A gambling duel, on a point of honour, is recorded of a M. de Boisseuil, one of the King’s equerries; who, having detected his antagonist cheating at cards, exposed his conduct. The insulted gentleman demanded satisfaction, when Boisseuil replied that he did not fight with a person who was a rogue! “That may be,” said the other; “but I do not like to be called one!” They met on the ground, where Boisseuil received two desperate wounds.
It was during this reign that a curious meeting took place between La Fontaine the fabulist, whose meekness and apathy had acquired him the name of “the Good,” and an officer. Although generally blind to the irregularities of his wife, he once took it into his head to become jealous of a captain of dragoons, of the name of Poignant. La Fontaine had not himself observed the intimacy with his wife; but some kind friends had drawn his attention to its impropriety, telling him that it was incumbent on him to demand satisfaction. La Fontaine reluctantly persuaded, contrary to his usual habits, got up early one morning, took his sword, and went out to meet his antagonist. When the parties were in presence, the worthy poet said, “My dear sir, I must fight you, since I am assured that it is absolutely necessary.” He then proceeded to acquaint him with the reasons that induced him to call him out, and drew his pacific sword. The dragoon, thus obliged to defend himself, whipped the weapon out of the inexperienced hand of the fabulist, and, having disarmed him, proceeded quietly to point out to him the absurdity of the reports circulated in regard to his wife, and the folly of his having thus exposed his valuable life; adding, that since his visits had been the occasion of scandal, he would from that hour cease to call at his house. Le Bon La Fontaine was so affected by this sincere explanation, that he not only insisted that the captain should pay more frequent visits than ever, but swore that he would fight him over again if he discontinued them.
The inefficacy of the various edicts to restrain duels was at last acknowledged, and various means were adopted to enforce them. In the year 1651, a clergyman of the name of Olier, founder of the congregation of St. Sulpice, conceived a plan of supplying the inefficiency of the law, by putting honour in opposition to itself. With this view he projected an association of gentlemen of tried valour, who, by subscribing an engagement to which the solemnity of an oath was to be added, obliged themselves never to send or accept a challenge, and never to serve as seconds in a duel. In this project he engaged the Marquis de Fénélon, a nobleman respected for the frankness of his disposition and the austerity of his principle, as well as for his well-known courage, when that quality had been called upon in the service of his country; since it was of him that the great Condé had said, that he was equally qualified for conversation, for the field, or for the cabinet. It was to this nobleman that the justly celebrated Archbishop of Cambray owed his education and his rise in the church.
The Marquis de Fénélon having placed himself at the head of this association,—into which no one was admitted unless he had distinguished himself in the service,—on the Sunday of the Pentecost, the members assembled in the church of St. Sulpice, and placed in the hands of Mr Olier a solemn instrument, expressing their firm and unalterable resolution never to be principals or seconds in a duel, and moreover to discourage the baneful practice to the utmost of their power. The great Condé was so struck with the proceeding, that he said to the marquis, that a person must have the opinion which he himself entertained of his valour, not to be alarmed at seeing him the first to break the ice on such an occasion.
However, it appears that neither the King’s determination to forward the views of this praiseworthy association, nor the exertions of its respectable members, could totally eradicate the prejudice that maintained the evil; and Madame de Crequi, in her Reminiscences, sadly errs when she affirms that during seventeen years not a duel had been fought. Voltaire was also incorrect when he attributed to this prince, surnamed the Great, the abolition of these bloody proceedings. Voltaire was such an enthusiastic admirer of Louis XIV, that in this case, as in many others, where his partiality, his prejudices, or his scepticism prevailed, he lost sight of facts, or, at any rate, passed them over in silence to suit his purposes. The following extract from a recent work gives a much fairer view of this prince’s reign than is given by the generality of his historians:
“His reign, like that of most conquerors, was equally divided between repeated successes and failures. His arms were triumphant so long as he fought to obtain the natural limits of France, which to this day enjoys the fruits of his conquests; but Fortune forsook his banners as soon as he drew his sword to level the Pyrenees. His reign commenced in glory, and terminated in humiliation; the prestige of authority took wing with that of victory. When the Grand Monarque died, the monarchy may be said to have descended into its sepulchre, and the people, who had once trembled in his presence, insulted his ashes; while the parliament, into whose halls he was wont to enter booted and spurred, avenged themselves by trampling on his will. It was, in truth, the protection he afforded to literature, and the patronage with which he honoured distinguished men and letters, that acquired for him the surname of Great. The Mæcenas of his age, he was entitled to the distinction; and it has been truly said of him that France owed to him her knowledge of literature, as Asia owed her acquaintance with Grecian superiority to Alexander.”
