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

by Hilton, Lisa

  In addition to putting up with the presence of her disgruntled rival, the mistress of the moment was expected to ignore his numerous transient infidelities. It was quite usual for Louis to take a turn with Athénaïs’s ladies’ maid as she finished dressing, to tumble into bed with Mme. de Thianges, if her sister was indisposed, or simply to avail himself of a pretty servant he passed in the palace. Although Athénaïs enjoyed sex with Louis, she may have been grateful rather than otherwise that these brief, meaningless liasions deflected his appetite to some extent. In any event she seemed untroubled by quick physical encounters, feeling threatened only when the King’s emotions seemed to be engaged, as they still appeared to be with Louise.

  Athénaïs’s independent, sociable nature was also aggravated by the closeted conditions in which she and Louise lived. The Marquis de Saint-Maurice recalled in his memoirs12 that Louis “kept his first two declared mistresses in a state of semi-imprisonment, forbidding them visitors for fear of persuasions to intercession.” Louis was always infuriated by the idea that his lovers might try to influence him, and though Athénaïs and Louise were not actually confined to their apartments, they did lead a sequestered life, and were not fully at liberty to come and go as they pleased. Moreover, they knew that whatever they did would be reported back to Louis. Perhaps he was jealous, or amused by the conceit of a harem, since they were metaphorically, if not literally, locked up, and “no one dared to look at them.”13 Living together as they did in such a restricted environment must at times have been so intolerable it is hardly surprising that the tension sometimes exploded into quarrels.

  Lauzun, believing that Louise’s influence was still sufficient to enable him to effect a rapprochement, encouraged her to make a retreat to the convent, in the hope that Louis would gallop after his suffering maiden, as he had done nine years before, and return her to favor, his love reignited by her escape.

  The strategy had worked in 1662, when Louise had fallen out with the King over her loyalty to an old friend, Anne-Constance de Montalais. Louis disapproved of Anne-Constance, who was not only an ally of the disgraced Fouquet, but had been acting as a go-between for Mme. Henriette and her alleged lover, the Comte de Guiche. Per- haps Louis was piqued by his sister-in-law’s fickle affections, or perhaps he felt that Anne-Constance had gone too far in arranging for De Guiche to visit Henriette in disguise. Whatever his reasons, he forbade Louise from seeing her friend. Never much of a politician, Louise stubbornly remained loyal to Anne-Constance, and the lovers had quarreled. Louise left the Tuileries for Chaillot, where the King found her the same night, shivering and sobbing on the parlor floor. He ordered a coach to return her to court, and afterwards they had seemed more in love than ever.

  So, early on Ash Wednesday 1671, while the music and laughter of the great carnival ball continued into the dawn, Louise exchanged her elaborate court dress for a simple gown and once again walked from the Tuileries to the village of Chaillot, where she demanded sanctuary from the nuns at the Visitandine convent. In a suitably dramatic touch, the abbey was consecrated to Mary Magdalene. At Lauzun’s suggestion, she left a letter for the King explaining that all she wished was to repent, and that she wanted to abandon the court, her children and her fortune for a life of prayer.

  On hearing the news, Louis did not trouble to alter his program for the day, departing for Versailles as planned with Mademoiselle and Athénaïs in his carriage. Athénaïs was exuberant at this display of indifference. On the journey, Louis did at least become rather emotional, and the two women were obliged to squeeze out a few empathetic tears. Athénaïs diplomatically imitated the King’s regret, and Lauzun, whose role in the affair, obviously, was unknown, was dispatched to reason with Louise. He rushed to Chaillot, certain that his plan had worked, but Louise told him that she was sincere, and had no desire to return to court. Back dashed Lauzun to Versailles, where he explained this obstinacy so eloquently — Louise, he reported, had said that having given her youth to the King, she wished to dedicate the rest of her life to God — that Louis was moved to tears, and sent Colbert to return her, by force if necessary. Now convinced of the King’s sincerity, Louise gave up her vocation with remarkable ease, and was back at Versailles by six o’clock in the evening.

