Louis XIV Read online

  * The Chambre des Enquêtes was one of the several tribunals of the Parlement; the judges who sat on it had been among the most extreme Frondeurs.

  * The Premier président was the chief magistrate; unlike all the other judges, who bought their offices, he was appointed by the king.

  * She was the daughter of Chrétienne, Louis XIII’s sister.

  † This cannot be, and it will not be.

  To anyone than a young man unhappily in love, the Treaty of the Pyrenees would have offered some solid consolations. Mazarin, ever aware that today’s enemy was tomorrow’s potential ally, had not tried to crush Spain; still, France received two Mediterranean provinces, Roussillon and Cerdagne, thus pushing the frontier over to the mountains, and a key northern province, Artois, which it had tried to conquer for 200 years, as well as half a dozen fortresses. Most important of all, however, was an innocuous-looking clause. The infanta, upon marrying Louis XIV, gave up her rights to Spain and its empire, provided that one key condition was fulfilled: Philip IV was to pay France a dowry of 500,000 gold écus.

  Nothing could have been more usual - only Spain was bankrupt and quite incapable of producing so large a sum. The door was thus open to any and all future demands, and given the fact that Philip IV was known to be in poor health and that his only son was not expected to live, it hardly took much imagination to see where the nonpayment of the dowry might lead. That Don Luis de Haro, the Spanish minister, should have accepted this clause is an eloquent comment on the weakness of Spain. Equally clearly, France had now become the preeminent power on the Continent.

  The king thought only of his broken heart, but, having given up Marie Mancini, he was now anxious to get his marriage over with. Once again, Mazarin pointed out this course of action would not do. A formal embassy, led by the maréchal-duc de Grammont, was sent to Madrid to ask for the infanta’s hand and reported back that the Spanish Court was extraordinarily formal, the king majestic but silent, and the infanta attractive but oddly dressed: Fashions there had not changed in a century. Still, the maréchal reported, Maria Teresa was likely to be a good wife. Brought up in the belief that a person of royal blood could only marry another person of royal blood, and that, in all Europe, only the king of France was good enough for her, she had every expectation of pleasing her husband. Further, she was pious and well educated except for an unfortunate oversight: She did not know a word of French, and, indeed, although she learned the language soon enough, she never lost her heavy Spanish accent. Finally, she was highly docile, a quality sure to appeal to her future husband.

  From then on, the preparations went forward. In France, the queen, Mazarin, and Colbert supervised the renovation of the royal apartments and ordered the most sumptuous costumes ever seen, much to the groom’s disgust, and as if to prepare the new era, the face of politics changed as well. Already in the fall of 1659, the all-powerful Mazarin was taking a hard look at the future. “I tried to serve you well,” he wrote to the king. “… If once you take over, you will do more in one day than a cleverer man than myself could manage in six months; for the actions of a King have a greater weight, are more visible, and make a greater impression than those of a minister, no matter how authorized he may be. I will be the happiest of men if I see you, as I expect I will, carry out your resolve to pay attention to business, and I will die most satisfied and pleased the very moment I see you are able to rule by yourself, using your ministers only to provide you with advice which you will use as you please, after which you will give them the orders which they will have to carry out.”69 Excellent advice, of course; more remarkably, Mazarin meant exactly what he said, and the king knew it. Having preferred duty to love, he was beginning to shed his adolescent carelessness: At twenty-one, after a reign of sixteen years, he was discovering the fascination of power.

  It all happened at the right time: One by one, the problems facing France were vanishing. Now that the war with Spain was over, the prince de Condé, specifically included in the peace treaty at Philip IV’s request, returned home, humbled and obedient. “I will admit that I have wished you very ill,” Anne of Austria told him, “and you will do me the justice to admit that I was right,”70 and the tame lion merely bowed in reply before retiring to his castle at Chantilly. Then, as if to underline his submission, Gaston, duc d’Orléans, died on February 2, 1660, leaving only daughters. Soon, that very title was given by Louis XIV to Philippe, his brother. Henceforth, in a complete reversal, the name stood for complete submission to the king’s authority. The Fronde now entered an increasingly remote past; peace brought about a new prosperity that induced not only compliance with the government’s policy but an increase in tax receipts as well.

