But if Fouquet did not die in March, 1680,—if, above all, Louis XIV. “had political and private motives for compassing the disappearance of the Surintendant by a supposititious death,” it is incontestable that the theory of M. Lacroix would have a strong chance of being accepted, since it would show what had become of this personage while it explained in a very probable manner the mystery, exaggerated by tradition, but nevertheless true, by which the famous masked prisoner was surrounded. This has been perfectly understood by M. Lacroix, who has first applied himself to contest the death of Fouquet in 1680, and then to seek out the different causes that may have determined Louis XIV. to suddenly separate the Surintendant from the rest of the world, and to make the prolongation of his life a mystery impenetrable to all except Saint-Mars.
Of these causes, those which date beyond 1680 must be peremptorily rejected. They could not, in fact, have exercised any influence upon Fouquet’s fate, since we have just seen this prisoner pass by degrees from a very close and somewhat harsh confinement to a captivity much softened by favours incessantly multiplied. From 1665 to 1672 he is forbidden all communication, even with his relations; but from 1672 some occasional letters are first authorised, then a more regular correspondence, next daily intercourse with the other prisoners, and, finally, the visit and the prolonged stay of several members of his family at Pignerol. This progress, slow, but continuous, incontestably exists in the period extending from 1672 to 1680. It is, therefore, only in this last year that the origin of the terrible royal anger and of the frightful increase of punishment suddenly inflicted upon Fouquet is to be sought for. M. Lacroix has neglected this essential distinction, and has gathered together all the grievances, real or pretended, of Louis XIV., without taking into consideration their ancient date and the evident proofs of indulgent forgetfulness of the past successively shown to the offender. It was, therefore, superfluous to remind us[449] of the secret negotiations of the Surintendant with England, of his projects for rendering himself independent, and of retiring, in case of disgrace, to his principality of Belle-Isle, which he caused to be fortified; of his eagerness to gain creatures, whom he bought at any price, by appointing them to important offices and giving them secret pensions; or of his pretended love for Madamoiselle de la Vallière. With regard to all these faults the royal resentment was appeased, and it cannot be admitted that their recollection may have suddenly irritated Louis XIV., when for eight years he had been manifesting towards the prisoner a clemency more obvious and efficacious.
“Fouquet, a prisoner at Pignerol,” says M. Lacroix,[450] “still excited hatred in Colbert and continual apprehensions in Louis XIV.: one would have said that he possessed some great secret, the disclosure of which would be fatal to the State, or at least mortally wound the King’s pride.” But upon this hypothesis, how was it that Louis XIV. authorised the frequent intercourse of Fouquet with Lauzun, and afterwards with the different members of his family? How was it that he was not afraid lest these should become participators in and afterwards propagators of this State secret? M. Lacroix enumerates all the precautions taken by Saint-Mars during the first period of Fouquet’s detention, in order to hinder him from imparting or receiving intelligence. But three significant despatches show that these precautions, very minute indeed, were only inspired by the fear of an escape, and not at all by the apprehension of the spreading of a State secret. Three times, and for different causes, Fouquet’s valets were dismissed. They were sent away, one in 1665, another at the end of the following year, and the third in 1669—that is to say, when the Surintendant was in close confinement. What became of these three persons, who for a long time had lived with the prisoner and been in a position to receive his confidence? Were they ever deprived of their liberty in order to bury with them this secret, which they may have had the misfortune to become acquainted with?
“I write you this letter,” says Louis XIV. to Saint-Mars,[451] “to tell you that I deem it good that you should give the Sieur Fouquet another valet, and that after the one who is ill is cured, you are to let him go where he pleases, and the present letter being for no other end, I pray God to take you into his holy keeping.”
“Your letter of the 28th of the past month,” writes Louvois to Saint-Mars,[452] “has been delivered to me, and has informed me that the valet of the Sieur Fouquet is afflicted with a very dangerous illness. It is well to continue to have him nursed, and if, after his cure, he does not wish to continue his services to the prisoner any longer, prudence ordains that you should keep him in the donjon three or four months, in order that if he has transgressed his duty, time may fracture the measures he may have concerted with Monsieur Fouquet.”
“His Majesty leaves it to you,” he writes to Saint-Mars in 1669,[453] “to act as you please with respect to La Rivière, that is to say, to leave him with Monsieur Fouquet or to remove him; his Majesty counting that, in case you remove him, you will only let him depart after an imprisonment of from seven to eight months, in order that, if he had taken measures to carry news from his master, it would be so stale by that time, that it could cause no annoyance.”
We see from these despatches that if, during the sixteen years he passed at Pignerol, Fouquet was the object of styles of treatment which differed greatly, it was never impossible for him to render other people depositaries of his secrets, and through them to communicate these secrets to his friends, his relations, or foreign sovereigns, as well as to the great lords of the court. He could have done this in 1665, in 1666, and in 1669, by means of his servants detained only a few months as prisoners and then dismissed without conditions. He could have done it later still more easily through the medium either of Lauzun or of all those who came to visit him. One must therefore reject the idea that Fouquet was the possessor of a dangerous State secret, and moreover, necessarily conclude from the much more humane conduct of Louis XIV. towards the Surintendant, that the King’s former resentment had disappeared, and that in 1680 he no longer saw in the prisoner anything but an old man, very interesting both by his misfortunes and his resignation.
