by Jean Plaidy
She was going to visit Alexandrine whom she had placed in the Convent of the Assumption, where she was receiving an education which would prepare her for the life of a noblewoman. It was pleasant to plan for Alexandrine, and the Marquise realised that she owed some of the happiest hours of her life to her daughter.
Thus must her mother have felt about her. She could smile remembering the schemes of Madame Poisson, which had seemed so wild in those days and yet had all been realised. They had considered then that being the King’s mistress was a matter of accepting homage and presiding at grand occasions; they had not dwelt on the other duties.
But I am happy, thought the Marquise. In spite of this exhausting existence I am indeed happy.
Paris lay only a short distance ahead now. She was beginning to feel a little apprehension when she thought of the capital. Louis might snap his fingers at Paris, but she could not do that. She must remember those days when she had driven in the Champs Elysées and the only people who had turned to look at her had done so to admire her beauty. Then they had said: ‘What a charming creature!’ and they had smiled pleasantly. Now the people of Paris would say: ‘It is the Pompadour!’ and there were scowls instead of smiles.
She wanted to be free to ride through the streets of Paris once more unnoticed, to smell its own peculiar smells, perhaps to wander along the Left Bank, past the Roman remains near the Rue Saint-Jacques, to ascend the hill of Sainte Geneviève.
She recalled old days in the Hôtel des Gesvres when she had presided over her salon there and had entertained the wits of the day. Then she had not considered each word she uttered; she had not felt this need to watch her every action.
No, her little Alexandrine should have a more peaceful life than her mother’s. She should be well educated so that she could enjoy the company of wits and savants like Voltaire and Diderot. Yet she should never have to feel this apprehension, this uncertainty: the inescapable fate of a King’s mistress.
Before going to the Convent of the Assumption she had arranged to dine in the Rue de Richelieu with the Marquis de Gontaut.
She was approaching the city; and she could now see Notre Dame, the roofs of the Louvre, the turrets of the Conciergerie and the spires of several churches.
She felt a slight tremor of emotion to contemplate this much loved city in which she had spent so many happy years, dreaming, with her mother, of the glorious future. It seemed strange that, now the glories were realised, she should feel this nostalgia for the old days.
The streets were more crowded than usual, it seemed, and the carriage must slow down. She wondered why so many people were out this day. Was it a special occasion? It was a Monday, a day when there were no executions in the Place de Grève, but the Fair of the Holy Ghost was being held on that gruesome spot. There was great excitement as the women tried on the second-hand clothes, the sale of which was the purpose of the Fair. There was always a great deal of noise and ribaldry, for the women must necessarily try on the second-hand clothes in public. But that weekly event could not account for so many people in the streets.
Perhaps Monsieur de Gontaut would be able to explain over dinner.
The carriage was almost at a standstill now and, when a woman looked in at the window, she saw a grin of recognition.
‘The Pompadour!’ cried the woman; and the cry was taken up by others in the street.
She drew back against the rose-coloured upholstery. There was no need to tell the driver to drive on as quickly as he could. He too sensed the excitement in the streets today. He wanted no trouble.
It was a sad thought that when the people of Paris called her name it must be in enmity, never in friendship.
She was relieved when she reached the Rue de Richelieu and found the Marquis de Gontaut waiting for her.
‘There is much excitement in the streets today,’ she said. ‘What has happened?’
As he led her into his house he said: ‘Madame de Mailly is dead; they have been assembling outside her house in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre all day. They are saying that she was a saint!’
‘Madame de Mailly, Louis’ first mistress . . . a saint!’
‘The people must have their saints, no less than their scapegoats. They say that she encouraged the King to good works when she was with him, and that since she has been cast off and neglected by the King, she has devoted herself to the poor.’
The Marquise laughed lightly. ‘I wonder whether when I die they will be as kind to me.’
‘I beg you, Madame, let us not consider such a melancholy subject. Shall we take a little refreshment before we dine?’
‘That would be delightful, but we must not linger, for my little Alexandrine is waiting for me at her convent.’
The Marquis led his guest into a small parlour and gave orders that wine should be brought. The girl who brought it was young – not more than fourteen – and very pretty.
Her eyes were round with wonder as they rested on the Marquise, who gave her the charming smile she bestowed on all, however lowly they might be.
When the girl had gone, she said: ‘A pretty child . . . your serving-maid.’
‘Yes, she is still an innocent young girl. It will not be long before she takes a lover. That is inevitable.’
‘Because she is so pretty?’
‘Yes. And she will be acquiescent, I doubt not.’
‘There is a certain air of sensuality about her,’ agreed the Marquise. ‘Well, she is young and healthy . . . and it must be expected. But tell me your news, Monsieur de Gontaut.’
He was about to speak when a manservant hurried into the room. The Marquise looked astonished at the intrusion.
‘Monsieur le Marquis . . .’ began the servant. He turned to the Marquise and bowed. ‘Madame . . . I beg you to forgive this intrusion, but the alley at the back of the house is fast filling with the mob, and they are shouting that they will break down the doors and force an entrance.’
