THE KING

At the close of the reign of Louis XV. the court is out of fashion. The same etiquette, the same names, the same distinctions, are still beheld there. But the King is old; what is more, the King is ridiculous. His passion for a nobody, a Du Barry, has something about it that is absurd and painfully grotesque. Versailles no longer makes people tremble; it makes them smile. They jeer at the amorous monarch who is playing a superannuated pastoral with a courtesan. No one now takes seriously the _Well-Beloved of the Almanac_, as he is still ironically called. A joker circulated, 1771, the following _pater_, dedicated to His Most Christian Majesty: “Our father who art at Versailles, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom is overcome, thy will is done no more on earth than it is in heaven. Give us our daily bread which you have taken from us; pardon your parliaments which have upheld our interests, as you pardon your ministers who have sold them. Do not succumb to the temptations of the Du Barry, but deliver us from that devil of a chancellor.”

The scenery of Versailles is not changed, however. The gentlemen on duty fulfil their functions with as much assiduity as of old. The King’s levee continues to be a piece in five acts, where the courtiers make their appearance like ballet dancers of the highest class. There are always the _familiar entries_, when the just-awakened King is still in his bed; the _grand entries_, when he has just risen and is in his dressing-gown; then that which is called the _entry of the chamber_, when he is in his armchair, in front of his dressing-table; and finally, the _general entry_, that of the stream of courtiers who have been waiting since daybreak in the Gallery of Mirrors. Versailles is always that city of eighty thousand souls which is replenished, peopled, occupied, by the life of a single man, that essentially royal city which is marvellously arranged so as to provide for the pleasures, the guard, the society, and the exhibition of the sovereign. The immortal race of courtiers is continually recruited by compliant and clever men who, on being presented at court, have received and obeyed this counsel: “You have only three things to do: speak well of everybody, ask for everything that is not taken, and sit down when you can.” But, in spite of their irreproachable attitude, all these courtiers resemble priests who no longer believe in their god. They still burn incense at the feet of the idol, as a matter of custom, but the idol hardly creates the vestige of an illusion. Etiquette, which subsists in all its rules and its minutiæ, is still in usage, but it is no longer a religion. Prestige has vanished. One cannot find another Dangeau, another De Luynes. Money, moreover, that nerve of courts, is becoming scarcer. Horace Walpole wrote, July 30, 1771:—

“The distress here is incredible, especially at court. The King’s tradesmen are ruined, his servants starving, and even angels and archangels cannot get their pensions and salaries, but sing ‘Woe! woe! woe!’ instead of Hosannahs. Compiègne is abandoned; Villiers Coterêts and Chantilly[1] crowded, and Chanteloup[2] still more in fashion, whither everybody goes that pleases; though, when they ask leave, the answer is, ‘Je ne le défends ni le permets.’ This is the first time that ever the will of a king of France was interpreted against his inclination. Yet, after annihilating his Parliament, and ruining public credit, he tamely submits to be affronted by his own servants. Madame de Beauveau, and two or three high-spirited dames, defy this Czar of Gaul.”

Walpole is careful to add that there is nothing very serious in the opposition of these ladies. “It must be said, they and their cabals have as little consistency as their party. They make epigrams, chant vaudevilles against the favorite, distribute pamphlets against Chancellor Maupeou, but all that has no more effect than a shot in the air.”

To sum up, people still preserve for the King, if not affection and respect,—respect and affection ceased to exist long ago,—at least a certain indulgence. One excuses this old man as one would excuse a spoiled child. He has done harm, but on the other hand, he has done good. He has lost the colonies, but he has annexed Lorraine and Corsica to France. He has resisted powerful coalitions. He is the victor of Fontenoy. His aged arm has been able to strike the Parliament, and this _coup d’État_ puts off the cataclysm for several years. Louis XV., devotee and debauchee, dissatisfied with others and with himself, a mixture of feebleness and energy, of heedlessness and judgment,—Louis XV., possessing still a certain dignity, politeness, and well-bred calm, a noble and kingly aspect,—Louis XV., perhaps still more to be pitied than blamed, remains a type of the ancient régime, an incarnation of that monarchy which, despite its visible decadence, has still its vestiges of grace and decorum, of force and authority. He is a debauchee. But he is in fact neither better nor worse than many old Celadons, many veterans of Cythera, many superannuated seducers who would think themselves absolutely dead if they had no more mistresses. Learned magistrates themselves play their pranks. They have their little houses, enlarged boudoirs, temples of voluptuous pleasure. The epicurean eighteenth century is only half displeased with royal debauchery. They scoff at it, and the monarchical principle is stricken far less by violent attacks than by an arm possibly more to be dreaded,—that of ridicule. When, at Mass in the chapel of Versailles, I see Louis XV. praying very seriously in the royal tribune, not far from his unworthy favorite, who is there without rouge or powder, without even having made her toilette, I can scarcely keep from shrugging my shoulders.

As to the old King, quite proud of his victory over Parliament, he thinks this stroke has assured him a long and peaceable old age. In his previsions he allots himself several more years of pleasure. Then, he tells himself, will come the time of repentance and penance and true piety, when he will be the Most Christian King in more than name. How many old men there are who thus put off the hour of final conversion, while displaying an interior respect for religion very slightly hypocritical! This half-piety, this rough sketch of virtue, this penitence in the shape of contingent future, we find in many souls. What is feebler, more inconsistent, than human nature? We elbow men like Louis XV. at every step. All, or nearly all, the lady-killers resemble the lover of the Du Barry when they grow old, and there are few of them who, while still retaining their health and plenty of money, consent to become hermits, no matter what their age.

The dominant sentiment with regard to the King is not hatred, but indifference. People are going to let him die peaceably, and will behold, without anger and without emotion, the setting of this wintry sun, devoid of warmth and radiance. Those who are impatient long for a new reign. Those who are wiser think the future Louis XVI. too young. After all, Louis XV., in spite of his errors, faults, and vices, is a man of experience, a man of government. And when will the Dauphin know anything? How much time does he not need in order to learn the most elementary principles of the difficult art of reigning? He may have excellent intentions, he will be honest and virtuous. But this is not enough. The task will be too heavy a one for young shoulders. And hence Maria Theresa, that woman of genius, that sure-eyed sovereign, fears nothing so much as the death of the decried monarch, Louis XV. As king if not as man, the old man is still preferable to the child.