The Lemoine Affair (7 page)

But every coin has its other side. This man of unrivalled qualities, in whom the brilliant
and the profound were equally prominent, this man, who could have been called delightful,
who could be listened to for hours to the amusement both of others and of himself,
since he laughed loudly at what he said as if he were both author and performer, to
their benefit, this man had one vice: he was just as thirsty for enemies as he was
for friends. Insatiable for the latter, he was relentless for the former, if one can
put it that way, since after a few years had gone by, it was the same ones in whom
he had lost all interest. He always needed someone to hate, to pursue, to persecute
on the pretext of the most trifling remark—thus he was the terror of Versailles, since
he did not in the least restrain his voice, which he employed to hurl the most grievous,
biting, unjust remarks at whoever was not to his liking, as when he very clearly proclaimed
about Diane de Peydan de Brou, esteemed widow of the Marquis de Saint-Paul, that it
was just as unfortunate for paganism as it was for Catholicism that she was named
after both Diana and Saint Paul. His choice of words always took people by surprise
and made them tremble.
Having spent his youth among the highest society, and his maturity among the poets,
and having liked both circles equally, he feared no one and lived in a solitude that
he made ever more austere by each former friend that he chased away. He was one of
the close friends of Mme Straus, daughter and widow respectively of the famous musicians
Halévy and Bizet, wife of Emile Straus, lawyer for a major charity; her admirable
retorts are remembered by everyone. Her face had kept all its charm and would have
been enough even without her intellect to attract all those who crowded round her.
She is the one who, once in the Chapel of Versailles where she had her pew, when M.
de Noyon whose language was always so affected and unnatural asked her if the music
they were listening to didn’t strike her as octagonal, replied, “My dear sir, I was
just about to say the same thing!”—as if answering someone who had uttered in front
of everyone something that came naturally to mind.

One could fill a whole book if one recounted all that has been said by her and that
should not be forgotten. Her health had always been delicate. She had taken advantage
of this early on to dispense with the Marlys and the Meudons, so went to pay court
to the King only very rarely, whereupon she was always received alone and with great
consideration. People were astonished by the fruits and mineral waters she made use
of all the time, without any liqueurs, or chocolate, and which had drowned her stomach;
Fagon had not wanted to acknowledge this since his reputation was
already dwindling. He called “charlatans” all those who prescribe remedies or who
had not been received into the Faculty of Medecine; because of such notions he drove
away a Swiss who could have cured her. In the end, as her stomach had lost the habit
for strong food, and her body for sleep and long walks, she turned this fatigue into
a distinction. Mme the Duchesse de Bourgogne came to see her and did not want to be
shown beyond the first room. She received duchesses sitting down, who came to visit
her just the same, since she was such a delight to listen to. Montesquiou never failed
to visit her; he was also highly regarded by Mme Standish, his cousin, who came to
that parvulo at Saint-Cloud, being the friend of longest standing of any to be admitted,
and the one closest to the Queen of England, and most cherished by her; all the women
there did not give way to her as should have been the case but was not, thanks to
the incredible ignorance of M. the Duc d’Orléans, who thought little of her since
her name was Standish, whereas in fact she was the daughter of Escars, of the house
of Pérusse, granddaughter of Brissac; she was one of the greatest ladies in the kingdom
as well as one of the most beautiful, and had always lived in the choicest society,
of which she was the supreme elixir. M. the Duc d’Orléans also did not know that H.
Standish was the son of a Noailles, of the branch of the Marquis of Arpajon. M. d’Hinnisdal
had to tell him this. So we had at this parvulo the very remarkable scandal of Prince
Murat, on a folding chair, next to the King of England. The stir
that
created resounded far beyond
Saint-Cloud. Those who had the good of the State at heart felt its foundations being
undermined; the King, so unversed in the reckoning of births and precedence, but understanding
the stain inflicted on his crown by the weakness of having destroyed the highest dignity
of the kingdom, attacked Comte A. de La Rochefoucauld on this subject in conversation,
who was better versed in this history than anyone and who, ordered to reply by his
master, who was also his friend, was not afraid to do so in terms that were so clear
and so distinct that he was heard by the entire salon, where however a lively game
of lans-quenet was being noisily played. He declared that, though much attached to
the greatness of his house, he did not believe that this attachment blinded him or
made him conceal anything from anyone, when he found that he was—not to say more—as
great a lord as Prince Murat; nonetheless he had always given precedence to the Duc
de Gramont and would continue to do so. At which the king forbade Prince Murat under
any circumstance from taking anything higher than the title of Highness, or crossing
the throne room. The only one who could claim this right was Achille Murat, because
he owns sovereign prerogatives in Mingrelia, which is a State bordering territories
of the Czar. But he was as simple as he was brave, and his mother, so well-known for
her writings, whose charming mind he had inherited, had quickly understood that the
substantial reality of his situation among those Muscovites was less than in the more-than-princely
house that was hers, since she was the daughter of the Duc de Rohan-Chabot.

