Memoirs of the Comtesse du Barry | Page 7

her to
Venus:
O Jeanne, thy beauty seduces And charms the whole world; In vain
does the duchess redden And the princess growl; They know that
Venus rides proudly The foam of the wave.
The poet, while not Voltaire, was no less a man than Bouffiers.

While the King was seeking a mistress--a nocturnal reverse of
Diogenes, fleeing from the lanterns of the wise--he found Jeanne
Vaubernier. He thought he could love her for one evening. "Not
enough," said she, "you must love me until broad daylight." So he
loved her for a whole day. What should one eat in order to be loved by
royalty? Was it necessary to have a coat of arms? She had them in
number, because she had been loved by all the great names in the book
of heraldry. And so she begged the Viscount Jean du Barry to give her
the title of viscountess. "Better still," exclaimed Jean, "I will give you
the title of countess. My brother will marry you; he is a male scamp,
and you are the female. What a beautiful marriage!"
So they were united. The newly made countess was solemnly presented
at court by a countess of an ancient date, namely, the Countess de
Bearn. King Voltaire protested, in a satire entitled " Petaud>" (topsy-turvy), afterwards denying it. The duc de Choiseul
protested, France protested, but all Versailles threw itself passionately
at the feet of the new countess. Even the daughters of the King paid her
court, and allowed her to call them by their pet names: Loque, Chiffe,
and Graille. The King, jealous of this gracious familiarity, wished her
to call him by some pet name, and so the Bacchante, who believed that
through the King she held all France in her hand, called him "La
France," making him a wife to his Gray Musketeers.
Oh, that happy time! Du Barry and Louis XV hid their life--like the
sage--in their little apartments. She honeyed his chocolate, and he
himself made her coffee. Royalty consecrated a new verb for the
dictionary of the Academy, and Madame du Barry said to the King: "At
home, I can love you to madness." The King gave the castle of
Lucienne to his mistress in order to be able to sing the same song.
Truly the Romeo and Juliet .
Du Barry threw out her fish-wifely epithets with ineffable tenderness.
She only opened her eyes half way, even when she took him by the
throat. The King was enchanted by these humors. It was a new world.
But someone said to him: "Ah, Sire, it is easy to see that your Majesty
has never been at the house of Gourdan."

Yet Du Barry was adored by poets and artists. She extended both hands
to them. Jeanne's beauty had a penetrating, singular charm. At once she
was blonde and brunette--black eyebrows and lashes with blue eyes,
rebellious light hair with darker shadows, cheeks of ideal contour,
whose pale rose tints were often heightened by two or three touches--a
lie "formed by the hand of Love," as anthology puts it--a nose with
expressive nostrils, an air of childlike candour, and a look seductive to
intoxication. A bold yet shrinking Venus, a Hebe yet a Bacchante. With
much grace Voltaire says:
"Madame:
"M. de la Borde tells me that you have ordered him to kiss me on both
cheeks for you:
"What! Two kisses at life's end What a passport to send me! Two is one
too much, Adorable Nymph; I should die of pleasure at the first.
"He showed me your portrait, and be not offended, Madame, when I
tell you that I have taken the liberty of giving that the two kisses."
Perhaps Voltaire would not have written this letter, had he not read the
one written by the King to the Duc de Choiseul, who refused to pay
court to the left-hand queen:
"My Cousin,
"The discontent which your acts cause me forces me to exile you to
Chanteloup, where you will take yourself within twenty-four hours. I
would have sent you farther away were it not for the particular esteem
in which I hold Madame de Choiseul. With this, I pray God, my cousin,
to take you into His safe and holy protection. "Louis."
This exile was the only crime of the courtesan. On none of her enemies
did she close the gates of the Bastille. And more than once did she
place a pen in the hands of Louis XV with which to sign a pardon.
Sometimes, indeed, she was ironic in her compassion.

"Madame," said M. de Sartines to her one day, "I have discovered a
rogue who is scattering songs about you; what is to be done with him?"
"Sentence him to sing them for