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Table of Contents

The king of Denmark—The courtesans of Paris—The duc de

Choiseul and the bishop of Orleans—Witty repartees of the

king of Denmark—His visit to madame du Barry—“The court of

king Petaud,” a satire—Letter of the duc d’Aiguillon to

Voltaire—The duchesse de Grammont mystified—Unpublished

letter of Voltaire’s

From this moment, and in spite of all that comte Jean could say against it, a new counsellor was admitted to my confidence. He was the chancellor. The duc d’Aiguillon and he were on very good terms, and these two, with the abbé Teray, of whom I shall speak to you presently, formed a triumvirate, which governed France from the disgrace of M. de Choiseul to the death of the king. But before I enter upon a detail of those politics, of which you will find that I understand something, allow me to continue the history of my presentation, and also to give some account of Christian VII.

You know that his Danish majesty was expected with anything but pleasure by the king of France, and with curiosity by the rest of the nation. Men and women were impatient to see a king, under twenty years of age, who was traversing Europe with a design of attaining instruction. Married to a lovely woman, Caroline Mathilde, he had left her on the instant, without suspecting that this separation would prove fatal to both. At Paris, the real character of this prince was not known, but a confused report of his gallantry was spread abroad, on which all the courtesans of note in the city began to try all arts to please him, each hoping to attract him to herself, and dip into his strong box. M. de Sartines amused us one evening, the king and myself, by telling us of the plans of these ladies. Some were going to meet his Danish majesty, others were to await him at the barrier, and two of the most renowned, mesdemoiselles Gradi and Laprairie, had their portraits painted, to send to the young monarch as soon as he should arrive.

Christian VII entered Paris the latter end of the month of October, 1768. MM. de Duras complimented him in the king’s name, and informed him that they were charged with the office of receiving his commands during his residence in Paris. The interview of the king and the illustrious stranger took place at Versailles. Christian VII came thither in the state-carriage, and was conducted by the duc de Duras into the apartment of the dauphin, where he remained until Louis XV was prepared to receive him. I had heard much discussion about this reception. It was said, that to make a distinction between sovereign of a petty state and that of the superb kingdom of France, it was requisite that the former should await for some time the audience which the latter accorded. I am sure that when the peace with Frederick was agitated, the face of Louis XV was not more grave and serious than during this puerile debate about etiquette.

The duc de Choiseul, who had the control of foreign affairs, was in the apartment to receive his Danish majesty, with his colleagues, the duc de Praslin, the comte de Saint-Florentin (whom I have called by anticipation duc de la Vrillière), M. Bertin, M. Mainon d’Invau, controller of the finances, and M. de Jarente, bishop of Orleans and one of the ministry. He kept himself somewhat in the background, as tho’ from humility. The duc de Choiseul came up to him, and said, with a smile,

“Monseigneur, what brings you in contact with a heretic?”

“To watch for the moment of penitence.”

“But what will you do if it become necessary to teach him his credo?”

M. de Jarente understood the joke, and was the first to jest upon his own unepiscopal conduct, replying to the duc de Choiseul,

“There is a person present who knows it; he will whisper it to me, and, if necessary, the Veni Creator also.”

The king of Denmark was congratulated by the duc de Choiseul, who discharged this duty with as much grace as wit. Afterwards M. Desgranges, master of the ceremonies, having announced that Louis XV was visible, the king of Denmark, preceded by his gentlemen and the French ministers and lords, went to the king’s cabinet, in which two arm-chairs precisely alike were prepared, but his majesty of Denmark positively refused to be seated. He entered into conversation, and felicitated himself on seeing a monarch, whose renown filled Europe, and whom he should take as his model. During this conversation Christian VII displayed the greatest amiability. Our king, speaking to him, said, “I am old enough to be your father”; to which he replied, “All my conduct towards you shall be that of a son.” This was thought admirable; and at the termination of the interview Louis XV appeared charmed with his brother of Denmark. “He is a complete Frenchman,” said he to me, “and I should be sorry if he left me dissatisfied.”

That same evening Christian VII visited monseigneur the dauphin, in whom he did not find the urbanity of his grandfather. The conversation was short and abridged out of regard to our prince, who only stammered, without being able to find one polished phrase. Never was there in his youth a more timid and awkwardly conducted prince than the present king. I shall mention him and his brothers hereafter, but will now direct my immediate attention to the king of Denmark. He supped the same evening with Louis XV at a table with four and twenty ladies of the court, selected from amongst those most celebrated for the charms of their persons or their wit. As his Danish majesty was greatly struck with madame de Flaracourt, the king asked him how old the lady might be in his opinion.

“Thirty, perhaps,” was the reply.

“Thirty, brother! she is fifty.”

“Then age has no influence at your court.” I shall not copy the “Gazette de France” to tell you of the sojourn of Christian VII at Paris. I am not writing the journal of this prince but of myself. The king one day said to me,

“My brother of Denmark has expressed to the duc de Duras a great desire to pay his respects to you, if you will accede to his wishes. I leave you entirely sovereign mistress of yourself, not without some fear however that the young king will steal away your heart from me.”

