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The mystery of the ‘real’ Milady de Winter of The Three Musketeers
A spy and agent of Cardinal Richelieu, the enigmatic Milady de Winter is a constant shadow working against D’Artagnan and the three musketeers in Alexandre Dumas’ famous fiction. But could she – and the affair of Queen Anne’s diamonds – be based on a real story? Historian Josephine Wilkinson investigates
Perhaps the most important character in Alexandre Dumas’s 1844 historical adventure novel The Three Musketeers, after d’Artagnan and the musketeers themselves, is that of Milady de Winter – seductress, lady of intrigue and spirit of vengeance. The shadow of Milady follows the heroes throughout their adventures, which centre around the court of King Louis XIII in early 17th-century France, but there is one episode in the novel in which Milady particularly captures the reader’s imagination: that of the queen’s diamonds. It is known that d’Artagnan and his companions are based, albeit loosely, upon real people, but what of Milady de Winter, and the infamous diamond affair? What is the story of the Queen Anne’s Diamonds? In Dumas’ telling of the story, Anne – the young, beautiful and neglected queen of France to King Louis XIII (r1610–43)– succumbs to the tender attentions of the charming and handsome Duke of Buckingham. She gives him a set of diamond studs as a token of her affection: diamonds that had been presented to her by Louis XIII. Cardinal Richelieu, no friend of the queen, discovers this indiscretion and sees it as a way to humiliate her in the eyes of the king. The cardinal commissions his agent, Milady, to seek out Buckingham in England to remove two of the studs and bring them back to him. Meanwhile, Richelieu persuades Louis to hold a ball, adding that it would provide an opportunity for the queen to show off her new jewels. Louis agrees. The date of the ball is set, and arrangements are made. Anne, knowing that her act of folly will be exposed, confides in her seamstress, Constance. They agree that the diamonds must be returned, and Anne writes a letter to Buckingham asking for them. When Constance's husband refuses to carry the letter, Constance asks her lover d’Artagnan to deliver it, and he sets out, along with Athos, Porthos and Aramis. As Dumas has it, they must retrieve the diamonds and return them to the queen before the ball begins. In the event, only d’Artagnan manages to reach England. He explains the situation to Buckingham, but as the duke hands over the jewels, he notices two are missing, and immediately guesses who took them – Milady de Winter, whom he had encountered at a ball at Windsor the previous week. With no time to lose, Buckingham orders two new studs to be made identical to those that were stolen. He hands the restored jewels to d’Artagnan, who races to Paris. D’Artagnan returns the diamonds to the queen in time for her to wear them to the ball, thereby saving her reputation, and frustrating the cardinal’s evil designs. Is the tale of Milady and the queen’s diamonds a true story? In the preface to The Three Musketeers, Dumas claims that he was researching Louis XIV in the Bibliothéque nationale de France when he happened upon the first volume of The Memoirs of M. d’Artagnan. This is not entirely true: he found the book in the public library in Marseilles, borrowed it and never returned it. The Memoirs of M. d’Artagnan is a first-person pseudo memoir written by a former soldier, Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras, and first published in 1700. It tells the story of d’Artagnan, a young man setting out on his journey to become a musketeer. As well as d’Artagnan, Dumas discovered Athos, Porthos and Aramis, who would eventually become major characters in The Three Musketeers. He also found Milady de Winter. Courtilz never gives Milady’s name. Instead, she is referred to simply as ‘Milady’ followed by a dash or asterisks where her name should be. She is introduced as a maid of honour to Henrietta Maria, queen to the executed Charles I of England, whose exile in France Milady shares. The daughter of an English peer, Milady has as much wit as beauty, and d’Artagnan thinks her the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. He promptly falls in love with her. There then follows a complicated sexual intrigue, one of several for Courtilz’s d’Artagnan. Once it is over, Milady is never heard from again. This is the episode that Dumas adapted for The Three Musketeers. The affair of the queen’s diamonds is absent from Courtilz, but at least part of the story as Dumas told it is supported by several contemporary memoirs. Those of Françoise Bertaut de Motteville, Pierre de La Porte and Henri-Auguste de Loménie, Comte de Brienne – all of whom served at the royal court of France – each provide an account of the Duke of Buckingham’s visit to France in 1625. Buckingham had been sent to escort Henrietta Maria, then Charles I’s new queen, to England. While in France, he ostentatiously courted the queen, Anne of Austria. None of these memoirs, however, mention the diamonds that Anne was said to have given to the duke. For this part of the story, it is necessary to consult the memoirs of Henri-Auguste's son, an obscure publication known as Recueil A, and the memoirs of François de La Rochefoucauld. Louis-Henri de Loménie, Comte de Brienne served Louis XIV as secretary of state, a position he inherited from his father. He left a memoir, which was published in the early 19th century. Certain editions, particularly that edited by Jean François Barrière, include an account of the queen’s diamonds. It does not form part of Brienne’s original narrative – he was not even born at the time of the alleged diamond affair. Instead, it is mentioned in an introductory essay, written by the editor, explaining the manners and customs of 17th-century France. It is then related in full in an appendix, Éclaircissements historiques, or ‘historical clarifications’. In this version, the diamond thief is named as Lady Clarik. However, the story was lifted word-for-word from Recueil A, and inserted into the memoir. Recueil A is the first volume of a large collection published in the 18th century. It comprises an assortment of documents, including extracts of memoirs, concerning the history of France. The author of the account of the diamond affair is enigmatically identified as ‘M. le M. de T’. Behind these initials, according to the anonymous editor of the Recueil, is René de Froulay, Comte de Tessé. The Comte de Tessé was a real person. Born in 1651, he was a military man, diplomat and courtier. He did indeed leave a memoir, but the diamond affair does not appear in it. The story as found in Recueil A and later inserted into the memoir by Brienne is, therefore, unreliable. What then of La Rochefoucauld? In his memoir, the lady who stole the diamonds was not Lady Clarik but the countess of Carlisle. In fact, Lady Clarik did not exist – but Lady Carlisle certainly did. Who was Lucy Hay and how did she become Countess of Carlisle? Lucy Hay, countess of Carlisle, born in 1599, was the daughter of Henry Percy, 9th earl of Northumberland. Through her mother, Dorothy Devereux, she was well connected, being descended from Mary Boleyn, sister of Anne Boleyn. Lucy’s maternal uncle was Robert Devereux, 2nd earl of Essex, the former favourite of Elizabeth I. Lucy was headstrong. She chose her own husband and refused to change her mind despite strong pressure from her father. Her choice had fallen upon James Hay, master of the wardrobe to King James VI and I. Lucy married Hay, who was twice her age, in 1617. This set Lucy upon the court career her mother desired for her. Hay, one of the king’s favourites, was rich, extravagant and fashionable. His flair for diplomacy suited him to an ambassadorial role, which often took him away to continental Europe. He was elevated to the peerage, and, as a result, Lucy became Viscountess Doncaster in 1618 and countess of Carlisle in 1622. During one of Hay’s trips abroad, Lucy entered into a relationship with George Villiers, Marquis (later Duke) of Buckingham. Charming, intelligent and irresistibly handsome, Buckingham had surpassed all others, including Hay, to become the new favourite of King James. When the old king died, Buckingham became the favourite of his heir, Charles I. Buckingham, as the gateway to power, position and influence at court, was not the man to provoke. Hay’s best strategy was to accept that his wife was Buckingham’s mistress. This proved to be a wise decision, for both men benefitted from it. Moreover, despite the possibility that her relationship with Buckingham may have been coerced, Lucy also gained from it. In 1626, she became Lady of the Queen’s Bedchamber, a prestigious position she might not have obtained had it not been for Buckingham. The purpose of this promotion was to enable Lucy to spy on the queen on Buckingham’s behalf. It was rumoured that Buckingham and Hay also wanted to place her into the king’s bed for the same purpose. Following the death of Buckingham and, later, her husband, Lucy was free to follow her own path. The world of espionage attracted her, and she was particularly active during the Civil War. On occasion, she played both sides against the other, with each believing that she was acting on their behalf and trusting her implicitly. It was Lucy who famously warned John Pym that King Charles I was making his way to parliament to arrest Pym and his associates. Her actions allowed Pym and the others to escape. What parallels are there between Milady de Winter and Lucy Hay, Countess of Carlisle? Is Milady de Winter really Lucy in disguise with diamonds? Certainly, there are some areas of correlation between Milady and Lady Carlisle. Both were ambitious: Dumas’ Milady, as a young nun, seduced a young priest, running away with him and setting up a new life. Milady lived with her lover until Athos found her and proposed to her. She accepted, seeing a better life with him. Lucy chose to marry a much older man who was established at court and a favourite of the king. When she became Buckingham’s mistress, she used her elevated position to attain further advancement in court and society. Both women were also widows: Milady had been married to Lord de Winter, whom she would later be accused of poisoning. Lucy’s husband, James Hay, died in 1636 of natural causes. Both acted as agents. In Milady’s case, she served Richelieu, fulfilling whatever mission he asked of her until her death. Lucy spied on the queen on Buckingham’s behalf – and possibly the king, too – though she chose her own