All the officials of the citadel had written to Louvois after the arrival of his agent, so great an impression had been made. It was said that M. de Lauzun was a great criminal and a very dangerous one to necessitate such precautions. Each wished to show his special zeal. Louis XIV. was also well informed about the prison destined for his old favourite.
Louvois showed the King the plan he had received. The apartment consisted of two low vaulted rooms facing a deserted court, through which no one ever passed. The windows were darkened by iron bars and were covered with a sort of basket-work used in prisons, to prevent the occupant seeing or being seen. Noises from without, even those from the guards and the kitchen, did not penetrate into this remote place, the most "noiseless" of all the citadel, on account of the enormous thickness of the walls and of the vaulting. "Never," said one of the letters, "will M. Foucquet know that he has a companion." The correspondents of Louvois unanimously insisted upon the necessity of preventing any risk of escape. A screen of iron was placed in the embrasure of the windows and a vissante inserted in the chimney to prevent M. de Lauzun and M. de Foucquet from communicating with each other.
When this new command left Saint-Germain, Lauzun was already locked up at Pignerol. He appeared very sad and depressed during the journey. His grief was changed into fury at sight of the dungeon which awaited him. Saint-Mars wrote to Louvois (December 22, 1671): "Monseigneur, my prisoner is in so profound a grief, that I can hardly describe it. He said to me that I had made him a lodging sæcula sæculorum." Lauzun declared that he would lose his reason, and his agitation seemed to point to this danger.
[December 30] I do not believe, Monseigneur, that I can send you any news of my prisoner's being more tranquil; he is in so profound a grief that he does nothing but sigh and beat the ground with his feet. He asked me once if I knew the cause of his detention; I replied that I never received any news of this sort lest I should be tempted to tell it.
Lauzun had well divined the cause of his arrest, but he had not been told. All explanation had been refused at Saint-Germain, and the condemning him to such a dungeon with the most rigorous secrecy, with no declared reason, seemed a crying and tyrannical act of injustice. Saint-Mars began to fear a tragic ending.
[January 12, 1672] Monseigneur ... he is overwhelmed with so extraordinary a grief that I fear he may lose his reason, or kill himself, which last he has threatened several times.... As I do not stop to listen to his ravings, he accuses me of having grown hard and pitiless through my long occupation as jailer; and repeats that he has never been judged and that his worst suffering is caused by the fact that he is ignorant of his crime.
He had never been judged! This was the refrain during ten long years! Foucquet, his neighbour, had judges, indépendants or not; he had known the cause of his accusation, and his defence had been heard. Lauzun was in his vault through the good pleasure of the King without having had a chance to justify himself, and this grievance caused his revolt.
When Mademoiselle was told of the arrest of Lauzun, she was so overcome that she was astonished "that she did not die." She remained in a most pitiable state until the next day. She was counselled not to delay an appeal to the King, and it was needful to form some plan. If there had been only herself to consider, Mademoiselle would have been ready to bid adieu to the world; but there was Lauzun, who was, according to the custom then legal, to be accused when he could not defend himself, and there was only herself to plead his cause with the King.
It was impossible to abandon her lover, and Mademoiselle found strength to rise and to go to Saint-Germain. She only reached the King in the evening at supper. "He regarded me with a sad and embarrassed air. I looked at him with tears in my eyes, but said nothing; I know what he said in returning after to the ladies[270]: 'My cousin has been very courteous, she has been silent.' He would have been imprudent to address me, as I was prepared to reply to all."
The Court of France was at that date very gay and animated. Monsieur had just remarried (November 16), with Elisabeth Charlotte de Bavière, Princess Palatine, famed for the originality of her mind and the freshness of her language. The King, who, without wit, had good taste, was charmed with his new sister-in-law, and was lavish with fêtes in her honour. At first, Mademoiselle considered it a duty to be present. She pathetically relates the history of an abominable evening during which she was obliged to appear to be enjoying the spectacle of a ballet, while her thoughts were far distant, following a coach surrounded by musketeers: