The Bourbon Kings of France (18 page)

The scandal of Orléans’s seraglio and of the ‘daily filthiness and impiety’ of the wild supper parties in the Palais Royal was noised abroad everywhere. It was even rumoured that the Duke slept with his favourite daughter, the widowed Duchesse de Berry, an utterly depraved creature who drank so much that she vomited over the company and rolled on the carpet. Her death at only twenty-four—worn out by a combination of drink and giving birth to an illegitimate child—was a severe blow to Orléans. He was also saddened by the death in 1722 of his grim old mother, Liselotte, to whom, more edifyingly, he had been devoted—he wept bitterly. He himself was growing iller every day, ‘a man with a hanging head, a purple complexion and a heavy stupid look’, although he was not yet fifty. He and everyone else knew that he was a dead man if he continued his debauchery, but he had lost all control. On 22 December 1723, discussing the ludicrous concept of final damnation with a mistress, Mme de Falaris, he suddenly fell against her, unconscious; it was an apoplexy. When a lackey tried to bleed him, another lady screamed, ‘No! You’ll kill him—he has just lain with a whore.’ He was dead within two hours.

Philippe d’Orléans is generally regarded as a failure. None the less, Voltaire could write that the Regent’s only faults were too much love of pleasure and too much love of novelty, and that of all the descendants of Henri IV, he most resembled him ‘in his courage, kindliness, frankness, gaiety, lack of pomposity and deep culture’. Even that ferocious republican, Michelet, calls him ‘the good’ Duc d’Orléans, and claims that he used to say, ‘If I were a subject I would certainly revolt.’ Louis mourned him deeply, and spoke of him affectionately as long as he lived.

The Duc de Bourbon, who was the grandson of the great Condé and a senior Prince of the Blood, demanded and obtained the post of First Minister.
Monsieur le Duc
, as he was known at court, was scarcely less debauched than Orléans, and far less able. In his early thirties, ‘tall, bowed, thin as a rake, legs like a stork and a body like a spider, with two eyes so red that the bad one is difficult to distinguish from the good’ (old Liselotte’s description), Bourbon was hardly a charmer. He was already heartily disliked for having made a fortune out of Law’s
Système
. Soon he had made his administration thoroughly unpopular by harrying the Jansenists. His most maladroit piece of work was the King’s marriage.

The English were nervous at the prospect of a French
rapprochement
with Spain. Bourbon’s mistress, the beautiful, nymph-like Mme de Prie—whom an exiled Jacobite called ‘the most corrupt and ambitious jade alive’—was in receipt of an English pension and came out strongly against the Spanish match. Then in 1725 Louis fell dangerously ill, after which Bourbon lived in constant dread of the throne being inherited by the heir presumptive, the new Duc d’Orléans. ‘What will become of me?’ muttered Bourbon. He wanted a tractable, biddable Queen who would bear a Dauphin as soon as possible. The little Infanta was therefore sent back to Madrid. The Spanish ambassador cried out, ‘All the blood of Spain would not suffice to wipe away the shame which France has caused my master!’ (However, the Infanta was obviously delighted to go home—she said that she was very glad that she was not going to be married after all. In the end she married King Joao of Portugal.)

Europe was still more amazed by Bourbon’s choice of a Queen, Marie Leszczynska. She was the daughter of King Stanislas Leszczynski, a once dashing and glamorous figure now living in seedy retirement in Alsace as a pensioner of France; he had even been forced to pawn his wife’s jewels. Count of Lesno, he had been elected to the throne of the Polish Republic in 1704 when only in his twenties, and since losing it in 1709 had led a strange, adventurous life, pursued by assassins and living on charity; by now he had lost all hope of recouping his fortunes. When he heard the news of the French marriage, he shouted to his wife and daughter, ‘Down on our knees to give thanks to God!’ Unfortunately Marie was singularly lacking in Polish allure, though not the web-footed monster of French popular gossip; she was nearly seven years older than her future husband and, while pleasant-looking, had hardly the beauty which one may expect of a Cinderella; she was good, pious, unaffected, sweet-natured and boring, her favourite occupation being the embroidering of altar cloths. Lack of any other suitable bride was the real reason for Bourbon’s choice of ‘the Princess of Poland’, whom he no doubt hoped would be suitably grateful.

A marriage by proxy took place at Strasbourg Cathedral in August 1725, the Duc d’Orléans representing Louis; the bride wore a dress of silver brocade ornamented with roses and trimmed with silver lace. The King, for once amiable and at ease, married her for a second time in the chapel at Fontainebleau, after which there was a magnificent wedding banquet, presentations, a play, and supper amid dazzling fireworks. That first night Louis made love to his wife no less than seven times.

