International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1

Il etait seul; le flambeau qui l'éclair
Ne brillait plus; mais les près d'alentour
L'onde, les bois, tout annonçait l'amour.

For the space of ten years the Abbé de Bernis was the shadow of Madame de Pompadour; he followed her everywhere, sometimes even too far. Louis XV. would meet him in all parts of the palace, in the private as well as the state apartments, which would make him say sometimes,—"Where are you going, Monsieur l'Abbé?" Our abbé would bow and smile, but say nothing. True to his character of abbé, he would listen at all the doors, saying that the chateau of the Tuileries was for him but one huge confessional. He ended, however, by knowing all things, and by sitting in council with the king and his mistress; and a precious trio it must be owned they made.

But evil times were coming on our abbé. In the ministry he was assailed by showers of chansons and epigrams. The Count de Tressan, above all, overwhelmed him with a violent satire. He could no longer hold his ground. Every one began to grow tired of him, even the fair president of the council; this was the coup de grace. The Duc de Choiseul, after replacing him in the good graces of Madame de Pompadour, succeeded also to his portfolio as minister. As some compensation, however, they gave him the cardinal's hat; a circumstance which elicited from some wit of the day the following couplet:—

On dirait que Son Eminence
N'eut le chapeau de cardinal
Que pour tirer sa révérence.

Shortly afterward he was appointed Archbishop of Alby; but, according to custom, he never appeared in his diocese. In 1769 he departed for Rome, being nominated ambassador at the conclave for the nomination of Clement XIV., that priest so gay, so gentle, and so witty, who has written that sad people are like shrubs which never flower. Pope and cardinal understood each other admirably well. Our cardinal never returned to France; he had found in Rome a second fatherland, as sweet to his old ago as France had been to his youth. He inhabited a magnificent palace, which was for a length of time the hospitable refuge for all French travelers. All had ready welcome, from the humble priest and poor artist to the Princes and princesses of the blood royal. To use his own words,—"He kept an auberge of France in a square of Europe." He died in 1794, faithful to his God and to his king, and bitterly denouncing the French Revolution, which had despoiled him of his half million of francs per annum, and had swept disdainfully away all the pretty artificial flowers of his most artificial poetry. He died solitary and poor,—a strong contrast to the style in which he had lived. But to return.

Madame d'Etioles passed in the eyes of the world as a perfect model of a virtuous wife. She swore eternal fidelity to her husband, unless Louis XV. should fall in love with her,—a reservation her husband was the first to laugh at. At first this strange condition was spoken of as an excellent joke in the house; from thence it spread abroad, and finally reached Versailles. But the king, wishing to joke in return, contented himself by saving,—"I should like very much to see this husband."

M. d'Etioles possessed an abandoned château in the forest of Senart; Madame d'Etioles having learned that the king frequently hunted in the forest, persuaded her husband to have the chateau newly furnished, and put into a habitable state, alleging that the physicians had recommended a change of air for her vapors. The husband, suspecting nothing, had the château re-furnished an decorated in the most superb style. Once installed in her new abode, Madame d'Etioles gave orders for the building of three or four carriages of a most fairy-like lightness and elegance of form, in which she might drive away her vapors. According to her expectations, she frequently met the king in the forest; at first Louis XV. passed her by without bestowing the slightest attention, either on her or her equipage: afterward he remarked her or her equipage; afterward he remarked her horses,—"What a pretty phaeton!" said he, on meeting her for the third time. At length he remarked the lady herself, but it was merely to bestow a passing remark upon her beauty.

Madame d'Etioles, however, was not to be repelled; she continued to pass before the eyes of the royal sportsman: "sometimes as a goddess from Olympus, sometimes as an earthly queen; at one time she would appear in an azure robe seated in a rose-colored phaeton, at another in a robe of rose color in a phaeton of pale blue."[16 - Soulavie, Mèmoires Historiques de la Cour de France pendant le faveur de Madame de Pompadour.]

In after days, Madame de Pompadour recalling to mind all these follies—serious though for her—said to the Prince de Soubise—"I can imagine myself reading a strange book; my life is an impossible romance, I cannot believe in it."

At Etioles, private theatricals were the fashion; Madame d'Etioles was the Clairon, the Camargo, and the Dangeville of the troop, which counted among its members some of the most illustrious personages of the day. Marshal de Richelieu, who was to be found wherever gallantry flourished, was an assiduous and constant spectator at these réunions. Madame d'Etioles, it is said, endeavored on more than one occasion to entice the king behind the scenes; but Louis, kept constantly in view by Madame de Chateauroux, never once left the royal box.

