The Road to Compiegne

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘I was sitting in my bergère,’ said Victoire, glancing anxiously at Adelaide to see that her answer had met with approval.

  ‘Sitting,’ said the King. ‘And reading perhaps?’

  ‘Oh no,’ answered Victoire. ‘I was eating. It was chicken and rice.’ Her eyes sparkled at the memory.

  ‘And you would rather be there in your bergère now, eating chicken and rice, than taking coffee with your father?’

  Victoire looked at Adelaide. ‘Certainly you would not,’ said Adelaide. ‘You appreciate the great honour of drinking coffee which is not only served but prepared by His Majesty.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Victoire.

  ‘Make the most of the honour,’ said the King. ‘I fear it is all you can enjoy. The coffee itself has grown cold through such delay. And, ah, here is Sophie.’

  ‘Did you ring for Louise-Marie?’ Adelaide asked her.

  Sophie nodded.

  Of all his daughters, Louis thought, Sophie was the most unattractive. It appeared that she could not look him straight in the face, for she had an irritating habit of peering at him sideways. Adelaide said it was not at him only that she looked in this way. People frightened her, and often she did not speak a word to anybody for days at a time. Sometimes she threw herself into the arms of her waiting-women and wept, but when she was asked why she did this, she was not sure.

  ‘Come, my child,’ said Louis now, ‘you would like some coffee?’

  Sophie looked at Adelaide. Adelaide nodded, and Sophie said as though making a great effort: ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  Louis was aware of Adelaide’s eyes on Victoire. Something was afoot, he realised, and wondered what. Evidently Victoire had some duty to perform and Adelaide was reminding her of this.

  ‘Well, Victoire?’ he asked.

  Victoire hesitated, glanced at Adelaide and then said as though she were repeating a lesson: ‘Maman Putain has a very bad cough. It grows worse. Only she keeps it for when she is alone.’

  Anger showed momentarily on the King’s face. He resisted an impulse to box the stupid child’s ears. How dared she refer to Madame de Pompadour in his presence as “Madame Prostitute”! It was not only an insult to the Marquise but to himself.

  He remembered though that Victoire probably did not understand what she had said; she was clearly obeying Adelaide’s orders, and if he were to be annoyed with anyone it should be with Adelaide.

  Anxious as he always was to avoid unpleasantness he attempted to do so now. He looked coldly at Adelaide and said: ‘Your sister presumably refers to some acquaintance of hers. I pray you explain to her that such epithets are not suitable on the lips of a young Princess.’

  Victoire was stolidly looking at Adelaide like one who has completed a set task. Sophie, having just enough intelligence to sense that something was wrong, looked from the King to Adelaide.

  ‘I see,’ said Louis, ‘that it is time I prepared for the hunt. I will say au revoir to my daughters.’

  At that moment Louise-Marie appeared. It had taken her all this time to cross the rooms which separated her apartments from those of her sisters because of her deformity.

  Louis, gazing sadly at her, wished that she had Adelaide’s looks, for she was a bright little thing, the most intelligent of his daughters. It was so unfortunate that the poor child was deformed. He raised her from her curtsy and embraced her in sudden pity.

  ‘I am sorry, my child,’ he said, ‘that you have come precisely at the moment when I am about to take my departure.’

  ‘If Adelaide would ring for us all simultaneously when Your Majesty wishes to see your daughters, I could arrive before you are about to leave.’

  Adelaide said sharply: ‘You forget that you are the youngest. You must consider the etiquette of Versailles.’

  ‘Adelaide’s etiquette,’ Louise-Marie amended with a little laugh. ‘Not “Versailles”. Perhaps Your Majesty would order how it should be done.’

  Louis touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘do you want me to displease Madame Adelaide?’

  He had had enough of the angry looks of Adelaide, the defiance of Louise-Marie, the laziness of Victoire and the stupidity of Sophie.

  ‘Adieu, my children. We shall meet again soon.’ And when at a sign from Adelaide, they curtsied, he returned by way of the private staircase to his own apartments.

