Athenais (24 page)
Having successfully besieged Maastricht, Louis returned determined to see Athénaïs again. Perhaps his new conquests had recalled to him the beginnings of their own affair. Perhaps the freshness of the orange trees he had lovingly ordered was too enticing after the mud and sweat of the battlefield. There is no discernible reason for precisely why Louis changed his mind, but the casuistical argument current at court was that if both lovers had renounced their relationship, there was no reason why they should not meet in the harmony of friendship. The Duchesse de Richelieu, one of those friends whom Athénaïs had taken care to cultivate, skillfully championed the idea that the sinner had repented and that she was content merely to take her rightful place at court. After all, as Mme. de Caylus conceded, “Why not? . . . Mme. de Montespan ought to be there because of her birth and her duties; she can live as a Christian as well there as anywhere else.” So when Louis set off for Versailles in July, the court, the world, were agog to see whether his passion for the beautiful marquise would conquer the fear of God Himself.
It appeared that Athénaïs had won. Her apartments at Versailles were prepared as usual, and Louis, alarmed by Bossuet’s exigency, turned the problem of his conscience over to his confessor, Père la Chaise, giving his word of honor that he would “do nothing but what was right.” La Chaise, who had a mistress of his own, one Mme. de Bretonvilliers (nicknamed “La Cathédrale” by Parisians), unsurprisingly supported the King in his wish that Athénaïs be permitted to appear at court. Louvois and Colbert were in agreement for once in their hope that the King would return to her, as they feared that in the absence of a
maîtresse en titre,
Bossuet might become too intimate with Louis and threaten their own power. Seeing that Athénaïs had influential allies, Bossuet, terrified that all his work had come to nothing, set off to meet the King at Luzarches in a final effort to dissuade him from falling into sin. He was too overcome to speak, but threw himself on his knees, weeping pathetically. Louis ignored his tears, merely remarking, “Say nothing to me, Monsieur. I have given my orders.”
“Love, like fire, cannot survive without
continual movement, and it ceases to
live as soon as it ceases to hope or fear.”
A
thénaïs had to wait one whole miserable year before her lover returned to her. When Louis arrived at Versailles in that summer of 1675, he announced to the Queen and the Dauphin that he planned to keep the vows he had made before his departure, and that they ought to inform anyone who was curious of this fact. Athénaïs had to content herself with a courteous public salutation and no more. Louis insisted on seeing her only in company, and she was forced to keep her anger and frustration to herself. Nothing could more clearly emphasize the ultimate imbalance of power between the lovers than this fact that, unless Louis wished otherwise, he could use the stringent demands of etiquette to avoid any private scene with his suffering mistress, who had no right, even by virtue of their intimacy, to demand an explanation.
Ever the accomplished courtier, Athénaïs once again made a tremendous effort to keep to herself the pain she must have been feeling. If Louis no longer shared her bed, her public position was as strong as ever, since she had not been replaced, and she took care to demonstrate to the court that her social, if not her sexual standing was unaffected. On the surface, she appeared to agree that the King’s conversion was a splendid improvement, and one that she shared herself. She maintained her disdainful superiority over the other court ladies, giving splendid suppers and queening it over the Queen. She exploited her privilege as far as to ignore etiquette by taking precedence over the duchesses, who by rights ought to have preceded her. If Louis was angered by these liberties, he did nothing to prevent them, feeling perhaps that he had no right to do so, and the King’s approach set the tone for the court. If Athénaïs was no longer
maîtresse
in anything but name, her actions did nothing to suggest it and, publicly, at least, she managed things so skillfully that after a while everyone forgot that a rupture had ever occurred.
Everyone that is, except Bossuet. Furious that Athénaïs was, to all appearances, reestablished, he persecuted her in a most un-Christian manner. In September, while the court was at Fontainebleau, Athénaïs sent her friend the Duchesse de Richelieu to ask the curate if he would hear her confession. Despite the fact that her conduct had been irreproachable for months, the priest reported proudly to Bossuet that he had refused her on the grounds that although she had mended her conduct, she had not repented in her heart. The fact that this was undoubtedly true does nothing to excuse Bossuet’s hypocrisy, since he was perfectly prepared to believe in such a repentance on the part of the King. Bossuet also encouraged Mme. de Maintenon to aggravate Athénaïs while remaining in good favor with Louis — not that she needed much encouragement in this endeavor.