causes once widowhood had set her free. Likewise, Milady and Lucy each spent time in prison. Milady was imprisoned by her brother-in-law, while he made plans to deport her to the colonies. Lucy spent time in the Tower of London, having been arrested by the new Council of State on charges of treason. There were differences, however. Milady spent part of her youth in a Benedictine convent, whereas Lucy was never a nun. While Lucy was a lady of the court, Milady skirted the fringes of the court as an agent of the cardinal. Milady was executed as a young woman, while Lucy lived into her sixties and died a natural death. Is Milady de Winter based on Lucy Hay, Countess of Carlisle? Though there is some correlation between the lives of Milady and Lady Carlisle, the historical facts and circumstances tend away from the character of Milady being inspired by Lady Carlisle, at least directly. The story of Buckingham’s courtship of Anne of Austria is well attested, but no one except La Rochefoucauld, followed by Recueil A and Brienne, knew about the diamond affair. The only record of any such gems being given to Buckingham occurs in June 1625, when Louis XIII presented him with a circlet of diamonds worth 200,000 francs. There was nothing secret about this, as it is listed as an official gift alongside a bronze statue of a horse. La Rochefoucauld became the lover of Madame de Chevreuse, who was among those selected to accompany Henrietta Maria to England, and it is possible that he heard the story of the diamond studs from her. However, as a member of literary salons, where gossip and the latest news was freely exchanged, it is strange that he did not speak of the story to anyone else. Similarly, Madame de Chevreuse seems to have kept the story to herself, an unusual step for such an accomplished intriguer. The diamond affair aspect of the story itself is suspect. Anne of Austria was never alone with Buckingham, except for the few fleeting moments when they walked together in the garden at Amiens. It is unlikely she would have had the diamonds with her on that occasion. Even if she did, her panic when she suddenly found herself alone with Buckingham meant that she had no time to pass them to him because her attendants arrived on the scene immediately. Later, Buckingham visited Anne in her bedroom, but she was accompanied by her principal lady of the bedchamber, the Dame de Lannoy. Especially adamant that Buckingham should not be left alone with the queen, Lannoy kept a close eye on the two of them during the entire interview. It is difficult to see how Anne could have given diamonds to Buckingham without being seen. Even had she found an opportunity, the interview in the queen’s bedroom was the wrong occasion. Anne was said to have given the diamonds to Buckingham just as he was leaving for England. Anne had no occasion to do so, as she was never out of the sight of her ladies, her servants or courtiers. What is Milady de Winter’s real name? For much of The Three Musketeers, Richelieu’s agent is known as Milady de Winter, a name that disguises her status as Athos’s wife until the point in the plot where it becomes crucial to reveal it. However, in the novel she is also referred to as Anne de Breuil, which is probably her real name, and also known as Lady Clarik, an alias. She became the Countess de La Fère upon her marriage to Athos, whose real name is Olivier, Comte de La Fère. Her name changed to Lady de Winter, Baroness Sheffield when she married Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield. Later, she was known as Charlotte Backson (or Blackston), the name given to her by her late husband’s brother to distance her from his family. Of these names, the one to note is Lady Clarik. This name does not appear in La Rochefoucauld’s account, which identifies the supposed diamond thief as Lady Carlisle. However, the name Clarik does appear in Recueil A and the interpolation found in Brienne. It is possible that this is a misreading of Carlisle, but the fact remains that Dumas and his collaborator, Auguste Maquet, gave Clarik as one of Milady’s names. Although Dumas was aware of Lucy’s husband, the Earl of Carlisle, having mentioned him in Louis XIV et son Siècle – a historical account of Louis XIV published shortly after The Three Musketeers – he did not make the connection with Lady Carlisle. It is unlikely, therefore, that he knowingly based the character of Milady de Winter upon her. Why is Lucy Hay associated with Queen Anne’s diamonds? Considering the implausibility of the account of the queen’s diamond studs, where did the story originate? The answer lies in political differences between Buckingham and the Carlisles. Lucy and her husband were pro-French, while Buckingham was not. The Carlisles saw personal, cultural and political benefits in closer relations between England and France, and they cultivated diplomats and others to work to this end. Buckingham’s concerns were political and religious: particularly, the Protestant Buckingham viewed Cardinal Richelieu negatively for his treatment of the Huguenots. Then there is the fact of Lucy’s status as Buckingham’s mistress. It would not stretch the imagination of memoirists too much to envisage Lucy sabotaging the cardinal’s designs to discredit Anne of Austria while, at the same time, exacting revenge for her lover’s infidelity. Moreover, half-remembered and much exaggerated accounts of Buckingham’s extravagance continued to circulate. Known for his beautiful and lavish wardrobe, a story emerged that he wore diamonds loosely sewn onto his garments, many of which fell to the floor as he walked. This story is based on fact to some extent – one diamond was lost in this way but was retrieved and returned to him the following day. Thus, a legend was born that associated Lucy, Buckingham and diamonds. Read next | Who were the real Athos, Porthos and Aramis?
The Affair of the Poisons: who plotted to kill King Louis XIV?
In the 1670s, Louis XIV of France was the target of a series of assassination attempts involving poisons and necromancy. But who was the perpetrator? Josephine Wilkinson untangles a conspiracy that scandalised a nation
On a cold day in February 1680, a woman in her early forties was driven through the streets of Paris to the Place de Grève. A huge crowd had gathered to witness the spectacle to come. A priest stood to one side, a prayerbook in his hand, his voice silenced by the roar of the crowd. The executioner, his face concealed within a leather mask, ordered the woman to be brought forward. Her drunken state dulled some of her terror as she was tied to the stake, seated and bound with iron. Wood and straw were piled up around her. The fire was lit. After some time, her screams were ceased as her earthly agonies came to an end. The woman’s name was Catherine Deshayes Monvoisin, known as La Voisin. She was arrested, tried and executed during the Affair of the Poisons, among the most sensational crime scandals in French history, one that saw everyone from anonymous peasants to members of the nobility accused of necromancy and murder. Who was La Voisin and who were her clients? By the time of her death, La Voisin had enjoyed a long and successful career as a fortune-teller, sorcerer, poisoner and abortionist. While she catered to a wide clientele, most of her patrons were ladies from the court of King Louis XIV, to whom she would supply love potions, creams to enhance beauty, or the means to free themselves from an unwanted pregnancy. Mistresses consulted her to learn when their lovers would leave their wives – or, if they would not, to find a way to relieve them of their spouses. Others were impatient to rid themselves of a rich father, so they could get their hands on the family fortune. There were many sighs of relief at the news of La Voisin’s demise. But, perhaps, no one was happier than her daughter, Marie Marguerite Monvoisin. The 21-year-old had been arrested in January 1680, several months after her mother. The women had been imprisoned at the Château de Vincennes on the eastern edge of Paris and, although they were held in separate cells, Marie Marguerite feared that her mother’s magical powers could still harm her. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2023/05/GettyImages-1304446630web-5721ace.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="Catherine Deshayes Monvoisin, known as La Voisin, was a fortune-teller, sorcerer and purveyor of love potions and deadly poison in 17th-century Paris (Photo by Heritage Art/Heritage Images via Getty Images)" title="Catherine Deshayes Monvoisin, known as La Voisin, was a fortune-teller, sorcerer and purveyor of love potions and deadly poison in 17th-century Paris (Photo by Heritage Art/Heritage Images via Getty Images)" /> It was only when La Voisin was dead that Marie Marguerite felt able to tell investigators what she knew of her mother’s crimes and, more significantly, her clients. Tales of fortune-telling could be dismissed, as could the provision of beauty creams. But other stories could not be so easily ignored. Marie Marguerite spoke of poisonous potions, infant sacrifices, black masses – and a plot to murder the king. Read more | Scandal, conspiracy and the Affair of the Poisons: inside the court of Louis XIV That there was a conspiracy to kill Louis XIV – the so-called ‘Sun King’ who ruled over France from 1643 to 1715 as it emerged as Europe’s pre-eminent power – was sensational enough. Yet what scandalised the French public further still was the identity of the woman whom Marie Marguerite identified at the centre of the plot. That was none other than the king’s official mistress, Françoise Athénaïs de Rochechouart marquise de Montespan. Who was Athénaïs, marquise de Montespan? Louis was hardly a stranger to extra-marital affairs during his 72-year reign. Yet of all his mistresses, Athénaïs was arguably the most renowned. Celebrated for her intellect and beauty, she reigned as the “real queen of France” for many years, bearing the king seven children. Now, however, courtesy of Marie Marguerite’s explosive testimony, she stood accused of the most heinous of crimes. Marie Marguerite’s allegations would wreck Athénaïs’ relationship with Louis and cast a long shadow over her reputation. The allegations set out against her have dogged her name for 300 years. And they persist to this day, with TV dramas like Versailles consolidating Athénaïs’ alleged guilt. Yet, all the while, some historians have argued that Athénaïs’ reputation has been unfairly tainted. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2023/05/BAL4679751web-182041c.