The King was fifteen when he consummated his marriage and was the father of five children by the time he was twenty. He was to have ten in all; in 1727 Marie presented him with twin daughters, Mmes Elisabeth and Henriette (known as Mme Première and Mme Seconde); another daughter in 1728 who died very young; the Dauphin Louis in 1729; the Duc d’Anjou in 1730 who died three years later; Mme Adelaide in 1732; Mme Victoire in 1733; Mme Sophie in 1734; Mme Félicité in 1736; and Mme Louise in 1737 (popularly known as Mme Dernière). It is said that all were begotten on the poor Queen without a single word from her husband.

To begin with, the marriage seemed happy enough, although Marie is credited with complaining that her life was nothing but,
‘toujours coucher, toujours grossesse, toujours accoucher’
. At first she was overcome by the unaccustomed luxury and plenty; shortly after her wedding she fell so ill that she was given the last sacraments; according to her father, Marie’s illness was due to eating nine dozen oysters, washed down with four flagons of beer, at a single sitting. Although many Frenchmen blamed Bourbon for such a
mésalliance
, her friendliness and lack of conceit won most hearts.

Ironically, Marie ruined her benefactors, Bourbon and Mme de Prie. At their bidding she tried to persuade the King to dismiss Fleury, who had been telling him of the appalling state of the country, that inflation and famine were widespread; that there were food riots in the provinces and even in Paris starving men were breaking into bakeries. The Duke persuaded Marie to invite Louis to her apartments where he might see him alone, without fear of interruption. He presented the King with a letter from Cardinal de Polignac which contained a savage attack on Fleury. ‘What do you think of this letter?’ asked Bourbon. ‘Nothing,’ replied Louis. ‘Your Majesty wishes to give a command?’ ‘Things will remain just as they are.’ ‘I have displeased Your Majesty?’ asked Bourbon nervously. ‘Yes.’ Cunningly, Fleury had already left Versailles, leaving an affectionate letter of farewell. At the news Louis burst into tears and ordered Bourbon to bring him back. Shortly afterwards the Duke was banished to his estates. Mme de Prie was also banished; within a year, driven crazy by boredom, she had poisoned herself. Fleury took control of the government in June 1726 and was created a Cardinal before the year was out.

If Cardinal Fleury was hardly another Richelieu, he could at least claim to be a French Walpole. His programme was a simple one—peace and prosperity. War must be avoided at all costs and the economy came before everything else. In 1728 he and an excellent Controller-General, Philibert d’Orry—a true heir of Colbert—having fixed the ratio of gold to silver and of bank notes to coin, established the livre at twenty-four to the gold
louis d’or
(or six livres to the silver crown), a rate which remained until the Revolution. Stricter controls were imposed on tax farmers and government expenditure was cut; some taxes were even reduced. An excellent system of state roads was begun and
bureaux de commerce
were founded to encourage trade. Abroad, Orry reorganized the
Compagnie des Indes
—the French East India Company—and encouraged trade with the Spanish and Portuguese Americas. In 1739 Fleury’s administration succeeded in balancing the budget for the first time since 1672 (and also for the last until the budget of the restored Bourbon government in 1815).

The King was perfectly happy to leave all power in the hands of an aged cleric. Pink-faced, beaming like an old cherub, the Cardinal was so powerful that all France was ready to attend the little ceremony when he went to bed. M d’Argenson writes scornfully how ridiculous it was to see the old man folding his breeches, putting on a threadbare nightshirt and combing his four white hairs. But elsewhere the diarist also writes how Fleury ‘loves the King and the realm and is honest and sincere’.

The Cardinal’s greatest cross were the Jansenists. He tried to enforce the Papal condemnation, imprisoning a number of priests and even a bishop and dismissing Jansenist professors from the Sorbonne (including the great historian Rollin). By now the sect had almost hysterical popular support in Paris; miracles were reported to have taken place at Jansenist graves, notably at the church of Saint-Médard. Predictably the Parlements took up so popular a cause, refusing to register a royal decree against Jansenists in March 1730. Louis summoned the lawyers to Versailles, where they were told that the law and its interpretation came from the King, not from Parlement; ‘Do not force me to show you that I am your master,’ he threatened, clutching his whip. At one point during the struggle over a hundred magistrates were exiled. In the end Fleury gave way and recalled them. The alliance of Parlementaires and Jansenists would cause trouble later in the reign.

Even the Queen was anxious to keep on good terms with Fleury. He made Louis send her a letter which said, ‘I beg you, Madame, and if need be, order you to do everything that the Bishop of Fréjus asks you, just as though it came from me.’ Marie addressed the Cardinal almost obsequiously, while he treated her with cold respect.

