Louis XIV. was made for a brilliant Court.  In the midst of other men, his figure, his courage, his grace, his beauty, his grand mien, even the tone of his voice and the majestic and natural charm of all his person, distinguished him till his death as the King Bee, and showed that if he had only been born a simple private gentlemen, he would equally have excelled in fetes, pleasures, and gallantry, and would have had the greatest success in love.  The intrigues and adventures which early in life he had been engaged in—­when the Comtesse de Soissons lodged at the Tuileries, as superintendent of the Queen’s household, and was the centre figure of the Court group—­had exercised an unfortunate influence upon him:  he received those impressions with which he could never after successfully struggle.  From this time, intellect, education, nobility of sentiment, and high principle, in others, became objects of suspicion to him, and soon of hatred.  The more he advanced in years the more this sentiment was confirmed in him.  He wished to reign by himself.  His jealousy on this point unceasingly became weakness.  He reigned, indeed, in little things; the great he could never reach:  even in the former, too, he was often governed.  The superior ability of his early ministers and his early generals soon wearied him.  He liked nobody to be in any way superior to him.  Thus he chose his ministers, not for their knowledge, but for their ignorance; not for their capacity, but for their want of it.  He liked to form them, as he said; liked to teach them even the most trifling things.  It was the same with his generals.  He took credit to himself for instructing them; wished it to be thought that from his cabinet he commanded and directed all his armies.  Naturally fond of trifles, he unceasingly occupied himself with the most petty details of his troops, his household, his mansions; would even instruct his cooks, who received, like novices, lessons they had known by heart for years.  This vanity, this unmeasured and unreasonable love of admiration, was his ruin.  His ministers, his generals, his mistresses, his courtiers, soon perceived his weakness.  They praised him with emulation and spoiled him.  Praises, or to say truth, flattery, pleased him to such an extent, that the coarsest was well received, the vilest even better relished.  It was the sole means by which you could approach him.  Those whom he liked owed his affection for them to their untiring flatteries.  This is what gave his ministers so much authority, and the opportunities they had for adulating him, of attributing everything to him, and of pretending to learn everything from him.  Suppleness, meanness, an admiring, dependent, cringing manner—­above all, an air of nothingness—­were the sole means of pleasing him.

This poison spread.  It spread, too, to an incredible extent, in a prince who, although of intellect beneath mediocrity, was not utterly without sense, and who had had some experience.  Without voice or musical knowledge, he used to sing, in private, the passages of the opera prologues that were fullest of his praises.