“Ah, sire,” I replied, “that is an unjust suspicion; I should be angry about it if it were not a joke, and would refuse to see the king of Denmark did I not know how fully you are assured of my attachment to you.”

“I should not be so jealous, madame, if I did not set so much value on it,” was the reply of the king, as he kissed my hand.

The duc de Duras came the next day to inform me of the request of his new king. It was agreed, in order to keep the interview secret, that I should receive him at my own mansion in the Rue de la Jussienne, and that he should come there without suite, and with the strictest incognito. At the day and hour agreed he entered my house, escorting two strangers of admirable presence. One was the king of Denmark, under the name of comte de———, and the other a nobleman of his suite. Christian VII appeared to me a very handsome man. He had large and singularly expressive eyes; too much so, perhaps, for their brilliancy was not of good augury; and I was not surprised at hearing subsequently that his reason had abandoned him, altho’ he possessed and exerted his wit most perfectly during our conversation, in which he displayed the greatest gallantry. I could not reproach him with one single expression that was objectionable, altho’ the subject of conversation was delicate. He discoursed of the feelings of the king towards me, and yet said not a word that was unsuited or out of place, nothing but what was in the best taste, and expressed with the utmost delicacy. I asked him if the ladies of Denmark were handsome. “I thought, madame,” was his reply, “until now, that the ladies of my kingdom were the most lovely in Europe.”

We did not talk of myself only: Christian VII spoke of Paris with enthusiasm. “It is the capital of the world,” he remarked, “and our states are but the provinces.” He sought out our most celebrated savants and literati, and was particularly delighted with d’Alembert, Diderot, la Harpe, and M. the comte de Buffon. He greatly regretted that Voltaire was not in Paris, and expressed his great desire to see at Ferney the great genius (as he termed him) who instructed and amused the world. He appeared weary of the fêtes which were given, and especially with the deadly-lively company of the two Duras. It was enough to kill you to have only one of them, and you may imagine the torture of being bored with both. The duke had promised Louis XV to be as amusing as possible too! After a conversation of three hours, which his majesty (of course) said had appeared but of a moment, he left me delighted with his person, wit, and manners.

When Louis XV saw me, he inquired my opinion of his Danish majesty.

“He is,” I replied, “a well-educated king, and that they say is a rarity.”

“True,” said Louis XV, “there are so many persons who are interested in our ignorance, that it is a miracle if we escape out of their hands as reasonable beings.”

I went on to tell the king our conversation.

“Ah,” cried he, “here is one who will increase the vanity of the literary tribe: they want it, certainly. All these wits are our natural born enemies; and think themselves above us; and the more we honor them, the greater right do they assume to censure and despise us.”

This was the usual burden of his song: he hated men of learning. Voltaire especially was his detestation, on account of the numerous epigrams which this great man had written against him; and Voltaire had just given fresh subject of offence by publishing “La Cour du Roi Petaud” (“The Court of the King Petaud,” ) a satire evidently directed as strongly against the king as your humble servant. M. de Voltaire had doubtless been encouraged to write this libel by the Choiseul party. He was at a distance, judged unfavorably of me, and thought he could scourge me without compromising himself.

It was comte Jean who brought me these verses, in which there was less poetry than malevolence. I read them, was indignant, and wept. The duc d’Aiguillon came, and finding me in tears, inquired the cause.

“Here,” said I, giving him the poem, “see if you can bear so gross an insult.” He took the paper, cast his eyes over it, and having folded it up, put it into his pocket.

“It was ill done,” said he, “to show this to you. I knew of it yesterday, and came now to talk with you of it.”

“I rely on you to do me justice.”

“Miséricorde!” cried the duke, “would you lose yourself in the eyes of all France? You would place yourself in a fine situation by declaring yourself the persecutrix of Voltaire. Only an enemy could have thus advised you.”

“That enemy was comte Jean.”

“Then your imprudence equals your zeal. Do you not perceive the advantage it would give to your adversaries were we to act in this manner? To the hatred of the court would be united that of the literati, women, and young persons. Voltaire is a god, who is not to be smitten without sacrilege.”

“Must I then tamely submit to be beaten?”

“Yes, for the moment. But it will not last long; I have just written this letter to M. de Voltaire, that peace may be made between you:—

“SIR—The superiority of your genius places you amongst the number of the potentates of Europe. Every one desires, not only to be at peace with you, but even, if it be possible, to obtain your esteem. I flatter myself with being included in the ranks of your admirers; my uncle has spoken to you many times of my attachment to your person, and I embrace the opportunity of proving this by a means that now presents itself.

“Persons in whom you place too much confidence have spread abroad, under your name, copies of a poem, entitled ‘La Cour du Roi Petaud.’ In this, wherein insult is cast on a personage who should be exempt from such offence, is also outraged, in a most indecent way, a lovely female, whom you would adore as we do, if you had the happiness to know her. Is it for the poet of the lover of Gabrielle to carry desolation into the kingdom of the Graces?

