And so the castles and lands of fair France were left untenanted and falling to ruin, and to lie untilled and neglected, for all the good at least the people reaped; and this at a time when rougher warfare had ceased, and religious strife had calmed down, and under other ruling, the promise of prosperity dawned. Such profits and incomings as did arise from these tenures and estates, by the toil of the peasant dwellers on them, brought them only starvation wage; for the money earned by the sweat of the brows of the peasantry was needed for its overlords’ silks and velvets, and laces and jewelled snuff-boxes, and solitaires, to add greater bedazzlement to the salons and galleries where Louis le Grand lived his span of years. And even when this was ended—the time was still yet afar off for the breaking of the storm—but on, ever faster and heavier, the clouds were lowering in. Neither Richelieu or Mazarin tolerated the spirit which inspires to a man ruling, or striving to rule, with prudence and protecting care in his own house. They feared it, and taxation and gabelle, and rents and quit-rents, as they waxed on to their hideous proportions, set minds working on the problem of why such things should be, and how came about such “inequality among men.” “Where is the wonder, is it not my college?” said the king, one day when he had bestowed his magnificent presence on the representation, by the pupils of the Jesuit College at Clermont, of a tragedy very finely performed. “Collegium Cleromonterum Societate Jesus” was originally graven upon the college gate, and the sycophant principal had now caused this to be effaced, and “Collegium Ludovici Magni” inscribed in gold letters in its place.
The next morning was to be seen, fastened on the gate beneath, a Latin distich, whose meaning may be thus interpreted—
“Christ’s name expunged, the king’s now fills the stone;
Oh, impious race! by that is plainly shown
That Louis is the only god you own!”
The author of these lines was run to earth. He was found to be a pupil of the college, and thirty-one years of the Bastille and of St Marguérite were awarded his crime. The term might have ended only with his years, had he not suddenly become sole heir to the estates of his family, and it was then suggested by the governor of the Bastille, a Jesuit, that setting him free might bring golden rewards. Being released, probably the reward followed.
And ever the intricate machinery of corruption and intrigue in high places worked on. Among other schemes of Madame de Montespan, was one of marrying Louise de la Vallière to the Duc de Lauzun. It would be, at all events, removing the two incommoding ones from her path; but it was an arrangement not very likely to appeal to the Duchesse de la Vallière, and moreover, the imprisoned Duc de Lauzun had not been consulted. The great idea of the favourite was simply, by fair means or foul, to get all she could of Mademoiselle’s possessions, and knowing Mademoiselle’s infatuation for Lauzun, she set the strings to the best of her power to tempt her to part with an immense portion of her fortune by the promise of trying to win the king’s consent to freeing the captive of Pignerol. To this end she flattered and cajoled Mademoiselle’s ladies, among whom was Madame de Fiesque, Ninon’s bitter enemy, none the less envenomed against her on account of the triumphant carrying through of the marriage of Clotilde. And as it happened one evening, Ninon, departing from her usual custom of remaining indoors when she visited Madame Montausier at St Cloud, went for a stroll in the gardens, and at a turn of the clipped hedges she came face to face with la Montespan, leaning on the arm of Madame de Fiesque.
Then came the bursting of the thunderclap. Madame de Fiesque, pallid with rage, whispered a word in the ear of la Montespan, who turned, and in a tone of disdain indescribable, said—
“La Ninon! Who dares to permit this woman to walk here?”
“This woman!” The words stunned Ninon for the moment; while indignation raged up into her heart, and angry tears blinded her. Ninon was—no matter what she was, she had elected to follow her own ways. These, at all events, were not soiled with the iniquities of the woman before her. She had not been false to marriage-vows. She had never betrayed trusts reposed in her and in friendship. She had not craftily stolen the love of the king from the woman he professed to be attached to. Blazing with indignation at the Montespan’s insulting words and insolent stare, she made some excuse to Madame Montausier for returning home, and sent a message to Monsieur de Montespan to call on her in the morning. On his arrival, she taxed him with the knowledge of his wife’s infidelity, and when he strove to disavow it, she drove the nail home, until he had no choice but to fall in with her suggestions—that he should find his way straight to St Cloud and punish the royal favourite in the presence of the king and all the Court. And this he did, bestowing a sounding box on the lovely ear of his wife. And when Ninon asked what the king said, the reply was, “Never a word.” But many a word, or rather epithet, de Montespan bestowed then on his Athénais.