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="Athénaïs de Montespan is pictured in this portrait with three of her children. Did she inadvertently pass on poisoned potions to Louis XIV? (Photo by Josse / Bridgeman Images)" title="Athénaïs de Montespan is pictured in this portrait with three of her children. Did she inadvertently pass on poisoned potions to Louis XIV? (Photo by Josse / Bridgeman Images)" /> During my research into the life of Louis XIV, I have come to the conclusion that, while there was indeed a plot to poison the king – planned from within the confines of the court – it wasn’t orchestrated by Athénaïs. The true culprit was, in fact, another of Louis’ lovers, a woman with whom Athénaïs would have been all too familiar. Her name was Claude de Vin des Œillets. The lengths to which she went to strike at the Sun King were truly extraordinary. Primi Visconti, a contemporary court observer, and the Archives de La Bastille, a collection of contemporary documents, shine a light on Claude’s life and her campaign against Louis XIV. Who was Claude de Vin des Œillets? She was born in c1638 to two itinerant actors before, at the age of 30, taking up a position at court, her career facilitated by one of her mother’s patrons. Once installed at court, it was not long before Claude became the close companion to the patron’s daughter, Athénaïs. One of Claude’s duties was to collect love potions that Athénaïs had ordered from La Voisin. Athénaïs would administer these to Louis to keep his love for her alive and to spice up their sex life. Perhaps they were more successful than she intended, for the king had an insatiable sex drive. If Athénaïs was busy or unwell, it was not unknown for him to find satisfaction with Claude. Read more | The French royal mistresses who made it about more than sex Eventually, Claude came to think of herself as Louis’ unofficial mistress, and she would later claim that she had several children by him, although only one is known. In time, Claude hoped to replace Athénaïs and to have the child she was then carrying recognised as the king’s and legitimised. To achieve that goal, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Why did Claude plot to kill Louis XIV? Claude now started consulting La Voisin on her own behalf and took part in a ritual, in which a bundle of sticks were burned and an incantation read out. The king, it was supposed, would find no rest or sleep until Claude’s will had been fulfilled. Louis, however, had no interest in replacing Athénaïs and saw little need to recognise Claude’s child as his own. Enraged, at some point in 1677, Claude concluded that the king must die. And so she came up with a plan: to pass a powerful poison to Athénaïs, who would administer it to Louis, thinking it to be an aphrodisiac. Read more | Spanish fly, holy bread and mashed worms: history's weirdest aphrodisiacs and love potions Claude’s first attempt at murdering the king this way ended in failure, probably because the poison wasn’t strong enough or Athénaïs had been unable to administer the ‘potion’. And so Claude turned to two men – known as Latour and Vautier – who were well-versed in the art of poisons and were recommended by La Voisin. She offered to pay them handsomely for their services, and promised to facilitate their escape to England once Louis was dead. What was Claude’s connection to England? This last point raises questions over Claude’s motives, for she was frequently accompanied (and possibly bankrolled) by a mysterious Englishman, referred to in the records only as an “English milord”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2023/05/PC9EFXweb-0d41553.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A painting thought to depict Claude de Vin des Œillets, who, argues Josephine Wilkinson, was the true instigator of a series of plots to poison Louis XIV (Photo by History and Art Collection / Alamy Stock Photo)" title="A painting thought to depict Claude de Vin des Œillets, who, argues Josephine Wilkinson, was the true instigator of a series of plots to poison Louis XIV (Photo by History and Art Collection / Alamy Stock Photo)" /> This has led some historians to speculate that Claude had become involved in an anti-Catholic conspiracy against Louis originating in England. Certainly ill-feeling towards Louis did exist in England at this point. It was driven by resentment of a king whose recent victory in the Dutch War had made him the most powerful monarch in Europe. Louis also offered shelter to the exiled Catholic James II & VII of England. Read more | Britain and France: the best of enemies Did Claude try again, and what happened at the black mass? Whatever Claude’s motivations, the poisoned potion was once again passed to the king via the unwitting Athénaïs. Yet, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear, the king survived the assassination attempt. Undeterred, Claude changed tack. She and her English Milord paid another visit to La Voisin, and agreed to participate in a black mass. The officiating priest was the sinister Catholic clergyman and occultist Abbé Guibourg, who was dressed in the vestments of his holy office. Among the diabolical ingredients needed for the ritual were the blood of a bat, bodily fluids taken from the English Milord and Claude – whose naked body was used as the ‘altar’ in the service – and the blood of a sacrificed baby. Prayers, which mentioned the name of the king, were recited over the potion. The rite completed, Claude was instructed to put some of the potion onto Louis’ clothes or to place it in his path. Once accomplished, Louis was expected to die slowly of languor. But, once more, he survived the plot. The following year, Claude abruptly left Athénaïs’ service, but her extraordinary campaign to kill the king wasn’t over quite yet. At Christmastime 1678, Louis took another mistress, the beautiful Mademoiselle de Fontanges. Consumed by jealousy, Claude hatched a plot to murder both the lovers – and this time she had a plan B. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2023/05/G39Y0Xweb-92766b0.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A 19th-century engraving of La Voisin’s supposed laboratory in Paris. La Voisin aided Claude’s attempts on King Louis’ life (Photo by Chronicle / Alamy Stock Photo)" title="A 19th-century engraving of La Voisin’s supposed laboratory in Paris. La Voisin aided Claude’s attempts on King Louis’ life (Photo by Chronicle / Alamy Stock Photo)" /> She sent an accomplice, a man named Romani, in the guise of a salesman, to offer Fontanges fine cloth that had been impregnated with poison. If this did not work, Fontanges was to be tempted with Italian gloves, also poisoned. Taking advantage of Louis’ policy of allowing his subjects access to him, Romani would also try to pass a petition to the king. This was impregnated with a poison so powerful that he was instructed to give it to no one but Louis. How many attempts were made on Louis XIV’s life? As it happened, Romani failed to gain access to either of his intended targets. Soon after, La Voisin attempted to succeed where Romani had failed, travelling to Saint-German in March 1679 to pass the king yet another poisoned petition. Luckily for Louis, he was unavailable that day. Once again, the king had cheated death. Read more | Murder, conspiracy and execution: six centuries of scandalous royal deaths This would mark La Voisin’s last participation in the Affair of the Poisons. Louis had long harboured a fear of being poisoned and, once he’d learned of the affair, had appointed a man called Gabriel Nicolas de La Reynie to investigate the case. La Voisin was denounced in spring 1679 by a fellow poisoner and arrested. With her imprisonment, Claude’s vendetta against Louis was finally over. La Voisin paid a terrible price for her part in the plot. But why didn’t Claude follow her to the stake? Why did La Voisin’s daughter Marie Marguerite identify Athénaïs, not Claude, as the perpetrator of this poisonous crimewave? Was it simply a case of mistaken identity? In her testimony, Marie Marguerite recalled going to a house at Clagny (near the Palace of Versailles) several times to deliver powders to a lady there. Some of these were love powders, others were imbued with magical powers that had been strengthened by the intervention of an ordained priest. It was well-known that Athénaïs had a house at Clagny, a gift from the king. However, Louis had also given Claude a house, not far from Athénaïs’. Marie Marguerite assumed that items delivered to Claude were intended for Athénaïs. Instead, Claude was using her association with Louis’ principal mistress to conceal her own criminal activities. At the black mass, the Abbé Guibourg could not identify the lady who allowed her naked body to be used as an altar, because her face and upper body were covered by her long hair. Marie Marguerite and La Voisin’s accomplices were told that the mysterious lady was Athénaïs, and they had no reason not to believe it. Read more | King of the world: how Louis XIV turned France into a global power When asked to describe her mother’s client, Marie Marguerite said that she was tall and brunette. She called her “la dame á double queue” from her distinctive dress that was embellished with two trains. This description did not match Athénaïs, but it fitted Claude perfectly. Later, as a part of de La Reynie’s investigation, Marie Marguerite was required to identify Claude. At first, she declared that she did not know who the lady was. She later retracted this and admitted that the woman she had been shown was, indeed, Claude. As for Athénaïs, she had no reason to kill the king. Everything she had – her position, her influence – originated with him. The future prospects of their children also rested with the monarch. Circumstantial evidence for Athénaïs’ innocence is provided by the fact that she did not know of Louis’ liaison with Mademoiselle de Fontanges until spring 1679. Since La Voisin had already been arrested by this time, Athénaïs could not have had anything to do with the conspiracy against the lovers. None of this was enough to save Athénaïs’ relationship with Louis. The king did not dismiss her from her post of superintendent of the queen’s household, nor did he send her away from court, but their love affair was over. She continued at court until 1691 and retired to a life of piety and charitable works. What happened to Claude? But what of Claude de Vin des Œillets, the true mastermind behind this extraordinary crimewave? On Louis’ orders, Claude was not investigated about her involvement in the Affair of the Poisons – the king didn’t want people to know that he was an assassin’s target, and also sought to keep his relationship with Claude out of the spotlight. Instead, she retired to a luxurious life, dividing her time between her home on the rue Montmartre, Paris, and her château just outside the capital. Claude died in 1687, taking the true motivations behind her remarkable vendetta against the most powerful monarch in Europe with her to the grave. Josephine Wilkinson is an author specialising in French history. Her books include Louis XIV: The Power and the Glory (Pegasus, 2020) This article was first published in the June 2023 issue of BBC History Magazine