Prince J. Murat faltered a bit beneath the storm, just long enough to pass this unfortunate
strait, but he wasn’t any more troubled than that, and we know that now, even to his
cousins, lieutenant generals make no difficulty whatsoever, seeing no deep reason
to do so, about addressing him as Your Highness and Sire, while the Parliament, when
he goes to greet them, sends out its bailiffs with their staffs raised, an honor which
Monsieur the Prince had so much trouble achieving, despite being a prince of the blood.
Thus everything declines, everything is debased, everything decays as soon as it is
born, in a State where the iron cautery isn’t applied right away to pretensions so
that they cannot grow anew.

The King of England was accompanied by Lord Derby who was enjoying here, as in his
own country, much consideration. He did not have at first sight that air of grandeur
and reverie that was so striking in B. Lytton, who has since died, or the singular
and unforgettable face of Lord Dufferin. But people liked him perhaps even more, by
virtue of a sort of kindliness that the French completely lack and by which they are
won over. Louvois had wanted him almost despite himself close to the King because
of his abilities and his profound knowledge of the affairs of France.

The King of England avoided calling M. the Duc d’Orléans by that title when he talked
to him, but wanted him to have an armchair, to which he did not lay claim, but took
care to refuse. The princesses of the blood dined in a manner beyond their station
by virtue of an indulgence that got talked about a lot but bore
no other fruit. The dinner was served by Olivier, first steward of the King. His family
name was Dabescat; he was considerate, beloved by everyone, and so well-known at the
court of England that many of the noblemen who were accompanying the King saw him
with more pleasure than the knights of Saint-Louis recently promoted by the Regent,
whose faces were new. He preserved great loyalty to the memory of the late King and
went every year to his memorial service at Saint-Denis, where, to the shame of forgetful
courtiers, he was almost always alone with me. I have lingered for a moment over him,
because by the perfect knowledge he had of his profession, by his kindness, by his
connection to the highest people without being over-familiar, or servile, he had not
failed to gain in importance at Saint-Cloud and to become a singular character there.

The Regent made the very true remark to Mme Standish that she was not wearing her
pearls as other ladies did, but in a way that the Queen of England had imitated. Guiche
was there; he had been brought there as if on a leash out of fear of incurring the
Regent’s displeasure forever, and was not very much at ease being there. He was much
happier at the Sorbonne and in the Academies, where he was sought out more than anyone
else. But in the end the Regent had reeled him in; he sensed what he owed in respect
of birth, if not of person, to the good of the State, perhaps to his own safety; it
would have been too conspicuous if he had not come, and since there was no middle
ground between disappearing and refusing to come, he came despite himself. At the
word “pearls,” I sought him out with my eyes. His own, very similar to his mother’s,
were admirable, with a gaze that, although no one liked amusing himself as much as
he did, seemed to pierce through his pupils, as soon as his mind was engaged in some
serious subject. We have seen that he was a Gramont, his name Aure, of that illustrious
house made important by so many marriages and positions ever since Sanche-Garcie d’Aure
and Antoine d’Aure, Vicomte d’Aster, who took the name and arms of Gramont. Armand
de Gramont, who is in question here, with all the seriousness the other lacked, recalled
the graces of that gallant Comte de Guiche, who had been so extensively welcomed in
the early years of the reign of Louis XIV. He towered over all the other dukes, if
only by his infinite knowledge and his admirable discoveries. I can truthfully say
that I would say the same things even if I had not received so many marks of friendship
from him. His wife was worthy of him, which is saying quite a lot. The position of
this duke was unique. He was the delight of the court, the hope, with good reason,
of scholars, the friend, without servility, of the highest people, the protector of
choice for those who were not yet elevated, the close friend infinitely regarded by
José Maria Sert, who is one of the foremost painters in Europe for his likenesses
of faces and his smart, enduring decoration of buildings. It has been remarked in
its place how, abandoning my berlin for some mules when I was returning to Madrid
for my embassy, I had gone to admire his works in a church where they are arranged
with prodigious art,
between the row of altar railings and columns inlaid with the most precious marble.
The Duc de Guiche was chatting with Ph. de Caraman-Chimay, uncle of the one who had
become my son-in-law. Their name is Riquet and he truly resembled Riquet with the
Tufted Hair as he is portrayed in the fairytales. Despite that, his face promised
charm and delicacy and kept its promises, according to what his friends have told
me. But I was not at all used to him—we had no commerce, so to speak—and I speak in
these Memoirs only of things I have been able to know for myself. I led the Duc de
Guiche into the private gallery so that no one could hear us: “Well!” I said to him,
“Has the Regent spoken to you of Le Moine?” “Yes,” he replied smiling, “and for now,
despite these cunctations, I think I have persuaded him.” Lest our brief conference
be noticed, we had drawn very close to the Regent, and Guiche pointed out to me that
they were still talking about gemstones, Standish having explained that in a fire
all the diamonds of her mother, Mme de Poix, had burned and turned black, because
of which peculiarity, very curious in its effects, they had brought them to the cabinet
of the King of England where they were preserved: “But if the diamond was blackened
by fire, couldn’t coal be changed into a diamond?” asked the Regent, turning to Guiche
with an embarrassed air, who shrugged his shoulders and looked at me, confounded by
this bewitchment of a man he had thought already dissuaded.