  His daughters could do little to relieve his melancholy. Then he remembered that the afternoon would include his being entertained at Bellevue by the Marquise; and his spirits lifted.

  In her apartments the Queen was at prayer. She knelt before a human skull which was lighted by a lamp and decorated with ribbons. She prayed for many things: for the health of her husband and a return to his favour, that her daughters might find good husbands and bring credit to their family and their country, that Madame de Pompadour might be cast aside and the King be made so fearful of the life hereafter that he would return to his wife.

  It was alarming to contemplate the power of the King’s mistress. Recently Comte Phélippeaux de Maurepas had been dismissed because he had written scurrilous verses about her. Maurepas was a friend of the Queen and the Dauphin; and his departure was a great loss to them.

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ prayed the Queen, ‘show the King the error of his ways.’

  She was not asking for a miracle. Louis, in spite of his great vitality – he could ride many a horse to exhaustion and remain in the saddle longer than any of his friends, and she had had unpleasant experience of his uxorious demands – had been subject to frequent fevers and could therefore be made to ponder on sudden death.

  In fact she believed that his melancholy was in some measure due to his awareness of the fact that at any moment he might die with all his sins upon him.

  She trembled for Louis’ soul, and whenever she had an opportunity let him know this. There were not, of course, many opportunities now. They rarely spoke to each other, except in public. If she wished to approach him on any matter she did so by letter. It was the only way in which she could be reasonably sure of claiming his attention.

  She rose from her knees and sent for her favourite ladies, the Duchesse de Luynes, Madame de Rupelmonde and Madame d’Ancenis. They were all soberly dressed, as she was, quiet decorous ladies, kindred spirits of the Queen.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we will read together.’

  As Madame d’Ancenis went for the book on theology which they read aloud together, the Duchesse de Luynes said: ‘I had hoped that Your Majesty would play for us.’

  The Queen could not hide her pleasure. ‘I will play, since you ask me,’ she said. ‘We will read later.’

  Her ladies sat round her while she stumbled through her pieces on the harpsichord, a smile of contentment on her face because the music sounded delightful to her ears.

  Madame de Luynes, watching her, thought: poor lady, it gives her such pleasure and it is not much for us to endure.

  Afterwards they studied the mural which the Queen was painting in one of the small chambers. She showed her delight in this as a child might, not seeing the faults. Madame de Luynes noticed that her painting teachers had been at work on the mural and had to some extent improved it, but it was still a poor piece of work.

  The ladies exclaimed at its beauty, but Madame de Luynes knew that the others, like herself, were eager to bring some joy into the Queen’s life and were prepared to suppress a little honesty for the sake of doing this.

  She had had her pleasure; now she would return to duty. The book was produced and each lady read a little while the others sat at their needlework.

  None attended to the dreary lecture, yet they all sat, their heads on one side, appearing to listen intently.

  Each lady’s thoughts were far away. The Queen was thinking of the past, for she had had a letter from her father only this day. These letters from Stanislas, who now ruled the Duchy of Lorraine and who had once been King of Poland, brought the bright
est moments to her life. From her father, alone in the world, she had constant love.

  To herself she repeated the opening phrase of that letter: ‘My dear and only Marie, you are my other self and I live only for you . . .’

  They were no idle words. Her father loved her as did no one else. Often she thought of that day when he had burst in upon her and her mother and told them that she was to be Queen of France. She could never do so without bringing tears to her eyes and, oddly enough, the tears were not for the loss of joys which she had believed she would hold for ever, but because she missed her father, for naturally they could not meet as often as they wished.

  So life went on, she was thinking, each day very like the previous one. She with her little court, which was not the King’s Court, lived according to the pattern she had laid down for herself: prayers, interludes with her ladies such as now, playing the harpsichord, doing a little painting, playing cards in the evening and retiring early to bed.

