When they were all somewhat composed, Isarn entered into a summary of the affairs to be regulated. At the first pause, Lauzun interrupted. "He said coldly, that having been kept for six years and a portion of a seventh in a very restricted prison, and not having heard any business details for so long a time, and having met no one, his mind had become so 'sealed,' and his intelligence so clouded, that it was impossible for him to comprehend anything I was saying." He added affectionate words for his sister, touching sentiments upon his grief at having displeased the King, and, as if overcome by the remembrance of his much-loved master, he carried his handkerchief to his eyes, "where it remained a long time."
This spectacle provoked such an outburst of tears and groans that it was impossible to continue the conference. Lauzun "withdrew with Saint-Mars without speaking." The sister was carried away in a dead faint. The Chevalier de Lauzun, ill with emotion, retired for the night, and Isarn shared in the general affliction. At the following sessions, Lauzun repeated that he comprehended nothing that his advocate said, but he gave him at the same time some instructions, "with much judgment and clearness." Touching scenes followed. One day, after having obtained permission, the prisoner asked if his mother were living, and there was, in this case, no need of pretence to make the scene impressive. At the last interview, he charged his sister to implore the pity of the King and the pardon of Louvois, in humble and submissive terms, which showed a man conquered, crushed, and henceforth inoffensive.
It may be through compassion, it may be, as was hinted, through some new and mysterious combination, that this appeal produced a relaxation in the prison discipline, which ended in a half-freedom. Lauzun was permitted to give dinners, to buy saddle horses, "to ride in the court and on the bastions."[274] At length arrived a detachment of musketeers, charged to conduct him to the baths of Bourbon, under pretext that he was suffering with one of his arms.
He quitted Pignerol April 22, 1681. Foucquet had died March 23, 1680. This left to Saint-Mars only a single man of note; the Man with the Iron Mask had been in the fortress some time at this date.
Robinson Crusoe, leaving his island, was not more of a stranger to the course of events than a state prisoner after years of life in a dungeon. Foucquet had believed in listening to Lauzun that he was mentally deranged. When it was the fate of the latter to again come in contact with ordinary life, he found much difficulty in placing himself in the current. The history of France had been lengthened by a chapter while he was raging in his dungeon. The intimate story of Court life, the most important for an ancient favourite desirous of regaining a foothold, would have filled a volume with its tragi-comic complications. At first glance, the chapter of national history was dazzling. The war with Holland had given to France, Franche-Comté; to Louis XIV., a glory and power which had raised him in European opinion above all other sovereigns.
In the eyes of strangers, he was more than a king, he was the King, the incarnation of the monarchical idea, the Prince who had made France the mistress of the civilised world.
Never, in modern Europe [says a German historian[275] who always considers the interests of France as opposed to those of Germany] has there been a development of military power over land and sea, for attack and defence, so extraordinary as that to which France had attained during the war, and preserved during the ensuing peace; never before had a single will exercised so extended a command over troops so well trained and yet so submissive.