The real three musketeers: the historical Athos, Porthos and Aramis (and d’Artagnan) revealed
The musketeers, made famous by Alexandre Dumas and the many films his stories inspired, are the most well-known of the regiments of ancien regime France. Moreover, the heroes of Dumas’s stories – d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis – have real historical counterparts too. Historian Dr Josephine Wilkinson separates their lives from legend
The origins of the musketeers can be traced to 1600, when Henri IV formed the carabins, a unit of light cavalry armed with long guns called arquebuses, who became known for their marksmanship. In 1615, during the regency of Louis XIII, the carabins were disbursed among other light cavalry units, where their skills suited them for reconnaissance missions. But then in 1622, the same Louis, wanting his own special regiment, reformed the unit in readiness for an expedition against the Huguenots. He replaced the arquebuses with muskets, creating the King’s Musketeers. The real musketeers From the beginning, the musketeers were an elite regiment. Almost all recruits were nobility, although military prowess remained the main requirement. They were largely a young regiment, with men joining at the age of 16 or 17. Recruits were predominantly Gascons or, more specifically, Béarnais, who were renowned for their bravery, but also perhaps preferred in honour of Henri IV, who also hailed from that region. Initially, they had their own captain, but Louis XIII was so proud of them that, in 1634, he appointed himself captain and created the post of captain-lieutenant, who managed the day-to-day running of the regiment. The musketeers, who comprised both infantry and cavalry, were skilled in swordsmanship and firearms. How they served varied according to whether France was at peace or at war. During peacetime, they served as escort for the king and staged mock battles as court entertainment. Louis XIV particularly loved to show them off in military reviews. They accompanied the king to the front during wartime, led assaults at sieges, performed dangerous manoeuvres and served as sentries at the king’s door. Read more | King of the world: how Louis XIV turned France into a global power The musketeers were based in Paris near the Louvre, but in 1682 Louis XIV moved his court to the Palace of Versailles. Here, a detachment of musketeers stood ready to fulfil any orders he might have. These included carrying out sensitive tasks, such as arresting important persons. The musketeers’ real rivalry with Cardinal Richelieu’s guard Cardinal Richelieu, first minister to Louis XIII, had his own guard. His policy was to deny the nobility higher office, thereby curbing their power and making them reliant upon the king for position and favour. Since most musketeers were noblemen, this caused much resentment, which spilled into rivalry between the two regiments. Duels, or ‘meetings’ were infamous and looked upon as sport by the king and his minister. When Cardinal Mazarin replaced Richelieu, he maintained this policy. However, Mazarin also attempted to place his infant nephew, Philippe Jules Mancini, the future duc de Nevers, in command of the musketeers. This was seen as outrageous, and one of those who opposed him in this was the current captain-lieutenant, Troisvilles (the real-life equivalent of Monsieur de Tréville from Dumas’ novels). Mazarin solved the problem in 1646 by simply disbanding the regiment, stating that it was not required while the king, Louis XIV, was a minor. The musketeers had, by now achieved almost legendary status, and, in 1657, they were reinstated with Louis XIV as captain and the 15-year-old Nevers as captain-lieutenant. It soon became obvious that a senior man should have the command, and the post of sub-lieutenant was created, which would eventually be filled by the real-life d’Artagnan. Meanwhile, Mazarin had formed his own guard, which he relinquished to Louis XIV in 1660. Three years later, this became the second company of musketeers, also captained by the king, with Nevers as captain-lieutenant. In time, there would be little difference between the two companies, who were mainly distinguishable by the colour of their horses: grey for the first company, black for the second. Great reputations Member exclusive | In our podcast series, expert historians discuss the contested reputations of key historical figures, charting the lives and afterlives of Cleopatra, Napoleon Bonaparte, Emmeline Pankhurst and more… Listen to all episodes now The musketeers participated in many battles, most notably the siege of La Rochelle (1627–28), the storming of Rouvroi (1632), the battle of the Dunes (1658) and the siege of Candia (1669). They were deployed during the Nine Years’ War (1688–97) and the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14). Their last battle would be at the battle of Fontenoy in 1745, during the War of the Austrian Succession. Thereafter, Louis XV (1710–74) used them for ceremonial duties only; his successor Louis XVI (1754–93) disbanded them in 1776, although Louis XVIII reinstated them for 18 months in 1814–15 upon his accession during Napoleon’s exile. Read more | What triggered the French Revolution? The regiment had, nevertheless, caught the public’s imagination and their memory would be revived in the most vivid way when Alexandre Dumas published Les Trois Mousquetaires (1844) as a serial in the newspaper Le Siècle. Who were the three musketeers? Dumas had found his heroes in the pseudo-memoir Mémoire de Monsieur d’Artagnan by Gatien Courtilz de Sandras, but he made them his own. He also made them several years older than Courtiltz’s characters, so that they would be able participate in the thrilling siege of La Rochelle and the ‘affair of the queen’s diamonds’. What Dumas may not have known was that d’Artagnan and his companions were real people. The real d’Artagnan: Charles de Batz de Castelmore Charles de Batz de Castelmore was born c1613/15 at Château Castelmore, near Lupiac in southwestern France, as a younger son of a recently ennobled but relatively poor family. He joined the Gardes, an elite regiment belonging to the king's household, where he served under the command of François de Guillon Des Essarts in 1635, using his mother’s family name, d’Artagnan, as his nom de guerre. D’Artagnan saw action at several of the sieges that took place in the 1640s. In 1641, he accompanied the Comte d’Harcourt on a mission to England, returning after the death of Louis XIII. He entered the musketeers in 1644, and, after the regiment was disbanded, served Mazarin. In this role he undertook several secret missions, including liaising between Mazarin and his supporters when the minister was exiled during the Fronde. He was later entrusted with the arrest of the superintendent of finances, Foucquet, and the courtier, Lauzun. He became part of the royal household, holding captaincies of the royal aviary and the deer hounds. He also accompanied Louis XIV as he travelled to Saint-Jean-de-Luz to marry María-Teresa, Infanta of Spain. In 1659, D’Artagnan married the widowed Charlotte-Anne de Chanlecy, with whom he had two sons. The marriage broke down in 1665, probably due to the strain of separation when d’Artagnan served as Foucquet’s gaoler. Read more | Unmasking the Man in the Iron Mask: can we identify the famous prisoner? He was, however, foremost a soldier, and he became captain of the Gardes in 1656. Two years later, he was appointed sub-lieutenant of the newly reinstated musketeers and would become captain-lieutenant of that regiment and brigadier of the cavalry in 1667. After a brief stint as governor of Lille, d’Artagnan would take part in the siege of Maastricht in 1673, where he was killed in action on 25 June of that year. The real Athos: Armand de Sillègue d’Athos d’Auteville Dumas’s Athos was the eldest of the group, the ideal of nobility, worldly-wise and bitter, hiding a devastating secret in the bottom of a glass. The historical Athos was Armand de Sillègue d’Athos d’Auteville, who was born c1615, the younger of two sons. All that is known about him is that he joined the musketeers in 1640 or 1641 and that he died in Paris on 21 December 1643. The record of his death and burial is kept in the Church of Saint-Sulpice in Paris: Procession, service and burial of the late Armand Athos dautuviele [sic], musketeer of the king’s guard, gentleman of Béarn, taken close to the market at the Pré-aux-Clercs. The word ‘taken’ suggests a violent death, leading historians to believe that Athos died as a result of a duel. The grassland of Pré-aux-Clercs was a popular spot for this activity. The real Porthos: Isaac de Porteau The historical figure behind loyal, vain and lovable Porthos was Isaac de Porteau. Born to a Huguenot family at Pau c.1617, he made his appearance on the world stage in the early 1640s as a Garde serving under Des Essarts. While it is assumed that he later joined the musketeers, no proof of this exists. Porteau had returned to his native Béarn by 1650, where is found serving as a subaltern of the munitions guard at Navarrenx, working alongside his brother, Jean, who also held a military post in the town. Read more | Who wrote the French national anthem? Porteau’s life after that is a mystery, although local tradition has it that he died a man of some standing in 1670. Porthos was Dumas’s favourite among his musketeers. In creating him, he was inspired by his own much-loved father, a man of larger-than-life character and a highly successful soldier. The real Aramis: Henri d’Aramitz For Dumas, Aramis is a young man who was studying for the priesthood before he joined the musketeers. Mired in political intrigue, he is the only one of the four to remain alive as the Musketeers trilogy ends. Aramis is arguably the most complex of Dumas’s musketeers. His historical counterpart is Henri d’Aramitz, born c1620 at Aramitz in Béarn. His was a very old aristocratic family, who first entered the