  Through this hypocrisy and emotional blackmail, Louise achieved a respite. She was received in tears by the King, and Athénaïs, too, wept and clasped Louise to her bosom like a long-lost sister. Presumably her tears were tears of rage, but at least they seemed appropriate to the general mood. But Lauzun’s plan was only half-successful, for although Louise enjoyed a new favor, Athénaïs was by no means repudiated. The opinion of the court was that Louise had made herself ridiculous, but things went on pretty much as before. It was felt that Mme. de La Vallière no longer sighed for the convent and that she was happier because the King had more regard for her than before. Bussy-Rabutin was not convinced. “I maintain that it is for his own interests and from pure politics that the King has recalled Mme. de La Vallière.” As Athénaïs’s separation bill crawled through the courts, it was still necessary to provide a cover for her presence. Even though no one believed that the King was still sleeping with Louise, she continued to pursue her advantage, succeeding in having all her debts paid on the basis that she would otherwise be unable to afford to accompany the court to Flanders on the usual summer campaign. Athénaïs had to content herself with the King’s private passion.

  Lauzun, meanwhile, had profited from the disappointment of his canceled marriage. The King had assured him that he would be so favored as not to regret the fortune he had lost, and immediately after the breaking of the engagement, Lauzun had received 500,000 livres in compensation, and the even more valuable grande entrée, which had been accorded to Athénaïs’s father in the previous reign, an honor reserved for the king’s gentlemen of the chamber which allowed access to the royal person at all times. The influence thus granted to Lauzun was immense, and he would also be able to profit from courtiers who would pay him well to put their requests to the King in private moments. Louis also gave Lauzun the governorships of Berry, Bourges and Issoudun, which provided a large rental income, and included his name among the candidates for a maréchal’s baton. But none of these rewards appeased Lauzun’s rancor against Athénaïs. On the surface, they remained friends, and he concealed his urge for revenge with courtesy, lending Athénaïs his fine horses for the 1671 Flanders trip and sending her beautiful Flemish pictures on a visit to Amsterdam.

  When the Maréchal de Gramont resigned his commission, Lauzun asked Athénaïs to solicit the post for him. He knew that Gramont was keen that it should go to his son, the Comte de Guiche, the disappointed lover of poor Madame Henriette, who, as a result of his attentions to that lady, was in low favor at court. Lauzun did not really trust Athénaïs, who had already betrayed him, and he resorted to extraordinary measures to prove her disloyalty in the matter of the commission. With the help of a bribed maid, he managed to conceal himself underneath Athénaïs’s bed, where he waited for the King to join her. Among other things, he heard Athénaïs criticizing him to the King, and trying to persuade Louis to give the post he coveted to Guiche. “More happy than wise,” Lauzun remained undiscovered as the King got up, dressed and left Athénaïs to make her toilette for a grand ballet that was to be given that evening. The maid pulled Lauzun out and he waited at Athénaïs’s door until she emerged. Then he politely inquired after the success of her mission. As soon as she had dissembled that the King was certain to give him the post, thanks to her regard, Lauzun grabbed her roughly and hissed the most terrible insults into her ear, repeating exactly the conversation she had just had with the King. He said she was a lying whore and a fat gutbag on whom he would revenge himself. (This last insult was probably the most hurtful, though Saint-Maurice notes that at the time Athénaïs was not too fat, notwithstanding a little embonpoint.) Unable to understand how Lauzun had overheard her, Athénaïs was speechless with fright. Staggering to the room where the ballet
was being rehearsed, she fell down in a faint.

  Why was Athénaïs so anxious to alienate her former friend? Perhaps she reasoned that since she had betrayed him once to protect her own reputation, he would remain an enemy, and if he became too powerful he could threaten her again. Lauzun’s conduct shows the dangerous extremes to which he was prepared to go to catch her out, so she was certainly correct in her estimation of him as a formidable opponent. At court there was precious little room for loyalty or for mercy. Lauzun had to be disarmed. In the meantime, alarmed by Lauzun’s threats, Athénaïs asked the King for an extra bodyguard, though she did not reveal the reason for her request, and was granted four personal attendants.

