Chapter V

Mistresses and Wives of Louis XIV

The story of the wives and mistresses of Louis XIV., embraces that which is most dramatic morally (or immorally dramatic) in the history of French women.  The record of the eighteenth century heroines is essentially a tragic one, while that of those of the previous century is essentially dramatic in its sadness, remorse, and repentance.

The mistress, as a rule, was unhappy; there were few months during the period of her glory, in which she was entirely free from anxiety or in which her conscience was at rest.  Mme. de Montespan “was for so many years the sick nurse of a soul worn out with pride, passion, and glory.”  Mme. de Maintenon wrote to one of her friends:  “Why cannot I give you my experience?  Why cannot I make you comprehend the ennui which devours the great, and the troubles that fill their days?  Do you not see that I am dying of sadness, in a fortune the vastness of which could not be easily imagined?  I have been young and pretty; I have enjoyed pleasures; I have spent years in intellectual intercourse; I have attained favor; and I protest to you, my dear child, that all such conditions leave a frightful void.”  She said, also, to her brother, Count d’Aubigne:  “I can hold out no longer; I would like to be dead.”  It was she too, who, after her successes, made her confession thus:  “One atones heavily for the pleasures and intoxications of youth.  I find, in looking back at my life, that since the age of twenty-two—­which was the beginning of my fortune—­I have not had a moment free from sufferings which have constantly increased.”

M. Saint-Amand gives a description of the women of Louis XV. which well applies to those of his predecessor:  “These pretended mistresses, who, in reality, are only slaves, seem to present themselves, one after the other, like humble penitents who come to make their apologies to history, and, like the primitive Christians, to reveal publicly the miseries, vexations, and remorses of their souls.  They tell us to what their doleful successes amounted:  even while their triumphal chariot made its way through a crowd of flatterers, their consciences hissed cruel accusations into their ears; like actresses before a whimsical and variable public, they were always afraid that the applause might change into an uproar, and it was with terror underlying their apparent coolness that they continued to play their sorry part....  If among these mistresses of the king there were a single one who had enjoyed her shameful triumphs in peace, who had called herself happy in the midst of her dearly bought luxury and splendor, one might have concluded that, from a merely human point of view, it is possible to find happiness in vice.  But, no—­there is not even one!” Massillon, the great preacher of truth and morality, said:  “The worm of conscience is not dead; it is only benumbed.  The alienated reason presently returns, bringing with it bitter troubles, gloomy thoughts, and cruel anxieties”—­a true picture of every mistress.