The Marquis turned pale. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you must go to your carriage immediately, while there is yet time.’
‘But my daughter . . .’
‘It is better that she should see her mother another day than never again,’ muttered the Marquis grimly.
‘But you think . . .’
‘Madame, I know the mob.’
The Marquis had taken her firmly by the arm. He signed to his servant. ‘See if they are gathered about Madame’s carriage.’
The servant left to obey. He came back in a second or two. ‘No, sir, there are few people in the street as yet.’
The Marquis then hurried his guest out to her carriage. ‘Whip up the horses,’ he instructed the driver. ‘And . . . back to Versailles with all speed.’
As they drove through the streets, the Marquise heard her name shouted when the carriage was recognised. She sat erect looking neither to right nor left, wondering whether some bold agitators would rush to her carriage and stop its progress. What then? What would they do to the woman whom they hated so bitterly?
Why do they hate me so much? she asked herself.
They had read those scurrilous verses which had been composed about her – those poissonades as they had been called; they sang songs about her; they blamed her for the weakness and extravagance of the King.
She had too many enemies. She knew that in the Dauphin’s apartments plots were concocted against her. The Queen naturally had no love for her. The Princesses looked upon her as their rival in their father’s affection. Richelieu and his friends watched for any opportunity which might be used to bring about her downfall.
When she and her mother had planned her glorious future they had not taken into account such enemies.
She felt exhausted; and it was when she felt thus that those fits of coughing, which were becoming more and more distressing, could be imminent.
That reminded her that of all her enemies her ill-health was the greatest.
How relieved she was to leave the city behind her; now the horses were gallop
ing along the road; now she could see the great honey-coloured château before her.
She knew suddenly that the time had come to take drastic action. She had long put off taking this step, not only because it was dangerous, but because it was repellent.
Yet at this moment she was certain it was imperative that she should take it.
Her thoughts were now on the ripe young girl – as yet innocent, but for how long? – who had waited on her in the house of the Marquis de Gontaut.
Louis was overcome with remorse. These were the moods which the Marquise feared more than any others, for it was when repentance and the desire to lead a virtuous life overtook such men as Louis that such women as herself might be considered not only redundant but a menace to their salvation.
If her plan worked she would have little to fear in the future. But it was such a daring plan. Could it succeed? If she discussed it with her friends they would say she was mad.
Her dear friend Madame du Hausset was extremely worried. She was the only one with whom she had dared talk of her plan.
Dear old Hausset had shaken her head.
‘I would not, Madame. Oh no, I would not.’
‘If I had not been bold I should not be where I am today,’ replied the Marquise.
And this night the plan was to be put into operation. If it failed, what would the relationship between herself and the King become?
But it must not fail. It merely needed delicate handling, and she could trust herself – and Louis – to see that it received it.
Madame du Hausset hovered about her, pale and tense, wondering how long it would be before they left Court for ever. The Marquise could smile, contemplating her companion.
‘Something has to be done,’ she said. ‘You know matters cannot continue as they are. You yourself have told me often enough that I am killing myself.’
‘But this . . .’
‘This, dear Hausset, is the only way. I know that. If it were not, rest assured I should not take it.’
‘But what position will you, a great lady, be putting yourself into, that’s what I ask!’
‘A great lady,’ mused the Marquise. ‘The outcome of this matter may well decide my greatness. So far I have done little but raise myself to an envied position and amuse the King.’
Madame du Hausset said: ‘How is the King?’
The Marquise smiled sadly. ‘He is deeply repentant of his behaviour towards Louise-Julie de Mailly.’
‘The saint of Paris!’ murmured Madame du Hausset cynically.
‘Oh, she was good to the poor. She visited them and sewed for them . . . and had so little for herself.’
‘She did not visit them nor sew for them when she was in favour with the King, did she?’
‘My dear Hausset, amusing the King, as you know, gives a woman little time for aught else. Now do not look so despondent, I beg of you. Let me tell you this: when I was nine years old a fortune-teller told me I should be the King’s mistress. That came true. Sometimes I think that between us my mother and I made it come true. Now I will tell you something else: I am going to die, the King’s very dear friend. I am as certain of that as I was that I should one day be his mistress. And oh, Hausset, I could so much more happily be his dear friend than his mistress. I would be his confidante, the friend to whom he would come to discuss everything . . . State matters, scandal, plans for building . . . everything. That is what I would be to the King, Hausset. And at night I would retire to my apartment here in Versailles, and sleep and sleep that I might be fresh the next day to entertain the King.’
Madame du Hausset shook her head. ‘There would be those to provide the nightly entertainments, and they would be the ones who would get their wishes fulfilled. Depend upon it, the first of those wishes would be to have you dismissed from Court. Did not Madame de Châteauroux, who seemed secure in his affection, demand the dismissal of Madame de Mailly, even though she was her own sister?’
‘There is no need, Hausset, to follow in the footsteps of one’s predecessors. One travels along untrodden paths. Therein lies success.’ The Marquise laughed, but Madame du Hausset detected a note of nervousness in the laugh. ‘My enemies are all about me. My reception in Paris . . . to what is it due? To the poissonades. And who writes the poissonades?’