  Louis never visited her there now, and for that she was only mildly regretful and very thankful. Another must now suffer those onslaughts of passion. Poor Madame de Pompadour, how was she bearing the strain!

  She found that she was speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘I thought the Marquise looked a little tired today.’

  There was a feeling of relief in the little group. The Duchesse de Luynes looked up from the book.

  ‘I have heard, Your Majesty, that she suffers often from exhaustion,’ said Madame d’Ancenis, ‘and that she is subject to fainting fits.’

  ‘Only Madame du Hausset knows the truth,’ put in Madame de Rupelmonde, ‘and she guards the Marquise and her secrets devotedly.’

  ‘I am glad,’ said the Queen, ‘that Madame de Pompadour has such a good friend and servant.’ She smiled affectionately at the trio. ‘I know what such friendship can mean.’

  ‘The lady is so unpopular with the people,’ murmured the Duchesse de Luynes.

  ‘Such ladies often are,’ added the Queen.

  ‘If,’ said the Duchesse, ‘you, Madame, were seen more often in the company of His Majesty, they would be pleased. I have heard that in the city they talk continually of the road to Compiègne. This quarrel between the King and the capital – it makes me uneasy. One hears tales of what is said . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ put in Madame d’Ancenis fiercely, ‘if only His Majesty would dispense with the Marquise and be as he was with Your Majesty in the beginning . . .’

  The Queen’s fingers tightened on the shirt intended for some poor man of Paris, and she forgot this apartment, she forgot the present moment, for she was back in the past; she was arriving for the first meeting with the King at that little place not far from Moret, which had ever since been known as Carrefour de la Reine. She was stepping out of her coach to meet her fifteen-year-old husband, the handsomest young man she had ever seen in her life; she was experiencing the great joy of knowing herself beloved – penniless daughter of an exiled king, nearly seven years older than her husband though she was. Those ecstatic days were long past; and there was no going back. Therefore it was a weakness to brood on them.

  And what were her women talking of? The conversation was becoming dangerous. The Pompadour. The road to Compiègne. These were no subjects for a Queen who upheld the etiquette of Versailles more rigorously than anyone else.

  The softness left her face and her mouth was a firm straight line.

  ‘I pray you,’ she said to the Duchesse, ‘continue with the book.’

  At the château of Bellevue Madame de Pompadour awaited the arrival of the King.

  What peace there was in this beautiful place! She would have liked to come here with only her little daughter Alexandrine and Madame du Hausset, and lie lazily in the shade under the trees in the quietest spot of the garden. That was impossible. She had worked hard to attain her position and must work equally hard to keep it. Never must she relinquish her hold on the King; none could be more fully aware than she was how many were eager to take what was now hers.

  She had driven from Versailles half an hour before, to make sure that all was in readiness for the King’s visit. Fortunately Bellevue was not far from Versailles. Unfortunately it was not far from Paris; thus the people of the capital could comfortably wander out to look at this latest extravagance of the King’s mistress.

  She looked at the gilded clock and noted the time. Very soon the King would be with her.

  She wandered out into the gardens, for the sunshine was inviting. There was no stirring of the wind, and the silence and warmth gave an atmosphere of timelessness to the place. Thus it will be, she thought, long after I am gone. People will come to Bellevue and say, ‘This is the house which was built by the King for Madame de Pompadour.’ They would think of her, the most successful woman of her period, little guessing the whole story.

  ‘Alexandrine,’ she called to the little girl who, in the company of a boy a few years older than herself, was watching the goldfish in one of the ponds.

  Her daughter came running towards her. How ungainly was little Alexandrine! But she was only seven, and there was time for change; all the same she would never be a beauty such as her mother was.

  Perhaps, thought the Marquise, she will find contentment instead of adulation, peace instead of the continual need to excel.

  ‘Ah, my child,’ said the Marquise, kissing her daughter lightly on her cheek. ‘You are looking after your guest?’

  ‘Oh yes, Maman; he thinks the gardens here so good for hide and seek.’