Mme. de Sévigné guessed that Bossuet had good cause to worry, but she was also perspicacious enough to imagine how difficult the situation was for Athénaïs. Of the visit to Fontainebleau she writes: “Everything was ready when a bolt fell from the blue that shattered the joy. The populace says it is on account of Quantova, the attachment is still intense. Enough fuss is being made to upset the curé [Bossuet] and everybody else, but perhaps not enough for her, for in her visible triumph there is an underlying sadness.”
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After months of this strain, even Athénaïs’s courage failed, and in May 1676, while Louis was again away in Holland, she decided to take the cure at Bourbon, ostensibly because she was suffering from rheumatism in the knee, but probably to get away from the unholy alliance of Bossuet and Maintenon. The trip might also have been something of a public-relations exercise to demonstrate to the provinces that she was still the King’s favorite. Bourbon at the time had a similar status and function as eighteenth-century Bath as a watering place and social center for the upper classes. The waters were reputed to cure every ailment from laryngitis, nervousness and rheumatism, to infertility.
Athénaïs was accompanied by her niece and her sister, Mme. de Thianges, and they traveled in typical style, in a barouche drawn by six splendid horses. Behind followed a coach containing six maids, two wagons, six pack mules, Athénaïs’s bodyguards and a dozen out-riders. In total, the party numbered forty-five. Mme. de Sévigné was following the same route as the royal mistress, a fussy tugboat in the wake of a stately liner, and she avidly reports every detail she was able to glean about the splendid procession. Mme. de Montespan arrives at each staging post to find her room and bed prepared; she dines heartily and then retires. Mme. de Montespan showers gracious streams of gold on every church and convent she passes. Mme. de Montespan receives letters from the army every single day . . .
Athénaïs paused at Nevers, where she was given an official welcome at the château, and thence proceeded to Bourbon, where none other than Louise de La Vallière’s brother, the Marquis de La Vallière who governed the province, had laid on a formal reception, which she tactfully declined. The cure at Bourbon lasted thirty days, and consisted of a combination of drinking the waters, therapeutic thermal baths, “medicines” such as bleeding and purges, and bed rest. Mme. de Sévigné was enthusiastic about the results, though her modesty was rather tried by the outdoor baths, and she did not venture into the mud pits. She comments on the excellent mix of Vichy and Bourbon water on offer: “These two rivals are accommodated together, it is no more than one heart and one soul. Vichy rests in the breast of Bourbon and warms itself at her fire, that is to say in the boiling of her fountains.” If only the same could have been said of the two marquises.
From Bourbon, Athénaïs and her party set off for Moulins aboard a magnificent barge, painted and gilded, and furnished, as the indefatigable de Sévigné reports, “in red damask . . . with quantities of devices and streamers in the colors of France and Navarre; there never was anything more romantic.”
2
Athénaïs had obtained this magnifi-cent equipage from Gilbert Bourdier de Roche, the intendant of the baths, who considered himself amply reimbursed for the enormous expense by the letter Athénaïs reported she had written to the King, full of praise for his attentiveness. So, as far as the provinces were concerned, Athénaïs’s status clearly remained intact.
This status was reinforced by the charity she dispensed during her voyage, displaying an inclination towards good works that continued to develop throughout her life. She created twelve new hospital beds, and made a large donation to the Capuchin order. She also engaged in a little sensitive politics. The family of the embezzler Nicolas Fouquet, the disgraced superintendent of finances, at that time incarcerated at Pignerol with Athénaïs’s old friend Lauzun, were also taking the waters at Bourbon. They visited Athénaïs on two consecutive days, discussing “the most delicate subject” at length. Mme. Fouquet earnestly wished to be allowed to join her husband in prison, and she pleaded her case with a good deal of modesty and tact. Athénaïs listened compassionately, and promised to make a report to the King. In fact, the first ameliorations of Fouquet’s imprisonment were put into practice the following year. Athénaïs’s compassion may have been motivated by the fact that her legitimate son, the ten-year-old Marquis d’Antin, was to pay a visit to Mme. Fouquet in the country. Mme. de Sévigné, a champion of the Fouquet family, visited her friend and found the boy good-looking and amusing. It is uncertain whether Athénaïs was able to meet her estranged son in Mme. Fouquet’s company, but perhaps this connection created an empathy between the two women that gave Athénaïs the courage to defend the unfashionable Fouquet cause.
