Preparations were immediately made for the departure of the boy-king to take possession of the Spanish throne. The Grand Monarque regarded it as a signal stroke of policy, and a great victory on his part, that notwithstanding the remonstrances of other nations, he had placed a French Bourbon prince upon the throne of Spain. He saw the domain of France extending far southward to the Straits of Gibraltar.
“Henceforth,” exclaimed Louis XIV., exultingly, “there are no more Pyrenees!”
Louis XIV. reigned everywhere,—over his people, over his age, often over Europe,—but nowhere did he reign so completely as over his court. Never were the wishes, the defects, and the vices of a man so completely a law to other men, as at the court of Louis XIV. during the whole period of his long life. When near to him in the palace at Versailles, men lived, hoped, trembled, everywhere else in France, even at Paris, men vegetated. The existence of the nobles was concentrated in the court about the person of the king; and so abject was their submission, that Louis XIV. looked on all sides for a great lord, and found about him only courtiers.
When the king learned that certain of the nobility affected to despise the plebian genius of the great dramatist, Molière, he invited the comedian to his table; and when at the grande entrée the nobles thronged the apartment, he turned to them haughtily, exclaiming, “Gentlemen of the court, you see me breakfasting with Molière, whom my nobles do not consider worthy of their notice.” It was enough. From that moment the great dramatist found all the nobility of France at his feet.
Never did man give with better grace than Louis XIV., or augment so much in this way the price of his benefits. Never did man sell to better profit his words, even his smiles,—nay, his looks.
Never did disobliging words escape him; and if he had to blame, to reprimand, or correct, which was very rare, it was nearly always with goodness, never with anger or severity. Never was man so naturally polite, or of a politeness so measured, so graduated, so adapted, to person, time, and place. Towards women his politeness was without parallel. Never did he pass the humblest petticoat without raising his hat. For ladies he took his hat off completely, but to a greater or less extent; for titled people half off, holding it in his hand, or against his ear, some instants. He took it off for the princes of the blood as for the ladies. If he accosted ladies, he did not cover himself until he had quitted them. His reverences, more or less marked, but always light, were incomparable for their grace and manner. As, after the battle of Seneff, fought Aug. 11, 1674, against William of Orange, Monsieur le Prince, le Grand Condé, was walking slowly, from the effects of gout, up the grand staircase at Versailles, he exclaimed to the king, who awaited him upon the landing above, “Sire, I crave your majesty’s pardon, if I keep you waiting;” to which Louis replied, “Do not hurry, my cousin; no one could move more quickly who was so loaded with laurels as you are.” It was the language of the court; and again, when in May, 1706, Marshal Villeroi returned worsted at the battle of Ramillies, in his encounter with Marlborough and Prince Eugene, the Grand Monarque gave utterance to one of those delicate remarks he knew so well how to make, and which sounded almost like a compliment: “Ah, Monsieur le Marshal,” exclaimed the king, when he presented himself at Versailles, “at our age one is no longer fortunate.”
“The king loved air and exercise very much, as long as he could make use of them. He had excelled at dancing, at tennis, and at mall. On horseback he was admirable, even at a late age. He liked to see everything done with grace and address. To acquit yourself well or ill before him was a merit or a fault. He was very fond of shooting, and there was not a better or more graceful shot than he. He was very fond, also, of stag-hunting, but in a caléche, since he broke his arm while hunting at Fontainebleau, immediately after the death of the Queen. He rode alone in a species of “box,” drawn by four little horses, and drove himself with an accuracy and address unknown to the best coachmen. He liked splendor, magnificence, and profusion in everything; you pleased him if you shone through the brilliancy of your houses, your clothes, your table, and your equipages. As for the king himself, nobody ever approached his magnificence.”
Old age had crept fast upon Louis XIV. For seventy-two years he had proudly sat upon the throne of his ancestors; but the time was near at hand when he must lay aside his sceptre and his crown. Still the more deeply he became conscious of his physical weakness, the more determined and extraordinary were his efforts to preserve intact the interests of the state.
Richard, in his war-tent on the bloody field of Bosworth, never contemplated a train of more appalling shadows than those evoked by the memory of Louis XIV., as he sat, supported by cushions and pillowed upon velvet, in his sumptuous apartment. Maria Theresa, the Queen; the grand-dauphin; his son, the duke de Bourgoyne; and last of all, the duke de Berri, the sole prop to that throne which must soon be empty, dead, all dead, save a frail infant,—such were the thoughts that crowded upon his last reveries; and well might the poor old man in his solitary moments bend down that proud head which had no longer strength to bear a crown, and laying aside the arrogance of those years in which he had assumed the bearing of a demi-god, confess to his own heart that he was but human.