Part 27

Such was the end of the imposing and kingly bodily presence; but this was not the end of the accomplishment of that heroic soul. When the horse of the fallen Gustavus, with its empty saddle covered with blood, came running amongst the Swedish troops, they knew what had happened to their king. Duke Bernhard, riding through the ranks, exclaimed, “Swedes, Finlanders, and Germans! your defender, the defender of our liberty, is dead. Life is nothing to me if I do not draw bloody vengeance from this misfortune. Whoever wishes to prove he loved the king, has only to follow me to avenge his death.” The whole Swedish army, fired by a common enthusiasm nerved by desperation, advanced to the attack, and so valiantly did they fight, that their gallant charge completed the victory of Lützen. Thus died the “Gold-king of the North”; but his dying hours were gilded by the sunset glories of immortal fame, and the “Snow-king,” of Sweden, leaves a name as pure and glistening as the starry snow-flakes.

“Great men, far more than any Alps or coliseums, are the true world-wonders, which it concerns us to behold clearly, and imprint forever on our remembrance. Great men are the fire-pillars in this dark pilgrimage of mankind; they stand as heavenly signs, ever-living witnesses of what has been,—prophetic witnesses of what may still be; the revealed embodied possibilities of human nature, which greatness he who has never with his whole heart passionately loved and reverenced, is himself forever doomed to be little.”

LOUIS XIV. OF FRANCE.

1638-1715 A.D.

“To do what one pleases with impunity, That is to be King.”—SALLUST.

THE reign of Louis XIV., whether regarded politically, socially, or morally, was undoubtedly the most striking which France has ever known. The splendor of his court, the successes of his armies, and the illustrious names that embellished the century over which he ruled, drew the attention of all Europe to the person of the monarch who, every inch a king, assumed the authority and power of regality as well as its mere visible attributes. All Europe looked to France, all France to Paris, all Paris to Versailles, all Versailles to Louis XIV.

[Illustration: LOUIS XIV.]

The centre of all attraction, he, like the eagle, embraced the whole glory of the orb upon which he gazed; and seated firmly upon the throne of France, ruling by the “right divine,” he ushered in the golden age of literature, himself the theme and gaze and wonder of a dazzled world.

The morning of the 5th of September, 1638, dawned bright and clear. In the forest of St. Germain, the birds sang merrily in the trees, and the timid deer sought shelter in the deepest shade, all unconscious that ere the setting of the sun a royal prince would look upon it for the first time.

The park and palace were filled with an eager and excited throng; earls, princes, dukes, and bishops anxiously awaited the announcement that an heir was born to the crown of France. In the grand salon of Henry IV., King Louis XIII., the Duke d’Orleans, the bishops of Lisieux, Meaux, and Beauvais, impatiently awaited the long-expected tidings. And now the folding-doors are thrown back, and the king is greeted with the welcome intelligence that he is the father of a _dauphin_. Tenderly he takes the child, and stepping upon the balcony, exhibits him to the crowd, exclaiming joyfully, “A son, gentlemen! a son!” and park and palace re-echo with the shouts of “_Vive le Roi!_” “_Vive le Dauphin!_”

Thus this baby prince, when first he saw the light, was greeted by the homage of a court—an homage which, during a life of seventy-seven years, he ever exacted and received, until as Louis XIV., the _Grand Monarque_, in obedience to Him who is King of kings and Lord of lords, he laid aside his sceptre and his crown, and slept with his fathers in the royal vaults of St. Denis. The birth of the dauphin afforded Louis XIII. such delight that for a time he threw aside his melancholy manner; but his health, never robust, failed rapidly, and on the 20th of April, 1643, feeling that his end could not be far distant, he declared the regency of the queen, and desired the christening of the dauphin. It accordingly took place on the following day with much pomp in the chapel at St. Germain. The king desired he should be called Louis, and after the ceremony, when the little prince was carried to his bedside in order to ascertain if his wishes had been fulfilled, he demanded, “What is your name, my child?” And the little dauphin replied promptly, “I am Louis XIV.”

