Memoirs of Madame la Marquise de Montespan — Volume 7 — Context and Discussion
Edition facts
The catalog record for Memoirs of Madame la Marquise de Montespan — Volume 7 — Context and Discussion provides practical reading context through 22,636 words, 1 hr 39 min estimated reading time, and 3 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 23.2 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “France -- Court and courtiers,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.
How this score is calculated
- Description quality20 pts
- Title & short description10 pts
- Source metadata20 pts
- Text length15 pts
- Chapters / structure15 pts
- EPUB file integrity20 pts
Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.
Read the Text
The Reformed Religion and Painting on Enamel--Petitot and Heliogabalus.--Theological Discussion with the Marquise.--The King's Intervention.--Louis XIV. Renders His Account to the Christian and Most Christian Painter.--The King's Word Is Not to Be Resisted.--Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
At the moment when the first edicts, were issued against the public exercise of the Reformed Religion, the famous and incomparable Petitot, refusing all the supplications of France and of Europe, executed for me, in my chateau of Clagny, five infinitely precious portraits, upon which it was his caprice only to work alternately, and which still demanded from him a very great number of sittings. One of these five portraits was that of the King, copied from that great and magnificent picture of Mignard, where he was represented at the age of twenty, in the costume of a Greek hero, in all the lustre of his youth. His Majesty had given me this little commission for more than a year, and I desired, with all my heart, to be able soon to fulfil his expectation. He destined this miniature for the Emperor of China or the Sultan.
I went to see M. Petitot at Clagny. When he saw me he came to me with a wrathful air, and, presenting me his unfinished enamel, he said to me: "Here, madame, is your Greek hero; his new edicts finish us, but, as for me, I shall not finish him. With the best intentions in the world, and all the respect that is due to him, my just resentment would pass into my brush; I should give him the traits of Heliogabalus, which would probably not delight him."
"Do you think so, monsieur?" said I to my artist. "Is it thus you speak of the King, our master,--of a King who has affection for you, and has proved it to: you so many times?"
"My memory, recalls to me all that his munificence: has done for my talent in a thousand instances," went on the painter; "but his edicts, his cruel decrees, have upset my heart, and the persecutor of the true Christians no longer merits my consideration or good-will."
I had been ignorant hitherto of the faith which this able man professed; he informed me that he worshipped God in another fashion than ours, and made common cause with the Protestants.
"Well," said I to him then, "what have you to complain of in the new edicts and decrees? They only concern, so far, your ministers,--I should say, your priests; you are not one, and are never likely to be; what do these new orders of the Council matter to you?"
"Madame," resumed Petitot, "our ministers, by preaching the holy gospel, fulfil the first of their duties. The King forbids them to preach; then, he persecutes them and us. In the thousand and one religions which exist, the cause of the priests and the sanctuary becomes the cause of the faithful. Our priests are not imbecile Trappists and Carthusians, to be reduced to inaction and silence. Since their tongues are tied, they are resolved to depart; and their departure becomes an exile which it is our duty to share. If you will entrust me with your portraits which have been commenced, with the exception of that of Heliogabalus, I will finish them in a hospitable land, and shall have the honour of sending them to you, already fired and in all their perfection."
Petitot, until this political crisis, had only exhibited himself to me beneath an appearance of simplicity and good-nature. Now his whole face was convulsed and almost threatening; when I looked at him he made me afraid. I did not amuse myself by discussing with him matters upon which we were, both of us, more or less ignorant. I did all that could be done to introduce a little calm into his superstitious head, and to gain the necessary time for the completion of my five portraits. I was careful not to confide to the King this qualification of Heliogabalus; but as his intervention was absolutely necessary to me, I persuaded him to come and spend half an hour at this chateau of Clagny, which he had deserted for a long time past.
"Your presence," I said to him, "will perhaps take the edge off the theological irritation of your fanatical painter. A little royal amenity, a little conversation and blandishment, a la Louis XIV., will seduce his artistic vanity. At the cost of that, your portrait, Sire, will be terminated. It would not be without."