historical record in 1376, and who were recently converted Huguenots. Aramitz was abbé laïque, or lay-abbot, of the abbey at Aramitz – although he did not manage the abbey, he collected its revenues and tithes. The religious connection was unknown to Dumas, who took Aramis’s piety from Rotondis, a character he had found in Courtiltz de Sandras, and who was about to enter the church. Read more | Sanctuary in medieval churches: how criminals found protection from capture and punishment Aramitz joined the musketeers in the summer of 1640, serving under Troisvilles. He would remain for several years, but it is unknown what rank he achieved. He had returned to Béarn by February 1650, where he married Jeanne de Béarn-Bonasse. The couple had two sons and two daughters, the youngest of whom was born after Aramitz’s return Paris in 1654. Aramitz is last seen in February 1657, where he and his wife witnessed the marriage contract of his sister-in-law. He died prior to September 1681, when his second son, Clément, inherited the family property after the elder son, Armand, died without issue. The real Monsieur de Tréville: Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles Dumas’s musketeers served under Tréville, whose historical counterpart was Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles. Born in 1598 at Oloron-Sainte-Marie in Béarn, Troisvilles became a cadet in a regiment of the Gardes in 1616 and joined the musketeers in 1625. He saw action at the siege of La Rochelle before being promoted to captain-lieutenant in 1634. He would hold this post until the musketeers were disbanded 12 years later. Troisvilles was also a courtier, holding the post of gentleman of the king’s bedchamber. He and his brother-in-law, Des Essarts, as noblemen, disapproved of Richelieu’s policies and saw him as an enemy. They were briefly exiled from court following a plot against the cardinal. Upon the reinstatement of the musketeers, Troisvilles conceded his former post to Nevers. He was now more interested in looking after his estates in Béarn. He died in 1672. The Three Musketeers: not inseparable, but related Dumas described Athos, Porthos and Aramis as the 'Three Inseparables': that may not be the case, but certainly, they and Troisvilles were related. Troisvilles’ mother was Marie d’Aramitz, making him first cousin to Henri d’Aramitz. Porteau’s cousin, Anne d’Arrac, married Gédéon de Rague, to whose family Aramitz’s mother belonged. This, in turn, brought Porteau into kinship with Troisvilles. Athos’s mother was also related to Troisvilles’ family; although the connection is not precisely known, Athos is sometimes described as first cousin once removed to Troisvilles. It is possible that Troisvilles assisted the young men as they embarked on their military careers. D’Artagnan had no connection to the others, although he and his captain-lieutenant were naturally acquainted. There is, however, nothing to suggest that any of them were friends. Courtilz stated that they were brothers, but this is clearly incorrect. Nevertheless, that he felt he could describe a close relationship might suggest an enduring tradition of friendship. Dr Josephine Wilkinson is a historian with a particular interest in 17th-century France, Her books include Louis XIV: The Real King of Versailles (Amberley, 2019) and The Man in the Iron Mask: The Truth about Europe's Most Famous Prisoner (Amberley, 2021)
Unmasking the 'man in the iron mask': do we know the identity of the famous prisoner?
A mysterious figure who languished in French prisons and was forbidden from divulging his crime, the man in the iron mask is one of history’s great legends. But who was he? Josephine Wilkinson believes that she has uncovered his identity...
Listen to this article: “Call me accursed!” The man whose voice was almost drowned out by the storm was dressed entirely in black, “a sort of phantom, his head covered with a black helmet and a black mask, something terrible to behold”. In his 1850 epic book, Le Vicomte de Bragelonne, Alexandre Dumas created a captivating image of the man in the iron mask that would go on to inspire countless films and cement the mysterious figure’s place in popular culture. Dumas was inspired by a legend that had emerged almost two centuries earlier. It told the story of a mysterious prisoner who had been arrested and secretly imprisoned in France. He had spent decades in various dark and damp dungeons, ending up in the Bastille. Closely guarded, he was kept in solitude where no one could overhear what he might have to say, and he was not allowed even to speak his name. Read more | The real Three Musketeers He was guarded by a gaoler who was ordered to kill him if he spoke of anything other than his needs. The gaoler, nevertheless, showed great respect to this prisoner, even standing, hat in hand, in his presence. For, in Dumas’ story, this was not just any prisoner: he was one of the highest-born men in the land. According to the legend (and Dumas’ tale), the prisoner was forced to wear an iron mask over his face to hide his identity, and two musketeers stood ready to kill him if he ever it took off. Why he had been imprisoned was a state secret, and after his death his cell was scrubbed and scraped, its miserable furnishings destroyed in case he had written his name in a hidden place. Twisted family secret Another man who was intrigued by this legend was the French writer Voltaire, who looked into tales of the prisoner and the horrific mask he had apparently been made to wear. He found out that, far from being a story, the man in the iron mask had really existed – he was a prisoner who lived at the time of Louis XIV (reigned 1643–1715), who was known as the Sun King. Voltaire speculated there was only one reason why an unknown prisoner would have to hide his face: he resembled the only man who would be instantly recognisable to all Frenchmen, the Sun King himself. Voltaire concluded the prisoner must have been King Louis’ secret twin, who had been imprisoned to preserve the security of the kingdom. This twin theory inspired Alexandre Dumas, who incorporated it into the elaborate plot of Le Vicomte de Bragelonne. Largely as a result of Dumas’ tale and the films it later spawned, the legend of the man in the iron mask has intrigued people for many years. However, the true story is starkly different from the tale that Dumas penned. After poring through letters sent between Louis XIV, the French minister for war Louvois, and a gaoler called Saint-Mars, I have come to the conclusion that the man in the iron mask was most likely a lowly prisoner named Eustache. While there is no smoking gun, the accumulation of evidence in this cache of letters points strongly to him. What’s more, he didn’t permanently wear an iron mask. This was an invention of Voltaire, who wrote that the prisoner wore “a mask, the chin-piece of which had steel springs to enable [him] to eat while wearing it”. There is no historic basis for this, however. In reality, Eustache was only made to wear a mask – made of black velvet, not iron – in the later years of his life, and only when he might have been seen by onlookers. The theory that the man in the iron mask was Eustache was first put forward by Jules Lair, a French lawyer-turned-historian, in 1890. It was rejected by many historians because Eustache was deemed not interesting or important enough – they thought, as Voltaire and Dumas did, that the man in the iron mask had to be someone of significance, so the search continued. But there is no real reason why a lowly prisoner couldn’t have been the man in the iron mask. Before discussing the reason for Eustache’s imprisonment, we need to know his story. It begins in late July 1669, when Louis XIV issued a lettre de cachet, an order for the arrest of a man named Eustache, who was to be captured on sight and taken to the fortress of Pignerol in the Italian Alps. The terrible – and often bizarre – treatment he endured while imprisoned was remarkably similar to that in Dumas’ fictional retelling of the story: he was held under conditions of utmost secrecy and his gaoler, a former sergeant in the musketeers called Saint-Mars, ensured that he could not be seen nor heard by anyone. Once a day, Saint-Mars dropped a meagre package of food on to the floor of his cell. And, if Eustache attempted to speak of anything but his most basic needs, Saint-Mars was to kill him, an order he declared he was ready to carry out: “If he spoke to me or anyone else of anything other than of his needs, I would run him through with my sword.” A lowly valet Here, Dumas’ version of events in Le Vicomte de Bragelonne veers away from the truth. Far from being the king’s secret twin, or even a prisoner of high rank, Eustache was instead described by Louvois as “only a valet”. In 17th-century France, a person’s rank was preserved even in prison. As a valet, Eustache was of lowly status, and this was reflected in the paltry items provided for his use. He was given cheap clothes: as Louvois stated, garments for “these sorts of people” should last three or four years. By contrast, Saint-Mars’ other state prisoner, the aristocratic Nicolas Foucquet, the fallen superintendent of finance, was given new suits each season. While Eustache had no one to take care of him or keep him company, Foucquet enjoyed the services of valets. Eustache’s food was barely sufficient to keep him alive, yet Foucquet ate the finest meals such as would have been available to him had he been free. Yet there was one respect in which the two men were the same: Foucquet was also guarded securely and was forbidden from communicating with the outside world, at least for the first few years of his imprisonment. The two men were thrown together while in prison, with Eustache being forced to serve as the disgraced superintendent’s valet. Being a prisoner’s valet was a decidedly undesirable job. Valets were required to lodge with their masters, remaining in prison and forbidden even to visit their families for as long as they were in service. Foucquet was meant to have two valets while in prison. However one had died, so only one valet, named La Rivière, was at his master’s service. After failing to find a replacement, Saint-Mars remembered that Eustache had been described to him as a valet, and – with Louis XIV and Louvois’ permission – successfully placed him as Foucquet’s second valet. He was initially expected to work for him only when La Rivière was unable to carry out his duties. Eventually, he became a permanent fixture, even being allowed to accompany Foucquet when the latter received permission to walk on the walls of the