Athenais: The Life of Louis XIV's Mistress, the Real Queen of France

by Hilton, Lisa

  Ninon’s esprit was famous. The King would inquire after her latest bon mot, and she attracted ministers, society women and the future Regent of France, Philippe d’Orléans, to her salon. Even Mme. de Sévigné admired her, despite the fact that Ninon successively took as lovers the husband, son and grandson of the patient Marquise. Ninon was also known for having “more spirit than heart”; she loved discerningly and never allowed her passions to get the better of her sense. It is delightful to imagine a meeting between Ninon and Athénaïs, the two great sex symbols of the seventeenth century, but even if they did not meet, Athénaïs would have known of the elder woman’s brilliant career, and, as in the case of Marie Boyer, observed that esprit and skill could bring tremendous success to a woman bold enough to deploy them in love.

  Ninon was acquainted with Mme. de Maintenon, whom she pronounced a charming conversationalist, but too clumsy for love. “Mme. de Maintenon,” Ninon suggested slyly, “was virtuous by weakness of spirit. I tried to cure her, but she was too afraid of God.”24 It was at the Hôtel d’Albret that Athénaïs first met the young widow of the satirical poet Paul Scarron. In those days, Françoise Scarron was not nearly so pious nor so haughty as the Marquise de Maintenon was to become. The two young women shared a delight in society and polished conversation, and the impoverished young widow was grateful to have so glamorous a friend as Athénaïs. Together, they were the stars of the Maréchal d’Albret’s soirées, and here began a friendship that became a conspiracy which led to the most extraordinary marriage in seventeenth-century France. Perhaps they also exchanged confidences on the vagaries of love, since for Athénaïs, marriage was already a reality.

  Chapter Three

  “Good marriages do exist,

  but not delectable ones.”

  From her convent education to her first entrance into society, Athénaïs, like every aristocratic French girl of the seventeenth century, would have been aware that marriage was the primary goal of her existence. A good match could enhance the prestige of her family, bringing wealth and court appointments, so if Athénaïs sighed over the romantic extravagances of précieuse novels, or gossiped with Mme. de Thianges over her partners at court balls, she would never have doubted that her own marriage would be a business contract, arranged for her family’s benefit before her own preference.

  Romantic love, as conceived of in the twentieth century, had little or no place in courtship, which mainly entailed complex business negotiations between the couple’s families over the girl’s dowry and the settlements the groom would bestow on his wife. French law laid particular emphasis on parental control of marriages. The Church had ruled at the Council of Trent in the sixteenth century that while it disapproved of marriages contracted without parental consent, they were still valid under ecclesiastical law, but in France, the Ordonnance of Blois subsequently repudiated canonical authority by claiming that such unions were invalid under civil law, privileging obedience to parents over obedience to the Church. This ruling was particularly concerned with protecting the status quo within the aristocracy: since women were important dynastic tools, their disposal in marriage crucially influenced the familial groupings of political power. So as the

  daughter of a duc, from a family closely linked with the court, Athénaïs might have expected from an early age that her marriage would be arranged with a view to enhancing the Rochechouart prestige.

  Desirable unions could be solemnized when their principals reached twelve, the age of consent, in order to cement aristocratic alliances. The size of a girl’s dowry — that is, the money settled on her by her family — and the nobility of her birth were the key factors determining matrimonial success. As the noblesse de robe and the noblesse d’épée became more and more integrated, it was common for these attributes to be “traded,” with one partner, usually the man, providing a prestigiously blue bloodline and the other the hard cash. This way, the nouveau riche could boost their aristocratic alliances while impoverished old families received a vital injection of income. The amalgamation of the two classes also made the marriage market more competitive, as the old aristocracy now had to contend with the fortunes of the noblesse de robe and the increasingly wealthy bourgeoisie, and as a result bigger and bigger dowries were required for girls from old families if they wished to marry within their class. An impoverished young duke was likely to prefer a wealthy heiress, even if her family had only recently abandoned trade, to an equally impoverished duke’s daughter whose quarterings were comparable with his own. A family of marriageable daughters could therefore present a ruinous expense (hence the practice common in large families of sending some more or less willing daughters to a convent, as was the case with Athénaïs’s sisters Marie-Christine and Marie-Madeleine). A great marriage could demand up to one third of the family’s entire assets.

