Villeroy was now sixty-six years of age, and had been secretary of state during forty-two years and under four kings.  A man of delicate health, frail body, methodical habits, capacity for routine, experience in political intrigue, he was not personally as greedy of money as many of his contemporaries, and was not without generosity; but he loved power, the Pope, and the House of Austria.  He was singularly reserved in public, practised successfully the talent of silence, and had at last arrived at the position he most coveted, the virtual presidency of the council, and saw the men he most hated beneath his feet.

At the first interview of Aerssens with the Queen-Regent she was drowned in tears, and could scarcely articulate an intelligible sentence.  So far as could be understood she expressed her intention of carrying out the King’s plans, of maintaining the old alliances, of protecting both religions.  Nothing, however, could be more preposterous than such phrases.  Villeroy, who now entirely directed the foreign affairs of the kingdom, assured the Ambassador that France was much more likely to apply to the States for assistance than render them aid in any enterprise whatever.  “There is no doubt,” said Aerssens, “that the Queen is entirely in the hands of Spain and the priests.”  Villeroy, whom Henry was wont to call the pedagogue of the council, went about sighing dismally, wishing himself dead, and perpetually ejaculating, “Ho! poor France, how much hast thou still to suffer!” In public he spoke of nothing but of union, and of the necessity of carrying out the designs of the King, instructing the docile Queen to hold the same language.  In private he was quite determined to crush those designs for ever, and calmly advised the Dutch government to make an amicable agreement with the Emperor in regard to the Cleve affair as soon as possible; a treaty which would have been shameful for France and the possessory princes, and dangerous, if not disastrous, for the States-General.  “Nothing but feverish and sick counsels,” he said, “could be expected from France, which had now lost its vigour and could do nothing but groan.”

Not only did the French council distinctly repudiate the idea of doing anything more for the princes than had been stipulated by the treaty of Hall—­that is to say, a contingent of 8000 foot and 2000 horse—­but many of them vehemently maintained that the treaty, being a personal one of the late king, was dead with him?  The duty of France was now in their opinion to withdraw from these mad schemes as soon as possible, to make peace with the House of Austria without delay, and to cement the friendship by the double marriages.