by Jean Plaidy
As for Dr Pousse, he received a life pension for his services.
The Marquise de Pompadour added her congratulations to those of the Court, but these were received coldly by the Dauphin and, because she deplored his determination to regard her in the light of an enemy, she decided that she would be more ostentatious than any in the general rejoicing.
So she planned a fête at Bellevue.
The entertainment was to be more lavish than anything hitherto achieved. Fireworks were always popular and could be very effective; the Marquise planned a lavish display with a pageant to symbolise the Dauphin’s recovery.
There was to be a Dolphin (the Dauphin) among sea-serpents and other monsters of the deep, which were to breathe fire over the Dolphin. The fire, explained the Marquise, was to represent the small-pox. Apollo would appear to smite the fire-breathing monsters, and the Dolphin would then be seen among charming nymphs.
The Dauphin had lost none of his dislike for the Marquise during his illness; indeed he had emerged from his ordeal even more puritanical. He was not to be wooed by such pageants. However he could not refuse the invitation to Bellevue and, while the pageant given in his honour was in progress, he sat, watching it, surrounded by his friends.
‘The Dolphin bears some resemblance to yourself,’ said those companions, who greatly feared a friendship between the King’s son and the King’s mistress, ‘but how hideous the creature is! It is a caricature, meant to bring ridicule on Your Highness.’
‘Look at the sea-monsters! They breathe fire. They are meant to represent the people. This is monstrous. The people love the Dauphin. Madame Catin will never persuade the Court otherwise, however much she tries.’
‘Depend upon it the lady is trying to make the Dauphin look a fool while she pretends to honour him. This is a trick worthy of her.’
The Dauphin listening allowed himself to grow more and more furious with the Marquise.
When the pageant was over he abruptly left Bellevue for Versailles, and everyone knew that this attempt of the Pompadour to placate the Dauphin had been a miserable failure, because the Dauphin was determined not to be placated, and was going to carry on the war against the Marquise until his or her death or her dismissal from Court.
All waited for the retaliation to what he chose to consider as an insult to his dignity.
It came a few days after the fête at Bellevue, when the Marquise, attending a reception in the Dauphin’s apartments, was kept standing – for she could not sit without the Dauphin’s permission – for two hours.
Never before this had the Marquise allowed the Court to observe her physical weakness. This time it was impossible to do otherwise. She was almost fainting with fatigue at the end of two hours.
The King was annoyed when he heard what had happened, for he knew that, in arranging the fête, the Marquise had had no thought but to win the Dauphin’s friendship. That burst of affection, which he had felt for his son when he had thought he was dying, was petering out. He felt irritated with the self-righteous attitude of his son towards his father’s mistress.
There was only one way of preventing the repetition of such an occurrence. That would be to bestow the highest honour at Court upon the Marquise – the tabouret – which would enable her to sit in the presence of royalty.
The King hesitated. To bestow such a high honour on the Marquise would cause a rumble of discontent through the Court. He was unpopular in Paris; he did not wish that unpopularity to extend to his immediate circle.
A tabouret for the Marquise! He must brood for some time on such a matter for, dear as she was, he must remind himself of her origins.
There must be an official celebration of the Dauphin’s recovery, which would necessitate another journey into Paris.
There would be the ceremonial drive from the Château into the city, and the thanksgiving service at Notre Dame. The King’s ministers, knowing the trend of opinion in Paris and the fast continued growth of the King’s unpopularity, hastily reduced the price of bread, hoping that by so doing they could ensure a loyal greeting from the Parisians.
Louis set out without any enthusiasm for the journey. Heartily he wished that he was taking the road to Compiègne instead of the one through Paris.
The Queen in her carriage came behind him. She had no such fears, for she knew that the people regarded her as a poor ill-used woman, and that the more they hated the King, the greater was their sympathy for her.
A few people at the roadside shouted ‘Vive le Roi!’ as the King drove by, but that happened outside the city; as soon as they entered the streets of the capital there was nothing but sullen silence.
The service over, the drive back began, and again that sullen silence was encountered. The King’s carriage passed, and as the Queen’s came near to the Pont-du-Jour a man with haggard face and ragged coat broke through the guards and leaped on to it.
He threw a piece of black bread into the Queen’s lap and shouted: ‘Look, Madame! This is the sort of bread we are asked to pay three sous the pound for!’
The Queen stared at the bread on her lap while the man was dragged from the coach.
The horses were whipped up, a sullen murmur broke from the crowd. The King and the Queen heard the words: ‘Three sous the pound for bread we cannot eat! Bread . . . bread . . . give us bread . . .’
It seemed that there could not be a royal visit to the city these days without some such demonstration.
When the Infanta, Louis’ eldest daughter, arrived at Versailles on a visit, he was delighted.
She would comfort him, he said, for the loss of his dear Anne-Henriette. Adelaide, observing the affection between them, was jealous, for since the death of her sister she had felt herself to be firm in the role of the King’s favourite daughter.
