Shortly afterwards,—­by one of the most surprising and unheard-of pieces of good fortune, the crown of Spain fell into the hands of the Duc d’Anjou, grandson of the King.  It seemed as though golden days had come back again to France.  Only for a little time, however, did it seem so.  Nearly all Europe, as it has been seen, banded against France, to dispute the Spanish crown.  The King had lost all his good ministers, all his able generals, and had taken good pains they should leave no successors.  When war came, then, we were utterly unable to prosecute it with success or honour.  We were driven out of Germany, of Italy, of the Low Countries.  We could not sustain the war, or resolve to make peace.  Every day led us nearer and nearer the brink of the precipice, the terrible depths of which were for ever staring us in the face.  A misunderstanding amongst our enemies, whereby England became detached from the grand alliance; the undue contempt of Prince Eugene for our generals, out of which arose the battle of Denain; saved us from the gulf.  Peace came, and a peace, too, infinitely better than that we should have ardently embraced if our enemies had agreed amongst themselves beforehand.  Nevertheless, this peace cost dear to France, and cost Spain half its territory—­Spain, of which the King had said not even a windmill would he yield!  But this was another piece of folly he soon repented of.

Thus, we see this monarch, grand, rich, conquering, the arbiter of Europe; feared and admired as long as the ministers and captains existed who really deserved the name.  When they were no more, the machine kept moving some time by impulsion, and from their influence.  But soon afterwards we saw beneath the surface; faults and errors were multiplied, and decay came on with giant strides; without, however, opening the eyes of that despotic master, so anxious to do everything and direct everything himself, and who seemed to indemnify himself for disdain abroad by increasing fear and trembling at home.

So much for the reign of this vain-glorious monarch.

Let me touch now upon some other incidents in his career, and upon some points in his character.

He early showed a disinclination for Paris.  The troubles that had taken place there during his minority made him regard the place as dangerous; he wished, too, to render himself venerable by hiding himself from the eyes of the multitude; all these considerations fixed him at Saint-Germain soon after the death of the Queen, his mother.  It was to that place he began to attract the world by fetes and gallantries, and by making it felt that he wished to be often seen.

His love for Madame de la Valliere, which was at first kept secret, occasioned frequent excursions to Versailles, then a little card castle, which had been built by Louis XIII.—­annoyed, and his suite still more so, at being frequently obliged to sleep in a wretched inn there, after he had been out hunting in the forest of Saint Leger.  That monarch rarely slept at Versailles more than one night, and then from necessity; the King, his son, slept there, so that he might be more in private with his mistress, pleasures unknown to the hero and just man, worthy son of Saint-Louis, who built the little chateau.