Athenais (15 page)

Historians are at odds as to the cordiality of the entente between the two women. In the code used by Mme. de Sévigné to avoid censorship of her gossipy letters, she refers to Athénaïs and Louise respectively as “the Torrent” and “the Dew,” nicknames that neatly sum up their characters and the inevitable conflicts between them. Publicly, at least, everything went on harmoniously, as is demonstrated by one record of Louis and his two women departing to hunt the wild boar at Fontainebleau in the same carriage. On another occasion, the English envoy the Duke of Buckingham was received by Lauzun while the King was still officially in mourning for Henri-ette d’Angleterre. After supper, Athénaïs and Louise appeared, led by the hands of a masked cavalier, and all three performed a charming ballet, at the conclusion of which the ladies “chased” Louis (for of course it was he) for his diamond-studded sword. This Louis presented to Buckingham in an elegant piece of diplomacy centered on his knowing play on words: “Since the ladies have disarmed me, I offer you my sword.” The gift was worth 16,000 ecus.

To maintain the pretense that Louis was still in love with Louise, she and Athénaïs were always lodged in adjoining rooms, where they shared their meals, their toilette and their leisure time. During the military campaign of 1673, for example, Louis gave Colbert precise instructions, along with a plan, for his ladies’ lodgings. Athénaïs’s room was to have direct access to his own, while Louise’s, next door to Athénaïs’s, should be separated from it by a discreet passage.

Louis was scrupulous about appearing fair to the odalisques in his seraglio. In 1669 his architect Jean Marot was commissioned to create four grottos in the rocaille style at a cost of 1,000 livres each, two for the Duchesse de La Vallière and two for Mme. de Montespan. Pointedly, Louise’s was decorated with a fresco of Calypso mourning her abandonment by Ulysses. Everyone knew that when the King was “
chez les dames,
” as the polite euphemism ran, he passed through Louise’s room only to gain access to Athénaïs’s. One spiteful story has it that Louis had a spaniel (named Malice in some versions), which he tossed to Louise as he passed, saying, “Here, Madame, take your company. That will do for you.” Given Louis’s famous good manners towards women, this seems somewhat unlikely, but it is common to hate those whom we have wronged, and Louis in particular was not a man who was comfortable with the dissonance of guilt. He was intrinsically vastly selfish, and though he was good-mannered because graceful manners pleased him, he was utterly indifferent to the feelings of others if they compromised his own inclinations. Louise’s mute, reproachful grieving must have been at once painful and exasperating to the King, and incensing to Athénaïs.

A great deal has been made of Athénaïs’s cruelty to the fallen favorite; of how she turned all her capacity for bitchy wit on to poor Louise and forced her to act as a ladies’ maid, dressing Athénaïs’s hair in preparation for a rendezvous with the King. “The Montespan woman,” wrote the Princess Palatine, “derided La Vallière in public, treated her abominably, and obliged the King to do likewise.” If Athénaïs really was so unkind (and La Palatine, of course, had her own reasons for disliking Mme. de Montespan), then surely Louise’s infuriating lack of dignity provides some excuse? It seems reasonable that Athénaïs should feel just as threatened by Louise’s presence as Louise was by hers. Athénaïs was in a position akin to that of a second wife whose wishes are constantly thwarted by her husband’s duty to a demanding ex, and her lack of patience, if not the way in which she manifested it, is understandable. As long as Louise was there, Athénaïs could not be certain that the King loved her exclusively. She was quite justified in this doubt. One of the quarrels between the two women erupted over a pot of marvelous rouge which Louise refused to lend to Athénaïs. She agreed to surrender it only when Louis intervened, and even then, only on condition that he distribute his favors equally. The result was that Louise fell pregnant again, and storms raged in the harem. (Presumably Louise lost the child, as no more mention is made of it.) She remained a thorn in Athénaïs’s side, making a great fuss of the angelic patience with which she withstood her rival’s attempts to drive her out.

It is difficult to find a reason for Louis’s desire to keep both women quite so close to him, especially in view of the trouble it occasioned him. Yet this was a model he repeated throughout his life. The current mistress usually presented him to the new, after which both women would be maintained in uneasy cohabitation. This was the case with Madame Henriette and La Vallière (although it is unlikely that in this case Louis actually slept with his sister-in-law), with La Vallière and Montespan, with Montespan and Mlle. de Fontanges and finally with Montespan and Mme. de Maintenon. Louis was clearly polygamous by temperament, and saw no reason to resist his inclinations.

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 memoirs
¹²
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.