The efforts of Louis to civilize the country, and encourage science and the fine arts, were indefatigable; and what is still more estimable in this monarch was, his attending to the improvement of the nation during the turmoil of war. He established the most extensive manufactures; formed the East India Company; built an observatory, and a printing-office in his palace for the publication of the best translations of ancient writers; sent out navigators on voyages of discovery; and, while he received at his court Cassini, Huygens, and the most distinguished foreigners who could adorn it, he encouraged native genius with liberality. He personally defended Boileau, Racine, and Molière against their enemies, provided for the family of Corneille, directed the studio of Le Brun and his contemporary artists, while he attached Lulli to his court, and gave Quinault the subjects of his operas; pensions too were granted to all those who had contributed by their courage or their talents to the grandeur of the empire. He felt and knew that no sovereign can become popular unless national genius and talent meet with encouragement at court; and that, thus fostered, national taste will improve more rapidly than by the degrading importation of foreign perfections. The greatest error of this prince was his neglect of the future, while engrossed by the glorious schemes of the present; and his never thinking on the means that his successor might require to replenish the exhausted exchequer. His ambition had been to revive the Augustan age: his position, in reality, was not unlike that of the Roman Emperor; Cæsar had become the master of the empire, and Henry IV. had consolidated his kingdom. Both princes ascended the throne surrounded by a warlike people that required civilization, and Colbert was to Louis what Mæcenas had been to his imperial master; what is more singular is, the circumstance of their both being born in the same month, and dying nearly at the same age. It is to be lamented that, while the great mind of Louis encouraged the fine arts and literature, it should have been warped by superstition and bigotry; and the persecution of Protestantism, with the odious Dragonades, will ever be a blot upon his memory. We can only account for these atrocities by considering them as the terms upon which he obtained priestly absolution for his many vices.
It must certainly be acknowledged that duelling was discountenanced during the reign of this prince, and was much less frequent than under his predecessors; but I apprehend that this circumstance was more to be attributed to the rapid progress of civilization and polished manners, to which I have alluded, than to the severity of legal enactments. The refinement of manners that accompanied the quick advance of intellectual attainments materially tended to humanize society, and to make those who could reflect on the horrors of the past, blush at the fashionable countenance bestowed upon a practice which should have sunk into the grave with Gothic ignorance and barbarism. War was the sole occupation in savage times; and amongst barbarians, strangers to all the blessings of civilized life and social enjoyments, personal and brute courage was the only claim to distinction and pre-eminence. Mandeville has fully illustrated such a condition of society in his fable of the Bees: “If we well mind what effects man’s bravery, without any other qualifications to sweeten him, would have out of an army, we shall find that it would be very pernicious to civil society; for, if a man could conquer all his fears, you would hear of little else but rapine and violence of all sorts, and valiant men would be like giants in romance. Politics, therefore, discovered in men a mixed principle, which was a compound of justice, honesty, and all the moral virtues, joined to courage; and all that were possessed of it turned knights-errant, of course. They did abundance of good throughout the world, by taming monsters, delivering the distressed, and killing oppressors. But the wings of all the dragons being clipped, the giants destroyed, and the damsels everywhere set at liberty, (except some few in Spain and Italy, who remain still captivated by religious monsters,) the order of chivalry, to whom the standard of ancient honour belonged, has been laid aside for some time. It was like their armour, very massy and heavy; the many virtues about it served to make it very troublesome; and, as ages grew wiser and wiser, the principle of honour at the beginning of the last century (1600) was melted over and over again, and brought into a new standard. They put in the same weight of courage half the quantity of honesty, and a very little justice, but not a scruple of any other virtue; which has made it very easy and portable to what it was.”
Louis XIV, although the despotic chief of a monarchical government, was well aware that the point of honour should be held sacred amongst his armed followers, yet was he convinced of the necessity of tempering its brutality; while, as we have seen, he himself individually esteemed the illegal exhibition of personal courage, which his edicts condemned. When a courtier complained to one of the marshals that he had received a slap in the face, the general replied, “Then, sir, go and wash it off.” The slap in the face was the subject of an amusing passage in Molière’s play of the “Sicilian,” where a character says, “My lord, I have received a slap in the face,—you know what a slap in the face is, when it is bestowed with open hand on the middle of the cheek; I have this slap on my heart, sir, and I am meditating which is the most advisable method to wipe off the affront, either to fight the fellow, or to get him assassinated.” Montesquieu has observed, that in monarchical governments, “there is nothing that honour more strongly recommends than to serve the prince in a military capacity; in fact, this is the favourite profession of honour, because its dangers, its success, and even its miscarriages, are the road to greatness: the honour of monarchies is favoured by the passions, and favours them in return; but virtue is a self-renunciation, which is always arduous and painful. This is the reason why we never meet with so strict a purity of morals in monarchies as in republican governments: in monarchies, the actions of men are not approved of as being good, but shining; not as being just, but great; not as being reasonable, but extraordinary; and honour allows of gallantry when united with the idea of sensual affection, or with that of conquest.” This enlightened writer further adds: “We have only to cast our eye on a nation (England) that may be justly called a republic disguised under the form of a monarchy, and we shall see how jealous they are of making a separate order of the profession of arms, and how the military state is continually allied to that of the citizen, and even of the magistrate, to the end that the latter may be a pledge to their country, which should never be forgotten. Military men in England are regarded as belonging to a profession which may be useful, but is often dangerous; civil qualities are therefore more highly esteemed than military.”
These sentiments are also those of one of the warmest advocates of duelling, Coustard de Massi, who thus expresses himself: “I own that in republican governments the practice of duelling may be prevented, because the courage of the people is sufficiently fostered by an enthusiastic love of their country; which powerful incentive alone can elevate their troops to superior boldness, and make them perform such astonishing acts of valour as are to be found in the Greek and Roman histories:” but in monarchical governments our author maintains that duelling is indispensable. What a flattering encomium bestowed on despotism, where the passions of a profligate monarch are to be considered more commanding than the love of country and independence! What a lesson does not this quotation give to British duellists!