  In Athénaïs’s case, the family ambitions were compromised by the gloomy condition of her father’s finances. Although the Duc de Mortemart was rich, his extravagances had depleted his resources, and the marriage of Athénaïs’s elder sister, the Marquise de Thianges, had stretched them further. By the time Athénaïs had spent two seasons in Paris, her family had settled on a candidate who found her dowry of 150,000 livres (of which one fifth was provided by her mother’s independent funds) quite acceptable. Louis-Alexandre de Trémoille, Marquis de Noirmoutiers was well born, solvent and decent-looking. Mme. de Lafayette claims that Athénaïs was attracted to Noirmoutiers and pleased with the match. Given that she was already about twenty-two, quite an advanced age for such a beautiful girl to be single at a time when most women of her class married in their late teens, we

  might speculate that the famous Mortemart spirit had encouraged her to hold out for a man who appealed to both her pride and her affections. Unfortunately, the second scandal to affect her life was about to intervene.

  On the evening of 20 January 1663, a group of young men was leaving the Tuileries palace after a ball given by Monsieur, when a quarrel broke out between the Prince de Chalais and the Marquis de la Frette which quickly developed into a scuffle. Noirmoutiers, Chalais’s brother-in-law, stepped in with two friends and blows were exchanged. The result was a challenge, to be satisfied at dawn the next day at Pré-aux-Clercs (not a lucky spot for the Mortemart women). Eight young men turned out in the icy morning: Chalais, seconded by Noirmoutiers, the Marquis de Flamarens and the Marquis d’Antin, and their opponents La Frette, his brother D’Amilly, the Vicomte d’Argenlieu and the Chevalier de Saint-Aignan. Perhaps, to heads still fuzzy with wine, the encounter seemed a romantic game, a chance to act out the ancient code of chivalry that the aristocracy still held dear, but there was nothing glamorous about the consequences. Henri de Pardaillan, Marquis d’Antin, was killed on the spot by D’Aignan, and his three companions were left seriously injured on the freezing ground. When the affair became known, the survivors’ prospects looked bleak. The King was furious that his edict against the ruinous practice of dueling had been flouted, and he encouraged Parlement to hand down to the survivors the most severe sentence available: execution. Fortunately, the men were able to flee the country before they were arrested. Noirmoutiers was exiled to Portugal, where he was killed five years later fighting against the Spanish.

  Athénaïs had lost her fiancé, but in the process she gained a husband. When the brother of the dead Marquis, Louis-Henri de Pardaillan de Gondrin, Marquis de Montespan, paid her a visit of consolation, their shared sorrow at the catastrophic duel forged an instant bond between them. It soon became clear that, although he might more prudently have married a wealthier woman, the dark young man from Gascony was captivated by Athénaïs. Bussy-Rabutin noted that the talk in Paris was that the Marquis de Montespan preferred her name and her beauty to “a quantity of others who could have much better accommodated his affairs.”

  Montespan may have been genuinely in love, but he had little to offer beyond passion. His name was an advantage, since the Pardaillans de Gondrin were an impeccably ancient family. The
Montespans, to whom they had allied themselves through marriage in the sixteenth century, were related to the kings of Navarre and also claimed links with the royal house of Spain. Montespan’s father, Hector-Roger Pardaillan de Gondrin, was a distinguished and influential councillor of state. However, his uncle, the Archbishop of Sens, was a prominent member of the Jansenist sect, a religious group that was in low favor at court. Jansenism (named after its founder, Cornelius Jansen, Bishop of Ypres) had been established in the early seventeenth century as a response to the Jesuit teaching that eternal salvation could be earned through actions on earth. The extent of the influence of human agency on salvation or damnation was essential to all Catholic teaching, but the Jansenists took a more pessimistic view than the Jesuits, arguing that since man was fundamentally corrupt, salvation was practically predetermined, and only a rigorous expulsion of all “human” aspects of man’s nature might lead the faithful to heaven. As the Jansenists heartily disapproved of Louis, his religious policies and his lifestyle, particularly his womanizing and his love of the theater, they were personae non gratae at court. This situation altered somewhat in the later part of Louis’s reign, as the sect grew in popularity, numbering the writers Pascal and Racine among its members, and indeed eventually prompting the spiritual conversion of the King himself, but in the 1660s, Montespan’s family connection precluded any possibility of a court post. He was therefore without influence or position in the world where Athénaïs’s family had always been prominent — obviously a grave disadvantage to the marriage.