We saw for the first time at Saint-Cloud the Comte de Fels, whose family name is Frich,
who came to pay
court to the King of England. These Frichs, although they came long ago from the dregs
of society, are very glorious. It is to one of them that the good lady Cornuel replied,
as he was having her admire the livery of one of his lackeys and added that it came
to him from his grandfather: “Oh really, Monsieur? I had no idea that Monsieur your
grandfather was a lackey.” The presence at the parvulo of the Comte de Fels seemed
strange to those who can still be surprised; the absence of the Marquis de Castellane
surprised them even more. He had worked for more than twenty years, with the success
we know, for the rapprochement of France with England where he had made an excellent
ambassador, and the instant the King of England came to Saint-Cloud, his name, illustrious
in so many respects, was the first one that had come to his mind. We saw at this parvulo
another very singular novelty, that of a Prince d’Orléans traveling in France incognito
under the very strange name of an Infante of Spain. I expostulated in vain with M.
the Duc d’Orléans that, as great as the house from which this prince came was, one
could not conceive of calling an Infante of Spain someone who was not so in his own
country, where they give that name only to the heir to the crown, as we have seen
in the conversation I had with Guelterio during my ambassadorship to Madrid; and more,
that it was only a short step from Infante of Spain to simply Infante, and that the
former would serve as a shoehorn for the latter. At which M. the Duc d’Orléans protested
that one said simply King only for the King of France, that it had been commanded
to
M. the Duc de Lorraine, his uncle, not to let himself say King of France, when speaking
of the King, or else he would never leave Lorraine, and finally that if one said the
Pope, with nothing more, it’s because no other name would be needed. I could offer
no reply to any of these fine reasonings, but I knew where the Regent’s weakness would
lead him, and I made free to tell him. We have seen the result of this, and it wasn’t
long before people said simply Infante. The King of Spain’s envoys went to seek him
out in Paris and led him to Versailles, where he paid reverence to the King who remained
closeted with him for a good hour, then went into the gallery and presented him, where
everyone greatly admired his wit. Near the country house of the Prince de Cellamare
he visited that of the Comte and Comtesse de Beaumont whither the King of England
had already gone. People said with reason that never had husband and wife been so
perfectly made for each other, or for them their magnificent and singular home situated
on the pathway to the Annonciades, where it seemed to have been waiting for them for
a hundred years. He praised the magnificence of the gardens in perfectly chosen and
measured terms, and from there went to Saint-Cloud for the parvulo, but made a scandal
there by the unbearable pretension of placing his hand on the Regent. The Regent’s
weakness made the deliberations reach this highly unprecedented compromise that the
Regent and the Infante of Spain entered at the same time, through different doors,
into the dining room where the dinner was being given. Thus he hoped to
hide his hand. He charmed everyone again with his wit, but did not kiss any of the
princesses, but only the Queen of England, which surprised everyone greatly. The King
was outraged to learn of the claim on the royal hand and that the Regent’s weakness
had allowed the plot to be hatched. He did not admit the title of Infante and declared
that that prince would be received only with his former rank, immediately after the
Duc du Maine. The Infante of Spain tried to reach his goal by other ways. They did
not succeed in the least. He stopped visiting the King other than through lingering
habit, and at that only irregularly. In the end he suffered from weariness and was
seen only rarely at Versailles, where his absence made itself strongly felt, and awoke
regret that he had not settled there. But this digression on the peculiarity of titles
has taken us too far astray from the Le Moine affair.