  Even abroad, events favored France. Cromwell’s death in 1658 pushed Great Britain into a period of uncertainty which considerably weakened its ability to influence the rest of Europe. Even better, in the spring of 1660, much to everyone’s surprise, the pretender found himself recalled to the throne of his ancestors. Of course, Charles II had some solid reasons to resent the way he had been treated by the French Government, but he was Louis XIV’s first cousin; his mother was still living in Paris, and he could blame Mazarin rather than Louis XIV for his expulsion some six years earlier. As luck would have it, he was also singularly able to forget past grudges, especially since it occurred to him, early on, that France might well pay for the privilege of being his ally. So in April 1661, Henrietta Stuart, Charles II’s adored sister, and Monsieur were married: There, too, it seemed, France could do no wrong.

  That spring, the Court set off once more to the Spanish border, while on his side, Philip IV and the infanta moved toward France. The Spanish stopped in San Sebastian, the French in Saint Jean de Luz; the ministers resumed negotiations about the last few details while the fiancés remained separated; when Louis XIV sent his bride a letter, it was returned, but not before the infanta whispered to the messenger that her father had promised her a quick end to the delays. Finally, on June 3, the marriage by procuration was celebrated, with Don Luis de Haro standing in for Louis XIV, after which Anne of Austria was at last able to visit her brother. “In the course of that meeting … Cardinal Mazarin … came up to Their Majesties and told them that an unknown man at the door was asking that it be opened … The Queen blushed when she saw that it was the King, her son, and the young Queen still more as she looked at him fixedly … The Queen immediately said in Spanish that she would like to ask [her niece] how she liked this stranger, upon which [Philip IV] answered ‘que non ero tiempo de decirlo’ (that this was not the time to say).

  “‘And when will she be able to say?,’ asked the Queen.

  “‘Quanda avra pasado a quella puerta’ (when she has walked through that door),* the King, her brother, answered. Monsieur then said in a low voice to the young Queen: ‘Que le parece a Vuestra Majestad de la puerta?’ (How does Your Majesty like the door?). She immediately answered in a lively and cheerful way: ‘Muy linda, muy buena me parece la puerta’ (the door looks very good, very handsome to me).

  “After [Louis XIV] had looked at the Infanta, he left … As he went out, he told M. le prince de Conti and M. de Turenne that, at first, he had been surprised by the frightful coiffure and dress of the Infanta; but that once he looked at her carefully, he had realized that she was quite beautiful.”71

  It would have been, in fact, difficult to find anyone more unlike Marie Mancini: Not only was the young queen as fair as Marie was dark, she was tiny, and while her blond hair, blue eyes, and fresh complexion helped to make her attractive, she also had a large nose and pendulous lower lip. Then, where Marie was quick, intelligent, and fiery, the infanta was slow, obedient, fanatically pious and obviously stupid. Still, that was just as well: Everyone remembered the catastrophes caused by Marie de Médici, the last queen of France with a taste for power. In the new era, compliance was all, and there could be no doubt that Queen Marie Thérèse would do just as she was told.

  On June 6, the two kings at last met off
icially and swore to observe the peace they had just signed; on the seventh, the infanta, dressed in crimson silk embroidered in gold and silver and riding in a golden carriage, crossed the border; on the ninth, walking behind the prince de Conti and the cardinal, the king, dressed in gold cloth covered with a black veil,* made his way to the main church of Saint Jean de Luz; soon after, the infanta followed, wearing a silver brocade dress, a crown, and a purple velvet cloak embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis; Anne of Austria, in black and silver, closed the procession. After so many years of civil and foreign wars, the great object of her life was finally achieved, and remembering the horror of her own public wedding night, she made sure that when the king and his bride were put to bed early that night - Louis was noticeably impatient - they were left alone.

  By the next morning, it was clear that history would not be repeated: The new queen showed that she had fallen head over ears in love, while the king announced that, on the trip back to Paris, he and his bride would share the same room. But if the marriage was well and duly consummated, the two young people had little else in common than sex and a sense of their own dignity: Louis XIV spoke very little Spanish, Marie Thérèse hardly any French. Eventually, of course, she learned the language of her new country, but since her interests were limited to food, prayer, and the collecting of dwarfs, the uglier the better, she could hardly be expected to keep her husband’s attention. Never forgetting that duty came first, however, the king, even when he had mistresses, went on sleeping with his wife, a fact attested by the queen’s habit of clapping her hand at her lever whenever she had spent the night with her husband.