  Whatever the state of the Duc de Mortemart’s finances, he could have aimed for a much better future for his beautiful daughter. A Montespan was a poor match for a Mortemart. So why was the marriage allowed to go ahead? Was Athénaïs really in love with Montespan? Both had passionate natures, so maybe the drama and sorrow of the duel caused them to experience emotional excitement as love. Perhaps the Duc de Mortemart wished to marry off his daughter quickly to avoid speculation about the now disreputable Noirmoutiers? Perhaps the family were glad of any replacement, given Athénaïs’s age? Or perhaps she herself realized that, as she was relatively poor, a great marriage was becoming increasingly unlikely and that, as a married woman, she would at least have the freedom to turn her social success to advantage.

  Was it possible that the marriage was hastened because Athénaïs was already pregnant by Montespan? Their first child was born nine months after the wedding. However, since the contract had been signed in January, it seems unlikely first that even if she had been carrying a baby, Athénaïs could have been aware of it so soon, and secondly that the pregnancy should so conveniently run over term. Since Athénaïs later proved to be highly fertile, it is more likely that her child was conceived on her honeymoon. The modesty remarked upon by all who knew her in her early seasons at court was unlikely to have been compromised, given that Athénaïs knew her virginity was essential currency in the marriage market. She had been tainted already by the Noirmoutiers affair, and must have been anxious to avoid further scandalous rumors, particularly since without, as yet, a powerful male protector, she needed to focus her social ambition on her popularity within the Queen’s circle. Beauty can be as tyrannical to those who possess it as it is to those who lack it, and a beautiful woman must often make light of her attractions, attempting to impress by her conduct so as not to be exposed to the envy of her uglier sisters. If Athénaïs’s modesty was, as was subsequently suggested, a calculated ploy, it would have been aimed at the cultivation of an unthreatening reputation, and to undo this with a shotgun wedding would have been to undermine that very calculation.

  Whatever the respective motivations of their families, the marriage contract between Louis-Henri de Pardaillan de Gondrin and Athénaïs de Rochechouart de Mortemart was signed on 28 January 1663, only a week after Noirmoutiers was exiled. It is extraordinary that such a decision could have been taken in seven days. Among the noble signatures on the contract, those of royalty are noticeable by their absence. No couple of the Montespans’ status could be married without the King’s consent, and it would have been usual to have at least one royal validation. Yet apparently, none of the royal family, not even Diane’s great friend Anne of Austria, could be prevailed upon to sign their names next to that of Montespan’s heretical uncle.

  Despite the haste of the marriage, some settlements were arranged. Only 60,000 livres of Athénaïs’s dowry was paid outright, and not to Montespan but to his parents, who were to give the couple an annual allowance of 5 percent on the capital. The rest of the dowry was to be inherited on the deaths of the Duc and Duchesse de Mortemart: in the meantime, they, too, would pay the Montespans an allowance, raised from the rents on their Brittany estate. Such strict limitations are indicative not only of the Mortemarts’ lack of ready cash, but perhaps also of a certain wariness of their son-in-law’s reputation for gambling and extravagance. Was the Duc attempting to assuage his conscience about such an ill-considered marriage, and to protect his daughter, by reining in the spending habits of her husband? With a more generous contribution from the Gondrin side of the family, the couple would have an income of 22,500 livres a year, a respectable sum. Its equivalent today would be about $120,000 to $130,000 — wealthy by most people’s standards, but nowhere near millionaire status. It would have been impossible, for example, for the Montespans to afford the fifty-three domestic servants considered necessary for an aristocratic couple in La Maison Reglée, a conduct manual published in 1692.

