The Affair of the Poisons: Murder, Infanticide and Satanism at the Court of Louis XIV (12 page)

In one of his celebrated sermons the great preacher Jacques Bénigne Bossuet waxed eloquent on the envy and malice which consumed the court. ‘O court!’ he declaimed, ‘… If only I could see the collapse of the ambition which carries you away, the jealousies that divide you, the slanders that tear you apart, the quarrels that stain you with blood, the delights that corrupt you.’ In 1682 the vindictiveness and spite which she encountered at court prompted the King’s German sister-in-law, the Duchesse d’Orléans, to complain, ‘Every day I hear innumerable calumnies with not a grain of truth in them, promises which are never kept and polite expressions which conceal thoughts of a very different nature.’
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Rank and precedence were of paramount importance in court society and provided fertile ground for quarrels. The passions stirred up by such matters may now seem strange but people at court were conscious that they provided the criteria by which they were evaluated. It was not vanity alone that led court notables to expend such energy on struggles over precedence, for their standing at court defined them in the eyes of the world. It even affected the prestige in which they were held in their local communities, for visitors who came to court from outlying areas were capable of judging the nuances of etiquette, and their esteem for individual nobles varied accordingly. In the words of the sociologist and historian Norbert Elias, precedence and etiquette were ‘not mere externals … They were literal documentations of social existence, a notation of the place one currently occupied in the court hierarchy. To rise or fall in this hierarchy meant as much to the courtier as profit or loss to the businessman.’
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The King understood all this very clearly. He told his son, ‘Those who imagine that claims of this kind are only questions of ceremony are sadly mistaken. There is nothing in this matter that is unimportant or inconsequential. Since our subjects cannot penetrate into things, they usually judge by appearances and it is most often on amenities and ranks that they base their respect and obedience.’
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Even if the King appreciated why it was that etiquette and precedence so preoccupied his courtiers, the bickerings and wrangles which resulted revealed human nature at its least attractive. Even when France was at war, or in the midst of some crisis, a disproportionate amount of the King’s time was spent adjudicating on such questions. Distinctions such as the right to wear a hat in the presence of foreign ambassadors, or to kneel on a certain sort of hassock in church, gave rise to bitter controversy. Duchesses were entitled to sit on stools known as
tabourets
during audiences with the Queen, but many of them coveted the honour reserved for ladies of still higher rank, who could occupy a chair with a back or, better still, an armchair. Dukes and peers were accorded the jealously guarded privilege of having both double doors opened for them as they passed through rooms at court, while an elite few at the top of the social scale enjoyed ‘the honours of the Louvre’, which meant that the King addressed them as ‘cousin’ and permitted them to drive their coaches into his palace courtyards. When lodgings were allocated to courtiers who were accompanying the King on his travels the question of whether an official chalked on the door ‘
for
Monsieur or Madame X’, rather than the name alone, was deemed of immense significance. The omission of this seemingly innocuous preposition could cause dreadful agonies.

Courtiers devoted intense effort to edging themselves higher up the pyramid of rank, engaging in elaborate manoeuvres to establish their superiority to people who considered themselves their equals. They operated on the principle that it only required one occasion when their pretensions went unchallenged to raise their status for ever. Ambitious individuals were thus constantly on the lookout for suitable opportunities, while maintaining constant vigilance against rivals who might hope to encroach on their privileges or otherwise undermine them.

