order that Foucquet’s brother, Gilles, was not to be allowed to lodge in the donjon. Such were the security fears that continued to trouble the king and his minister.25
This point raises the question of where the Foucquet family lived during their stay at Pignerol. Only Mme Foucquet was permitted to spend the night in her husband’s prison apartment. It is probable that the rest of the family stayed in the lodgings taken by Gilles in the town. Mademoiselle Foucquet, however, wanted to be close to her father, who had never been robust, but was now increasingly unwell. She wanted to take care of him, but it was not convenient for her to travel between the town and the donjon every day, especially now that winter, with its bitter winds and long frosty nights, was setting in. Saint-Mars, however, came up with a helpful solution. A staircase could be built into the antechamber of Foucquet’s apartment, allowing Marie-Madeleine to move into the rooms above. With free access to her father, she could attend to him whenever he needed her. Louis and Louvois approved of this arrangement and Saint-Mars was granted permission to proceed. With the usual stipulation that the prisoner’s security must be guaranteed, work began immediately.26
It was at about this time that Lauzun, never an easy man to guard, took to behaving very badly. An exasperated Saint-Mars wrote that his prisoner insulted people “who have no other fault with him but to execute the orders of His Majesty,” in other words, Saint-Mars and his turnkeys.27 As Lauzun displayed increasingly volatile behavior, Saint-Mars wrote to inform Louvois of the situation. Louvois wrote back saying that Louis would be informed of his madness, which message Saint-Mars passed on to Lauzun.28
If the threat that the king would find out about his bad conduct was expected to make Lauzun behave, it failed in its objective. At the beginning of October, Louvois was obliged to inquire of Saint-Mars how it was that Lauzun managed to get hold of some money. He had fifty pistoles at least, a not inconsiderable sum. Saint-Mars was ordered to take it away from him.29 The money could have been given to him by soldiers of the citadel, perhaps won in gambling games, but however he acquired it, he should not have been in possession of money.
As it happened, Lauzun was not the only prisoner to have money, for Saint-Mars was paying Foucquet the wages of his valets. This included La Rivière but not Eustache, who was still a prisoner; however, it turned out that Foucquet was also receiving wages meant for Champagne, his favorite valet who had died in 1674. As a result of this bureaucratic oversight, Saint-Mars had been paying Foucquet this money for some five and a half years. A horrified Louvois hastily informed Saint-Mars that “the intention of the King is not that you pay to monsieur Foucquet the wages of his valet who is dead.”30
At the same time, Lauzun’s valet was taking advantage of the greater liberty afforded to the prisoners to slip out of his master’s chamber and was holding conversations with various people.31 Who they were Louvois did not say, but presumably they were soldiers and officers of Saint-Mars’s compagnie-franche, or perhaps visitors from the town; either way, the valet’s behavior constituted a major breach of security.32
In time, however, Lauzun changed his ways. Apparently on his best behavior now, he was finally allowed to seal his own letters before they were sent off to Louvois,33 but still Saint-Mars had to ensure that his prisoner did not receive any correspondence that did not first go through Louvois.34
* * *
During the autumn of 1679, a new topic of conversation had begun to appear in the correspondence that passed between Saint-Mars and Louvois: the two men had become fascinated by a change in the relationship between Lauzun and Foucquet. The uneasy friendship that had developed between the two prisoners had turned decidedly frosty. Clearly, they had fallen out, but neither the jailer nor the minister knew the reason why. Intrigued and eager for news, Louvois urged Saint-Mars “to get [Foucquet] to write to me without, however, telling him that I asked you to talk to him about it.”35 Either Saint-Mars failed to persuade Foucquet to open up or Foucquet was vague in his replies, for,
as Christmas and New Year faded into a bitter January, Louvois and Saint-Mars were still at a loss to explain the antipathy between their two most illustrious guests. Once again, Louvois pressed the jailer to see what he could find out,36 but his curiosity was to remain unsatisfied.
What had happened to destroy the fragile harmony that had made life bearable for Foucquet and Lauzun will probably never be fully understood. Saint-Simon thought that it had to do with Foucquet’s having dismissed Lauzun as a madman.37 According to the memoirist, Lauzun had been deeply offended by his companion’s belief that the stories he had told about his life at court were exaggerations, if not downright lies. This certainly was the case, but timing alone would preclude this as an explanation for their sudden enmity. Instead, Lauzun’s former fiancée, Mademoiselle, was almost certainly correct when she attributed it to what she called “des galanteries”—an intrigue or a love affair, with the object of Lauzun’s affections being none other than Foucquet’s daughter, Marie-Madeleine.38 This lady, in the full bloom of youth and beauty, who had moved into cramped lodgings at the fortress in order to take care of her father, had proved too much of a temptation for the man who had been deprived of feminine company for so many years.
At forty-six, Lauzun was no longer a young man by the standards of the day, but he was filled with a renewed energy. He began to take an interest in his appearance, and where he had once refused to shave or look after himself, he was now well-groomed and immaculately turned out. He even asked for new silver buttons for his doublet.39 He requested, and received, permission to exercise four of the young horses belonging to Saint-Mars’s stables. As she walked in the precincts of the citadel with her father, Marie-Madeleine would be treated to the spectacle of this gallant as he rode in the courtyard of the citadel and the bastion for several hours each day.40
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