“Not yet, my son, not yet!” said the dying king; “but I pray to God that it may soon be so.”

From this time his health failed rapidly, and on the 14th of May, 1643, he expired, having reigned thirty-three years.

The little dauphin early displayed that haughtiness and self-will which were to be the ruling principles of his life. His education had been grossly neglected, and through this came many of his after faults; and though he excelled in every punctilio of court etiquette, and was the very essence of politeness, yet in other things he was far behind the other youths of his age. This was exactly as Cardinal Mazarin intended that it should be, that by thus dwarfing the intellect of the king, he might the longer grasp the reins of government. The wily cardinal fully understood the character of the young prince with whom he had to deal, and upon one occasion, when some one remonstrated with him concerning the course he had adopted toward the king, he replied, “Ah, you do not know His Majesty! he has the stuff in him to make four kings and an honest man.”

The hatred and dislike of Louis for the cardinal increased day by day. The state affected by him jarred upon his natural haughtiness, and, boy as he was, it was impossible that he could contrast the extreme magnificence of his mother’s minister with his own neglected condition without feeling how insultingly the cardinal had profited by his weakness and want of power. On one occasion at Compiègne, as the cardinal was passing with a numerous suite along the terrace, the king turned away, saying contemptuously, without any attempt to lower his voice, “There is the Grand Turk going by.”

A few days afterwards, as he was traversing a passage in which he perceived one of the cardinal’s household named Bois Fermé, he turned to M. de Nyert, who was following him, and observed, “So the cardinal is with mamma again, for I see Bois Fermé in the passage. Does he always wait there?”

“Yes, sire,” replied Nyert; “but in addition to Bois Fermé there is another gentleman upon the stairs and two in the corridor.”

“There is one at every stride, then,” said the young; king dryly.

But the boy-king was not the only one who found the arrogance of the haughty cardinal unbearable. There had gradually sprung up a deadly feud between the court and Mazarin on one side, and the Parliament on the other.

The people of Paris were in sympathy with the Parliament; and nobles, even of royal blood, out of enmity to Mazarin, joined the popular cause.

Thus commenced the famous civil war of the Fronde; for as the cardinal contemptuously remarked, “The Parliament are like school-boys _fronding in the Paris ditches_,” and the Parliament of Paris accepted the title, and adopted the _Fronde_, or sling, as the emblem of their party. There were riots in Paris, and affairs grew threatening. Mazarin and the court party were alarmed and fled to St. Germain.

Thus there were two rival courts in France,—the one at St. Germain, where all was want and destitution; the other at the Hotel de Ville in Paris, where all was splendor, abundance, and festive enjoyment. The court and Mazarin soon tired of the life at St. Germain, and the king; sent a herald to the Parliament. The Parliament refused to receive the herald, but sent a deputation to the king, and at last, after a lengthy conference, a not very satisfactory compromise was agreed upon, and on the 5th of April, 1650, the royal fugitives returned to Paris.

“Thus ended the first act of the most singular, bootless, and we are almost tempted to add, burlesque war, which in all probability, Europe ever witnessed. Through its whole duration society appeared to have been smitten with some moral hallucination. Kings and cardinals slept on mattresses; princesses and duchesses on straw; market-women embraced princes; prelates governed armies; court-ladies led the mob, and the mob in its turn ruled the city.”

On the 5th of September, 1651, the minority of the dauphin ceased, he had now entered upon his fourteenth year, and, immature boy as he was, he was declared to be the absolute monarch of France. On the seventh of the month, the king held his bed of justice. The ceremony was attended with all the pomp the wealth of the empire could furnish. The young king left the Palais Royal attended by a numerous and splendid retinue. Observed of all observers, “handsome as Adonis, august in majesty, the pride and joy of humanity,” he sat his splendid steed; and when the horse, frightened by the long and enthusiastically prolonged cries of, “_Vive le Roi!_” reared and plunged with terror, Louis managed him with a skill and address which called forth the admiration of all beholders. After attending mass, the young king took his seat in the Parliament. Here the boy of thirteen, covering his head while all the notabilities of France stood before him with heads uncovered, repeated the following words:—

“Gentlemen, I have attended my Parliament in order to inform you that, according to the law of my kingdom, I shall myself assume its government. I trust that by the goodness of God it will be with piety and justice.”

