up by its own inhabitants. Namur might
perhaps have been saved if the garrison had been as zealous and
determined as the population. Strange to say, in this place, so long
subject to a foreign rule, there was found a patriotism resembling that
of the little Greek commonwealths. There is no reason to believe that
the burghers cared about the balance of power, or had any preference
for James or for William, for the Most Christian King or for the Most
Catholic King. But every citizen considered his own honour as bound up
with the honour of the maiden fortress. It is true that the French did
not abuse their victory. No outrage was committed; the privileges of the
municipality were respected, the magistrates were not changed. Yet the
people could not see a conqueror enter their hitherto unconquered castle
without tears of rage and shame. Even the barefooted Carmelites, who
had renounced all pleasures, all property, all society, all domestic
affection, whose days were all fast days, who passed month after month
without uttering a word, were strangely moved. It was in vain that Lewis
attempted to soothe them by marks of respect and by munificent bounty.
Whenever they met a French uniform they turned their heads away with a
look which showed that a life of prayer, of abstinence and of silence
had left one earthly feeling still unsubdued. [307]

This was perhaps the moment at which the arrogance of Lewis reached the
highest point. He had achieved the last and the most splendid military
exploit of his life. His confederated foes, English, Dutch and German,
had, in their own despite, swelled his triumph, and had been witnesses
of the glory which made their hearts sick. His exultation was boundless.
The inscriptions on the medals which he struck to commemorate his
success, the letters by which he enjoined the prelates of his kingdom
to sing the Te Deum, were boastful and sarcastic. His people, a people
among whose many fine qualities moderation in prosperity cannot be
reckoned, seemed for a time to be drunk with pride. Even Boileau,
hurried along by the prevailing enthusiasm, forgot the good sense and
good taste to which he owed his reputation. He fancied himself a lyric
poet, and gave vent to his feelings in a hundred and sixty lines of
frigid bombast about Alcides, Mars, Bacchus, Ceres, the lyre of Orpheus,
the Thracian oaks and the Permessian nymphs. He wondered whether Namur,
had, like Troy, been built by Apollo and Neptune. He