  Athénaïs found an ally in her scheme to displace Lauzun in Louvois, the minister for war. Louvois was one of the four members of the King’s Council of State, which met every day at a green velvet table edged with gold. Like Colbert, he was from the middle class, appointed on the basis of Louis’s view that men who owed their positions entirely to him, rather than to their family names, would prove more loyal and able servants. The model worked extremely well for fifty-five years, with son succeeding father to the council, but the ministers were not free of their own jealous rivalries. Louvois constantly jockeyed for position with Colbert, with whom Athénaïs was on good terms, but he also hated and feared Lauzun. She affected a friendship for Louvois, who had never trusted her, and together they began to hint to Louis that Lauzun’s power was dangerous, that the adoration he inspired in his troops was practically treasonable, and that the planned marriage to Mademoiselle showed how desperate he was to grab royal privileges for himself. This ugly campaign of defamation was designed to make Louis question Lauzun’s loyalty and distrust his ambition. Louvois suggested that Lauzun’s habit of giving extra money to his officers was a way of trying to buy loyalty due to the King, and that Lauzun was perhaps acting as a double agent for the Dutch. He even hinted that Lauzun was conspiring with his fellow Gascon the Marquis de Montespan to kidnap Athénaïs.

  Things came to a head in November, when Athénaïs found herself in public opposition to Lauzun over the appointment of a new lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Athénaïs was pushing her friend Mme. de Richelieu, while Lauzun supported the candidacy of Mme. de Créqui. Athénaïs chose this moment to confide to Louis that as long as Lauzun was at court, she feared for her life. Called upon to explain himself, Lauzun lost control and let loose a torrent of abuse against the mistress, claiming to Louis’s face that Monsieur and he himself had slept with Athénaïs. The King was so furious that, in what Saint-Simon called “perhaps the finest action of his life,” he broke his cane and threw it out of the window, saying that he would have regretted having struck a gentleman. The King gave Lauzun five days to make a public apology, but instead he produced a document attempting to justify his conduct. This rash behavior, together with the rumors planted by Louvois, were enough to finish him, and on 26 November, following his arrest at St. Germain, Lauzun was conducted by the commander of the musketeers, D’Artagnan, to the fortress of Pignerol to join the former minister Fouquet. Here, in a dreary cell, without even books or writing materials to amuse him, Lauzun was given nearly ten years to reflect on the folly of offending the King’s beloved.

  Athénaïs had shown her claws. Yet although this display of power would terrify anyone who thought of usurping her, Athénaïs paid for her victory with a growing paranoia about her safety, a fear so strong that she would not even walk from her room at St. Germain to the chapel without her bodyguards. (She did at least remain a confidante of Mademoiselle’s, since the King’s cousin did not suspect her involvement in Lauzun’s disgrace.) It is probably this situation that Mme. de Sévigné is describing in a letter of January 1672 in which she writes of “the continual ravings of Lauzun, the black despondency or miserable troubles of the ladies of St. Germain,” suggesting that “perhaps the most envied of them all is not always free of them.”14 However silken the ropes that bound her, Athénaïs was learning that the struggle to maintain control of her life left her, in some ways, no freer than the unfortunate Lauzun.

  Chapter Seven

  “Virtue would not go so far without

  vanity to bear it company.”

  In the summer of 1665, an eager Italian tourist, the Abbé Locatelli, sneaked into the gardens of St. Germain early one morning to catch a glimpse of the famous grottos whose fountains, with their mythological sculptures, anticipated those of Versailles. Much to Locatelli’s discomfort, he was also treated to a surprise view of the King of France taking a clandestine promenade with Louise de La Vallière. The trespasser threw himself to his knees, and then, as Louis beckoned him over, tried in his best French to explain himself, saying that he was visiting from Bologna. “You are from a wicked country,” replied the King sternly.

  “How so?” asked the brave little abbé, to the horror of his companions. “Is not Bologna the mother of universities, the palace of religion, the birthplace of many saints, among whom we honor the incorruptible body of St. Catherine, at whose feet Catherine de’ Medici, Queen of France, laid the scepter of her realm?”

