The Boys' Book of Rulers

He kept his word: and Europe was once more plunged into a general war, because a window had been made a few inches too narrow, and a king had convicted a minister of error.

In 1691, the French were besieging Mons. The haughty minister, unintimidated even by the menace of the tongs, ventured to countermand an order which the king had issued. The lowering brow of the monarch convinced him that his ministerial reign was soon to close. The health of the minister began rapidly to fail. A few subsequent interviews with the king satisfied him that his disgrace and ruin were decided upon; and about the middle of June, meeting the monarch in his council-chamber, although he was unusually complaisant, Louvois so thoroughly understood him, that he retired to his residence in utter despair. He ordered that his son, the Marquis de Barbesieux, might be requested to follow him to his chamber. In five minutes the summons was obeyed, but it was too late; for when the marquis entered the room, his father had already expired. Louvois had judged rightly, for the king had already drawn up the lettre de cachet which was to consign him to the oubliettes of the Bastile.

“Civil war was now also desolating unhappy France. The Protestants, bereft of their children, robbed of their property, driven from their homes, dragged to the gallows, plunged into dungeons, broken upon the wheel, hanged upon scaffolds, rose in several places in insurrectionary bands; and the man who was thus crushing beneath the iron heel of his armies the quivering hearts of the Palatinate, and who was drenching his own realms with tears and blood, was clothed in purple, and faring sumptuously, and reclining upon the silken sofas of Marly and Versailles.”

On the 1st of November, 1700, Charles II. of Spain died, having no heirs. Urged by the Pope, he left the throne to the children of the dauphin of France. As the duke de Bourgoyne was direct heir to the throne of France, the dauphin’s second son, the duke d’Anjou, was proclaimed king of Spain, under the title of Philip V. On the 14th of the month, Louis XIV. summoned the Spanish ambassador to an audience at Versailles. The king presented his grandson to the minister, saying, “This, sir, is the duke d’Anjou, whom you may salute as your king.” Then, contrary to his custom, he ordered the folding doors of his cabinet to be thrown back, and the crowd of courtiers assembled in the grand gallery poured into the apartment.

The Spanish ambassador dropped upon his knee before the young prince with expressions of profound homage; while the king, embracing the neck of his grandson with his left arm, and pointing to him with his right hand, presented him to the assembled court, exclaiming, “Gentlemen, this is the king of Spain. His birth calls him to the crown. The late king has recognized his right by his will. All the nation desires his succession, and has entreated it at my hands. It is the will of heaven, to which I conform with satisfaction.”

To his grandson he added, “Be a good Spaniard, but never forget that you were born a Frenchman. Carefully maintain the union of the two nations. Thus only can you render them both happy.”

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.

On the third of May, 1715, the king rose at an early hour, to witness an eclipse of the sun. Strange coincidence that he, who had taken for his emblem a rising sun, should witness the eclipse of that brilliant orb, while he himself was sinking toward the grave. In the evening he retired early, complaining of extreme fatigue. The advanced age of the king and his many infirmities rendered even a slight indisposition alarming. The report spread rapidly that the king was dangerously sick. The foreign ambassadors promptly despatched the news to their respective courts, – a circumstance which soon reached the ears of the monarch, who, indignant at such indecent precipitancy, and to prove, not only to the court, but to all Europe, that he was still every inch a king, commanded that preparations should forthwith be commenced for a grand review of the household troops at Marly. On the twentieth of June this magnificent exhibition took place, when for the last time the troops of gendarmes and light-horse, in their splendid uniforms, defiled before the terrace of Marly; which they had no sooner done, than the monarch appeared at the principal entrance of the palace, habited in the costume of his earlier years; and, descending the marble steps, mounted his horse, and for four long hours sat proudly in his saddle, under the eyes of those foreign envoys who had announced his approaching death to their sovereigns. It was the expiring effort of his pride. During the whole of the last year of his life, it had been the study of Louis XIV. to deceive himself, and, above all, to deceive others, as to the extent of the physical debility induced by his great age. He rose at a late hour, in order to curtail the fatigues of the day; received his ministers, and even dined, in his bed; and once, having prevailed upon himself to leave it, passed several hours in succession in his cushioned chair. In vain his physician urged upon him the necessity of exercise, in order to counteract his tendency to revery and somnolency; the swollen state of his feet and ankles rendered it impossible for him to rise from his chair without severe pain, and he never attempted to do so until all his attendants had left the room, lest they should perceive the state of weakness to which he was reduced. Great, therefore, had been the effort we have described, when the monarch had for a time conquered the man, and where pride had supplied the place of strength. The only exercise which he ultimately consented to take was in the magnificent gardens of Versailles, where he was wheeled through the stately avenues, which he had himself planted, in a bath-chair; a prey to pain, which was visibly depicted upon his countenance, but which he supported with cold and silent dignity, too haughty to complain. The king grew daily worse. The disease was mortal, and he felt he was beyond the power of human aid. Bitterly Louis XIV. upon his death-bed expiated the faults and excesses of his past life. He wept over the profligacy of his youth, deplored the madness of his ambition, by which he had brought mourning into every corner of his kingdom. On the twenty-sixth of August, the king commanded all the great dignitaries and officers of the household to meet in his apartment, and addressed them in a firm voice, saying, “Gentlemen, I die in the faith and obedience of the Church. I desire your pardon for the bad example which I have set you. I have greatly to thank you for the manner in which you have served me, and request from you the same zeal and the same fidelity toward the dauphin. Farewell, gentlemen; I feel that this parting has affected not only myself, but you also. Forgive me. I trust that you will sometimes think of me when I am gone.”