  As it was, the consummation of the marriage, that confirmation of the peace, was everything. On its way back toward Paris, the royal family was greeted everywhere with the most ecstatic acclaim. Fete followed fete, and the king looked ever more delighted. Then, at Saintes, near Bordeaux, Louis announced that the queens would proceed on to Saint Jean d’Angély while he himself visited La Rochelle - an important port, to be sure, but also a city within a few miles of Brouage, Marie Mancini’s former residence. Of course, both the queen mother and the cardinal were horrified, especially when the king refused to be accompanied by anyone other than four of his gentlemen. And indeed, after a brief visit to La Rochelle and its fleet, Louis went on to Brouage, where he spent half the night walking along the shore and sobbing. The next step was all too clear: Marie’s sister, Olympe, had become the king’s mistress after marrying the comte de Soissons; now Marie, who was to wed Prince Colonna, would follow her example. But while Olympe had only wanted favor and position, Marie, the romantic Marie, was likely to make real trouble, so when Louis arrived in Saint Jean d’Angely, he heard the newest gossip: The future Princess Colonna, people said, who was madly in love with Prince Charles of Lorraine, had thrown all discretion to the winds in pursuing him. That, of course, was enough. It was also a lie, carefully publicized by the cardinal and the queen mother. The innocent Marie never understood why, when she met the king again at Fontainebleau, she received only the most distant of greetings. In fact, the calumny had done its work: Louis XIV’s great passion was finally over.

  After that, there were the usual ceremonies. On August 26, the king and the new queen made their state entrance into Paris, he riding a prancing horse, she sitting in an open golden chariot. There were arches of triumph, fireworks, cheers, and speeches in which the king was not only praised but treated more like a deity than a mortal. Here, visible to all, was the symbol of the greatness, prosperity, and unity of France, and even the former rebels fell over themselves to worship the very monarch whom they had fought so hard just a few years earlier.

  When, on that day in August 1660, the king, the queen, and the Court paraded among the adoring multitudes, they also rode past the one man who had made it all possible: Although Cardinal Mazarin’s place as prime minister was in the procession, his health made it impossible for him to do anything but watch. Racked by gout and stones in the bladder, afflicted with a failing heart, the cardinal was declining visibly, but as is so often the case, no one realized that a new era was at hand. Never, apparently, had Mazarin governed so absolutely; he had grown positively rude to the queen mother, and perhaps more to the point, he still treated Louis XIV more like a pupil than a king. In fact, appearances were deceiving: Almost every day, the declining statesman was giving the young monarch lessons in how to rule, accounts of the state of the kingdom, and explanations about the positions of the different European powers. As for the king, who was as apparently uninterested in politics as ever, he began to feel a growing yearning for the moment when power would actually be his. As it turned out, he did not have long to wait. By December, Mazarin was declining visibly; by January, his doctors informed him that he only had two months to live. It was enough. With some regret - Must I then leave all this? he is reputed to have sighed as he looked at his collections - he prepared to dispose of his power and his fortune. Very properly, the king refused the last; as for the first, shortly before his death on March 9, 1661, the cardinal gave his last recommendations, and Louis XIV promptly set these down on paper.

  “M. le Cardinal, aware that his end was near … gave his last moments on earth to the love he has always felt for the welfare of my state and my own glory,” the king dictated to his Secretary. “In that condition, he gave me several important pieces of advice …

  “First, to maintain the Church in all its rights, immunities, and privileges in my capacity as its Eldest Son, without allowing them to be weakened under any possible pretext; that this was an obligation of conscience, as was the making sure that those to whom I give benefices* have the capacity, the piety, and the other qualities needed to fill them properly, and that, above all, they must be eager to serve me and the peace of my State.”72