  Louis politely raised his hat at the mention of St. Catherine, but he snubbed Locatelli firmly by declaring: “You undertake a difficult thing in wishing to defend a country where men butcher other men.” (In the commedia dell’arte, of which Louis was an enthusiast, Bologna was represented as the most brutal of the Italian city states.) Locatelli blushed with mortification, and his party made their escape, but his curiosity about the French monarch remained undimmed, as did his admiration for Louis.1 Some years later, he contrived to be present as the King heard Mass in Paris, and his account of his emotional reaction is representative of the religious awe Louis inspired.

  The King remained standing, but followed the office with much attention ...My eyes having encountered his at the moment when I began to look at him, I immediately felt once more within myself that secret force of royal majesty, which inspired me with an insatiable curiosity to gaze at him ...but I only dared to fix my eyes on him when I was certain that he could not see me. I returned to the hôtel so happy that in wishing to express the joy with which I was transported, I seemed to have lost my reason ...Forgive me, reader, if this joy seems to make me rave; in my happiness at having seen the King, and having been seen by him, I believe that I have attracted the regard of an Empyrean divinity.2

  As his conversation with Louis at St. Germain proves, Locatelli was no cringing sycophant. His apparently excessive joy is no more than a reflection of the belief in the semidivinity of the monarchy held by both Louis and his subjects. Not only was the King the arbiter of all temporal power, the focus of all worldly ambition, he was also a living symbol of God’s order. No wonder that his doubly adulterous relationship with Athénaïs would come to be seen by some as a blasphemy, a sacrilege visited physically on his holy body. For one woman, possessed of a most worldly piety, the struggle to reform the King’s errant soul came to be seen as a religious mission, a vocation to which she would dedicate herself as devotedly as the strictest bride of Christ.

  Françoise Scarron, who was to become the Marquise de Maintenon, is an enduringly fascinating and enigmatic character, adored and loathed by the French in equal measure, now as then. Her relationship with Athénaïs de Montespan was lengthy and hugely complicated, encompassing mutual support and mutual hatred, intense sympathy and intense rivalry. Yet it was Athénaïs who originally discerned La Maintenon’s talents and brought her from obscurity, a charity she would come bitterly to regret. The birth of Athénaïs’s first child by the King in 1669 was swiftly followed by the arrival of the Duc du Maine in 1670, and she found herself in need of a discreet, capable person to raise her children in the requisite secrecy. She could not have kept them with her even if her career as maîtresse en titre had allowed her sufficient time to care for them, as the unresolved issue of her marriage meant that neither she nor Louis could publicly acknowledge them. Louise de La Vallière’s children had
been officially adopted by Mme. Colbert, but Athénaïs’s more precarious circumstances demanded someone far removed from court circles. The obvious choice seemed to be Mme. Scarron, that ubiquitous presence in refined Paris society who had dried Marie Mancini’s tears as the King’s wedding procession rode into town and exchanged witticisms with Athénaïs at the Hôtel d’Albret in the first years of her marriage.

  Although she was very poor, and lodged as a lady boarder in a convent, the young widow Scarron had carved a niche for herself in the select world of the Paris salons with her elegant manners and education, allied to a tremendous talent for making herself useful. She nursed her friends through illness, ran errands, assisted them on weary journeys; in short, she acted as an ideal lady companion to half the hostesses in Paris. She was very easy to like, because her rich friends found her truly sympathique and at the same time were able to patronize her a little, an excellent combination for social success. Athénaïs was very fond of her, and when her husband, the poet Paul Scarron, died, it was Athénaïs who had seen to it that Mme. Scarron eventually received the pension granted to him by Anne of Austria.

  Françoise Scarron began life in 1635 in a prison cell. Her father, Constant d’Aubigné, was a spendthrift who, among other criminal activities, had murdered his first wife by stabbing her seven times with a dagger when he caught her in flagrante delicto. His second wife, Jeanne de Cardilhac, gave birth to Françoise, their third child, in the prison at Niort, where her husband was serving a sentence for espionage. After a few squalid years with her mother in Paris, Françoise was adopted by a Protestant aunt, Mme. de Villette, who began her education. Surprisingly, given what a bigoted Catholic she became in later life, Françoise’s family had strong Protestant links: her grandfather, Theodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, who lived in Geneva, was a well-known Huguenot writer.