Volume 7 of Madame de Montespan's memoirs opens with a brisk account of military campaigns in Flanders and the Electorate of Treves, but the narrative quickly narrows to a sustained character study of the Marquis de Louvois. The author, writing from personal acquaintance, presents Louvois as a figure of almost superhuman competence: an administrator, jurist, theologian, artist, and soldier rolled into one. Yet her tone is not uniformly admiring. She notes that Louvois 'concentrated in his own person all the other ministries,' a phrase that hints at overreach. The excerpts show a memoirist who balances firsthand observation with retrospective judgment, using specific episodes—such as the swift construction of a bridge for the king's passage—to illustrate Louvois's resourcefulness while also implicating him in the devastation of the Electorate.
A Minister's Portrait in Action
The memoirist builds her portrait of Louvois not through abstract praise but through concrete scenes. When the king arrives at a swollen river in foul weather, Louvois alights from his carriage, 'sweep[s] the horizon with a single glance,' and conjures farms, granaries, and mattresses as if from the earth. The language is almost magical: 'A general repast, appropriate and sufficient, issued at his voice.' Yet this efficiency has a dark side. The same minister who can produce a bridge overnight also orders the 'firing, pillage, and devastation of almost the whole Electorate' of Treves. Montespan does not resolve the contradiction; she lets the juxtaposition stand. Her voice remains that of a court insider who once trusted Louvois but now sees his 'stern and inflexible' methods as excessive. The pacing shifts between swift narrative (the week-long siege of Luxembourg) and reflective analysis, mirroring the dual nature of her subject.
The Genoese Humiliation
A long set-piece recounts the Republic of Genoa's submission to Louis XIV. Louvois, informed that Genoa built ships for the king's enemies, waits until the vessels are nearly delivered, then demands the sale proceeds and a public apology. When the Senate protests that a Doge cannot leave the city without losing power, the king replies that in this 'solitary case' he will 'derogate from the laws.' The memoirist records the dialogue with precision, noting how Louvois dictated the ambassadors' costumes, reverences, and address. The scene at Versailles—new curtains, candelabra, a throne 'covered' with diamonds—is rendered in lavish detail. Yet the tone is not triumphal. Montespan observes that the king 'seemed to me less animated than was his wont,' a small, telling detail that undercuts the spectacle. The episode reveals Louvois's talent for stage-managing power, but also the cost: a republic humbled, a city bombarded.
Pace and the Mechanics of Influence
The narrative rhythm of this volume alternates between rapid military action and slow, almost ethnographic description of court ceremonies. The conquest of Luxembourg takes a week; the description of the Genoese ambassadors' reception spans pages. This shift in pace mirrors the memoirist's own focus: she is less interested in battles than in the machinery of power behind them. Louvois, she writes, 'was unceasingly occupied in exciting' the king against other powers, keeping him in 'constant alarm of distrust' to perpetuate war. The accusation is direct: the minister feared peace because it would allow the king to examine expenses. Montespan's voice here is that of a disillusioned observer, one who has seen how policy is made. Her sentences grow longer, more layered, as she dissects Louvois's motives. The effect is to slow the reader down, forcing attention on the subtle mechanics of influence that the memoirist herself once navigated.
Readers approaching Volume 7 should attend to the memoirist's shifting tone: she moves from brisk chronicler to sharp critic within a single paragraph. The excerpts offer no complete arc—the volume may contain further episodes—but the pattern is clear. Montespan uses specific, verifiable incidents to build a case against Louvois while never denying his abilities. Her voice, at once intimate and judicial, invites the reader to weigh evidence alongside her. The result is a portrait that feels earned, not asserted.
Some evenings, recalling Madame de Montespan's portrait of Louvois—that sharp, brilliant man who bent wars to his will—I think of how strategy shadows every human ambition. The old memoirs whisper of cleverness and its costs, and my mind drifts to another old companion, The Art of War — Key Ideas to Explore, which knows that same quiet truth about victory's heavy price.
There are no reviews for this eBook.
Record your reading impressions
A brief reflection can help important ideas stay with you longer.