  ‘Do not overheat yourself, my darling,’ said the Marquise anxiously; the sight of this daughter, her only child, always aroused the utmost tenderness within her. How she wished that her father had been Louis instead of Charles Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles. She would have felt much more at ease regarding the girl’s future if that had been so.

  The gardens seemed no longer so peaceful; she was once more conscious of the need to hold her place, to fight the exhausting disease which every day forced itself upon her notice; the future of her beloved daughter must be assured.

  ‘Maman, is His Majesty coming today?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. But when he comes you must continue to entertain your guest and not approach us unless I call you.’

  ‘Yes, Maman.’

  ‘Go now and play with him. I must go into the château. His Majesty is due to arrive at any moment now.’

  Alexandrine hurried back to the boy, who had been watching them with great interest. Lightly the Marquise wondered what gossip he had heard about her. He had no doubt been told that he must do all in his power to please her.

  Madame du Hausset was coming into the garden to call her.

  ‘The carriage will be here in a very few minutes, Madame. I have already heard it on the road.’

  Now she must compose herself; there must be no sign of anxiety. In Bellevue he must feel that he could throw aside all formality, that at any moment he could be plain Louis de Bourbon, and with the same speed become the King if he so desired.

  She was waiting, smiling, hands outstretched because she sensed at once that there was to be no formality. She saw that he had had a dreary morning and she guessed it was due to those stupid daughters of his. Therefore she would not refer to them during the few hours he was at Bellevue. Some would have sought to profit from his irritation towards them; not so the Marquise. She wanted him to feel that in Bellevue, away from the Court, he could relax completely; this afternoon she was not so much his mistress as the friend who never failed to amuse and entertain.

  ‘My dear,’ said the King, kissing her hand, ‘how enchanting is Bellevue. What peace there is in this house. Are you not delighted with your château?’

  ‘Never so much as at this moment when clearly it provides Your Majesty with what you seek.’

  He continued to hold her hand. ‘I would we might stay here a week. Alas, I must return to Versailles this very day.’

  ‘Would Your Majesty like to take tea or coffee? Or would you prefer wine?
Shall I get Hausset to make it, or would you like to do so? Or shall we do it together?’

  ‘I will prepare coffee myself,’ said the King.

  Madame du Hausset had already appeared to inquire the wishes of her mistress. She made a deep curtsy, and the King said to her: ‘Rise, my dear. We have escaped from ceremony this afternoon. I am now going to show you how to make coffee. Come, you shall watch me and taste my brew.’

  With a charming gesture he linked arms with both women. Madame du Hausset flushed slightly, and an expression of intense happiness crossed her face. It was not that she was overwhelmed by this sign of the King’s regard so much as that she could tell herself that this afternoon need not be too exhausting for her mistress.

  ‘You are gracious indeed, Sire,’ said she.

  ‘Nay,’ said the King, ‘you are the good friend of my very good friend. That is enough for me. Shall I tell you what the Marquise said to me the other day? “I have the utmost confidence in dear Hausset. I think of her as a cat or dog, and I often behave as though she is not there. Yet I know that, should I put out a hand to her, she will be immediately at my side to discover my need.” ’

  ‘The King repeats me word for word,’ said the Marquise, smiling across Louis at Madame du Hausset.

  ‘The Marquise,’ began Madame du Hausset emotionally, ‘is my very good friend.’

  ‘The King shares in her affection,’ murmured Louis. He decided that when he returned to Versailles he would arrange that Madame du Hausset should be given four thousand francs as a sign of that friendship, and he would see that she received a present every New Year’s Day.

  ‘You must show His Majesty the present I gave you,’ said the Marquise, reading his intentions.

  ‘An exquisite snuff box, Sire,’ said Madame du Hausset.

  ‘And what pleased her most, Louis,’ added the Marquise, ‘was the picture on the lid of the box.’

  ‘And the picture was?’

  ‘A portrait of Your Majesty,’ said Madame du Hausset.