In 1665, for example, a dispute over precedence sparked a quarrel between the Princesse de Bade and the Duchesse de Bouillon. Intending to deliver a snub to another court lady, Mlle Elboeuf, the Princesse unwisely suggested that the Duchesse should place herself next to her. To the Princesse’s alarm, however, the Duchesse took advantage of this to seat herself on Princesse’s far side, nearer the Queen, which implied that the Princesse was her inferior. Despite the Princesse’s shrill protests, the Duchesse stubbornly declined to relinquish her
tabouret.
The following year there was a near identical disagreement between the Duchesse de Rohan and the Duchesse de Richelieu, who ended up screaming insults at each other while the Queen received the Polish ambassador.
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Three years later a similar dispute erupted between the Comtesse de Gramont and the Comtesse de Soissons. The Comtesse de Soissons had been seated by the Queen at a gaming table, but when she rose and left the room the Comtesse de Gramont hurriedly deposited herself in the vacated place. On returning, the Comtesse de Soissons demanded that Mme de Gramont surrender her seat, but the latter retorted fiercely ‘We’ll see about that.’ The Comtesse de Soissons gave a disdainful laugh, whereupon the Comte de Gramont entered the fray on his wife’s side by declaring, ‘Madame, one does not nail down chairs here; my wife will remain there; we come from as good a family as you.’ The matter was only resolved when it was brought to the King’s attention and he forced the Gramonts to apologise.
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The King did not relish being called upon to intervene in such matters. Indeed, according to Saint-Simon, he ‘vastly preferred to let everything fall into disorder … rather than hear disputes debated or, above all, be asked to decide them.’ However, as the ultimate authority in such matters he could not always avoid becoming involved and, once he had given a ruling, there was no question of him revising it.

In February 1697 an argument broke out between the Bishop of Orléans and the Duc de La Rochefoucauld after the Bishop complained that Rochefoucauld had usurped his allotted place in the royal chapel. The Bishop protested so vehemently that Louis commented wearily, ‘So, Monsieur, this affects you very deeply?’ Without hesitation the prelate responded, ‘Yes, Sire, this affects me so strongly it will be the death of me.’ After considering the matter the King surprised the court by finding in La Rochefoucauld’s favour, but after a time the Duc came to regret having antagonised the Bishop, with whom he had previously been friendly. La Rochefoucauld went to the King and said that he was prepared to concede the point but Louis, ‘who did not like changing his decisions, much less to see them censured, not only held firm but added that, after what he had ruled, it was his own affair, and no longer that of Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld.’ In conclusion he declared ‘that if the matter was to be decided between Monsieur d’Orléans and a lackey, he would give the place to the servant rather than him.’
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La Bruyère, who wrote a series of pen sketches encapsulating life in Louis XIV’s France, was responsible for the aphorism that ‘The court does not make one happy; it prevents one from being so elsewhere.’ Certainly, even those who were most critical of the institution found it hard to tear themselves away. According to Bishop Bossuet, court life was ‘an enchanted brew which intoxicates the most sober, and the majority of those who have tasted it cannot savour anything else.’ Having acknowledged that the dealings of people at court were constantly disrupted by ‘self-interest, intrigues and faction’, the Duc d’Antin (who had the reputation of being the most consummate courtier of his generation) added, ‘It has to be admitted, however, that it is difficult to quit that place when one has spent part of one’s life there.’
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One reason, of course, why people became addicted to life at court was because of the opportunities it afforded for socialising. D’Antin might complain that tender and sincere friendship was virtually unknown at court, but in an assembly where wit was supremely prized no one could complain that the company was dull. Gaiety was pursued with the utmost dedication. In February 1667 the Duc d’Enghien told a friend that there had been so many balls and fetes at Versailles during recent weeks that everyone had been relieved when Lent started, and he added, ‘These sort of things take up as much time as more serious matters, and are extremely tiring.’ After a time this frenzied existence palled on some: Mme de Sévigné commented that at court there was ‘a constant round of pleasure but not a moment of genuine enjoyment’.
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She was unusual, however, for the majority of people caught up in this hectic whirl were incapable of making the distinction.

