Madame de Pompadour

by Nancy Mitford

  Madame de Pompadour, knowing that she was rather safe, wrote to d’Etioles and offered to go back to him. The poor man must have shuddered at the idea. He was living the intensely agreeable life of a rich fermier général; he had a mistress he loved and eventually married and boon companions; this merry company would have found the presence of a repentant, unrouged Madame de Pompadour at their suppers nothing if not embarrassing. He replied that he wished her all the good in the world but did not think they could live together again after so long. She showed the letter to Père de Sacy; hardly her fault if her husband refused to take her back? He said that in any case she must leave the Court. She explained patiently that the King would never allow her to do such a thing, it was out of the question. (In this she is corroborated by Luynes who said that even if she had really wanted to leave Versailles the King would never have allowed it; that she did speak of it at one moment and he had been very much upset and refused to hear the subject mentioned.) The father would have to find some other solution.

  But he was already in trouble with stricter members of his order. This curious penitent, who still appeared with her face painted, who still received the King at all hours of the day – the secret staircase was not the only one in the north wing – was hardly bringing credit on the Company of Jesus. He must give up his visits. The Marquise, on her side, began to look for somebody more lenient. At last her friend Berryer found her a priest, who said that she might confess, and go to communion, but that she must do so in private. This was not exactly what she wanted; however, she supposed it was better than nothing. ‘A great consolation’, she said rather drearily, ‘to my soul.’

  She was going through a difficult and depressing time altogether. During the last months of 1755, little more than a year after the death of Alexandrine, the King had been very much taken with a Court beauty, the Marquise de Coislin, a member of the fatal Mailly family (cousin of his three mistresses). Madame du Hausset describes Madame de Pompadour, at Marly, coming in, flinging down her muff and saying: ‘I never saw such insolence as that of Madame de Coislin – I was playing brelan with her this evening – you can’t imagine what I suffered. Everybody was watching us, Madame de Coislin said two or three times, looking at me, “I take the lot” – truly I thought I should faint when she said, triumphantly: “I’ve a hand full of Kings.” I only wish you could have seen her curtsey when she left me.’ ‘And the King?’ said Madame du Hausset, ‘how did he seem?’ ‘You don’t know the King, my dear – if he was going to put her in my room this very night he’d still be cold to her and friendly to me in public – that’s how he was brought up, for by nature he is good and frank.’

  In the end Madame de Coislin overplayed her hand, asked for too many favours and frightened the King off. She gave herself like a whore, and like a whore she was abandoned. She lived to be a hundred. As an old lady her chief topic of conversation was her affair with Louis XV; she let it be understood that she had played the parts of Mesdames de Pompadour and du Barry rolled into one and that she alone had counted in his life.

  As always after these alarms, Madame de Pompadour not only kept her position but improved it. She was now appointed supernumerary lady-in-waiting to the Queen, a post reserved for the highest in the land. Confession and communion, however public, could have set no more of a seal on her piety than this, the good Queen would never have accepted her if she had not been sure of it. In fact, when the King first asked her to take Madame de Pompadour into her household, she had refused straight out because the lady was fraudulently separated from her husband and unable to communicate. Now it was the lady’s husband who was guilty of refusing to take her back; the onus of their separation was henceforth on him. She had communicated. The Queen gave way, though without much enthusiasm. ‘I have a King in heaven who gives me courage to bear my sufferings, and a King on earth whom I obey in all things.’

  So, on Sunday 8 February 1756, the Marquise was declared lady-in-waiting amid waves of gossip and speculation, to the fury of d’Argenson and the giggles of Voltaire: ‘Qui vult decipi decipiatur.’ None of her previous advancements, neither her marquisate, nor her duchy, nor even her brother’s Cordon Bleu (‘an insult to the high nobility’), had caused anything like such a sensation. A wild rumour ran round Versailles that the Marquise had given up rouge. It was too much. True, she now received the ambassadors sitting at her embroidery instead of at her dressing-table. True, she had taken to a little cap of fine white lace in the morning. But when she waited on the Queen for the first time, performing her duties as if she had never done anything else all her life, she was seen to be in full fig and made up more than usual.