citadel. In time, Foucquet was permitted to entertain visitors in prison, and Eustache looked after their needs as he did his master’s. A case of mistaken identity Josephine Wilkinson explains why three other candidates who were put forward couldn’t have been the man in the iron mask For many years, some scholars thought the man in the iron mask was an Italian diplomat named Matthioli. He negotiated the acquisition of the citadel of Casale for King Louis XIV, but was taken captive after he betrayed Louis. His candidacy was credible until it was discovered that he remained at Pignerol when Saint-Mars moved to Exilles. A second candidate was a valet known as Martin, the servant of a man named Roux de Marsilly, who was allegedly involved in a Protestant plot to assassinate Louis XIV. Martin resigned from his post and settled in England. Lured back to France to act as a witness against his former master, he was apparently captured and spent the rest of his life in prison. However, this is not borne out in the historical record. Eustache Dauger de Cavoye (a man with a remarkably similar name to my candidate, who lived at about the same time) proved to be a plausible contender: the name matches, and his crime-ridden life offers sufficient reason for why he might have been arrested. But Cavoye had been held in the asylum of Saint-Lazare while Eustache was at Pignerol, and it was there that he died in the 1680s. With so many people coming and going, security became a concern, but Louis XIV and Louvois were not unduly worried. Saint-Mars was simply ordered to arrange with Foucquet “as you judge appropriate, regarding the security of the person named Eustache... recommending you above all, to see to it that he speaks to no one in private”. Foucquet, himself a state prisoner, now had the responsibility of guarding Eustache – and making sure that the reason for his imprisonment remained unknown. What, then, was Eustache’s secret? Clearly, it had to do with his activities prior to his arrest. Evidence for this is found in a letter written by Louvois to Foucquet on the king’s orders. Louvois asked the former superintendent if Eustache had spoken in front of his other valet about what he had seen prior to his arrest. He then crossed out this line and replaced it with one which spoke about how Eustache had been employed before his arrest. In the original lettre de cachet, Louis had merely stated that he was “dissatisfied” with this man’s behaviour. He made no further elaboration. Louis, therefore, offers no hint of why Eustache had so displeased him. However, the context in which Eustache was arrested could provide the answer. Servants and spies In the summer of 1669, important and secret negotiations were going on between King Charles II of England and Louis XIV. These were being conducted through Charles’ sister Henrietta, duchesse d’Orléans, who was married to Louis’ brother, Philippe. Charles and Henrietta used valets to carry messages back and forth across the English Channel, but these valets frequently engaged other servants to carry messages on their behalf. Often, Charles and Henrietta did not know who these people were. Indeed, in a letter to his sister, Charles noted that he had received a letter from her through “the Italian whose name and capasity you do not know, and he delivered your letter to me in a passage where it was so darke as I do not know his face againe if I see him”. Eustache, of course, was not this man, since he was not Italian, but French; however, this comment illustrates the atmosphere of secrecy that surrounded communication during this sensitive period. Shortly before Eustache’s arrest, Louvois and Le Tellier, his father and predecessor at the ministry for war, were included in these negotiations. It is possible that Eustache had been employed by one or both of these men, or perhaps even by Henrietta herself, and that he had become privy to secret and sensitive information. This would account for Louvois’ anger towards Eustache, with the minister referring to him as a “wretch”. And the fact that Eustache was arrested near Dunkirk, one of the principal ports to England, adds more weight to this theory. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2021/09/GettyImages-520716431-d5ae160.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="An 18th-century portrait of Henrietta of England holding a portrait of her husband, Philippe, brother to King Louis XIV of France" title="Henrietta, sister of King Charles II of England, holds a portrait of her husband, King Louis XIV's brother. The duchesse d’Orléans' involvement in secret negotiations may have been why Eustache was imprisoned for life (Photo by Fine Art Images/Heritage Images/Getty Images)" /> Whatever Eustache had heard, it was certainly deemed serious enough at the time to warrant a lifetime in prison. Upon the death of his fellow prisoner Foucquet, he was returned to his former cell. Because it was believed that Foucquet's other valet La Rivière had learned Eustache’s secret, and because he had failed to report a security breach that had been discovered shortly before Foucquet died, he was not dismissed from his post and sent away as he should have been but was instead imprisoned with Eustache. They were held together in Eustache’s old cell until they could be transferred to another fortress, Exilles. La Rivière died there seven years later, leaving Eustache alone. When they were imprisoned together, Eustache and La Rivière lost their names and their identities. Saint-Mars called them “the gentlemen of the Lower Tower”, or his two merles, or blackbirds. Later, Eustache would be referred to in official correspondence simply as Saint-Mars’ “old prisoner” or, as Saint-Mars himself liked to call him, “my prisoner”. When Louvois died in 1691 and was replaced in the war ministry by his son, Barbezieux, the new secretary did not know who Eustache was or why he had been imprisoned. Eustache had been forgotten, and his secret had lost its importance. The man in the velvet mask Nevertheless, he still had his uses. Saint-Mars, who had enjoyed the prestige of being the keeper of illustrious prisoners such as Foucquet, now had no one in his care except Eustache, a man of low social status. In an attempt to preserve his own status as a gaoler, Saint-Mars exaggerated Eustache’s importance by letting people believe that he was guarding a secret prisoner. Whispers abounded that he might have been Henry Cromwell, the son of Oliver Cromwell, or else the popular duc de Beaufort, who had disappeared at the siege of Candia. Upon his transfer to the island of Sainte-Marguerite near Cannes, Saint-Mars took Eustache with him, providing him with an elaborate mode of transport: a chair tightly wrapped round with cloth. This was supposed to hide Eustache from onlookers, but instead merely attracted the attention of the curious. According to one source, Saint-Mars also made Eustache wear a mask for the journey. However, he had not been made to hide his face when he travelled to Pignerol, nor when he was in his cell or serving Foucquet. Saint-Mars had not received any orders to hide Eustache’s face; it was merely another means for the gaoler to fuel the mystery surrounding Eustache, and thereby enhance his own prestige. Finally, Saint-Mars became governor of the Bastille. While Eustache was initially to be left behind on the island, Saint-Mars insisted on bringing him to Paris. At this point, official communication about Eustache ends, although he is mentioned in the registers of a Bastille administrator, who noted that the prisoner arrived masked. At the prison, he wore a black velvet mask which covered the upper portion of his face whenever he might expect to be seen, such as when he went to mass. Five years after arriving at the Bastille, in 1703, Eustache died while still a prisoner there and was buried in the prison’s parish churchyard of Saint-Paul’s. In many ways, the man in the iron mask was the invention of Saint-Mars, an ambitious gaoler unable to let go of the celebrity status that guarding illustrious prisoners had bestowed upon him. In reality, Eustache was not the royal prisoner of legend – Saint-Mars had needed to cover his prisoner’s face not to hide who he was, but to hide who he was not. Voltaire was more right than he realised when, referring to Eustache’s imprisonment, he said “no man of any consequence in Europe disappeared”. Dr Josephine Wilkinson is a historian and author of The Man in the Iron Mask: The Truth About Europe’s Most Famous Prisoner (Amberley Publishing, 2021) This content first appeared in the September 2021 issue of BBC History Magazine
Vaux-le-Vicomte: the inspiration for Louis XIV’s Versailles
Author and historian Josephine Wilkinson introduces Vaux-le-Vicomte, the sumptuous château which provided the inspiration for the Sun King's grand Versailles dream…
It was six o’clock in the evening of Wednesday 17 August 1661 and the royal carriage was trundling along a shady avenue of trees. Turning sharply to the right, its occupants were suddenly confronted with one of the masterpieces of 17th-century France: the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte. The journey to the grand house 50 kilometers southeast of Paris had been a long one. King Louis XIV, accompanied by his court, had set out from Fontainebleau at three in the afternoon, their cortège throwing up clouds of dust as it clattered its way along the dry roads. It had been a perfect summer’s day and the king stepped out of his coach under a clear blue sky. Standing on the steps of the château awaiting their sovereign, was Nicolas Fouquet, his wife and their friends. Fouquet had purchased the château in 1641, when he was still a young master of requests in the service of Louis XIII. The estate comprised a medieval manor house, a village, two hamlets, a church dedicated to St Laurence, and a few scattered mills. Attached to the moated mansion was a modest park, a vegetable garden and, further off, a small vineyard. Its new owner largely neglected his acquisition for several years, dedicating his time instead to forging what he hoped would be an illustrious career. Nicolas Fouquet, superintendent of finances in France and the owner of Vaux-le-Vicomte. (Photo by Kean Collection/Getty Images) Then, in 1656, the now widowed Fouquet married for the second time. His new wife was the sole heiress of a very wealthy family. Her inheritance, when added to Fouquet’s personal wealth – largely inherited from his father and substantially increased following his appointment as attorney general and superintendent of finances – made him a very rich man