Her manifold ills were summed up in the King.  Since the Valois, she had had no monarch so worthless.  He did not want understanding, still less the graces of person.  In his youth the people called him the “Well-beloved;” but by the middle of the century they so detested him that he dared not pass through Paris, lest the mob should execrate him.  He had not the vigor of the true tyrant; but his langour, his hatred of all effort, his profound selfishness, his listless disregard of public duty, and his effeminate libertinism, mixed with superstitious devotion, made him no less a national curse.  Louis XIII. was equally unfit to govern; but he gave the reins to the Great Cardinal.  Louis XV. abandoned them to a frivolous mistress, content that she should rule on condition of amusing him.  It was a hard task; yet Madame de Pompadour accomplished it by methods infamous to him and to her.  She gained and long kept the power that she coveted:  filled the Bastille with her enemies; made and unmade ministers; appointed and removed generals.  Great questions of policy were at the mercy of her caprices.  Through her frivolous vanity, her personal likes and dislikes, all the great departments of government—­army, navy, war, foreign affairs, justice, finance—­changed from hand to hand incessantly, and this at a time of crisis when the kingdom needed the steadiest and surest guidance.  Few of the officers of state, except, perhaps, D’Argenson, could venture to disregard her.  She turned out Orry, the comptroller-general, put her favorite, Machault, into his place, then made him keeper of the seals, and at last minister of marine.  The Marquis de Puysieux, in the ministry of foreign affairs, and the Comte de St.-Florentin, charged with the affairs of the clergy, took their cue from her.  The King stinted her in nothing.  First and last, she is reckoned to have cost him thirty-six million francs,—­answering now to more than as many dollars.

The prestige of the monarchy was declining with the ideas that had given it life and strength.  A growing disrespect for king, ministry, and clergy was beginning to prepare the catastrophe that was still some forty years in the future.  While the valleys and low places of the kingdom were dark with misery and squalor, its heights were bright with a gay society,—­elegant, fastidious, witty,—­craving the pleasures of the mind as well as of the senses, criticising everything, analyzing everything, believing nothing.  Voltaire was in the midst of it, hating, with all his vehement soul, the abuses that swarmed about him, and assailing them with the inexhaustible shafts of his restless and piercing intellect.  Montesquieu was showing to a despot-ridden age the principles of political freedom.  Diderot and D’Alembert were beginning their revolutionary Encyclopaedia.  Rousseau was sounding the first notes of his mad eloquence,—­the wild revolt of a passionate and diseased genius against a world of falsities and wrongs.  The salons