It was difficult however to compete with the fascinating and worldly Infanta. Louis revived a pet name of her babyhood and referred to her as his Babette. Babette was wiser than Adelaide and immediately consolidated a friendship with the Marquise, which pleased the King.
She now had a son and daughter and was therefore to be allowed to spend a year at Versailles. ‘My home,’ she said, ‘for which I have never ceased to long.’
In the first weeks of her return the King was so delighted with her that he forgot his depression; but once she had charmed him, Babette could not help showing that there were ulterior motives in this great show of pleasure in being with her father.
‘I am your daughter,’ she told Louis, ‘your eldest daughter. And I am condemned to spend my days in that dismal hole of Parma!’
Louis promised that, if he could do anything at any time to raise her state, he would do so.
She was dissatisfied. Her ambitions were limitless. Now she had children for whom to plan, she wanted a throne for her son and nothing less than the Imperial crown for her daughter.
Young Joseph, son of Maria Theresa, was the husband she needed for her child. Imperiously she suggested that, if need be, France should go to war to bring about this marriage.
Louis might listen to his daughter’s plans with an indulgent smile, but he began to grow a little restless in her company.
He was heading for one of those moods of melancholy from which it seemed only the Marquise could save him.
But many were speculating as to the change in the relationship between the King and the Marquise who, they noted, was now significantly installed in the rooms which had once belonged to Madame de Montespan; could that mean that nothing but friendship existed between her and the King?
It was said that young girls – often of the lower classes – were brought to his apartments in secret.
Could such a state of affairs go on?
Quite clearly it was time some enterprising and ambitious person brought to the notice of the King a woman who could take the all-important role of maîtresse-en-titre which Madame de Pompadour seemed so gracefully to have abandoned.
The Comte d’Argenson believed that he could bring about th
e dismissal of the Marquise, and he discussed the matter with his mistress, the Comtesse d’Estrades. The Comte, who was a younger brother of the Marquis d’Argenson, the diarist, was at this time Minister of War and in high favour with the King; he feared the Marquise, and moreover, should a new mistress reign in her place, like most of those about the King he realised what great advantage could come his way if she were a protégée of his.
It was his scheming mistress who called his attention to the very pretty, frivolous and newly married Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré.
The Comtesse d’Estrades called on the young lady to discover whether she would be amenable, and the two ladies began by discussing the Marquise.
‘It seems,’ said Madame d’Estrades, ‘that the woman grows older as one watches her.’
‘Indeed!’ cried Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré. ‘She must be quite ancient. What the King finds to admire in her it is beyond my wits to discover.’
‘The King,’ her companion added, ‘is a man of habit. So long has he been making his way to the woman’s apartments that it has become a ritual. Someone should break him of an unnecessary habit.’
‘Is it true,’ asked the young woman, ‘that he no longer sleeps with her?’
‘That is said to be the case.’
‘If His Majesty fell in love with someone else she would doubtless be dismissed.’
‘There is a great opportunity for some clever woman.’
The Comtesse d’Estrades eyed her companion speculatively. The shaft had struck home. Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré was twittering with excitement.
The King’s mistress! Someone like Madame de Montespan. What glory had come to her! It was true though that she had been displaced eventually by Madame de Maintenon, who had even married Louis Quatorze.
But Louis Quinze had a wife; still perhaps the Queen would die. Madame Anne-Henriette had died, and the Dauphin had recently come very near to death.
The young Comtesse felt almost giddy, contemplating the power which had come to the Nesle sisters. Only Madame de Mailly had suffered; the other two had died, but the King had doted on them even as he had doted on Madame de Pompadour.
‘How . . . would it be possible?’ she asked.
‘If a young lady were pretty enough, charming enough, amusing enough and eager enough . . . there would be many to help her. Perhaps Son Excellence himself. I can vouch for Monsieur d’Argenson. They discuss the charms of women with the King. They would whet his curiosity and then . . . a little supper party. After that it would rest with the lady herself. The King is affectionate, courteous, helpful . . . and you must admit, extremely handsome.’
‘I do admit that,’ said the young Comtesse clasping her hands together and looking into a future which seemed to her glorious.
Louis was interested in the accounts he heard of the pretty young Comtesse.
He had been told that she was deeply in love with him and that her greatest wish was to have an opportunity of proving to him the depth of her affection.
Louis was bored. He needed a diversion and, since the Comtesse so earnestly desired an interview, he declared it would be churlish to deny it.
The interview was arranged and was very successful. The King found the Comtesse not only charming but a passionate companion. Clearly one such interview could not satisfy him.
The young girls who had been brought to him were amusing for a very short time. For intellectual companionship he relied on the Marquise. He now felt how charming it was to combine lust with Court manners; the Comtesse had come at the right time to supply a needed change.
The news of the King’s latest love affair was not yet spread about the Court. The power of the Marquise was great and it was very necessary that she should remain in ignorance of what was happening until the time when the Comtesse could demand her dismissal.