Two summers thus passed away without Madame d'Etioles obtaining aught from the king save a cold and distant glance, or a passing word or two; and this, for a woman of her ambition, was not sufficient. She returned to Paris at the close of the summer season, determined to change once more her plan of attack. A good opening was now before her, for Madame de Chateauroux was dead, the throne of the favorite vacant; not an hour was to be lost, for, with Louis XV. who could tell how soon a successor might be appointed?

The wished-for opportunity at length presented itself. In the month of December, 1744, a series of magnificent fêtes were given at the Hôtel de Ville; the women were masqued. In the course of the evening Madame d'Etioles succeeded in approaching the king,—

"Sire," she said, "you must explain to me, if you please, a strange dream. I dreamt that I was seated on a throne for an entire day; I do not affirm that this throne was the throne of France, yet I dare assert that it was a throne of purple, of gold, and of diamonds: this dream torments me—it is at once the joy and torment of my life. Sire, for mercy's sake, interpret it for me."

"The interpretation is very simple," replied the king; "but, in the first place it is absolutely necessary that that velvet masque should fall."

"You have seen me."

"Where?"

"In the forest of Senart."

"Then," said the king, "you can divine that we should like to see you again."

About a month or two after this interview, according to some biographers, Madame d'Etioles, being determined by a coup de main to attain her grand object, namely, the securing a permanent footing at Versailles, arrived one morning at the palace in a state of violent agitation, and demanded an audience of the king. One of the gentleman ushers, a certain M. de Bridge, who had been a guest at Etioles during the festivities of the preceding season, conducted her into the presence of Louis XV.

"Sire," she exclaimed, "I am lost; my husband knows my glory and my misfortune. I come to demand a refuge at your hands. If you shelter me not from his anger he will kill me."

From that hour she took up her residence at Versailles to quit it no more.

We know that Louis XV. passed his life in a state of constant lassitude and ennui, from which it was almost impossible to arouse him; indolence, indeed, may be said to have been the predominant trait in his character: he hated politics and political matters, and all allusions to state affairs were most irksome to him.

"Your people suffer, sire," said the Duke de Choiseul to him one day, after a long political harangue.

"Je m'ennuie!" replied the king.

By skillfully and constantly varying the amusements of her royal lover, with hunting-parties, promenades, fêtes, spectacles, and petits soupers, Madame d'Etioles was enabled to strengthen her empire over the heart of Louis XV., by making him feel how necessary she had become to his happiness. One striking advantage she had over her predecessors, and this was, the art she possessed of being able to metamorphose herself at all hours of the day. No one could better vary the play of her physiognomy than Madame de Pompadour. At one time she would appear languishing and sentimental as a madonna; at another, lively, gay, and coquettish, as a Spanish peasant girl. She possessed also, in a marvelous degree, the gift of tears: none knew better than she did when to weep, or how many tears it was necessary to shed. As a poet of the time has said, "She wept with so much art that she was enabled to give to her tears the value of pearls." Those who had seen her in the morning, superb, imperious, a queen in all the splendor of power, would find her in the evening, gay, whimsical, capricious, presiding over one of these petits soupers with all the exuberant and madcap gayety of an actress after the theater. The Abbé Soulavie, who saw her often, has left us a well-studied portrait of the favorite;—

"In addition to the charms of a beautiful and animated countenance, Madame de Pompadour possessed also, in an eminent degree, the art of transforming her features; and each new combination, equally beautiful, was another result of the deep study she had made of the affinity between her mind and her physiognomy. Without in the least altering her position, her countenance would become a perfect Proteus."

With intuitive tact, Madame de Pompadour very quickly perceived, that in order to amuse a king who took neither interest nor pleasure in arts and letters, other and more material enjoyments were necessary. She commenced, then, by transforming herself into an actress. The king was there like a wearied spectator of life; she felt, that in order to interest and enliven him, it was necessary to diversify frequently her character, and the spirit of her character. Twenty times a day would she change her dress, her appearance, and even her manner of walking and speaking; passing from gayety to gravity, from songs and smiles to love and sentiment. With syren-like voice, and a heart as light as the bird of the air, she would invent a thousand graceful blandishments for the amusement of her royal lover. Her beauty, which was marvelous, served her well in all these metamorphoses. She dressed, too, with exquisite art. Among the many costumes which she has invented, we may cite one which made quite a furore in its day, and this was the negligé a la Pompadour; a robe in the form of a Turkish vest, which designed with peculiar grace the contour of the figure. She would frequently pass entire mornings at her toilet in company with Louis XV., who would stand by giving his opinion and advice respecting the different costumes she adopted. The king, however, grew tired at length of having but one comedian. In vain would she disguise herself sometimes as a farm-girl, sometimes as a shepherdess; at one time as a peasant-girl, at another as a nun, in order to surprise him, or rather, to allow herself to be surprised by him in some one or other of the many turnings and windings of the park of Versailles. The king had at first been charmed by the novelty of the amusement, but by degrees he discovered that it was always one and the same woman under a thousand different disguises.