How sad the scene! “The gray-haired king, half-sitting, half-lying, in his gorgeous bed, whose velvet hangings, looped back with their heavy ropes and tassels of gold, were the laborious offering of the pupils of St. Cyr; the groups of princes in their gorgeous costumes, dispersed over the vast apartment; the gilded cornices, the priceless, the tapestried hangings, the richly-carpeted floor, the waste of luxury on every side, the pride of man’s intellect and of man’s strength; and in the midst, decay and death, a palsied hand and a dimmed eye.” For a few moments there was unbroken silence. The king then requested his great-grandchild, who was to be his successor, to be brought to him. A cushion was placed at the bedside, and the little prince, clinging to the hand of his governess, knelt upon it. Louis XIV. gazed for a moment upon him with mingled anxiety and tenderness, and then said impressively, “My child, you are about to become a great king; do not imitate me, either in my taste for building, or in my love of war. Endeavor, on the contrary, to live in peace with the neighboring nations; render to God all that you owe him, and cause his name to be honored by your subjects. Strive to relieve the burdens of your people, in which I have been unfortunate enough to fail; and never forget the gratitude that you owe to Madame de Ventadour.”

Louis XV. caused these last words, addressed to him by his grandfather, to be inscribed on vellum, and attached to the head-cloth of his bed. Words to which his life for fifty years was but a hollow mockery. The following days were ones of agony to the expiring king. His intervals of consciousness were rare and brief. Mortification extended rapidly, and toward midday, on the 31st of August, his condition became so much exasperated that it was found necessary to perform the service for the dying without further delay. The mournful ceremony aroused him from his lethargy, and his voice was heard, audibly and clearly, mingled with those of the priests. At the termination of the prayers, he recognized the Cardinal de Rohan, and said calmly, “These are the last favors of the Church.” He then repeated several times, “Nunc et in hora mortis”; and finally he exclaimed, with earnest fervor, “O, my God, come to my aid, and hasten to help me!” He never spoke again; his head fell back upon the pillow, one long-drawn sigh, and all was over. The spirit of Louis XIV. had passed the earthly veil, and entered the vast unknown. An immense concourse had assembled in the marble court at Versailles, anticipating the announcement of his death. The moment he breathed his last, the captain of the body-guard approached the great balcony, threw open the massive windows, and, looking down upon the multitude below, raised his truncheon above his head, broke it in the centre, and, throwing the fragments down into the court-yard, he cried sadly, “The king is dead!” Then, instantly seizing another staff from the hands of an attendant, he waved it joyfully above his head, and shouted triumphantly, “Long live the king, Louis XV.!” And a multitudinous echo from the depths of the lately-deserted apartment answered as buoyantly, “Long live the king!”

Thus, on the 1st of September, 1715, in his palace, at Versailles, died “one of the world’s most powerful monarchs, Louis of Bourbon, Louis the Great, Louis the God-given, Louis the Grand Monarque, Louis the worn-out, unloving, and unloved old man, of magnificent Versailles.” And when Massillon, called to preach the funeral sermon of Louis XIV., as he looked upon the magnificent draperies and insignia of royalty around him, and thought of the title the deceased king had borne during his life, he began his discourse, with the simple and striking words, which amazed the pleasure-loving courtiers of Versailles, “God alone is great, my brothers.” And now, after two hundred years have rolled away, at this present time, in this nineteenth century, after the scaffold of Louis XVI., after the downfall of Napoleon, after the exile of Charles X., after the flight of Louis Philippe, after the French Revolution, – in a word, that is to say, after this renewal, complete, absolute, prodigious, of principles, opinions, situations, influences, and facts; standing upon the terrace of magnificent Versailles, and looking upon those scenes, where, for so many years, he was the central light and figure, – we bid a last adieu to Louis XIV., the Grand Monarque, greatest of all the Bourbons.