D’Argenson and his friends chuckled together, dreaming of the day when the Marquise would receive her lettre de cachet.
Quesnay, the doctor who had worked for Madame de Pompadour and had often attended the King, was also a friend of d’Argenson and Madame d’Estrades.
When he heard of the plot to destroy Madame de Pompadour he was deeply distressed.
‘Have no fear,’ d’Argenson told him. ‘It shall make no difference to you. You shall not lose your place.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘I have worked for Madame de Pompadour in her time of prosperity,’ he answered gravely. ‘If she is dismissed from Court I shall go with her that I may work for her in her adversity.’
Such loyalty filled the plotters with dismay.
It was very necessary, they decided, that Madame de Pompadour should be quickly vanquished while the passion of the King for the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré was at its height.
At the same time they bore in mind the need to act with the utmost caution.
Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré herself believed she knew how to bring this about. Her husband’s cousin, the Comte de Stainville, had recently come to Court.
‘He is the cleverest man I know,’ she declared. ‘He hates the Pompadour. He will tell me what I ought to do.’
The Comte de Stainville was a young man with a face somewhat resembling that of a pug-dog; but his appearance was all that was unattractive about him. Brilliant, witty, charming and belonging to one of the noblest families in Lorraine, he seemed made for distinction. He was a patron of the arts, entertained lavishly, gambled excessively – and was, undoubtedly one who was certain to make his way at Court.
When he was very young he had rarely been seen at Versailles. He had belonged to the Army and had had a great love for Paris itself, and thus had not often visited Versailles.
He seemed suddenly to have come to the conclusion that his talents were more suited to a political life than a military one, although at the time of the Peace he had become a Lieutenant-General.
Like many an ambitious man he had cast a wary eye on the Marquise, and he had decided that he could climb to power more easily if she were not continually at the King’s elbow advising him what to do.
He enjoyed writing verses, and what more natural than that these verses should be concerned with Madame de Pompadour.
He was very interested therefore when his cousin’s wife asked if she could see him very privately because she had something of the utmost secrecy and importance to convey to him and was eager for his advice.
He granted her an interview. He thought her physically attractive and mentally repulsive.
‘Well, my child,’ he said, ‘what is this secret matter?’
‘I am loved by the King,’ she said.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her cynically.
‘You do not believe me, I see,’ she said. ‘The King tells me he loves me. Madame de Pompadour is going to be dismissed from Court. I shall ask it, and the King has already said that he can deny me nothing.’
He continued to study her in silence, and she stamped her foot impatiently. ‘So you still do not believe me. Look at this. It is a note from the King which le Bel brought me today. Read that and then say whether you believe me.’
The Comte de Stainville took the letter and languidly read it.
The King was certainly enamoured of the woman, to write to her so indiscreetly, and there was no doubt that the letter was from the King. What a situation! Poor Madame de Pompadour, her days were certainly numbered.
So this woman, who had managed to arouse such passion in the King, was going to demand the dismissal of the Marquise as the price of further favours. It had been done before. Madame de Châteauroux had caused good Madame de Mailly to be dismissed.
‘I want you to help me, cousin,’ she was saying. ‘I am going to answer this letter. And I want to make my intentions clear. The Pompadour has become a habit and . . . I dare say one should be careful how one asks a man of habits, like the King, to rid himself of the creature.’
‘One would need to be very careful,’ said the Comte.
‘You are cle
ver with words. You would know how to express what I want to say.’
‘I have an idea,’ said the Comte. ‘Leave this letter with me and I will compose a reply for you. The reply should not be delivered immediately. His Majesty must not think that you are too eager.’
She nodded. ‘And you will do this for me?’
‘Certainly I will, little cousin. You may safely leave this matter in my hands.’
She nodded briskly. She had no doubt that her future would be brilliant, with men such as Monsieur d’Argenson and her kinsman Stainville to guide her. All she had to do was smile and be pleasant, accept homage and jewels, grant favours; and these brilliant men would look after all else.
The Comte de Stainville read and re-read the letter. He was very thoughtful.
His cousin had married an extremely pretty woman but an excessively foolish one.
Poor little Comtesse! She had reached the King’s bed, but how long would she hold her place in it? One week? Give her two. Perhaps, with great good fortune, three.
Could she achieve the dismissal of Madame de Pompadour in such a short time? Perhaps. The King’s passion was intense, even though, Stainville was sure, with such a partner it must be brief.
He would be short-sighted indeed to entangle himself with such a fool as his silly little kinswoman. Alliance with the Marquise would be a very different matter. She might be past her first youth, but she was still a very beautiful woman; as for diplomacy and sound good sense, knowledge of the world, intelligence – the Comtesse was a fool to imagine she could compete in those fields. When he considered the Marquise he wondered whether every woman at Court would not be foolish to compete with her.
She was passing through what could be the most difficult stage of her career. She had become the King’s friend and had abandoned the role of mistress. That was a very bold and dangerous step to have taken – though a necessary one, he could well believe – and a woman would need a great deal of courage to take it.