Farewell, My Queen

be a more disastrous notion?
The Philosophes soon monopolized the discussion. Everyone had something to say about them. The tone rapidly became as heated as in the little corner I had just abandoned. Monsieur de Pujol spoke up again: what was more, all these Philosophes, badgering us incessantly with their talk of equality, were ambitious individuals. They had but one wish: to outdo their colleagues. They were consumed with ambition. They were poor specimens of humanity, tormented by megalomania. They could not tolerate kings because they considered they were kings themselves. Kings! Gods, rather! The Philosophes claimed they should be an object of worship.
“We must put them back in their place; remember, it was not so long ago . . . Think back: under the previous reign, even someone as passionately fond of literature as the Prince de Conti would have never let a Philosophe sit down at his table. Not even away from Court, on his own estates.”
Whether it was the previous reign or on his own estates that set Monsieur de Pujol’s mind on a different course I do not know, but a wave of nostalgia swept over him. And he began to intone (I can still hear the chanting rhythm, the languid dipping-of-oars effect permeating the Southern accent that colored his words):
“Under King Louis XV, that time we all remember so happily, every prince kept an author who became part of his household. Thus, Collé belonged to the aging Duke d’Orléans, Laujon to the Prince de Condé. When festivities were held, these fine minds were much in demand. They composed couplets and kept us amused with their set-rhyme poems. We treated them courteously, and I must even confess that I often derived pleasure from conversing with them. But there was never any question of allowing them to step outside the understood limits. They took their meals at a table set aside for them, among the equerries and the stewards ordinary. As for dining with princes . . . (Monsieur de Pujol suppressed a nervous giggle) let us not descend to absurdities! Never would a man of letters have taken his seat at the table of a prince. After lunch, they had leave to consume an ice in the salon. Occasionally, at the prince’s pleasure, they might return to the billiard room to watch the play, but always standing up, as was the case when they consumed ices. They would remain for half an hour, forty-five minutes at most.” (And he tapped his cane in time with these last words, for added emphasis.)
The narrator, though recalling things everyone already knew, was being heard in blissful contentment. But suddenly, perhaps because thinking about those vanished times was too cruel to be borne, unappeasable awareness of the present moment forced its way back to the surface. The reign of Louis XV was over. Talented individuals now ate ices at any hour of the day. They could enjoy them lying down if they felt like it . . . Around the table, gentlemen were dozing with their heads on their arms, like lazy schoolboys. I would have been glad if I, too, could sit down, but all the chairs were taken. I was about to go elsewhere (I had in mind the room called the Dogs’ Antechamber, which had a wide couch), when a hard, cold voice echoed in the doorway.
*      *      *
A commanding voice; was it a man’s voice? a woman’s? It was hard to judge. What was not hard to judge was the provocative intent of the speaker and the tremendous energy behind the voice. We had reached a level of despondency where no one had the least desire to resume a debate on any subject whatsoever, and especially the subject of the Philosophes. But the newcomer seemed quite ready to prolong the discussion. The authoritarian voice rapped out:
“Not all the Philosophes are witty conversationalists and court jesters. The real Philosophes are independent. They work. They think. (Those last words were underlined with an emphasis meant to be insulting . . .) There are good things, in fact excellent things, to be found in the writings of the Philosophes. Anyone who has not read Helvétius’s book On the Human Mind or Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Social Contract cannot hope to grasp the dynamic of our times.”
DIANE DE POLIGNAC.
This pronouncement revealed to me the speaker’s identity: Diane de Polignac. The discovery made me still more anxious to slip quietly away, but I did not dare: I always went numb in that woman’s presence. It certainly had to be her; who else would talk about dynamics at the very moment we were all crashing down? Her way, in any situation, was to find the current that would carry her where she wished to go . . . She took up a position in the middle of the room. The men immediately stood up. They were vexed at themselves for unguardedly dropping off to sleep in the presence of so eminent a personality. Heavily built, lacking in beauty, Diane de Polignac crushed other people with her intelligence and haughtiness. To these “qualities” she added an ill-concealed natural violence. In her presence, you felt as if you were facing a military commander, and when she desired a man, she wasted no time or effort on roundabout maneuvers, but simply took him. At a deeper level, however, the man with whom she truly formed a couple was her brother. The Duke de Polignac had pleasing manners. His career had progressed with unbelievable speed. After obtaining the post of First Royal Equerry, he had been appointed General of the Posts and Director of the Royal Stud. Finally, to crown this series of achievements, he had recently been ennobled and risen from the rank of count to that of duke . . . He owed his prosperity, as can well be imagined, not just to his own abilities, but to the complete confidence he reposed in his sister. Having no illusions about her political acumen, which was immeasurably greater than