The chancellor then made a long address, after which the oath of allegiance was taken by all the civil and ecclesiastical notabilities. The royal procession then returned to the gates of the Palais Royal. Thus, a stripling, who had just completed his thirteenth year, was accepted by the nobles and by the populace as the absolute and untrammelled sovereign of France. “He held in his hands, virtually, unrestrained by constitution or court, their liberties, their fortunes, and their lives.” Two years later, in 1653, the coronation of the king took place at Rheims. France at this time was at war with Spain, and, immediately after the coronation, the king, then sixteen years of age, set out from Rheims to place himself at the head of the army. He went to Stenay, on the northeastern frontier of France. This ancient city, protected by strong fortifications, was held by the Prince de Condé. The royal troops were besieging it. There were marches and counter-marches, battles and skirmishes. The young king displayed intrepidity which secured for him the admiration of the soldiers. Turenne and Fabert fought the battles and gained the victories. Stenay was soon taken, and the army of the Prince de Condé driven from all its positions. “There is nothing so successful as success;” and the young king, a hero and a conqueror, returned to Paris to enjoy the congratulation of the populace, and to offer public thanksgiving in the cathedral of Nôtre Dame. Though the king was nominally the absolute ruler of France, still there was the influence of his mother, Anne of Austria, which up to this time had exerted over him a great control; but this was soon to end.

Henrietta Maria, the widowed queen of the unfortunate Charles I., was then residing at the French court. Her daughter Henrietta, as grand-daughter of Henry IV. and daughter of Charles I., was entitled, through the purity of her royal blood, to the highest consideration at the court. When, then, at a ball given for these unfortunate guests, the music summoned the dancers upon the floor, and the king, in total disregard of his young and royal cousin, advanced, according to his custom, to lead out the Duchesse de Mercœur, the queen was shocked at so gross a breach of etiquette, and, rising hastily, she withdrew his hand from that of the duchess, and said in a low voice, “You should dance first, my son, with the princess of England.”

Louis replied sullenly, “I am not fond of little girls.”

[Illustration: ANNE OF AUSTRIA AND CARDINAL MAZARIN.]

Both Henrietta and her daughter overheard this discourteous remark. The English queen hastened to Anne of Austria, and entreated her not to attempt to constrain the wishes of his majesty. The position was exceedingly awkward for all parties; but the proud spirit of Anne of Austria was aroused. Resuming her maternal authority, she declared that if her niece, the princess of England, remained a spectator at the ball, her son should do the same. Thus constrained, the king very ungraciously led out the English princess upon the floor. After the departure of the guests, the mother and son had their first serious quarrel. Severely Anne of Austria rebuked the king for his shameful and uncourteous conduct. Louis faced his mother haughtily. “Madam, who is lord of France, Louis the king or Anne of Austria? Too long,” he said, “I have been guided by your leading strings. Henceforth, I will be my own master; and do not you, madam, trouble yourself to criticise or correct me. I am the king.” And this was no idle boast; for from that tearful evening of the queen’s ball to the day of his death, sixty-one years after, Louis of Bourbon, called The Great, ruled as absolute lord over his kingdom of France; and the boy who could say so defiantly, “Henceforth, I will be my own master,” was fully equal to that other famous declaration of arrogant authority, made years after in the full tide of his power, “_I am the state!_”

But Anne of Austria was not the only one destined to feel the imperious will of the young sovereign. The Parliament of Paris refused to register certain decrees of the king. Louis heard of it while preparing to hunt in the woods of Vincennes. He leaped upon his horse, and galloped to Paris. At half-past nine o’clock in the morning, the king entered the Chamber of Deputies, in full hunting dress. He heard mass, and, whip in hand, addressed the body: “Gentlemen of the Parliament, it is my will that in future my edicts be _registered_, and not discussed. Should the contrary occur, I shall return, and enforce obedience.”