  As for the King, he showed no signs of being very near a holy old age. He paid regular visits to the Parc aux Cerfs and at the same time d’Argenson noted, with disgust, that he seemed more in love with Madame de Pompadour than ever. Croÿ describes a supper party in a new dining-room from which could be seen the King’s study, his famous clock, his writing table, covered with documents, books and instruments everywhere, and masses of flowers. The Marquise looking quite lovely and a little bit fatter, very gay. No change to be observed except that, though it was a Saturday, she only ate fish.

  The King brought the Duc d’Orléans to her flat and enjoined them both to make up a long-standing quarrel; they kissed and promised to be friends. It seemed as though she had nothing more to desire. She had, however, one more objective in mind; she wanted to get rid of d’Argenson. The hatred which they felt for each other made it impossible for them to work together and she was determined now to share the King’s political life with him. For, while, at Versailles, the courtiers could only talk about whether the Marquise had or had not given up rouge, and while, in Paris, the Magistrates were absorbed in their squabble with the Archbishop, many grave matters were afoot in the world.

  16

  Politics Abroad

  UNITED EUROPE HAS seldom been so nearly realized as it was after the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, in 1748. The King of England was a German, the King of Spain was French. The Empress of Austria was married to a Lorrainer with a French mother, the King of France was half Italian and his Dauphin was half Polish with a German wife. Scottish and French architects were at work in Russia and Germany, Italian cabinet-makers in France, French painters in Rome, Venetian painters in London, Dutch painters in Paris. Internationalism even extended to the armies of the day. During the last campaign of the War of the Austrian Succession in 1747 – a campaign marked by the French victories of Berg op Zoom and Roucoux – it so happened that none of the generals engaged was a native of the country for which he fought. The French commander-in-chief was Maréchal de Saxe. Berg op Zoom was taken for France by Maréchal de Lowendal, a Danish Protestant, who amazed his new compatriots by having three wives, all alive. (The current Madame de Lowendal was presented at Versailles and could hardly have aroused more interest if she had been a giraffe.) The general commanding the English soldiers at Roucoux, Field Marshal Lord Ligonier, was an emigrated Huguenot born at Castries, in the south of France. He was taken prisoner and Louis XV gave a dinner party for him at which he asked whether it would not now be possible to make peace. He had asked this after every campaign of late, but the English, in their rampaging mood, had hitherto refused to listen. ‘What cruel neighbours we have there,’ the King used often to say.

  However, next year the peace was signed. It left Europe divided by alliances into two halves, the Austrian Empire, Russia, England, Holland and Sardinia, against France, Spain, the two Sicilies, Prussia and Sweden; since it would clearly be an unprofitable venture for one of these halves to make war on the other, a long peace might have ensued, had it not been for a new factor. America and Asia were now entering into the calculations of statesmen. The English, who were determined to possess as vast an empire in these continents as possible, were very anxious to keep their only rivals, the French, fully occupied in Europe while they acquired it.

  Englishmen and Frenchmen were already fig
hting an undeclared war on the high seas, in India and in Canada. In June, 1755, three French ships, the Alcide, the Lys and the Royal Dauphin, became detached, in a fog, from a fleet sailing to Quebec, and ran into the English fleet, also going about its occasions in the Atlantic. The English guns immediately opened fire; the captain of the Alcide, an armed merchantman, who had been at sea for some months, thought that war must have broken out while he was away. He took his megaphone and shouted to the captain of the Dunkirk: ‘Are we at peace, or at war?’ The Jolly Jack Tar took his megaphone and replied: ‘At peace, at peace’, and without bothering to lower it he added: ‘Fire.’ The Royal Dauphin, a man-o’-war, got away, but the other two ships were taken.