indeed. Fouquet decided to renovate his country estate and, over the next five years, he would transform the dilapidated mansion into a fairy-tale château. A symbol of power and influence Vaux-le-Vicomte was intended to reflect the grandeur of Nicolas Fouquet. It would be a symbol of his power, wealth and influence. As superintendent of finances, it was his job to raise the funds necessary for the state to function. While some of this revenue came from taxes, much of it was provided by loans, and Fouquet was frequently obliged to borrow on his own credit to ensure the state was always well supplied with cash. The magnificence of the château and parks of Vaux provided visual proof to creditors that here was a man worthy of their investment and who was perfectly able to pay his debts. However, Vaux was more than merely a ‘shop window’ for the superintendent; Fouquet envisaged it as a château for pleasure. It would host literary salons, plays and ballets, there was even a room set aside for gaming. It was an experiment in culture, which combined the elegance of a life dedicated to leisure and high ceremony and etiquette, the natural accoutrements to absolute, divinely-appointed monarchy. Fouquet cherished the hope that the château would be used as a royal residence by Louis who, like all kings before him, travelled often from place to place. For this purpose, Vaux-le-Vicomte included sumptuous royal apartments, the décor of which featured figures representing desirable kingly virtues. There was Jupiter for power, Mars for valour, Vertumnus for abundance and Mercury for vigilance. Diana the huntress vied with the Fates for attention, while riding scenes reflected Louis’s love of hunting and war. Most of the people engaged by Fouquet, an enlightened patron of the arts, to create Vaux-le-Vicomte were already established in their careers. Louis Le Vau had been first architect to the king since 1654. Charles Le Brun, responsible for the stunning decor, was in competition with Nicolas Poussin to become the king’s first painter. Only André La Nôtre, who landscaped the beautiful gardens, had yet to make his name. Fit for a king’s visit This was not the first time that Louis XIV had visited Vaux; that was in the summer of 1659. He had been graciously received by the superintendent, a fine repast was served, but it was a simple day out and one without ceremony. Almost a year later, the king returned, this time with his new queen, Marie-Thérèse. They had stopped on their way to Paris from Fontainebleau and enjoyed dinner before pressing on towards the capital. Now, on this glorious summer day in 1661, Superintendent Fouquet stepped forward to greet his sovereign, smiling as he welcomed the young king to his country estate. The evening’s events were to be a sort of ‘house-warming’ for the château, but they were primarily held to honour Louis XIV. The king entered the château to rest for a while until the heat of the day subsided. The interior was pleasantly cool, but there was a distinct smell of paint in the air, a hint that the decoration was not yet finished. Louis XIV painted in 1701 by Hyacinthe Rigaud. (Photo by Universal History Archive/Getty Images) Those rooms that were completed reflected the taste of the superintendent. One ceiling featured The Triumph of Fidelity, a reminder of Fouquet’s loyalty to the king during the Fronde, the civil wars that had rocked France in Louis’s youth. Beautiful tapestries, made in the factory established by Fouquet at nearby Maincy decorated the walls. The scheme for the cupola [dome] of the oval salon was intended to depict a “palace of the sun”, in which Apollo, a symbol of light, intelligence and inspiration, represented Fouquet’s “wit and keenness for the arts and letters, his talent and his fame”. In one of the rooms at the back of the house, where it caught the most amount of light, a wall of mirrors was planned, a fashion that had become popular in the 1650s. Everywhere Louis looked his eyes fell upon the cheeky squirrel (or fouquet in the Angevin dialect), which adorned the superintendent’s family crest. Once, it appeared as a star newly emerging from the heavens, elsewhere it was accompanied by the Fouquet family motto: Quo non ascendet, or ‘whither will he not climb?’ Fouquet was clearly proud of his achievements and he would later describe Vaux as his “primary seat” and where he “wanted to leave a mark of the status I had”. The court now visited the gardens, sprawling parks divided by wide pathways and populated by exquisite statues, flower gardens and cooling fountains. A canal, formed by diverting the River Anqueil, was overlooked on either side by cascades and grottoes. According to contemporary thought, humankind could tame and improve upon nature, a conceit that was certainly justified here. (Photo by Josephine Wilkinson) An impressive display Following the walk, the party returned to the château, where a lottery was held at which there were only winners. Everyone then sat down to dinner. As French composer Jean-Baptise Lully’s band of 24 violins played gently in the background, Louis was served pigeon pie, filleted capon and stuffed breast of veal with salads and oranges imported from Spain, all accompanied by a selection of the finest wines. “The delicacy and choiceness of the dishes served were outstanding,” wrote Jean de La Fontaine, “but the graciousness with which the Superintendent and his wife did the honour of their house was even more so.” In this, Fouquet’s maître d’hôtel and cuisinière François Vatel was indispensable. He had organised the various entertainments, overseen meals and refreshments and coordinated the programme to ensure that everything was done correctly and on time. After supper, the court repaired to the gardens once again, settling in front of the grille d’eau, where a stage had been erected. They were to be treated to the premier performance of Les Fâcheux, which had been especially written for the occasion by Molière. He had been commissioned by Fouquet only two weeks earlier and, not having had sufficient time to write and rehearse a full play, he had been obliged to improvise. He appeared in his ordinary clothes to explain his dilemma before announcing that the very presence of the king was enough to create the magic that would allow the performance to go ahead. Suddenly, rocks, terms and shrubs burst into life as the actors emerged and the play began. The scenes were interrupted by dance-interludes composed by Pierre Beauchamp and Lully, thereby inaugurating a new style of theatre in France, the comédie-ballet. At one in the morning, as Louis made his way back to the château, a sudden burst of fireworks lit up the sky, a hugely expensive extravagance. Another meal was served, again to the accompaniment of 24 violins, before the king and the court took to their carriages for the journey back to Fontainebleau. The impressive gardens of Vaux-le-Vicomte. (Photo by Josephine Wilkinson). “Everything at Vaux conspired to please the king,” La Fontaine enthused, adding that “the Nymphs of Vaux always had their eyes on the king, his health and good looks ravished them all.” However, as glorious as the evening had been, it was to have an unhappy sequel. The grandeur of Nicolas Fouquet, his power and even the beauty of his house, rekindled unhappy memories for the king. Louis had been deeply affected by the Fronde, which had threatened his royal authority as the parlement, the nobility and even his own princely cousins rose up to claim the supremacy they thought was theirs by right. For several months now, one of Louis’s finance ministers, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, had whispered in the king’s ear disturbing words about the superintendent’s loyalty and honesty. Louis, still too young and jealous of his authority, was unable to discern Colbert’s true motive, which was to bring about Fouquet’s downfall so that he could replace him. Instead, Louis saw Fouquet as an upstart who sought to eclipse him, an over-mighty subject who had to be subdued; the king had planned Fouquet’s downfall even as he accepted his invitation to the fête at Vaux. Three weeks after this sumptuous event, Fouquet would be arrested and, three years after that, he would be imprisoned in the sinister fortress of Pignerol for the rest of his life. Louis fully understood, however, the value of art, architecture and pleasure as a means of representing power. He wanted a château of his own, a testament to his sovereignty, the quintessence of his character and authority. He would renovate his father’s small hunting lodge, which lay among the marshes and forests near the village of Versailles. He would recall the architect, the painter and the gardener who had collaborated at Vaux and together, they would create a palace where many of the motifs found at Vaux, the wall of mirrors, the image of the sun and the figure of Apollo, would come together to form an eternal monument to the magnificence of Louis XIV, the Sun King. Vaux-le-Vicomte has featured prominently in many film and TV sets, including the BBC's drama Versailles. (Canal Plus/BBC) Vaux-le-Vicomte on screen Vaux-le-Vicomte is frequently used as a film set, and can be spotted in films, such as Moonraker (1979), where it provides the setting for Hugo Drax’s house; and in Jean de La Fontaine, Le Defi (2007) and Versailles, le rêve d’un Roi (2008), both of which portray Fouquet’s lavish entertainment. Parts of the gardens, meanwhile, can be seen in films such as Vatel (2000) and Marie Antoinette (2006). It has also provided sets for two productions of The Man in the Iron Mask, directed by Mike Newell (1977) and Randall Wallace (1998). In Newell’s version, Fouquet appears as a character played by Patrick McGoohan, and the château is featured prominently in many scenes, especially those leading to the denouement. On each occasion, the choice of the château for the setting was inspired, as it was once believed (incorrectly) that the mysterious prisoner in the iron mask was Fouquet. Most often, the château is used as a ‘stand-in’ for Versailles and can be seen as such in The Affair of the Necklace (2001) and Marie Antoinette (2006). Le Roi Danse (2000) features the oval salon as well as several of the chambers, while the château frequently makes its appearance in the new TV series, Versailles (2016, 2017). Josephine Wilkinson is currently working on a biography of Louis XIV, which will be published by Pegasus Books
Catherine Howard: The death of innocence
When Henry VIII's fifth wife, Catherine Howard, went to the block at a pitifully young age, she did so not because of her own crimes, argues Josephine Wilkinson, but the failings of older men