Perceiving that the king began to grow tired of this species of comedy, she had a theater constructed in the medal-room of the palace, she herself nominating the actors and actresses whom she considered worthy of performing with her on a stage which was to have but the king and a few favorite courtiers for audience. The Duc de Vallière was appointed stage-manager and director; for prompter they took an abbé, most probably the Abbé de Bernis; the company consisted of the Duc d'Orleans, the Duc d'Agen, the Duc de Nivernais, the Duc de Duras, the Comte de Maillebois, the Duc de Coigny, the Marquis d'Entraigues, the Duchesse de Brancas, the Comtesse d'Estrade, and Madame d'Angevilliers. The theater opened with a pièce de circonstance, by Dufresny the poet, entitled Le Mariage fait et rompu, in allusion to the marriage of Madame de Pompadour with M. d'Etioles. The little troupe commenced with comedy, but soon descended to opera and ballet. In song and dance, as well as in the representation of the passions, Madame de Pompadour was the only actress of real talent. In the characters of peasant-girls she was unsurpassed; but her chef d'oeuvre was the part of Collette in Rousseau's Devin de Village, which she played with a naïveté and tenderness that won all hearts.

Nothing was more difficult than to gain admission to this theater of dukes and duchesses, the tickets of admission for which were given by the king alone; and it must be said that Louis showed himself a much more rigorous janitor of his theater than he was of his palace: consequently it was no slight favor for Voltaire, who had for a length of time aspired to the pleasures of Versailles, to see his Enfant Prodigue played on the boards of the court theater. Voltaire had, like all men the weakness of wishing to govern the state; intoxicated with literary successes, he now aspired to political honors. He hoped to become minister or ambassador through the favor of Madame de Pompadour; and with a little more tact he might have become ambassador, minister, or even cardinal, had he wished it, but at the very moment when he fancied he had attained the object of his ambition, he lost it forever by writing the famous lines, commencing,—

Pompadour, vous embellisez
La cour, le Parnasse, et Cythère.

These verses, as we know, provoked a little remonstrance from the queen and her daughters: all was lost for Voltaire, despite the goodwill of Madame de Pompadour, who, for the rest, seeing that the cause was a bad one, cared not to risk her own favor by imprudent attempts. Voltaire never pardoned the marchioness her lukewarm intercession; and like a true poet, revenged himself by a succession of madrigals, chansons, and rhymes, without number,—all leveled, though in a playful way, at the head of the favorite.

Duclos and Rousseau were more severe. Duclos, fully impressed with the idea that he was a great historian, as impartial as he was passionless, judged her harshly. He feared passing for a courtier, and he was unjust, She bad attempted to attach Rousseau to herself; but the proud Genevese Republican wrote her a letter which cut short all further negotiations.[17 - Madame,—I had fancied for a moment that it was through error that your messenger had remitted me one hundred louis for copies which are charged but twelve francs. He has undeceived me. Permit me to undeceive you in my turn. My savings enable me at present to enjoy a revenue of about 540 livres, all deductions made. My work brings me in annually a sum almost equal to this amount; I have then a considerable superfluity; I employ it to the best of my power, though I scarcely give any alms. If, contrary to all appearances, age or infirmities should some day incapacitate me from following my usual occupations, I have a friend. J. J. ROUSSEAU PARIS, August 18, 1762.] She always esteemed him, however, in a high degree. One day, when Marshal de Mirepoix, in the course of conversation, advised her not to trouble her head about that owl, she replied,—

"It is an owl, certainly, but it is Minerva's owl."

Madame de Pompadour, with the design of still further strengthening her power at court, conceived the idea of calling in the powers of the Church to her aid. The Prince de Soubise, who was one of her most devoted courtiers, took upon himself the task of procuring an indulgent Jesuit, who would consent to confess and absolve her from all the sins she had committed at court. Père de Sacy, the priest alluded to, had, though a Jesuit, preserved in some sort the habits and feelings of a man of the world; he could, when it suited his purpose, be of his century, and would occasionally laugh a little at the severities of his order. To him, then, the Prince do Soubise proceeded. At first he showed himself rather restive.

"Recollect," said the prince to him, "from the confessional of the marchioness to the confessional of the king there is but a step."

