Le droit du Seigneur—fact or fiction?

[Above, Vaisly Polenov, a Victorian artist, illustrates Le droit du Seigneur—his fantasy of a man offering his daughters to the feudal lord.]


Le droit de seigneur, or the "right of the first night," is commonly understood to be the right of the lord of an estate to take the virginity of the bride or daughter of a serf working his land.

Fact or fiction?
I've read that there was no evidence to support the belief that this was, in fact, a custom of the Middle Ages, that le droit de seigneur was a fiction people had created about the past. (A lively fiction, in fact: Voltaire wrote a five-act comedy based on it, as is Beaumarchais's The Marriage of Figaro and the movie Braveheart, to name a few.)

Therefore, I was rather interested (and surprised) to see reference to it in The Clermont Assizes of 1665, Abbé Fléchier's memoirs. Fléchier was a judge, and his memoir is, among other things, an account of the cases brought before the court.

The case in question had to do with the suit of a certain Madame de Montvallat to separate from her husband. He stood accused, among other things, of exercising "the nuptial right." I quote:

There is a right, quite commonly exercised in Auvergne, called the nuptial right. ... This right originally allowed the lord the right to be present at all marriages among his subjects; to be present at the bedding of the bride...

This usage is no longer current, either because it would be unbecoming for the lords to be present at all the village weddings and to thrust their leg into the beds of all the respectable people who get married, or because the custom was somewhat incompatible with propriety, and exposed gentlemen who had more authority than self-restraint to dangerous temptation when the opportunity was attractive. 

So a substitue was found for this disgraceful ceremony in a pecuniary gratuity, the lords having agreed to receive a more substantial earnest of their rights [i.e. money] and the subjects being glad to buy themselves off from the application of a law so perilous to their honour. 

So: from this I understand that le droit de seigneur had formerly been a ceremonial custom that occasionally invited abuse, but as of this writing—mid-17th century France—the custom was that the serf simply paid the lord to stay away.

Monsieur de Montvallat, however, was persuaded that old customs were the best when a pretty village girl was to be married, and would not give up his rights; and as they had good reason to fear in his case that he might go beyond the limits of a mere ceremony, they thought it best to capitulate and to give him as substantial a present as they could afford. In any case, he claimed this tribute, which often amounted to half the bride's dowry. 

That the lord had a right in some capacity on the wedding night is clear—that it was a right to take a girl's virginity is not. Somewhere in this grey area, truth resides.

For more on this subject, see Wikipedia.

Note: this post was originally published by me on Hoydens and Firebrands.

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Life, Love & Laughter in the Reign of Louis XIV: not a lot of fun

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I was excited to get Life, Love & Laughter in the Reign of Louis XIV by Robert Challe (translated by A. W. Preston)—a novel written during and about the Court of the Sun King—but after 163 pages, I'm calling it quits.

There is something so often adolescent about the culture of the mid-17th century, an obsessive interest in "Does he love me?" "Does she not?" (and "How rich is her dowry?") that I find wearing.

The novel is multi-layered, in the form of (long, tedious) stories revealed during a social gathering.

It opens in a traffic jam, 17th century style.

...a horseman...found himself caught up in one of those traffic congestions which at the time occurred daily at the end of the rue de Gesvres. ...the carriages ... were streaming in from all sides. [His] valet riding behind him was having the same trouble, and both were in danger of being crushed between the wheels of the carriages ... 

Getting from A to B is difficult for any novelist, but Challe gets his hero out of this fix by having people in various carriage offering him a seat. He stood, unsure which offer to choose, when someone called out more loudly than the others. Our hero dismounted and got in the carriage, managing, as well, to get his footman to climb in after him ...

...preferring to risk his horses rather than leave the young fellow in danger.

This mark of a hero impressed onlookers, who call out to their drivers to avoid running down the two horses. (Not because they care about the horses, mind.) The valet then gets back on his horse and follows after his master and the rescuer, leading his master's horse.

