It is very true that Madame was poisoned, but without Monsieur’s knowledge. When those scoundrels held counsel with one another to determine how they should poison poor Madame, they discussed whether or not they should warn Monsieur. The Chevalier de Lorraine said, “No, do not let us tell him, for he cannot hold his tongue. If he does not speak of it the first year, he will get us hanged ten years later.” And it is known that one of the wretches added, “Be careful not to let Monsieur know of it; he would tell it to the king, and that would hang us.” They made Monsieur believe that the Dutch had given Madame a slow poison in chocolate: but here is the truth:—
D’Effiat did not poison the chicory water, but he poisoned Madame’s cup; and that was well imagined, because no one drinks from our cups but ourselves. The cup was not brought out as soon as asked for; they said it was mislaid. A valet de chambre whom I had, and who had been in the service of the late Madame (he is dead now), related to me that in the morning, while Monsieur and Madame were at mass, d’Effiat went to the buffet, found the cup, and rubbed it with some paper. The valet de chambre said to him: “Monsieur, what are you doing in our closet, and why are you touching Madame’s cup?” He answered: “I am dying of thirst, and as the cup was dirty I cleaned it with paper.” That evening Madame asked for her chicory water, and as soon as she drank it she cried out that she was poisoned. Those who were there had drunk of the same water, but not from her cup, and they were not taken ill. They put her to bed, and she grew worse and worse, and died two hours after midnight in frightful suffering.
Monsieur never troubled his wife about her gallantries with the king his brother; he himself related to me the whole of Madame’s life, and he never would have passed that matter over in silence had he believed it. I think that as to this circumstance the world has been unjust to Madame.
For many years a rumour has spread about Saint-Cloud that the ghost of the late Madame appeared about a fountain where she used to sit in very warm weather, because the place was cool. One evening a lacquey of the Maréchale de Clérembault, going to draw water at the well, saw something white without a face; the phantom, which was sitting down, rose to double its height. The poor lacquey, seized with fright, ran away; on reaching the house he insisted that he had seen Madame, fell ill and died. The officer who was then captain of the château, imagining that there must be something under it all, went to the fountain himself, saw the ghost, and threatened to give it a hundred blows with his stick if it did not own who it was. Whereupon the ghost said: “Oh! Monsieur de Lastéra, don’t hurt me, I am only poor Philippinette.” She was an old woman in the village, about seventy-seven years old, with only one tooth in her mouth, weak eyes rimmed with red, a huge mouth, a thick nose,—in short, hideous. They wanted to put her in prison, but I interceded for her. When she came to thank me for that I said to her: “What mania possessed you to play the ghost instead of staying in your bed?” She answered, laughing: “I don’t regret what I have done; at my age one sleeps little, and one must have something or other to keep one’s spirits up. All I ever did in my youth did not give me as much enjoyment as playing the ghost. Those who were not afraid of my white sheet were afraid of my face. The cowards made such faces I nearly died of laughing. That pleasure at night paid me for the pain of carrying faggots by day.”
Saint-Cloud, 1720.
I feel a bitter grief whenever I think of all M. Louvois burned in the Palatinate, and I believe he is burning terribly in the other world, for he died so suddenly he had no time to repent. He was poisoned by his doctor, who was afterwards poisoned himself, but confessed his crime before he died, with all details and circumstances, so that there could be no doubt about it. As he was a friend of the old woman, it was given out that he died in a spasm of hot fever. Thus we see, if we examine things well, the justice of God; people are usually punished in this world by their own sins.
The longer I live the more reason I have to regret my aunt, the Electress, and to respect her memory. You are very right in saying that in many centuries we shall not see her like again. Unhappily, I lack a great deal of having her judgment and her energy. What may be praised in me is frankness and good-will; and, thank God, I am not licentious, as is now the fashion among the princely people of the royal house of France.
René Descartes
Rhine wine was never put into the great tun at Heidelberg; only Neckar wine. The present Elector is said not to hate it. As for me, Rhine wine is what I prefer. I cannot endure Burgundy; the taste seems to me disagreeable, and besides, it gives me a stomach-ache. I am delighted that Heidelberg is being rebuilt, and that they are working on the château; but what vexes me is that they are putting up a Jesuit convent instead of the commissariat. Jesuits are out of place at Heidelberg, and so are the Franciscans. I am told they live now near to the upper gate; my God! how often I have eaten cherries on that mountain, with a good bit of bread, at five in the morning! I was gayer then than I am now.