Saint-Mars had another grief. Louvois recommended to him incessantly to make his prisoner talk and to report every word, even the most trivial, but Lauzun would not utter a syllable. "I do not know why," wrote Saint-Mars, naïvely, "but he distrusts me, and hardly dares to speak to me" (February 10, 1672). On March 19: "He is always in a state of extraordinary distrust of me." Louvois insisted, and received discouraged letters. (March 30:) "When I make a visit, our conversation is so dry and difficult that we often pace the room a hundred times without interchanging a word." Saint-Mars in vain sought innocent topics. He tried to converse about the weather. M. de Lauzun interrupted him under the pretext that the state of the weather was a matter of indifference to him, since, from his dungeon, he could see "neither moon nor sun."
Saint-Mars inquired about his health. M. de Lauzun cut him short, in declaring that "his health was a matter of no consequence to any one, and that he was really only too well." Saint-Mars did not know what more to say. He became furious. Lauzun perceived this, and grew even more taciturn. It was a fair and even fight. At the end of a year, Saint-Mars had not advanced an inch.
[January 7, 1673] When I said good morning or good evening, and when I asked him how he felt, he made low bows, saying that he was well enough to offer his most humble respects; after having thanked him, we walked some time together without speaking to each other, and, as I wished to retire, I asked him if he had anything to demand. He made again a very low bow and conducted me to the door of the room; this is the point at which we have arrived, and I am afraid that we shall make no further progress.
Saint-Mars tried to force the situation. It was he who furnished the prisoner with everything; who gave him clothes, furniture, bought his eye-glasses, or ordered a wig. He thought that a method of making him speak would be to give him nothing that he did not demand. Lauzun invented a mute language.
Saint-Mars would perceive, in entering, some wornout or broken object placed in a conspicuous position, having the air of saying something. "Sometimes," wrote the governor of the citadel, "I feign not to notice, and in order to oblige me to speak, Lauzun will direct his steps so as to pass the object again and again until I am forced to comprehend." (May 6, 1672.)
The valet was almost as close as his master. Saint-Mars did not cease to lament the trouble which "these people" gave him. Prisoners' valets shared the fate of their masters. Once confined, they passed the sill of the prison only with the culprit; that is to say, in many cases never, which fact rendered it extremely difficult to procure servants. The one with Lauzun was a "wicked rascal" who had been bribed, but who at the end of three months refused to do his duty as spy.
Saint-Mars was indignant (February 20, 1672): "With your permission, I will put him [the valet] in a place that I reserve, which makes the dumb speak after a month's sojourn. I shall learn all from him, and I am certain that he will not forget the least trifle." Upon reflection, however, Saint-Mars ended by being patient. How was he to replace the fellow? "No one of the valets attached to the citadel would enter this dungeon if I paid him millions. They have noticed that those whom I have placed with M. Foucquet never come out." Louvois never knew, in spite of earnest desire, what thoughts the fallen favourite was conceiving in his prison.
There was a slight recompense, however, on the days on which Lauzun fell into a rage, which often happened. The prisoner could not digest the fact that his questions remained unanswered. This might be reasonable enough if he asked if France were at war, or if Mademoiselle were married; but why refuse news of his own affairs? Why conceal from him the fact of his mother being alive or dead? His vexation became rage. He poured out a torrent of imprecations and bitter complaints, and Louvois had the pleasure of hearing by the next mail that silence did not indicate absence of suffering.
One day (January 28, 1673), after giving an account of one of these explosions, Saint-Mars added: "He said all this, weeping hot tears and crying that he detested his miserable life; he complained loudly of the horrible dungeon which I have given him, where he has lost his sight and his health." The wails of grief echoed even through Paris, leaking out from the cabinet of Louvois and the chamber of Mme. de Montespan, and the public demanded with curiosity what Lauzun had done to deserve a punishment so rigorous. "I can never believe," wrote Mademoiselle, "that it is by the orders of the King." It was easily guessed that Louvois was avenging his frights and Mme. de Montespan her humiliations; but why did the King permit such severity? for Louis had never appeared to take very much to heart the entanglements of these two Court powers with his favourite.
It is needful to recollect that the seventeenth century had no greater respect for human liberty than for human life. Only rank and birth were of value, and these were honoured in a greater degree than it is possible now to comprehend. This same Louvois, who was tormenting Lauzun almost to the point of insanity, had hastened to send him a silver-service, and had asked him to complain if his guards were impolite.