The trumpet sounded, and the king and his courtiers galloped back to the forest of Vincennes. The decrees were registered. Parliament had ventured to try its strength against Cardinal Mazarin, but did not dare to disobey its king.

The marriage of the king was a matter of much importance, and was much talked of. The aspirants for his hand and the throne of France were numberless. Maria Theresa, the daughter of the king of Spain, was very beautiful. Spain and France were then engaged in petty and vexatious hostilities, and a matrimonial alliance would secure friendship.

So negotiations were begun; and on the 10th of June, 1660, Louis, then in the twenty-second year of his age, was joined in marriage, at the Isle of Pheasants, to Maria Theresa, infanta of Spain. On the 26th of August, the king and his young bride made their public entry into Paris. Triumphal arches spanned the thoroughfares, garlands of flowers and hangings of tapestry covered the fronts of the houses, and sweet-scented herbs strewed the pavements, upon which passed an apparently interminable procession of carriages, horsemen, and footmen; and in the midst of the clangor of trumpets, the boom of cannon, and the shouts and acclamations of the multitude, came the chariot of the young queen, who, radiant and sparkling with brilliant gems, beheld from her lofty height all Paris striving to do her honor. By her side rode the king. His garments, of velvet richly embroidered with gold, and covered with jewels, had been prepared at an expense of over a million of dollars. The gorgeousness of this gala day lived long in the minds of the splendor-loving Parisians. For succeeding weeks and months, the court luxuriated in one continued round of gayety. “There was a sound of revelry by night” in the _salons_ of the Louvre and the Tuileries, while lords and ladies trod the floors in the mazy evolutions of the dance. And yet, to maintain all this state, all this splendor, all this reckless extravagance, thousands of the peasantry of France were compelled to live in mud hovels, to wear the coarsest garb, to eat the plainest food, while their wives and daughters toiled barefoot in the fields.

The Cardinal Mazarin was old and dying. For eighteen years he had been virtually monarch of France. Avaricious and penurious to the last degree, he had amassed enormous wealth. Cursed by the peasantry whom he had ground to the earth, hated by the king whom he had tried to rule, despised by the court which he had attempted to humble, on the 9th of March, 1661, at his Chateau Mazarin, the cardinal breathed his last. From that moment until the day of his death, Louis XIV. sat all-powerful upon his throne. And when the president of the Ecclesiastical Assembly inquired of the king to whom he must hereafter address himself on questions of public business, the emphatic and laconic response was, “_To myself_.”

M. Fouquet, the Minister of the Treasury, was rolling in ill-gotten wealth. His palace of Vaux le Vicomte, upon which he had expended fifteen millions of francs, eclipsed in splendor the royal palaces of the Tuileries and Fontainebleau. The king disliked him. He knew he was robbing the treasury, and it was more than his self-love could endure, that a subject should live in state surpassing that of his sovereign. Fouquet most imprudently invited the king and all the court to a fête at the chateau. No step could have been more ill-advised; for the king was little likely to forget, as he looked upon the splendors of Vaux le Vicomte, by which St. Germain and Fontainebleau were utterly eclipsed, that its owner had derived all his wealth from the public coffers; and at a time, too, when he was himself in need of the funds here lavished with such reckless profusion. Every one in France, who bore a distinguished name, was bidden to the princely festival, which was destined to be commemorated by La Fontaine and by Benserade, by Pelisson and by Molière. Fouquet met the king at the gates of the chateau, and conducted him to the park. Here, notwithstanding all he had heard of the splendors of Vaux le Vicomte, the king was unprepared for the scene of magnificence which burst upon his view. The play of the fountains, the beauty of the park, and the splendor of the chateau were long remembered by the guests at this princely festival. But to Louis XIV. it was gall and wormwood; and when he took leave of his obsequious host, he remarked bitterly: “I shall never again, sir, venture to invite you to visit me. You would find yourself inconvenienced.”

[Illustration: LOUIS XIV. TAKING LEAVE OF FOUQUET.]

Fouquet felt the keen rebuke, and turned pale. The king and his courtiers returned to Paris, but in the mind of Louis XIV. there loomed up distant visions of the palaces of Versailles and the great hydraulic machine at Marly. On the 8th of January, 1666, Anne of Austria died. It was a gloomy winter’s night when the remains of her who had been both queen and regent of France were borne to their last resting-place in the vaults of St. Denis. In his previous campaigns, Louis had taken Flanders in three months, and Franche-Comté in three weeks. Alarmed by these rapid conquests, Holland, Switzerland, and England entered into an alliance to resist further encroachments, should they be attempted. That such a feeble state as Holland should think of limiting his conquests, aroused the anger of the _Grand Monarque_. Armies were mustered, munitions of war got together, and ships prepared; and on the 12th of June, 1672, at the head of an army of one hundred and thirty thousand men, Louis crossed the Rhine, and made his triumphal entry into the city of Utrecht. Then, indeed, Holland trembled; Amsterdam trembled; Louis was at the gates. But, rising in the frenzy of despair, they pierced the dikes, which alone protected the country from the sea. In rushed the flood, and Amsterdam rose like a mighty fortress in the midst of the waves, surrounded by ships of war, which found depth to float where ships never floated before. Thus suddenly Louis XIV. found himself checked in his proud career. Chagrined at seeing his conquest at an end, he left his army under the command of Turenne, and returned to his palaces in France.

Louis XIV. had never recovered from the mortification he had experienced at the fête at Vaux. He resolved to rear a palace so magnificent that no subject, whatever might be his resources, could approach it; so magnificent that, like the pyramids of Egypt, it should be a lasting monument of the splendor of his reign. In 1664, Louis selected Versailles as the site for this stupendous pile of marble, which, reared at a cost of thousands of lives, and two hundred millions of money, decorated by the genius of Le Notre, of Mansard, and Le Brun, twenty-five years after its commencement, was ready to receive its royal occupants; and, resting proudly upon its foundations, presented to admiring Europe the noblest monument of the reign of Louis XIV. The splendors of the fêtes which attended the completion of this palace transformed it into a scene of enchantment, and filled all Europe with wonder.

The most magnificent room in the palace, the Gallerie des Glaces, called the Grand Gallery of Louis XIV., is two hundred and forty-two feet long, thirty-five feet broad, and forty-three feet high. Germany, Holland, Spain, Rome even, bend the knee in the twenty-seven paintings which ornament this grand gallery. But to whom do they bow? Is it to France? No; it is to Louis XIV.

“Louis XIV. and his palace not only afforded conversation for Europe, but their fame penetrated the remote corners of Asia. The emperor of Siam sent him an embassy. Three o’pras, high dignitaries of the empire, eight mandarins, and a crowd of servitors landed at Brest, charged with magnificent presents and a letter from the emperor. Arrived at Versailles, they were fêted with unheard-of splendor. The day of their public audience, the fountains played in the gardens; flowers were strewn in the paths; the sumptuous Gobelin carpets were paraded, as well as the richest works of the goldsmith. The _cortège_ of ambassadors was received with the most refined forms of etiquette, and led through apartments filled with the court, glittering in diamonds and embroidery, and at length reached the end of the grand gallery, where Louis XIV., clad in a costume that cost twelve millions, stood on a throne of silver placed on an estrade elevated nine steps above the floor, and covered with Gobelin carpets and costly vases. There the Siamese prostrated themselves three times, with hands clasped, before the Majesty of the West, and then lifted their eyes to him.”

Louis spent millions on Versailles, millions on his pleasures, millions on his pomps, millions in his wars; he lavished gold on his favorites, his generals, and his lackeys. And all ended in national bankruptcy.