  That the Church should come first was normal enough considering that the cardinal expected soon to meet his maker, but it is interesting to note that even here his respect for God’s service is tempered by practicality. Indeed, the king listened especially to the last sentence: a few years later, he wrote: “Kings are the absolute masters over, and have naturally the full and free disposition of, all goods,* whether they be owned by clerics or by the laity, and must at all times dispose of them as wise managers, that is according to the needs of the State …

  “These mysterious expressions of franchises or liberties of the Church, with which certain people may perhaps try to fool us … exempt no one from obedience to the sovereign.”73

  Still the cardinal went on. “As for the nobility, [he said that] it is my right arm, that I must prize it and treat it trustfully and kindly …

  “As for the judiciary [i.e., the Parlement], it is right that it be honored, but it is very important to prevent those of that profession from emancipating themselves, and to force them to remain within their duties so that they will think of nothing but rendering my subjects the justice which I have delegated to them.

  “That it was the duty of a good king to relieve my subjects not only when it came to the taille* but also to all the other taxes whatsoever, but no farther than the expenses necessary and indispensable to the conservation of my state would allow, since the subjects’ prosperity depends upon that of the state.

  “That I had near my person very able and faithful servants; that it was up to me to discern what each will do best so as to employ them according to their talents.

  “That I must make sure that all realize that I am myself the [chief] minister; that gifts [and favors] must come from myself alone, and that especially I must grant them only to those who deserve them because of their services or their capacity, and their fidelity to my person.

  “That I must make sure that the members of my Council be on good terms with one another lest their enmity harm my service; must hear their advice; always look for the best policy among their several opinions, come to a decision by myself and then uphold it while not allowing the slightest infringement on my authority.

  “Th
at if one of those I use in the business of the state was so unfortunate as to act without my orders, I must absolutely dismiss him as unworthy to serve me.

  “That I must allow no scandal at court, or tolerate impiety.”74 Once again, the cardinal had proved to be a great minister. Not only was his advice an impressive effort on the part of a dying man, it also provided the young, still inexperienced king with every principle he needed to govern wisely: Here, almost complete, was the charter for a new type of absolute monarchy. Not surprisingly, Louis XIV always remembered the cardinal with gratitude; more to the point, he applied the principles to which he had listened on that day of March 1661 to the end of his long life.

  Already on the evening of the seventh, as the cardinal began to sink rapidly, the king called his ministers together and briefly heard from them, but as long as Mazarin still lived he would not take over. He did not have long to wait. By the next evening, the dying man had lost consciousness; between two and three on the morning of the ninth, after much suffering, he was finally gone.

  “As soon as the Cardinal was dead,” Brienne, one of the junior ministers, noted, “the King, with tears in his eyes, came into the wardrobe where I stood waiting with the principal members of the Court and, leaning on the maréchal de Grammont, he told him: ‘We have just lost, you and I, a true friend.’“75 That Louis XIV felt real sorrow cannot be doubted; that he had long been prepared for his loss soon became equally obvious. “No sooner was the Cardinal dead than the King sent for MM. Fouquet*, Le Tellier,† and de Lionne‡ and gave to them alone his trust for the most secret part of the state’s business.”76 Here, indeed, was the first application of Mazarin’s maxims: A small inner group of ministers was to be responsible to the king alone, and we may gather what he told them from what he said, a few moments later, to his full Council. “As soon as we had entered,” Brienne the younger noted, “the, King who was already there, said gravely: ‘Messieurs, I have gathered you here to tell you that henceforth I intend to rule my state alone. M. le Chancelier§ and M. le Surintendant will no longer sign any decree or any ordonnance de comptant** without first telling me, and the Secretaries of State will no longer issue any papers, and I mean not even a passport or a spending authorization of a hundred écus, without having first received my orders to do so. Whenever one of you gentlemen has something to tell me, he may do so freely, and if there is the slightest criticism of my decisions, I mean concerning the legal forms which I have not yet had time to learn, I will gladly listen to the good advice of my faithful servants.”77 Upon which, the king announced that he intended to hold two councils a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, at which the current business would be discussed, and which only the chancellor, Fouquet, Le Tellier, and de Lionne would attend. As for Brienne the elder, who was directly in charge of the day-to-day conduct of foreign affairs, he was told never to discuss them outside of this narrow group, but to join it whenever he had anything to report. For the rest of the month, however, Louis XIV found himself holding a council every day.