Louis again sued for peace, but the allies would not relax their monstrous demands.  Marlborough, Eugene, and the Dutch Heinsius all found their own interest in prolonging the war.  But with the Bourbon cause apparently at its last gasp in Spain, the appearance there of Vendome revived the spirit of resistance.

Then the death of the emperor, and the succession to his position of his brother, the Spanish claimant, the Archduke Charles, meant that the allies were fighting to make one dominion of the Spanish and German Empires.  The steady advance of Marlborough in the Low Countries could not prevent a revulsion of popular sentiment, which brought about his recall and the practical withdrawal from the contest of England, where Bolingbroke and Oxford were now at the head of affairs.  Under Villars, success returned to the French standards in Flanders.

Hence came in 1713 the peace of Utrecht, for the terms of which England was mainly responsible.  It was fair and just, but the English ministry received scant justice for making it.  The emperor refused at first to accept it; but, when isolated, he agreed to its corollary, the peace of Rastadt.  Philip was secured on the throne of Spain.

Never was there a war or a peace in which so many natural expectations were so completely reversed in the outcome.  What Louis may have proposed to himself after it was over, no one can say for he died the year after the treaty of Utrecht.

IV.—­The Court of the Grand Monarque

The brilliancy and magnificence of the court, as well as the reign of Louis XIV., were such that the least details of his life seem interesting to posterity, just as they excited the curiosity of every court in Europe and of all his contemporaries.  Such is the effect of a great reputation.  We care more to know what passed in the cabinet and the court of an Augustus than for details of Attila’s and Tamerlane’s conquests.

One of the most curious affairs in this connection is the mystery of the Man with the Iron Mask, who was placed in the Ile Sainte-Marguerite just after Mazarin’s death, was removed to the Bastille in 1690, and died in 1703.  His identity has never been revealed.  That he was a person of very great consideration is clear from the way in which he was treated; yet no such person disappeared from public life.  Those who knew the secret carried it with them to their graves.

Once the man scratched a message on a silver plate, and flung it into the river.  A fisherman who picked it up brought it to the governor.  Asked if he had read the writing, he said, “No; he could not read himself, and no one else had seen it.”  “It is lucky for you that you cannot read,” said the governor.  And the man was detained till the truth of his statement had been confirmed.