In July, the King returned. During the celebratory reception given by the Queen at St. Germain, the Marquise de Montespan was suddenly announced. Louis, the stately monarch who struck ambassadors dumb with awe, who surrounded himself with the strictest etiquette, actually ran across the great salon to greet her, and only just held back from taking her in his arms. Naturally, the
dévot
party were horrified. They managed to keep Athénaïs away from her lover that night, and Mme. de Maintenon hurriedly volunteered to act as a chaperone for the next day’s journey to Versailles. When Louis announced that he intended to visit Athénaïs in her apartments at Clagny, the
dévots
assembled a party of worthy ladies to supervise the meeting and bear witness to the “pure and simple friendship” the lovers had sworn.
Athénaïs must have known that this was her last chance. All the witnesses agreed that she looked more beautiful than ever, like a blushing virgin. Louis crossed the room and drew her towards the window. He began to speak pompously, sounding just like Bossuet, but Athénaïs cut him short, murmuring, “It’s useless to read me a ser- mon. I understand that my time is over.” He wept; she wept. Athénaïs, who never cried in public, knew that day how to use her tears. “You are mad,” she said, smiling sadly.
“Yes, I am mad, since I still love you,” he replied.
Then they made an elegant bow to the company and withdrew to Athénaïs’s bedroom.
“And thus,” said Mme. de Caylus with a sniff, “came the arrival of Mme. la Duchesse d’Orléans and M. le Comte de Toulouse.” The King’s soul, it appeared, would have to take care of itself.
The
dévots
had prevailed briefly, but in the glorious flesh, Athénaïs was too much for them. Her rare combination of great beauty and superb wit were incomparable. When she entered a room she made other women invisible; when she talked, she rendered them dumb. Louis’s sensual attraction to her was simply too strong for him to resist. The sense of provocation, of competition even, that he felt with her meant that she always excited him, that she was always a challenge to be freshly overcome.
The priests in their black gowns retired to mutter like disgruntled crows, and with the reconciliation of the lovers, happiness returned to Versailles.
“Joy has returned and all jealous airs have vanished,” commented Mme. de Sévigné. Athénaïs had never been more fêted, more adored; the King seemed to be in love twice over, and as usual everyone ignored the Queen’s tears. Everything was done to please the triumphant favorite: there were balls, concerts, ballets every day. Bossuet claimed that the death that year of the great general Maréchal de Turenne was a punishment from God for the King’s wickedness, but although Turenne was deeply mourned, no one took much notice of Bossuet’s dire predictions. Mme. de Maintenon was peeved at the mishandling of the affair, declaring that holiness was all very well, but Bossuet was not enough of a courtier. If Athénaïs was ever to be ousted, it would have to be through the wiles of the salon rather than the imprecations of the pulpit.
The court was anxious to prove itself as friendly to Athénaïs as it had previously been hostile, and Athénaïs celebrated her victory as publicly as she had disguised her defeat, returning the King to his people in a series of glittering entertainments. She was referred to as the
maîtresse regnante,
a title always conspicuously denied to its proper bearer, the Queen, who stayed often alone in her apartments, solitary and uncourted. Occasionally, Marie-Thérèse amused herself with a Spanish play, to the discomfort of her few unlucky guests, who shivered in the almost empty, cavernous rooms, the majority of the court having made their excuses to join in whatever amusement was being offered by the “real Queen.” It was Athénaïs’s favor that everyone sought, and the vanity that had supported her dignity throughout the period of her humiliation now blazed forth in a determination to subdue Versailles to her will.
From one aspiring ally, a courtier named Langlée, Athénaïs received a marvelous dress “of gold on gold,” reports Mme. de Sévigné, “all embroidered with gold, all edged with gold, and on top of that a sort of gold pile stitched with gold mixed with a certain gold, which makes the most divine stuff ever imagined. The fairies have secretly devised this work, no living soul knew anything about it.”
3
It was delivered as a surprise. When Athénaïs’s dressmaker arrived, he at first showed her a different dress which did not fit. Having recovered all her imperious airs, Athénaïs terrified the poor man with a tantrum, after which he timidly inquired as to whether, since time was short, another dress might do instead, and produced the gold marvel which, of course, fitted beautifully. Louis arrived to admire it, but wondered who it was from. “Langlée,” answered Athénaïs. “No one else but Langlée could have imagined such magnificence.” For days, Langlée was the name on all the fashionable lips at Versailles.