‘We said it was the Comte de Maurepas until you had him dismissed from Court.’
‘Depend upon it, he writes them still. He can do so as easily in exile at Bourges as he could in favour at Versailles. Others no doubt write them too. The Dauphin’s party are my enemies. They circulate stories about me in the streets. They plan to have me ousted from the Court.’
‘If you drew the King’s attention to those meetings in the Dauphin’s apartments . . .’
‘I should merely irritate Louis. He knows of the meetings. He is angry because the Dauphin and he are no longer good friends. It is not my task to remind the King of what he wishes to forget. This is my battle – mine alone, Hausset; and alone I must fight it.’
‘And the Church party is against you!’
‘The Church party is the Dauphin’s party, and at times such as this – Holy Year itself, with the Jesuit Père Griffet preaching his sermons at Versailles – I am uneasy. The determination of Paris almost to canonise Madame de Mailly does not make life easier for me. Do you not see that it is all part of the plot against me? They wish to bring Louis to a repentant mood, to make him review his life – and my part in it – and see it as a deadly sin in his life. They want to bring him to such a state of repentance that he will have no alternative but to dismiss me from Court.’
‘Dismiss you! He could not do it. Whom does he turn to when he is tired and bored? To you . . . always you.’
‘Yet he dismissed Madame de Châteauroux when he was at Metz.’
‘That was because he thought he was dying and in imminent need of repentance.’
‘The life of the King’s mistress is full of hazards, dear Hausset. Yet the life of the King’s dearest friend and confidante, who was not his mistress, could, I believe, be a very pleasant one.’
‘It terrifies me,’ murmured Madame du Hausset.
‘And now we are back at that point where we started.’
‘And His Majesty is with your enemies; they are telling him that Madame de Mailly was a saint, that he should be repentant. That although her soul has been washed white over years of piety, his is stained with his recently committed sins.’
‘Poor Louis, they will make him very melancholy.’
‘They’ll drive him to repentance.’
‘It is possible that his melancholy will be so great that he is ready to employ any means to disperse it. If that is so, we shall hear him mounting the stairs to my apartment.’
‘And you will comfort him.’
‘I and another. Have you prepared her?’
Madame du Hausset nodded.
‘How does she look?’
‘Pert.’
‘And pretty – very pretty?’
‘She looks what she is – a serving-slut.’
Madame de Pompadour laughed. ‘That, my dear Hausset, is exactly how I would have her look. I believe I am right. Listen! Do you hear footsteps on the stairs?’
‘He is coming,’ cried Madame du Hausset; and her face was illumined by a smile. ‘Try as they might,’ she muttered, ‘they would never keep him from you.’
‘I arranged that we should be alone,’ she told him, smiling gently. ‘I guessed your mood. Hausset of course is in her little alcove room.’
Louis nodded. ‘I cannot forget Louise-Julie,’ he confessed. ‘Memories assail me continually. She was living in that poor place, and I hear that she had not enough to feed her servants adequately.’
‘Doubtless she was happy.’
‘Happy, in such a condition?’
‘She was a saint, we hear. Saints are happy. They do not ask for worldly possessions. They only ask to mortify their flesh and do service to others. She was happy, happier than you are
now, so you have nothing with which to reproach yourself.’
He looked at her and smiled. ‘You were always my comforter.’
She took his hand and kissed it. ‘I would ask nothing more than to continue so for the rest of my life.’
‘My dear, is it not significant that in this mood of depression I must come to you, and when I have been with you but a few minutes I feel my spirits rising?’
‘May it always be so. Will you do something to please me? I have had a little supper prepared – for the two of us only. We will eat bourgeoises tonight if you will have it so. And while we eat I would have you forget Madame de Mailly, but only after you are reassured that there is nothing with which you could reproach yourself. You made her happy while she was with you by your favour ; and afterwards she made herself happy by her exemplary life. What a fortunate lady she was! Hers must have been one of the happiest lives ever lived.’
‘I cannot forget the way she looked at me when I dismissed her from Court.’
‘She would have understood. It was her sister, Madame de Châteauroux, who dismissed her – not you.’
‘It was I who spoke the words. She looked at me with anguish in her eyes and then she looked away because she knew that her sorrow would give me pain.’
‘Come, I am going to have supper brought to us. I have a new maid – the prettiest creature you ever saw. I am eager for your opinion of her.’
‘My opinion?’
She laughed. ‘It is amusing, is it not – the King of France to give his opinion of a humble serving-maid? But . . . she is innocent at the moment, yet if ever I saw a wanton it is that girl.’ She rose and called to Madame du Hausset. ‘His Majesty is supping with me. We shall be alone. Is all ready?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Then will Your Majesty come to the table? I have had it set in one of the anterooms. It would be more cosy there, I thought.’
‘You have a surprise for me,’ said the King. ‘My dear Marquise, it is so like you to seek to divert me.’
‘This little diversion meets your Majesty’s needs tonight rather than a grand entertainment. Moreover had I planned a masque or a play, Père Griffet would have railed against me more than ever.’