I did like some of the details of daily life in the novel, such as in the scene above. I knew carriages often came head-to-head on narrow streets, but I'd never considered that there could actually be a daily traffic congestion much like rush hour.

Other details I enjoyed:

an in-house tailor instantly making a suit of clothes.

a mailman who delivers door-to-door. (I'd be interested to know when, exactly, this began. I imagine his task was not an easy one, since there were no street addresses.) 

a door weighted to close itself.

sending for a sedan chair.

I'm sure I would glean a handful more such details were I to persevere for another 424 pages, but no, I will resist.

This novel is described as a masterpiece: I beg to differ.

Sandra Gulland

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On-line magazine about the reign of Louis XIV

Louis XIV, le destin d'un roi is a stunning on-line publication ...

I only wish I could actually read it!

In search of the perfect curtsey

How to curtsey: It's not as easy as you might think. According to some of the instruction manuals available on Google Books, a curtsey must be made where you stand. You must not lean forward, nor back, but sink down perfectly straight.

You curtsey to show respect to someone; holding your ground shows self-respect.

"A curtsey is in grace what an adagio is in music." — Graham's magazine

Specifically, from The Lady's Book:

Bend your arms gracefully, lightly holding out your dress. 

Bring the front foot into 2nd position.

Draw the back foot into 3rd position behind and then immediately into 4th. 

With the weight on the front foot, bend the front knee and gently sink.

Shift the weight to the back foot and rise. 

Return the front foot to 4th position. 

There are many forms of a curtsy shown on YouTube, from pert and saucy to a complete collapse onto the floor. Almost all suggest dipping forward, without any self-respect! (Ha--the only one that demonstrates a self-respecting straight up-and-down curtsey is cross-dressing Panty Boy's video.)

Here is a video demonstrating an early 19th century curtsy, but, as you can see, it's quite a bit different from the curtsy explained above.



I recall the actresses in an Austen movie being taught to melt into a curtsy.

"The perfect curtsey is rarely performed in society."

I can see that! The search for the perfect curtsey goes on...

My basic research tools

I just updated my "Research Tools" page (see tab above). Let me know what you think.

Music and Theatre in 17th century Paris

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This is a wonderful illustrated lecture on music and theatre in Paris during (and after) the rein of the Sun King. I highly recommend it.

Lost and found in 17th century Paris

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I have not been posting, in large part because I've been overwhelmed with research.

For now, I'll just note what I've found on Hôtel de Mortemart, the Mortemart mansion in Paris. It has been cited as being on rue des Rosiers. I had mistakenly thought that this was rue des Rosiers in the Marais. However, in 17th century Paris, there were two streets of that name. The one that pertains is rue des Rosiers, quatier Saint-Germain. (This discovery, alas, means I will have to make quite a few changes to my novel—see my blog posts here and here.)

On this 17th century map, you can see its location in the upper right hand corner.

It's interesting to note that Hôtel de Mortemart isn't even on rue des Rosiers on this map, but on rue Guillaume, then an extension of Rosiers. (Now Rosiers is called rue de Saint-Guillaume.)

For a fantastic, searchable map of late-17th century Paris, click here.

Here is a floor plan of the estate:

The Hôtel was in the parish of the Saint-Suplice church, where Athénaïs, Mlle de Rochechouart-Mortemart was married, and became, forever more, the infamous Madame de Montespan. Just before the wedding, she realized she didn't have a cushion to kneel on. She sent a servant running back to the Hôtel de Mortemart for it. He returned in time, but with a dog cushion.

Today the Hôtel Mortemart is the School of Political Science (l'Ecole Libre des Science Politiques), 27 rue Saint-Guillaume.

Some sites claim the hôtel was built in 1663, but another map, one dated 1649, seems to indicate its existence.

Links:
History of the Hôtel de Mortemart
17th century map of Paris (under "diplay" select zoom)
For a guide to what might be found on any late-17th century Paris street, go to Blégny's Le livre commode des adresses de Paris pour 1692.