  The news of this event arrived in France while the Court was at Compiègne. The courtiers imagined that everything would be all right and that London would make amends by handing back the Lys and the Alcide, but Louis XV was not so optimistic. He immediately gave orders that all building on his houses was to stop, and countermanded the little voyages for the rest of that year. The Maréchal de Mirepoix, French Ambassador in London, saw the full gravity of the affair, and left at once. He loved England and was dreadfully cast down; he gave little parting presents of wine to all his English friends. Lord Albemarle, for many years Ambassador to Versailles, had loved France; it was perhaps fortunate that he had just died of an apoplexy aged fifty-two – Milord Albemarle aimait son plaisir. Small and fat, very Dutch, with a wife who, though born a Lennox, seemed even more Dutch than he, he had a French mistress called Lolotte. ‘Do not praise the stars, Lolotte, when you know quite well I cannot give them to you.’ He had been a great friend of the King, and of Madame de Pompadour who used to send him china flowers and other little gifts. How often do diplomatic friendships end in sad disappointment! Relations between the intellectuals and the aristocracy of the two countries were perfect; the philosophes loved and admired, even if they did not always understand, English institutions, while Englishmen of taste and learning derived half their pleasure in life from the civilization of France. The war had nothing to do with sentiment, it was caused by a direct conflict of interests, unfortunately inevitable in the circumstances.

  It is curious to note, in the memoirs of the day, that when the French contemplated war with England they did not envisage a war at sea; their thoughts always turned to an offensive against Hanover. But the King was most anxious to avoid it; negotiations dragged on for several months, during which time the two navies were fighting whenever they met; in the end it was the English who made the declaration: ‘We declare war on France who has so unrighteously begun it.’ (May 1756).

  Meanwhile, Starhemberg, the Austrian Ambassador to Versailles, was instructed, by his Empress, to sound the Prince de Conti, and see if, by any chance, an alliance with her would now be acceptable to Louis XV. Starhemberg told her that the Prince de Conti had lost a great deal of his influence with the King; the real private secretary now was Madame de Pompadour, and in his view it would be better to approach her. There was a rule at Versailles that no ambassador ever saw the King alone, so an intermediary had to be found. None of the ministers would be any good, Starhemberg knew that they were all pro-Prussian, and would be categorically against his suggestions.

  The Abbé de Bernis now reappears on the scene. Forgotten were the days when his greatest ambition had been an attic in the Tuileries. In 1752 he had been appointed, through the influence of the Marquise, Ambassador to Venice and in 1755 he was promoted to Madrid. He stayed at Versailles during his holiday between the two posts, and found Madame de Pompadour very much occupied with public affairs. She showed him various memoranda she had addressed to the King, who always preferred to conduct any serious business by letter rather than by word of mouth. Bernis was surprised to find her comments remarkably well expressed and full of good sense; he urged her to go on.

  Could she not make up her quarrel with d’Argenson? he asked. She said no, that was not possible; they would never be able to work together, even if she could have forgotten the treachery and insults of years, because there was no trust between them. This was the gravest mistake of her whole career. D’Argenson may not have had an easy character, but his letters to Voltaire before his disgrace show that he loved the King; above all he was a professional politician of experience and ability. Because Madame de Pompadour was unable to get on with him the destiny of France fell, at this critical moment, into the incompetent hands of Babet la Bouquetière.

  Early in September 1755, Madame de Pompadour sent a note asking Bernis to come and see her on a matter of importance. The little fellow trotted round at once; never in a thousand years, he said afterwards, would he have guessed what it was to be about. The Marquise showed him a letter from Starhemberg asking for a private interview; he had secret propositions from the Empress which he would like to lay before her. He also asked that the King should delegate a minister to be present at the interview, to report these propositions to him and to transmit the answer. Now although Bernis behaved, from the beginning, as if he thoroughly approved of the Austrian alliance – he was, in fact, one of its chief promoters – he pretends, in his memoirs, that on reading this letter he suddenly became endowed with second sight. Certainly everything that he says he said happened precisely. If the King were suddenly to shift his alliances the whole political system of Europe would go up in a general conflagration (it did). The first result would be war with Prussia (it was). This war would be intensely unpopular in France; the King had no generals capable of conducting it; and his finances were not in a state to support a continental as well as a colonial war (sadly true).