But M. Lacroix invokes something else besides reasons of State; according to him, the last and the most powerful of Louis XIV.’s favourites was interested in the Surintendant’s disappearance. Formerly the latter’s mistress, when she was the wife of Scarron, at the moment of her marriage with the King she had exacted from him an increase of rigour towards this troublesome Surintendant, that awkward witness of her former weaknesses.
Will that which Madame de Sévigné calls “the first volume of Madame de Maintenon’s life,”[454] always remain a mystery? and shall we never know the exact beginning of this illustrious parvenue who desired to be an enigma for posterity?[455] Like all those who have had the honour to meet with eager detractors, she has found defenders, unreasonable without doubt, but who have shown the injustice[456] of the passions excited against the ex-Huguenot converted to Catholicism, and afterwards wife of Louis XIV., at the moment of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes and the persecution of the Jansenists. It is the exaggeration of the attack, it is the violence of Saint-Simon, of the Princess Palatine, and of La Fare, rather than any sudden attraction, that has produced this change in public opinion, this current, general to-day and highly favourable to Madame de Maintenon. Her rehabilitation was so necessary that every one has given his adhesion, but only from a feeling of justice. In learning to know her better one has ceased to despise her, without loving her any the more, and one has conceived much more esteem for her mind than inclination for her person. Never, in fact, even when looking back through ages, does one experience very powerful feelings on behalf of those who were deficient in them, and dry, cold virtue, without the passion that animates, and the struggle that vivifies it, will always lack admirers. Madame de Maintenon not only appears austere and inflexible, but everything with her is conventional and calculated. Her piety is not ardent in its outbursts, like La Vallière’s, but restrained and deliberate, and her scruples always turn to the advantage of her fortune. Not false, but of consummate prudence; not perfidious, but always ready, if not to sacrifice, at least to abandon her friends; loving the appearance of good as much as good itself; without imagination, and consequently without illusions, this woman, superior by the intellect much more than by the heart, was armed against all allurements, and the fear of compromising her reputation placed her beyond all perils. “There is nothing more clever than an irreproachable conduct,” said she. This sentence paints her perfectly, and allows one to penetrate to the bottom of her soul. It explains and enlightens the whole of her life, and by its aid one can understand how this woman managed to live amidst the dangers of a light and frivolous society without succumbing, traverse youth without experiencing its temptations, undergo poverty with honour, hold her own at court, be constant mistress of herself, and end by irrevocably securing in the heart of the King a place which neither La Vallière, despite her disinterested devotion, Fontanges, despite her powers of fascination, nor Montespan, despite her legitimated children, had known how to preserve. To a sound judgment, to a dignity imposing, but devoid of arrogance, to that marvellous art of being queen without appearing to pretend to it, and of receiving the homage of the court with quite a Christian humility; to all these qualities, by which, as Louis XIV.’s wife, she showed herself worthy of her destiny, Madame de Maintenon had added, from her most tender infancy, that proud desire “for a good reputation,” in which lay her strength. “This was my hobby,” she said later.[457] “I did not trouble myself about riches; I was infinitely above interest. But I wished for honour. I did not seek to be loved privately by any one whatever. I wanted to be loved by everybody.”
Nothing indicates that her firm and decided will ever failed in carrying out this proud engagement, undertaken in early life with coolness and resolution. For a Saint-Simon and for a Ninon de Lenclos, who incriminate her conduct, there are many less suspicious witnesses who come forward in her favour. “We were all surprised,” says the Intendant Basville, “that any one could unite such virtues, such poverty, and such charms.” M. Lacroix[458] invokes that note transcribed by Conrart, said to have been found in Fouquet’s casket, and to have been written to him by Madame de Maintenon: “I do not know you enough to love you, and if I knew you perhaps I should love you less. I have always avoided vice, and I naturally hate sin. But I confess to you that I hate poverty still more. I have received your ten thousand crowns. If you will bring me another ten thousand in two days, then I will see what I have to do.” But besides the fact that Conrart ascribes to Madame de la Baulme this letter, the terms of which also contrast singularly with Madame de Maintenon’s style,[459] we know from positive proofs what were the relations both of Scarron and his wife with the family of Fouquet. If some doubts may exist with respect to Villarceaux, whom Saint-Simon and Ninon de Lenclos make Madame de Maintenon’s lover, no one can fail to recognize the perfect propriety and the dignity she exhibited in accepting the benefits of the Surintendant. It is always to Madame Fouquet that she addresses herself; and when the latter, charmed by so much intelligence, wishes to have the wife of Scarron near her, she rejects with marvellous tact a proposition full of perils both to her virtue, and, above all, to her good fame.[460] One day, however, she was obliged, on account of Scarron’s infirmities, to go herself to solicit Fouquet “But,” says Madame de Caylus (and Mademoiselle d’Aumale confirms the accuracy of this account), “she affected to go there in such great negligence that her friends were ashamed of taking her. Every one knows what M. Fouquet was then, his weakness for women, and how much the highest sought to please him. This conduct, and the just admiration that it excited, reached even the Queen’s ears.”[461]