Père de Sacy could not resist the temptation of such an attractive position; he went to the marchioness. Madame de Pompadour, proud of having for a confessor a man who had been appointed Procureur-gènèral of the Missions, received him most graciously. She had other reasons also for seeking to conciliate the Jesuit—her principal one was this:—Up to this time the Jesuitical party that had risen against her at Versailles, the queen, the dauphin, Père Griffet, Cardinal de Luynes, the Bishop of Verdun, and M. de Nicolai, had hoped to drive her from court as a miscreant. Now, once declared worthy of heaven by a Jesuit of such high standing as Père de Sacy, would she not become in some sort inviolable and sacred? With these designs, then, she put in force all her arts of seduction against her confessor; never did she display more grace, wit, or beauty. Père de Sacy, who allowed himself to be taken captive unresistingly by the battery of charms thus brought to bear upon him, visited her seven or eight times to speak of confession, without, however, coming to any conclusion upon the subject. As the good city of Paris had not at the moment any matter of graver importance wherewith to occupy its attention, it began to grow witty on the subject of this confession; a thousand chansons were composed upon the father confessor and his fair penitent. Piron arrived one evening at the Cafè Procope, exclaiming that he had news from Versailles.

"Well," inquired some one, "has the marchioness confessed?"

"No," replied Piron; "Madame de Pompadour cannot agree with Père de Sacy as to the style of confession."

The following day there was a great uproar among the Jesuits; the procureur-général of the missions was summoned before their Council of Ten, and was obliged to confess himself. He received a severe reprimand from the superior of the order, and, as the price of his absolution, was commanded to refuse his counsels to the marchioness, and to excuse himself in the best manner he could for his previous delay.

Père de Sacy accordingly presented himself for the last time before Madame de Pompadour, and the following conversation took place:—

"We cannot grant you, madame," began the holy father, "the absolution you desire; your sojourn at court far from your husband, the public scandal relative to the favor which it is alleged the king accords you, does not permit of your approaching the holy table. The priest who would sanction such a proceeding, in place of absolving you, would pronounce a double condemnation—yours and his own; whilst the public, accustomed to judge harshly the conduct of the great, would confirm the sentence beyond appeal. You have testified to me, madame, that you are desirous of fulfilling the duties of a good Christian; but example is the first of these duties, and in order to obtain and merit absolution, your first proceeding must be to return to M. d'Etioles, or at least quit the court and seek, by penitence and charity, to repair the sins you have committed against that society whose laws you have outraged, and which, declares itself scandalized at your separation, from your husband."

Madame de Pompadour heard these words with the calmness and immobility of a statue; but as soon as the priest had terminated she burst forth,—

"Père de Sacy," she exclaimed, violently, "you are a fool, an impostor, a true Jesuit. Do you understand me? You have sought to enjoy a triumph over me by witnessing the state of embarrassment in which you imagined I was placed; you would gladly, you and yours, see me far from the king: but, poor short-sighted mortals that you are! Know that I am here as powerful as you imagine me weak and tottering; and in spite of you, in spite of all the Jesuits in the world, I shall remain at court, whilst you and your pack will not only be banished from court, but driven ignominiously out of the kingdom."

From that hour the fall of the Jesuits was decreed. The holy fathers imagined that the marchioness, like Madame de Chateauroux, was but the queen of a day; but they were mistaken. To do them justice, it must be allowed they believed that nothing was to be feared from such an enemy; for it is very certain that had they seen the power of this woman, who had all the firmness and decision of character of a man, or rather of a revengeful woman, they would, beyond a doubt, have permitted her to approach the holy table, or even have canonized her had she been desirous of the honor.

Madame de Pompadour was born with noble instincts; her bitterest enemies have never denied that she possessed the most refined taste in all matters connected with the arts or letters. She sought to make of Louis XV. an artist-king; and it must be said to her praise that she ever strove to rouse him from his habitual indolence and lassitude by leading his inclinations into healthy channels. But, unfortunately, Louis XV., unlike his predecessor, could never understand that great monuments often make the glory of kings.

The petits soupers of Versailles would occasionally shed a ray of sunshine, or rather lamp light, over Louis the Fifteenth's habitual ennui. After supper, chansons, sallies, and repartee, would be the order of the night. Occasionally at these supper-parties some brilliant things would be said. One evening, when some one sang a complaint upon the misfortunes of our first father Adam, the king improvised the following couplet worthy of the best chansons of Collé:—

Il n'eut qu'une femme avec lui,
Encor c'etait la sienne;
Ici je vois celles d'autrui,