“Your correspondents use you ill by leaving you in ignorance, that this young person has immense favor here; that we are all at her feet; that she is all powerful, and her anger is to be particularly avoided. She is the more to be propitiated, as yesterday, in Presence of a certain person whom your verses had greatly irritated, she took up your defence with as much grace as generosity. You see, sir, that you ought not to be on bad terms with her.

“My uncle allows me to see, as one of the initiated, what you call your scraps, which are delicious feasts to us. I read them to the lady in question, who takes great delight in reciting, or hearing others recite, your verses, and she begs you will send her some as a proof of your repentance. Under these circumstances, if your bellicose disposition urges you on to war, we hope, before you continue it, that you will loyally and frankly declare it.

“In conclusion, be assured that I shall defend you to my utmost, and am for life,

“Yours, etc.”

Whilst we were awaiting Voltaire’s reply, I determined to avenge myself on the duchesse de Grammont, who had encouraged him in his attack; and thus did I serve this lady. Persuaded that she did not know the writing of his Danish majesty, I wrote the following letter to her:—

“MADAME LA DUCHESSE—I have struggled to this time to avoid confessing to you how I am subdued. Happy should I be could I throw myself at your feet. My rank alone must excuse my boldness. Nothing would equal my joy if this evening, at the theatre at madame de Villeroi’s, you would appear with blue feathers in your head-dress. I do not add my name; it is one of those which should not be found at the bottom of a declaration of love.”

In spite of all her penetration, the duchesse de Grammont did not perceive, in the emphatic tone of this letter, that it was a trick. Her self-love made her believe that a woman of more than forty could be pleasing to a king not yet twenty. She actually went in the evening to madame de Villeroi’s dressed in blue, with a blue plumed head-dress. She was placed next to his Danish majesty. Christian VII addressed her in most courteous terms, but not one word of love.

The duchesse imagining that the prince was timid, looked at him with eyes of tenderness, and endeavored to attract and encourage him by all means she could devise, but the monarch did not understand her. The duchesse then addressed a few words, which she hoped would lead to an explanation, but, to her dismay, his majesty did not appear to understand her. Madame de Grammont was furious at this affair. The duc d’Aiguillon, who was close to her, had seen all, heard all, and related particulars to me. The same day I told the king of my trick and its success. He laughed excessively, and then scolded me for at all compromising his Danish majesty.

“How, sire?” was my reply. “I did not sign his name; I have not forged his signature. The vanity of the duchesse has alone caused all the ridiculous portion of this joke. So much the worse for her if she did not succeed.”

I did not, however, limit my revenge to this. A second letter, in the same hand, was addressed to my luckless enemy. This time she was informed that she been made a butt of, and mystified. I learned from M. de Sartines, who, after our compact, gave me details of all, the methods she had pursued to detect the author of these two epistles, and put a termination to all these inquiries, by denouncing myself to M. de Sartines; who then gave such a turn to the whole matter, that the duchesse could never arrive at the truth.

Voltaire, in the meantime, was not slow in reply; and as I imagine that you will not be sorry to read his letter, I transcribe it for you:—

“MONSIEUR LE DUC—I am a lost, destroyed man. If I had strength enough to fly, I do not know where I should find courage to take refuge. I! Good God! I am suspected of having attacked that which, in common with all France, I respect! When there only remains to me the smallest power of utterance, but enough to chant a De profundis, that I should employ it in howling at the most lovely and amiable of females! Believe me, monsieur le duc, that it is not at the moment when a man is about to render up his soul, that a man of my good feeling would outrage the divinity whom he adores. No, I am not the author of the ‘Cour du Roi Petaud.’ The verses of this rhapsody are not worth much, it is true; but indeed they are not mine: they are too miserable, and of too bad a style. All this vile trash spread abroad in my name, all those pamphlets without talent, make me lose my senses, and now I have scarcely enough left to defend myself with. It is on you, monsieur le duc, that I rely; do not refuse to be the advocate of an unfortunate man unjustly accused. Condescend to say to this young lady, that I have been before embroiled with madame de Pompadour, for whom I professed the highest esteem; tell her, that at the present day especially, the favorite of Caesar is sacred for me; that my heart and pen are hers, and that I only aspire to live and die under her banner.

“As to the scraps you ask for, I have not at this moment any suitable. Only the best viands are served up at the table of the goddesses. If I had any I would present them to the person of whom you speak to me. Assure her, that one day the greatest merit of my verse will be to have them recited by her lips; and entreat her, until she bestows immortality on me, to permit me to prostrate myself at her beautiful feet.

“I will not conclude my letter, monsieur le duc, without thanking you a thousand times for the advice you have given me. This proof of your kindness will, if possible augment the sincere attachment I bear to you. I salute you with profound respect.”

As it is bold to hold the pen after having transcribed anything of M. de Voltaire’s, I leave off here for to-day.