Besides the regular amusements which punctuated the court’s social calendar, still more spectacular entertainments were periodically put on for the courtiers. These fêtes lasted several days and were of an opulence and extravagance that left observers gasping. Their object was by no means wholly frivolous, for the King believed they fulfilled a valuable propaganda purpose. He told his son that when foreigners saw that substantial sums were being lavished on ‘expenses which can be considered superfluous’, it ‘made a very advantageous impression on them of magnificence, power, riches and grandeur’. As Théophraste Renaudot wrote in 1671 in the
Gazette de France,
a journal which documented events at court, the King’s lavish hospitality ‘served … as an example even to the most polished princes of his age’, demonstrating that Louis was ‘foremost in the fine manner of his entertainments as he was greatest in glory and power’.
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To convey this message to foreign monarchs the King took great care that ambassadors stationed abroad received detailed descriptions of events such as the series of entertainments he gave for the entire court over a six-week period in the summer of 1674.
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Despite the fact that France was currently engaged in a savage European war, these festivities were of an unparalleled magnificence and luxury. They started on 4 July with a feast, which took place in a glade in the gardens of Versailles. As music played softly, guests took refreshments at marble tables that had been set up in leafy enclosures overlooking a specially constructed pond. In the centre of this was a realistic artificial tree cast in bronze, from whose branches water spurted. Jets also gushed from bronze bowls set in the centre of the tables, carefully designed to minimise splashing. Interspersed among the porcelain tubs full of flowers which surrounded the tables were ice figures of various shapes and sizes, a particularly impressive sight in high summer in an age where refrigeration was unknown. Having eaten their fill, the guests returned to the Chateau, where every window was illuminated with candles. A performance of
Alceste
then took place in the marble courtyard, converted for the evening into a sumptuous theatre, decorated with orange trees in tubs on marble pedestals and lit by crystal chandeliers.

Five days later a concert was held in the gardens of the Porcelain Trianon, an enchanting pavilion made of Delft tiles that the King had originally constructed for trysts with Mme de Montespan. On 28 July the King gave a supper for the ladies of the court in the octagonal menagerie and this was followed nine days later by an open-air feast in a specially constructed amphitheatre. The enclosure was bordered by grass terraces, ascending in tiers, and was bedecked with apple, pear and apricot trees in tubs, all laden with fruit out of season. A ‘sumptuous collation’ was provided, concluding with crystallised fruits and sorbets, with every sort of liqueur being served from crystal carafes. The evening terminated with an opera and a firework display over the canal.

The final offering in this triumphal cycle of entertainments took place ten days later in another grove in the gardens of Versailles. A circular table twenty-four feet in diameter had been set there with the usual array of delicacies. Around its circumference were placed pyramids of fruit, topped with golden balls and linked with festoons of flowers. Afterwards the King and Queen drove by carriage to see Racine’s
Iphigenia
performed in the orangery, where a temporary – albeit exceptionally elaborate – theatre had been improvised. To approach this structure they passed down a path bordered with grottoes and fountains, and entered through a marble portico, supported by pillars of lapis lazuli. After the play, the guests again congregated in the gardens to see a firework display and illuminations on the canal.

For this final tableau vast figures, artfully lit, were placed on stone pedestals embellished with bas-relief friezes. On one of these, captives were depicted huddled at the feet of a triumphant Hercules, who was being crowned with flowers and laurels by little children. In his lyrical description of these festivities André Felibien explained that the children ‘signified the love of the people who are crowning so many generous exploits’ on the part of the King, and that they were binding the captives with garlands of flowers rather than chains to show that ‘the domination of the prince who has vanquished them is glorious and sweet’. Whether the subjugated population of the occupied provinces of Flanders would have endorsed this interpretation is questionable. One wonders, too, whether the King’s poorer subjects could have shared Felibien’s enthusiasm for these sights. Rather, the fact that during the following year the oppressive weight of tax resulted in a series of revolts in various parts of France, tends to support the Abbé Choisy’s observation: ‘The people were in penury while we talked of nothing but fêtes, ballets and diversions.’
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Even Louis XIV could only provide entertainments on such a scale every few years, so the courtiers had to devise other means of passing the time. Throughout the reign gambling was one of the court’s principal recreations and enormous sums changed hands daily at the tables. Saint-Simon went so far as to allege that the King ‘used this means deliberately and successfully to impoverish everyone … so that gradually the entire court became dependent on his favours for their very subsistence’. This was, in fact, unfair for the King himself was a man of great self-control who could not understand how others could let themselves be dominated by a passion for gambling. Furthermore, while it was widely believed that the King liked his courtiers to spend lavishly not just on gaming but also on clothes, carriages and household expenses, it does seem that the nobility were apt to use this as an excuse to justify their own extravagance. Certainly the Duc d’Antin recalled being told by false friends on his first coming to court that ‘nothing pleased the King more than magnificence’ in his courtiers and army officers, and it was only after he had incurred large debts that he discovered the King considered him a spendthrift.
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