  However, they did manage a smart wedding. The marriage was celebrated at the imposing church of St. Sulpice in Paris on 6 February 1663. Five days later, the Gondrins gave a reception at the Hôtel d’Antin, and Athénaïs was established in the world as the Marquise de Montespan.

  The Montespans took lodgings in the Rue Taranne, on the left bank of the Seine in the St. Germain des Prés district. Although their home was quite modest, the quarter was beginning to supersede the Marais as the most fashionable aristocratic area. Athénaïs continued her court attendance, appearing on 22 February as a shepherdess in a new ballet across the river at the Louvre, along with Louise de La Vallière. Because of his disgraced uncle, it was difficult for her husband to appear with her, and it must have been clear to Athénaïs that the obligation to advance the family cause in royal circles fell on her shoulders. Conventionally, the role of court wives was to promote good relations that could lead to appointments for their husbands and marriage alliances for their children. Athénaïs, unlike other brides, was unable to do this in partnership with her husband, so effectively she had to embark on her career alone.

  Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that marriage had not tempered Montespan’s appetite for spending, and the newlyweds were in a constant state of financial embarrassment thanks to his carelessness. From the beginning, he involved his wife in his debts. He borrowed 24,000 livres from his mother against Athénaïs’s dowry, and another 18,000 on the rents of the duchy of Bellegarde, part of his family’s estates, in both their names. The merchants of Paris provided further fuel for his extravagance. He ran up debts of 1,500 livres with one Rémy Marion, 1,800 with Jean Opéron, a carriage-maker, 900 with a master wheelwright named Jean Hebert. Later, on the night before she was due to dance in the ballet The Birth of Venus, Athénaïs was forced to take her husband to see two lawyers, Rollet and Parque, to try to prevent him from being arrested for debt. This time he owed 2,170 livres to two merchants, but they were persuaded by 1,000 livres to drop the action. Again and again, Athénaïs was dragged into his sordid machinations to raise money and humiliated into begging for clemency from their creditors. At one point, Montespan even pawned his wife’s pearl earrings to a merchant in the Place Maubert.

  Montespan had his own ambitions and, seeing that there was little hope of a future at court, he convinced himself that he could make his fortune in the army. Although France was at peace, a political quarrel presented a juicy opportunity for him to realize his aim. By a treaty of the previous year, Ch
arles IV, the Duke of Lorraine, had agreed to cede the town of Marsal to the French King. Cunningly, he then reneged on this promise on the grounds that the treaty had been ratified only by his nephew. Louis, eager to flex his military muscles, declared that he would lead an expeditionary force to convince the Duke to honor his word, and Montespan eagerly volunteered his sword.

  War was an expensive business. A gentleman was expected to finance his own retinue of men, arms and horses and to cover his traveling expenses. And Montespan relished the chance to show off his patriotism with the most magnificent entourage he could muster. In August 1663, he borrowed another 500 livres, and then obliged Athénaïs to accompany him to a moneylender in the Rue des Anglais, where he obtained 7,750 livres, on condition that the money was used to finance his military efforts. He took 2,000 livres in advance on his allowance from the Duc de Mortemart, and 500 livres from his brother-in-law Vivonne. Clearly, his wife’s father and brother were ignorant of the debts Montespan had already contracted, since both he and Athénaïs were under twenty-five, the legal age for borrowing. Montespan had unscrupulously persuaded three Parisian merchants to underwrite his loans in secret. Although Montespan pompously swore that he needed the money to do his duty to the King, in fact, the war was merely a convenient pretext for raising money to meet his astronomical gaming debts. The expedition departed in great state on 25 August, but by the time it reached Metz the Duke of Lorraine had been persuaded to honor his promise, disappointingly without a single shot being fired. Montespan returned in September in debt to the tune of 13,000 livres, and having failed to do anything to improve his standing with the King.1