  At this juncture the King himself appeared in Madame de Pompadour’s room and asked the Abbé what he made of Starhemberg’s letter. Bernis, still according to his own account, repeated the arguments which he had just put to the Marquise. The King, very much displeased, said: ‘You are all the same, all enemies of the Queen of Hungary.’ The Abbé said that on the contrary he had the greatest admiration for the Empress; he then respectfully advised the King to speak to his ministers. Useless. said the King. The whole Conseil was pro-Prussian. The fact is that the King was determined to make the Austrian alliance. For years he had wanted it; he had the greatest personal admiration for Maria Theresa and the greatest personal loathing for the ‘Marquis de Brandenbourg’ (Frederick) and he liked the idea of a Roman Catholic bloc.

  ‘Very well,’ he said to Bernis, ‘then we are to send M. de Starhemberg away with empty compliments and without a hearing?’ The Abbé said that there could be no harm in listening to what Starhemberg had to say; only it was obvious that the reply must be carefully considered. In the end Bernis, armed with a written statement from the King giving him full powers to negotiate, went to see Starhemberg. They made an appointment for the following day with Madame de Pompadour at Brimborion, her summer house under the terrace at Bellevue.

  In a bustle of self-importance, Madame de Pompadour set forth from Versailles. She, Bernis and the Ambassador went by different roads; arrived at Bellevue they sent away their coaches and their servants and proceeded alone, on foot, to the meeting place. Brimborion, the little frivolous summer house, intended for hours of lazy gossip, was indeed a suitable locale for this scene from a musical comedy.

  Of course Madame de Pompadour should never have lent herself to the affair at all. But how many women in her place would have had the strength of mind to refuse? It brought her too many different satisfactions. She was trusted to conduct a matter of vital importance by the lover in whose serious interests she longed to share. She was recognized as a weighty figure of European diplomacy by the virtuous Empress. Frederick the Great would learn that she was something more than a kept woman; the hated d’Argenson would burst with anger when he found out her new rôle. She thought she understood the European situation as well as anybody; it never crossed her mind that she and Bernis might be as putty in the hands of a clever professional diplomat.

  The blue and gold boudoir, with panelli
ng by Verberckt, was just big enough to accommodate the three of them, and here Starhemberg set forth the Empress’s proposals for an alliance: Austrian neutrality in the event of war with England; the French to be allowed to occupy Ostend; the Austrian Netherlands to be given to Madame Infante and her husband in exchange for Parma; a mutual security clause engaging each country to come to the assistance of the other if attacked, with 18,000 foot soldiers and 6,000 cavalry. Having read out this memoir which was more or less what the Marquise and Bernis had expected, Starhemberg went on to disclose a piece of information which they had not expected at all. Frederick, whose treaty of alliance with France was supposedly about to be renewed, was in fact negotiating, secretly, with London.

  The Marquise had picked up an ABC of political lore, which laid it down that foreign politics must be founded on a system of alliances. Should one alliance seem shaky, another must be substituted. Starhemberg’s news, therefore, if true, seemed to make the Austrian alliance an urgent necessity. But had she brought to this problem the original intelligence with which she ordered objects of art, or laid out her gardens, always eschewing that which seemed obvious in her search for that which was exactly right, she might have seen a different solution. The wisest course for France would have been to stand alone in Europe; as Cardinal Fleury used to say, France, who had no need for more territory, ought to watch the hunt go by without joining in. Frederick and the Empress were absorbed by their own quarrel; France, allied to either of them, was certain to be drawn into it. At the same time, neither was the least likely to attack her. Madame de Pompadour did not see this; nor did many another politician, and it must be said that the pros and cons of this affair have been argued ever since.

  Madame de Pompadour and Bernis hurried back to Versailles and conferred with the King. He took the matter more calmly than they did, and behaved with a certain prudence. He wrote a friendly but non-committal reply to Maria Theresa and sent the Duc de Nivernais on a special embassy to Berlin, ostensibly to renew the treaty of alliance with Frederick, but really to see how the land lay.