However, even Fleury could not resist public pressure to go to war on behalf of Marie’s father in 1733. Augustus II, Elector of Saxony and King of Poland, died in February. Stanislas Leszczynski hurried home to be elected King by his enthusiastic countrymen. Unfortunately Augustus III of Saxony was supported by the Habsburgs and by the Russians. The latter, a new factor in European politics, sent an army into Poland; Augustus was crowned at Cracow while Stanislas took refuge in Danzig, besieged by the Russians. Despite his frantic appeals, the French only sent 1,500 men under the Breton Comte de Plélo. Plélo made a heroic sortie but he was mortally wounded and his little force was wiped out. Just before Danzig fell, King Stanislas managed to escape, disguised as a sailor.

French prestige had to be redeemed, though Fleury grumbled that he did not want to ruin the King for the sake of his father-in-law. One French army attacked Augustus’s Austrian allies in the Rhineland, while another attacked them in Italy. In Germany, after advancing triumphantly, the Marshal Duke of Berwick (James II’s son by Arabella Churchill) had his head taken off by a cannonball; in Italy, after capturing Milan, gallant old Marshal Villars died, aged eighty-one. Having restored her reputation, France made peace in 1735. She recognized Augustus III as King of Poland, but in return Duke Charles of Lorraine—who had married the Emperor’s heiress, Maria Theresa—gave up his duchy to Stanislas with remainder to France. The old adventurer reigned happily at Luneville as ‘King of Lorraine’ for the rest of his life, holding elegant court and patronizing Montesquieu and Voltaire; the latter wrote that it was impossible to be a better King or a better man. By 1740, due to Fleury’s excellent diplomacy, France dominated Europe.

In 1740, when the Cardinal was ill, M d’Argenson confided to his diary that Louis was ‘a King of thirty, very well informed’, and had shown that he knew how to rule for himself. Later, d’Argenson—when his ambitions had been frustrated—claimed to despise Louis, but at this time even he succumbed to his charm. The young King was tall and magnificently built, and wonderfully handsome—huge, sad eyes, and a delicate Roman nose over a generous mouth redeemed from any femininity by a strong blue chin. Extremely shy, his reserve added to his fascination; he spoke little, but always in a pleasing, oddly husky voice. His haughty manner, which came from lack of self-confidence, intrigued rather than repelled. In addition, Nancy Mitford discerns ‘a sexy moodiness of manner irresistible to women’.

So limited a personality as Queen Marie could not hope to hold him. She refused to let him into her bed on certain saints’ days, and when she did she smothered him with blankets. Even her own father described Marie and her mother as ‘the two most boring queens I ever met’. Marie once gave it as her opinion that the best way of dispelling
ennui
was eating—she herself sometimes ate a twenty-nine course dinner. In any case she had lost her figure and was ageing fast. Louis was a man of violent appetites, a mighty trencherman and
gros buveur
, and by the late 1730s discreet valets were regularly procuring whores for him. Every ambitious young woman at court watched the King with greedy, fascinated eyes.

At Easter 1739, Louis refused to take Communion. During one of his little dinner parties at La Muette he had already toasted ‘that unknown she’. The previous autumn d’Argenson had noted that the King had taken one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting for his mistress, the Comtesse de Mailly; the diarist describes her as ‘well built but ugly, a big mouth with good teeth which gives her rather a stupid look. She is of small intelligence and has no ideas about anything’; later he says that ‘her ugliness scandalizes foreigners who expect a King’s mistress to at least have a pretty face’. (Perhaps surprisingly, Mme de Mailly once boasted that sixteen artists had painted her portrait!) None the less, as an experienced married woman of twenty-seven—she was nicknamed ‘the widow’—Louise-Julie de Mailly knew just how to put the shy King at his ease, flattering him with little attentions, such as making him a dressing-gown with her own hands and leaving it on his dressing-table. She was invited to the supper parties at La Muette and installed in a flat at Versailles. The Queen accepted the situation with surprising common sense and even humour—she may have been glad of the rest. When Mme de Mailly asked for leave to go to Compiègne where Louis was, the Queen replied, ‘Do what you like—you’re the mistress.’ La Mailly did not have a particularly enjoyable reign—the King was constantly betraying her with other ladies. However, she no doubt felt safe in introducing him to her sister, Félicité de Vintimille (whom an enemy described as having ‘the face of a grenadier, the neck of a stork and the smell of a monkey’.) As early as June 1739 the sisters were dining together with the King; he took them hunting and boating.