On the evening of Sunday 12 February 1542, Catherine Howard, queen of England, was told to prepare her soul, for she was to be put to death the following morning. She asked for the block to be brought to her room, saying that “she wanted to know how she was to place her head on it”. Then, having “tried and placed her head on it by way of experiment”, she made her confession. There was nothing to do now except wait as the last hours of her life passed away. It was still dark when Catherine arose the following morning. Her ladies helped her to dress in a black velvet gown, a French hood, gloves and a furred mantle – it was almost as though this were just any other day. Then the constable of the Tower of London came and escorted her across the short distance from the queen’s lodgings to the scaffold. Catherine addressed the crowd who had come to watch her die. She did not protest her innocence, but accepted the verdict of the law. When her ladies had removed her mantle and hood, she knelt in the straw and placed herself on the block that was now so familiar to her. The headsman struck off her head with a single stroke of the axe. Catherine Howard, the fifth wife and queen of Henry VIII, was dead. She was possibly as young as 17. Catherine was the youngest of Henry’s wives and her reign had been one of the shortest. That she had become queen at all was remarkable. The daughter of a younger brother of the 3rd Duke of Norfolk, Catherine had few prospects. The best she could hope for was a good marriage with a minor nobleman and a life of domesticity – and she was placed into the household of her step-grandmother, Agnes, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk to be educated with this end in view. Yet this new position was to prove a poisoned chalice, for, while living with the duchess, Catherine was sexually exploited by two men of the household. The first, Henry Mannock, was her music teacher; the second was the duchess’s gentleman usher, Francis Dereham. Both men took advantage of their position of authority in the household – and Catherine had no means of defending herself. Redemption seemingly arrived when Catherine was selected to be a maiden of honour to Henry VIII’s new queen, Anne of Cleves. While at court she got to know a cousin, Thomas Culpeper, a gentleman of the king’s privy chamber. They quickly became firm friends, and gossip had it that they were to be married. However, Catherine was never to become Mrs Culpeper, for when King Henry’s marriage to Anne of Cleves broke down, he fell head over heels with her new maiden of honour. Within a matter of weeks – in what was a truly spectacular rise from obscurity to the seat of power – Catherine Howard had become his fifth queen. Extended honeymoon Henry adored Catherine, who restored to him the youth and vitality he thought he’d lost. After an extended honeymoon they settled into married life and Catherine showed every sign of becoming a good queen. But her past was about to catch up with her. In the summer of 1541, the court embarked upon a royal progress to the north country. While they were away a courtier, John Lascelles, took the opportunity of some free time to visit his sister Mary. She had once worked for Duchess Agnes, and Lascelles suggested she apply for a place on Catherine’s staff. Mary, however, was unenthusiastic. She remembered Catherine’s earlier sexual experiences with Henry Mannock and Francis Dereham, but blamed the young girl for what had happened. She concluded that Catherine was “light both in living and conditions”. When asked to elaborate, Mary spoke of Mannock, who had boasted that he knew Catherine’s “privates from all others by a privy mark”, and Dereham, who was so familiar with Catherine “afore her marriage to the king that he did lie with her a hundred nights in the year in his doublet and hose abed between the sheets”. The shocked Lascelles had no choice but to reveal what he had learned – not to do so would leave him open to charges of misprision of treason, which meant imprisonment and forfeiture of his property. He told Archbishop Cranmer, who set down the facts in a letter. When the court returned from progress, Cranmer left the letter in Henry’s pew for him to find. At first Henry was incredulous, but he was obliged to investigate the claims. He ordered those involved to be interrogated – and so the whole story of Catherine’s past came out. Their “naughty life” Henry’s grief that Catherine had not been pure when she came to him was made worse when he discovered that she might never really have been his wife. When Dereham seduced her, he asked her to call him husband, while he called her wife. Catherine agreed and, since their relationship had clearly been consummated, they were technically married according to canon law. Then it was noted that, during the progress, Dereham had asked Catherine for employment and she had given him a position in her household. His job granted him access to her chamber, and this was now made to look as though the two had contrived to continue their “former naughty life”. Details of Catherine’s pre-contract with Dereham – which could have served as her defence – were suppressed. Catherine persistently denied it had ever existed because, as she explained, “all that Dereham did unto her, was importunate [persistent] forcement, and, in a manner, violence, rather than of her free consent and will”. And because she had not consented, she thought that any contract or marriage between them was invalid. Before this point could be debated, another factor emerged which superseded everything. Under intense interrogation, and possibly torture, Dereham blurted out that he and Catherine had not continued their relationship because he had been replaced in her affections by Thomas Culpeper. Blind youth Culpeper tried to exonerate himself by blaming Catherine and Jane Lady Rochford, her chief lady in waiting. He claimed Lady Rochford had “provoked him much to love the queen”, adding that “she said also to him how much the queen loved him by which means he was tricked and brought into the snare which blind youth hath no grace to foresee”. Culpeper added that Catherine had given him gifts and they had met secretly at night during the progress on several occasions. Though it soon became obvious that his friendship with Catherine “had not passed beyond words”, his closing remark would seal the fate of them both: “He intended and meant to do ill with the queen and that in like wise, the queen so minded to do with him.” This brought them within the range of the 1534 Treason Act, under which anyone could be judged a traitor. It was immaterial whether or not Catherine and Culpeper had actually had sex because malicious intent was enough – and when it came to the safety of the king and the succession, anything could be deemed malicious. Everyone who had lived at the duchess’s house was interrogated about Catherine’s past and their stories agreed. Lady Rochford was questioned about Catherine’s relationship with Culpeper. She confirmed that they had met several times, adding that she thought “Culpeper hath known the queen carnally considering all things that this deponent hath heard and seen between them”. But she also asserted that Catherine and Culpeper had “talked so secretly that she heard not their conversations” and that she was “never the privier” about what went on between them. Catherine, too, had said that Lady Rochford “would many times, being ever by, sit somewhat far off or turn her back and she [Catherine] would say to her: ‘For God’s sake madam even near us.’” Lady Jane and the other deponents were simply telling the interrogators what they wanted to hear. In the end, it did not matter – the queen’s fate was already sealed. Catherine’s household was broken up, while she was removed as queen and exiled to Syon House with only a small staff to attend her. Shortly afterwards Culpeper and Dereham were tried and, their guilt being predicated on the presumption of Catherine’s, they were condemned to death for treason. Those who had known Catherine in her youth were found guilty of misprision. Catherine would not face trial, but instead would be condemned to death by an Act of Attainder, signed by her own husband’s hand. Queen Catherine Howard went to the scaffold because it was thought she had intended to commit adultery with Francis Dereham and Thomas Culpeper. In other words, though she was innocent of any actual crime, the terms of the 1534 Treasons Act allowed Henry to condemn her for presumptive treason. While he could have annulled their marriage – on the grounds that Catherine had really been Dereham’s wife – he chose not to. Instead, angry that Catherine had not been of “pure and honest condition” when he married her, and that he had been “deceived concerning her”, he wanted to destroy the “jewel for womanhood”, whom he had once loved so dearly. How old was Catherine when she died? Catherine Howard’s death is made all the more tragic by the fact that she was younger than most historians have traditionally had us believe. Received opinion – inspired by the guesswork of the French ambassador Charles de Marillac – has it that she was born in 1521, and so was 21 when she went to the block. While it isn’t possible to pinpoint Catherine’s exact age, the wills of two of her relatives place her year of birth between 1523 and 1527, suggesting that she was significantly younger than 21. The Spanish Chronicle goes further, asserting that Catherine was born in 1525, which would have made her no more than 17 when she died. A birthdate of 1525 is consistent with Catherine’s career as a maiden of honour. She did not serve Anne Boleyn when Anne became queen in 1533 because she was too young. The age requirement for the position of maiden was at least 12 years but, if she was born in 1525, Catherine would only have been eight in 1533. In 1536, Catherine received music lessons, which were intended to “polish” her in readiness to join Queen Anne’s court. Sadly, by the time Catherine was old enough to serve at court, Anne was dead. Catherine was still too young to serve Jane Seymour (who became queen in 1536), and so had to wait until Anne of Cleves married Henry before she could take her place at court. The new queen’s maidens were selected in late 1539, by which time – assuming the Spanish Chronicle was correct – Catherine was 14. Josephine Wilkinson is an academic historian who specialises in a wide range of periods, including 16th-century England This article was first published in the April 2016 issue of BBC History Magazine