WHEN we think at all of Louis XIV, it is generally in terms of the gorgeous portraiture of Rigaud and the vivid word-pictures of Saint-Simon. We see the Grand Monarque in his ermine-lined robes of State, sceptre in hand, arm on hip, gazing out on the world with affable condescension and consummate pose. We see the epitome of majesty: grace, dignity, command. It is a disillusioning experience to turn from this figure to the Louis XIV as seen in private life by his doctors. A new and disconcertingly human Sun King emerges. One begins to discern a man plagued by chronic infirmities of all kinds; pestered by doctors and surgeons; subjected to incredible purges, enemas, and emetics; treated often like a small boy who really does not know what is good for him; occasionally driven to rebellion but on the whole remarkably tolerant of his medical advisors. In the seventeenth century, it was the fortunate man who could not afford medical treatment. The higher one's station in life the greater became one's medical woes. One of the most scathing critics of seventeenth-century doctors (but unfortunately a hypochondriac who could not leave doctors alone), the famous Madame de Sevigne, recognized this truth. When her three-year-old grandson fell sick and, to her dismay, was promptly bled, Sevigne commented wryly: 'I fear that they do this to our child so as to honour him, as they do to the children of the King.... 20I